But my hands shook. He had frightened me, this gent. There was something off about him. I could just see him slipping his inconvenient wife a draught of something deadly. Here you go, Kitty, this will help your nerves. I was not surprised, now, that Mrs Rose had run away from him. If I was her, I would have done the same. I could not forgive her for taking my money, but mibbie she was running for her life.

When I went back into the kitchen, Cook asked if I was all right and I said I was perfectly well, but I did not like the look of Dr McTavish.

Cook surveyed the kitchen door to make sure she would not be overheard. ‘Stay clear of him,’ she warned. ‘There are all sorts of rumours about him. It’s hard to tell what’s true and what’s made up.’

‘Don’t I know it,’ I replied.

Where is Mrs Rose? I wondered. In London most likely, in lodgings I ought to have been in, living the life I ought to be living right now. I tried not to feel bitter about it all, but much later on, when lunch was scoffed and the guests stuffed full and sent home, and the dishes done, I sat on my narrow little bed, eating a cold plate of ham and cabbage leftovers. I could not help a wave of fury about the women who had betrayed me. My own sister, and the whore Mrs Rose.

What was to become of me?

It was early summertime now. A cool, greeny summer when the days were growing to their longest.

I had a pile of coins, for Mrs Baxter paid me every week, and it was growing too. By the end of July it would be enough.

I also had one pair of boots, in need of minor repairs. Two shawls. One bonnet. Four gowns, including my navy wedding gown, all of which had been let out. Assorted petticoats and knickers, in various states of rag.

I had bought things for the birth too. Things I would need. Linens, for I knew there would be blood. And the baby would need to be dressed, whether I kept it or left it on a church doorstep. So I had bought another bolt that could be cut up for tail-clouts and swaddling, and a box of pins. There was something else, also. A little baby bonnet in pure white wool with creamy silk ribbons. I had seen it at the market and could not stop myself from handing over a penny and slipping it into my creel.

The next morning, Monday, brought silver cloud and a bold gust of wind about it. I rose with it. I stole downstairs, out into the stables, and asked Jack the ostler for a quiet word.