‘You certainly had got yourself in a bit deep. You were fugging my sister,’ I retort.

Spencer sits on his stool and rubs his face. He looks embarrassed.

‘Joan was a bit of a seductress,’ he tells me.

‘Joan is an idiot, who knew nothing of the world,’ I say. ‘She was as green as I was. You were older and wiser than both of us.’

‘You thought I’d help you escape your fishing life for a life in London,’ he replies. ‘That was your real ambition. But you didn’t need me to help you, in the end. You managed that all on your own. In fact you are a great escape artiste – you’ve escaped the noose! And doing all right now, are you not? I’ve seen you talking to folks and being passed coins. I’ve read stories about you in the Courant and heard gossip in the taverns. They say you saw God. They say you have the power to give folks a second chance.’

I could almost laugh at his nonsense. He has said nothing of our lost child. No how have you survived? Or how is your ma? Or how have you all coped?

‘I suppose our marriage contract has come to an end,’ he adds. ‘What with you having legally been dead and all?’

I ignore that. ‘Your Women’s Tonic certainly does not work,’ I tell him. ‘So mibbie, if I were you, I would not give that to your conquests so confidently.’

‘I am sorry about the babe,’ he says. ‘I know you did not want one, so perhaps its passing was for the best.’

I pick up a bottle of scent and consider smashing it on the floor.

‘Nothing that has happened these past weeks have been for the best,’ I reply. ‘The babe was held and adored during her short little life, and she knew nothing but love.’ I do not tell him her name. I do not give him Susanna. She is mine.

Now he sees how upset I am. ‘What can I do, Maggie – what can I do to make things up to you a bit?’ he says. ‘What do you want?’

‘I have no idea about our marriage contract,’ I tell him. ‘But mibbie I should go to the sheriffs and ask their opinion. We might be still wed, in God’s eyes. Or you might be a widower. But they would enjoy nothing more than to ponder over that question as they make their way through a bottle of wine at the White Hart Inn. It would give them something to do. And perhaps that would make its way into the Courant as well. The illustrator does a good likeness of folks, and I could get him to do a nice sketch of this perfume shop too.’

Spencer’s mouth falls open.

‘You would be famous all about town,’ I add slyly.