The lane down to the river was deserted, except for the song and bustle of morning birds. I stumbled, for my boots were not laced right and I bled into my rags and my eyes bleared with tears. All the while I talked to the babe, as if she were alive, telling her where we were going and what we were doing and how everything would be all right: No need to fear the workhouse now. No life of toil for you, my precious soul. The creel scuffed against my side as though it were a child walking with me, hand-in-hand, not really minding its way and tripping over its feet. I will always feel like this now, as though I am walking and talking to a child who is nothing but empty air.

The lane ended. The riverbank opened up before me, damp and cold.

I laid my babe on the riverbank and kneeled down, kissed her head and then I pushed her into the rushing river.

Chapter Eighteen

I stumbled back to the inn and up to my room, the creel knocking at my legs. When I got there, I gathered the bloodied sheets and put them into the creel and put it under my bed. The straw mat underneath me was ruined, but I could replace that. I opened the window to get air in. I was going through the motions in a state of shock and disbelief. I got back into bed. I lay on my side, imagining myself floating down the river with my baby.

Joan came upstairs, with tea and some bread and cheese, and I sent her away for fresh linens. When she came back, I sat up.

‘You must go home and tell Ma you have tried your best, but I am not for returning,’ I said.

At first Joan protested, but not with much vigour. What she had witnessed had terrified her. ‘And you will just carry on as normal, will you? Pretend nothing happened and save up your pennies for London?’

‘Things will never be normal,’ I told her. ‘But I have not come this far, and endured this and lost my own babe, simply to come home again.’

Joan made slow work of putting the cheese on the bread and pouring the tea, for she was in shock too. Finally she said, ‘What is it, Maggie, that makes you so determined to keep running, even after this? Tell me.’

I looked down at my hands. They were rough and raw, from washing and laundering and all those chores. But they looked better than they had looked before, when they spent their days in brine, cut to shreds with fish-hooks and gutting knives.