I was taken to a vast high-ceilinged dormitory that had three tall windows on each side and no curtains. Thin bed-mats lay in neat rows, occupied by a dozen girls and women of all ages, whom I came to learn had been incarcerated after being caught on the roads and villages between Scotland and England in various displays of immoral behaviour, such as vagrancy and prostitution and idleness.

Some of them wore fine clothes with laces and trimmings, and I was reminded of Mrs Rose and even wondered if she might have spent time here, but there was no sign of her. I wondered if the last maid was still here, the one who got pregnant and was kicked out of the Baxters’ inn, but mibbie she was long gone now that her babe had been born. We were overseen by wardens and watchmen, and by a matron who was a stout spinster in a pristine cap, who sucked comfits and smelled of ginger. They all carried canes.

We slept in that room upstairs and spent our days in a workshop downstairs, beating hemp with mallets. I did not know the purpose of the job, merely assumed it had something to do with rope-making. There were three men, rough-looking sorts, but we were not allowed to talk to them at all and they slept in another part of the house altogether, with night-watchmen and locked gates keeping us apart. I would not have wanted to talk to those men even if we had been allowed. They looked menacing and brought an air of edginess to the workshop. I knew without a doubt that were it not for the watchmen guarding their every move, canes at the ready, those men would do something.

I had begged for a rest, but was told I must go to the workshop for two hours every morning.

‘This is a House of Correction, not a lying-in chamber,’ Matron clipped. ‘I will attend to you as required, but you must earn your keep. The other women are in the workshop eight hours a day.’

I was to remain here until an agreement had been reached about what to do with me next.

No one came and interrogated me or came to support me, so I was left with my fears and the awful words uttered by the officials ringing in my head.

I thought no more of Joan, or Ma or Da or Spencer, only of the soul who had lived inside me and died a few hours after her birth. I did not know grief could hurt like this. My breasts swelled wickedly red and tight. Matron brought bandages and bound me, saying I was to tell her if I felt feverish, but it did not come to that. I wished for the fever, though. I wished for death.