But I digress. I like to think we had a happy marriage at the start. When we lived in our first house on Perth Road and the children were but babies, we were just fine. Then you wanted more, bigger, better and so I had the Magdalen Yard house built. You had everything you wished for – staff, a large house and garden and two beautiful children. That is when I began to feel an outsider. I was only included in your life when you needed me for social reasons, when we saw the Donaldsons, for example, or when we went to other jute mill owners’ homes for dinner. You dressed in your finery and, dear God, the bills I have had from Dundee’s finest couturiers, furriers and haberdashers have made my blood boil. But did I remonstrate? Seldom, as you well know. I have only ever reproached you when you have not attended to your wifely duties in the bedroom. And that was not infrequent.

Ann turned to look at the wide bed, where the pillows were all stacked up in the middle, suitable for one person to sleep. ‘What must Mrs Baxter think,’ he’d often say.

‘I do not think she lies awake at night worrying about whether her employers are sleeping together,’ she would retort.

As you know, I have been paying visits to Aunt Euphemia in Fife over the past year. This began on your recommendation and at first I thought it was some hitherto undiscovered kindness in you towards my elderly aunt. But no. For although she is healthy (yes, I lied about her ill health recently), she is ageing fast and I know you had hopes to inherit some of her wealth. Her daughter, my cousin Caroline, would undoubtedly be left the house, but you had alluded to the fact there were many jewels and other items such as her antique furniture. So I began Sunday visits, usually arriving for luncheon, following which I would tour her estate to see if there was anything I could be of assistance with. Then, ten months ago I met someone there, a young woman whom I hold in high regard. With each visit to Kirkmichael we got to know each other more and the relationship grew.

Ann’s stomach lurched. Good God, what sort of woman was he talking about here. Young? What did that mean? Was she sixteen, seventeen? She turned the page over. The ink had bled again and she could barely read the words. She peered at each smudge but little was legible. She hoped the name of the girl would be written but it was difficult to read, though she could make out some individual letters. She moved on to the final page.

…so she and I are leaving for Tasmania on Tuesday from Liverpool. I have been in close contact with my whale-oil dealer there and he has arranged a house, overlooking the sea.