‘Mr Gibbs,’ says Mary, forming the words with some difficulty as her heart splinters, shatters into a million tiny sharp pieces, ‘you do not need to explain. Who you do or do not form an attachment to is surely none of my business.’

‘Mary, please!’ He holds up his hand. ‘I had thought myself, oh Lord! Look, I had thought myself to be rather in love with her. But I was wrong. By God, I was so very wrong. It was a brief attachment, a mistake on both sides. In fact, she wrote recently to invite me to her wedding, to the person she always ought to have married, and I’m very happy for them. I am. But that’s not it, Mary, that’s not what I’m trying to say . . .’

He falls into silence for a moment as Mary feels utterly bewildered.

‘The thing is, the truth of it is . . . I didn’t know what it felt like. To be in love. Truly in love. And then, when I came back, for George’s funeral, I . . .’ He clears his throat. ‘And you were there and – by Jove, this is difficult! And. Well . . .’

He looks at his feet for a moment.

‘I thought I would die in that fire,’ he says quietly. ‘I thought I would perish and never be able to tell you the truth and I swore to myself that if I got out of there, if by some miracle I got out of there alive, then I would tell you everything. All of it, honestly and truthfully. No secrets, Mary, none.’

He shuffles his feet, swallows, summons up his courage and takes a deep breath.

‘Mary – you were the reason I came back from Edinburgh,’ he says softly, still not daring to look at her. ‘You are the reason I came back.’

He leans forward and his hat falls off, tipping itself into his lap just as he catches it. Mary bites her lip, tries not to laugh or cry although she wishes oh so much to do both.

‘It is your curls, Mr Gibbs,’ she says, eyes twinkling. ‘They resent being contained within the confines of your hat.’

Richard looks at her, the first time he has done so since they sat down and he feels as if his heart might burst. They look into each other’s eyes, whirlpools of possibility.

He takes her hands, feels their fingers entwine.

‘I know you are in mourning,’ he says softly. ‘I know you are still only eighteen, but I will wait, Mary. I will wait a thousand years if I have to. I know there is so much you want to see and do and I will help you, however I can. Just please, please, tell me that I am right to hope, right to hope beyond hope that my affections might be returned, if not today, then some day. One day. Please.’