Joan spent her evenings sitting edgily in the parlour for only as long as it took to finish a small plate of supper, before heading back to our room. At night she would lie in her bed and I in mine, and we would talk. The dark made us honest.

‘I do not much fancy it here.’ That was her favourite thing to say.

‘Are you not enjoying seeing the world a bit?’ I finally asked. ‘You always told me you’d marry a man of the world. You won’t find many of them in Fisherrow.’

‘I do want a fine man,’ she said. ‘A mill owner or a landowner’s son. The men I’ve seen so far here all seem to be on the make. Heading south to make a fortune, or trading this and trading that. I want the sort of man who is already made or has a decent job. And mibbie there aren’t any in Fisherrow, but there are one or two in Musselburgh.’

Ah, Joan had finally set her sights on someone back home. That explained her restlessness. I did not probe her more, but it made sense. Her talk was all of going home and making sure Ma was all right. Of how we would all have to stick together and look after Ma, for she was feared Da would knock her black and blue one of these days. Each time Joan opened her mouth, my heart sank. I felt myself being pulled back to Fisherrow, helplessly fighting the drag. It was the drone of her voice, the catch in her throat. As I drifted off to sleep I was there in the box-bed. I was five, or twelve, or fifteen again. Then I was back in my marriage bed, with Spencer – only Joan had spoiled it for us.

Then there was a snake. It would coil up from under the bed, tongue flickering, tasting the air. I would wake up with a start, my hand on my throat, trying to pull the serpent off me. Drenched in sweat.

‘You are talking in your sleep,’ Joan would murmur. ‘Why have you started doing that?’

I kept my secret from her for no more than a couple of weeks.

I had been down in the stables, talking to Jack the ostler again, begging him for any news of my coachman. ‘Have any of the other drivers seen him, or heard news of where he may be?’ I asked.

‘I will enquire,’ Jack promised, looking wary. ‘But if you’re planning on leaving, you’d better tell the Baxters first. You’re a good pair of hands to them.’