‘There are fellows who will promise you a betrothal if you lie with them,’ said Cook. ‘And plenty of them come through these doors. Mrs Baxter here had to throw the last girl out for coming to her complaining she had been promised a betrothal, then had woken to find the chap gone and a baby started, didn’t you, Mrs Baxter?’

My landlady tutted and nodded her head sadly.

‘And where is she now, the last girl?’ Cook asked the question, but answered herself, in hushed tones, sucking her teeth as she spoke. ‘She was sent to the House of Correction and she gave birth there, and now the babe is under the care of the parish, for she will never be able to take care of it. Wet-nursed at Muir Farm and apprenticed there when it turns fourteen.’

A log cracked in the fire and the cauldron that hung over it sizzled, a teardrop of soup oozing down the side. My armpits prickled.

‘The parish officers will not stay long,’ said Mrs Baxter, rubbing at the faint bristle on her chin, as if trying to reassure herself more than us. ‘Let’s busy ourselves with that stock-count of the pantry cupboard. Maggie, see to those pots.’

The pair made their way into the cupboard, their backsides at the door, their apron strings tied in neat loops. As they counted packets of tea and boxes of white pepper, and jars of preserved plums and raspberry jams, I lathered the pots with weak soft soap and tried to give them a decent scrub in the tin bath of tepid water. I could not stop thinking of the woman sent to the House of Correction, beside beggars and vagrants and thieves. Of the baby, dragged up by folk who were not even its kin, and put to work as soon as it was able.

When I went back into the parlour, the parish officers were gone and the mood was lighter. A new game of dice was up. As I put glasses back on shelves, Mr and Mrs Baxter chatted in low, worried voices.

‘They checked the visitors’ book and seemed satisfied. They had a good look around the place and asked the patrons for their names and their business. They were assured that we were hoarding no highwaymen or prostitutes,’ Mr Baxter told his wife.

‘It is a good thing Mrs Rose went when she did,’ his wife commented. ‘They would have had something to say about her.’

‘I am sure Dr McTavish would have stepped in and stopped her being thrown out,’ said Mr Baxter. ‘He knows the parish officers too well.’

‘Well, we live to fight another day,’ replied Mrs Baxter. ‘They would need a good reason to close down this parlour.’