‘Mistress Margaret Dickson of Fisherrow, lately Kelso. I do not believe that you deliberately tried to murder your child, for the bonnet tells us that you planned for its survival. But it also tells us that you did know you were pregnant.

‘You confessed your condition to your sister, once she had guessed, but you had not told your wider community – a community who would have offered you and the baby the necessary support. Whether the baby might have lived with the intervention of a physician or midwife is a matter of uncertainty, but the possibility remains. The fact is that you did not give the infant the best chance of survival and, when it sadly succumbed, you tried to hide the entire matter.

‘So, on the indictment of the murder of an infant, by concealment of pregnancy, I have no choice but to find you guilty, and that, like murder, is a capital crime for which the punishment is hanging.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

The Iron Room was a cruel place.

It was a full flight of steps underground, low and damp-ceilinged and devoid of light and hope. They called it the Iron Room on account of the fact prisoners here were once held in shackles before their executions, but conditions were better now and we were simply locked in. It was a room of hushed regime and muffled despair. I was taken to the women’s side, separated from the men’s side by the main corridor. When they pushed me in and closed the gate behind me, the other woman – there was only one – looked up from where she was lying on a bed-mat in the corner and regarded me with mild curiosity, but no great sympathy. She was adrift, in her own world.

A female guard came, who reminded me of the matron at the House of Correction, on account of her gown and cap. She addressed me through the gate, although she might as well have been addressing everyone else, for there was nothing personal about what she said.

‘Mondays are bath-days, Tuesdays fresh meat, donated by the kirk and we thank them in our prayers. On Wednesdays there are morning and afternoon religious instructions, specific to your situation. Thursdays are visiting days and Fridays we tidy our cells and wash the floors with vinegar. Weekends are for quiet contemplation, and we all walk to the kirk on Sundays. We are inspected each morning for signs of fever or disease and quarantined, if necessary. In the seven days ahead of a Hanging Day – which is the period in which we find ourselves now – we do all of these as normal, except that visitors are allowed every day and the minister comes each evening.’

The woman in the corner spoke. Her voice sounded like dried earth.

‘You are lucky, hen. You’ve only got few days of this.’