‘Thank you,’ said Margaret as she headed for the door. She shook her head then stretched out to grasp Ann’s hand. ‘Let us hope that you have news soon. The waiting must still be horrid.’

Ann shrugged. ‘I am resigned to it now.’

* * *

Ann dabbed a few drops of her favourite perfume on her neck, recalling how Robert used to love telling fellow jute barons at the dinners they attended that the ‘Sweet Smell of Jute’ was the city’s very own perfume. He loved this poetic phrase, but it was basically the smell of his money he loved, money from the sweat and labour of hundreds of poor mill workers.

She rubbed it in then reached for the bottle once more. She could be generous with it tonight; it made her feel feminine, free, unleashed. She dabbed some more on her bosom and unfastened the top button of her cream silk blouse, taking pleasure in the feel of the silk between her fingers, then pulled her redingote over the top. With its high collar and formal style, she looked very much the respectable lady. She smiled as she pulled her hair into the loosest of buns and secured it with her favourite ivory clasps. She stood to admire herself in the mirror then nodded. Yes, she looked good, a real lady. But under this attire throbbed a heart ready to let go. She tossed her head back and a smile played on her lips. Now was her chance, she must not fail.

She stole to the door and opened it. Silence. She leant back inside to pick up the lamp then walked downstairs, through the darkness of the house towards the front door. She stood in front of the grandfather clock and peered at the face. It was ten minutes before ten in the evening, perfect timing. She opened the front door and tiptoed down the steps and onto the lawn. The grass was damp and she sighed as she realised how inappropriate her embroidered slippers were. She reached the summer house and unlocked the door. This was the ideal place, unseen from the house since all the bedrooms were at the back; and it could not be seen from the road. She pushed the door shut and placed the lamp on the little table. It was cold but not too chilly. She had filled two stone water bottles with boiling water and put them between the layers of blanket she had placed on the chairs once the children were in bed. She never felt the cold; the tiny Glenisla cottage had howling gales blow through it all year and in winter the snow even blew in under the door.

She looked around. It was dark but hopefully there was enough light from the lamp to reveal her face. He adored her face, she knew that. Every time he looked at her it was as if he was taking in every inch of its beauty.