Strangely enough, despite the fact that she had aged, Cissie had recognised the woman instantly. Full of hope, she asked, ‘Do you remember me, Mrs Marshall? The baby was mine and back then my name was Cissie Burns.’

Leaning heavily on her walking stick the old woman shook her head. Her hands were knobbled with arthritis and pain made her look even older than she was, although her piercing blue eyes were bright. Her hair was silver-grey and twisted into a long plait that lay across her shoulder and she was clad in a long skirt and blouse that had been out of fashion for many years. On top she wore a thick woollen shawl and a somewhat tatty but spotless apron.

‘There were so many girls put in the Hall for no fault of their own,’ she answered regretfully, ‘and so many babbies. Most of ’em didn’t survive wi’out their mother’s milk, God bless ’em. But I allus did me best fer ’em, every last one of the little mites. That were my job, see? Carin’ fer the younger inmates an’ the babbies that were born there.’

Disappointment pierced Cissie’s soul. ‘There was a bit of a scandal when I was admitted to Hatter’s Hall,’ she rushed on, praying that something would trigger the old woman’s memory. ‘The baby I bore was the result of me being forced by the housemaster at the workhouse, Albert Pinnegar. It was Lady Huntley here who rescued me and got me out of the asylum some years later.’

‘Lady Huntley …’ The old woman sat slowly down on the nearest chair and peered closely at Cissie and Lavinia in turn before saying, ‘I do remember that case, as it happens. Didn’t you give birth to a little boy?’

Cissie wrapped her arms around herself. ‘Yes, but they took him away from me as soon as he was born and I never saw him again. I never even got to hold him.’ Tears poured down her face. ‘They told me he was dead, but I know he wasn’t. I heard him cry.’

‘Oh, Augustus Crackett told that to most o’ the young women,’ Mrs Wilkins said sympathetically. ‘He sold the newborns, see, to desperate folks as couldn’t have any o’ their own. He were a wicked sod, so he were! But yes, I do remember you an’ I also remember the babby. I don’t remember where he went to though. How could I, after all this time?’

She watched Cissie’s face fall and could see that this search for her long-lost son obviously meant the world to her. Cissie meanwhile was feeling devastated. Mrs Marshall had been her last chance at discovering where her baby had gone – and now that hope was no more.

‘I see,’ she said huskily. ‘Well, thank you for at least listening to us, Mrs Marshall.’ Then turning to Lavinia with her head down she said wearily, ‘We’d best leave this good lady in peace.’

They were almost at the door when the old woman made a hasty decision and told her in a rush, ‘I might be able to help you, Cissie – but if I do, you must promise me solemnly that you will never let on that the information came from me. Can you make that promise?’