I can think of no reason other than a romantic one for a gent like Mr Munroe to want to walk out with a lass on a Friday afternoon, and my heart dances a bit at that, for we have got closer, day by day, in his office; and rather than talk of books, we have talked of our lives. His has not been as wild as mine, but he has a decent profession and sees it as his calling to watch over our little harbour and make sure it runs as well as it can.

Yesterday we had a glass of port after work, sitting by the fire, and he said he hoped I did not mind, but he had something of his late mother’s and could he give it to me?

‘Would you be offended?’ he asked. ‘My mother liked this, and I have kept most of her bits and pieces, but frankly it is just lying in a purse now and I think it would look most beautiful on you.

I sat and waited for him to fetch it, wondering nervously what on earth he might think to give me of his late mother’s. I sipped my port and then watched it swirl in the crystal glass, and then I relaxed a bit and enjoyed the feeling of being with a man who wants nothing more than my company and to make me feel happy.

Mr Munroe came back downstairs carrying a small velvet purse, and opened it and showed me what was inside. It was a necklace, a gold necklace with red gems strung on it that gleamed like little berries.

‘I think it suits your colouring,’ he said, blushing almost the same colour as the gems, poor man. ‘But do not feel you must take it, or that you must wear it.’

I let him put the necklace on me. It was cold and his hands were warm and deft, and I could smell the port on his breath and had a sudden thought of him touching me most intimately, and I blushed too.

‘A good friend of mine, a lady called Dorothy, once told me she thought my rope-bruise would fade to look like a necklace – a mourning necklace,’ I told him. ‘She’s a lovely lady, Dorothy; gents adore her.’

My eyes prickled at that: at what Dorothy had said, and that I miss her a bit and think I would like to send her a message to come and visit me one day and see if she and Cornelius are married yet, which I am sure they will be before the year is out.

Mr Munroe hesitated before he brushed my rope-mark with his finger. The patch of skin, which still aches from time to time and no doubt always will, tingled at his touch. I had not been touched there for a long time and I did not mind Mr Munroe doing it at all.