‘He has been like this since George died, but it has become worse of late.’

Richard glances at the finished article on the table, having already noted the ink stains on the fingers of Mary’s right hand.

‘I see that, despite his obvious inebriation, he is still managing to write,’ Richard says, the corner of his mouth twitching. Mary starts towards him but he has already snatched up the piece and is reading it. She watches him in silent apprehension as the fire spits in the grate.

He inhales deeply when he is done. ‘Ha! Very good,’ he says. ‘Oh, well done, Mary. Bravo! You’ve captured his voice exactly. Good Lord, were it not for the change in hand, I would not even be able to see the join!’ He smiles at her, a warm grin that lights up his entire face, and she cannot help but smile back.

‘Your secret scrivening is safe with me,’ Richard says, putting a hand to his heart as he takes a seat. ‘We shall talk about Jos and what is to be done, but first a more pressing question.’ He leans forward. ‘Are you going to eat both of those pies or can you at least donate one to a poor, starving reporter?’

Mary rolls her eyes and pushes a pie over to him before pulling out one of the wonky wooden chairs for herself, catching it against the scrap of tatty carpet underneath which she pokes back with the toe of her boot.

‘Since when have you been a reporter again?’ she asks. ‘The last I heard from one of your most irregular missives, you were happily ensconced in an editorial role. Is that not so, Mr Gibbs?’

The formality of her calling him Mr Gibbs annoys him and it delights her to see it. She has missed him. Richard’s mouth, however, is already full of pie. He has never been, nor will he ever be, an elegant eater.

‘Mmm, delicious,’ he mumbles as he chews. ‘Saved from starvation at last!’

Mary snorts with laughter. She is sure that some would be scandalised at this spirited young man being alone in her company with Uncle Jos fast asleep beside them but she cares not a jot. He is one of my oldest friends, she thinks, warmly.

Richard, meanwhile, is still adjusting to this new Mary, the young woman sitting opposite him with a smile playing across her lips. Before he left for Scotland, she was but a girl. Yet when he saw her at George’s funeral, he was startled at how grown-up she had become. He had felt the shock almost as much as he had George’s swift demise. And now here he is again, with this sharp-witted young woman with eyes as black as coal.

‘Well?’ she says, trying to hide her smile, as she neatly prepares to bite into her pie. ‘I have never known you to be quite so hungry that your food takes precedence over one of your interminable yarns, Mr Gibbs.’