‘Of course. That’s how I guessed.’ He laughed. ‘And I know how old you are. Today.’

‘Oh?’

‘Twenty-seven.’ He moved closer. ‘I thought you might be younger.’

‘Would that have disturbed you?’

‘Yes,’ he said.

Young enough to be his daughter? Was he thinking of Margaret?

‘Dora.’ He put his finger to her chin, lifted it up and towards him. She felt the brush of his skin, hot as cinders. ‘Would you make love with me? I promise I’ll be careful not to make you pregnant.’ And kissed her.

She had no hesitation.

Love was amber. It trapped her in its honey resin, warm and glowing as they lay curled, melted into one, heart and soul. Love was a deep hunger that pined in its greed, an anarchy of desire that blew reason afar. Love needed no words.

‘When will I see you again?’ His breath was soft on her cheek, his whiskers rough on her skin, arms tight and close, dark flesh against her freckled fairness. She pressed tight to him, as if he could absorb her whole.

‘Don’t come to the house,’ she said. ‘Miss Besson doesn’t like us to have gentleman callers.’

It was bad enough that Dora had to tolerate Miss Besson’s insinuations, there was no need for Geoffrey to have to put up with them too, whatever he had done to incur her disapproval. She had asked Miss Besson once about Geoffrey. Miss Besson had curled her lips and walked out of the room.

Dora met Geoffrey on the parade ground, or near the market where there was a teashop. Sometimes they went for a ride, sitting on the box seat in the front of the cart, watching Ernest move his head left, right, as he pulled them along. Dora had never had much to do with horses, but she loved the solid smell of his hide and the ancient leather harness.

That day, driving down Elizabeth Place, a man in a homburg hat stepped into the street. Ernest shied, swung to avoid him as the cart tilted and Dora slid along the seat, banging her hip on the side rail.

‘Watch out,’ Geoffrey called. The man turned. It was the man who’d been present with the Jurat. Sir Leonard somebody or other. Dora swallowed, saw Geoffrey clench his jaw so that his bone stood proud beneath the skin. Sir Leonard raised his fist and shook it hard.

‘You watch out,’ he said.

Geoffrey raised his fist in response and spat in the road. Dora went cold. It was a side of him she’d not seen. It made her uneasy. Was he a crude man? A bitter man? Like those old German soldiers who followed Hitler and his false promises? Was this what Miss Besson had meant? And Sir Leonard? Unsavoury, he’d said.

The cart lurched to a halt.