He had looked pained. ‘I can inform you through certain sources I have that the girl keeps unsavoury company. A pretty face can be a curse for a poor young woman.’ He had paused, his mouth slightly open, his lips moist-looking in the firelight. ‘She’s been seen lifting her skirts in Spital Hill.’

Harriet had no idea what he was talking about. ‘What does…’

He had licked his lips and interrupted her. ‘I’m glad it’s beyond your understanding. Suffice to say, I shouldn’t be surprised if that girl ends up in a reformatory. Don’t frown, you’ll ruin your lovely face, Hetty.’

Hetty. Silas had occasionally shortened her name, in jest because he knew she disliked it. His teasing had given her the opportunity to tickle him, to play her fingers over his vest and feel the hard muscles of his stomach. When Mr Boothby called her Hetty, all she felt was revulsion.

‘No,’ she said now, to Polly. ‘Mr Boothby isn’t joining us tonight. In fact, I have been invited to a supper party he is hosting.’ Albert Boothby had told her to look her prettiest. ‘I want to show you off,’ he’d said.

Later that evening, Harriet re-entered Polly’s room, bashful in the dove-grey taffeta and custom-made satin boots she had purchased with money sent from her brother in London. In his accompanying letter, James had instructed her to buy an evening outfit suitable for the wife of a prominent townsman, and had even given the name of the tailor she should use. The boots had been made by the shoemaker on Fargate she had always gone to; the man had a knack for sculpting a shoe that cradled her bad foot so that she hardly limped. They were as comfortable as a pair of slippers.

Harriet could feel Polly’s eyes drinking in every detail of her outfit and she fussed self-consciously with the folds of the skirt. The belt that emphasised her slim waist was rose-coloured, the same shade as the fringes on the short, puffed sleeves and on the neckline that skimmed her collarbone, exposing the tops of her shoulders. She had, for the first time and with Sadie’s assistance, used tongs on her hair to create curls and Sadie had twined a black velvet ribbon through them.

‘I haven’t had the opportunity to wear this yet,’ she said. ‘Will it do?’

‘I should say so.’ Polly smiled. ‘It’s an interesting choice of colour.’

‘You don’t like it.’

‘Harriet, on anybody else it would look dull, but on you it’s perfect. It brings out your red hair beautifully.’ Her aunt’s eyes filled with tears. ‘You look lovely, you really do.’

Mr Boothby sent a cab to collect her and she waved gaily to her cousins as she stepped into it, allowing the smile to slip from her face as she settled back for the journey, her stomach clenched in anticipation of the ordeal that lay ahead.

Albert Boothby greeted her at the door to his house, elegant in his white cravat. She was introduced to his friends, immediately forgetting every name as soon as she was given it. Mr Boothby assured her this was an informal gathering, a simple three-course supper for sixteen people, prepared by his cook and served up by hired waiting staff. Of course, he told her, once they were wed she would be in charge of all such arrangements, and he hoped she would indulge any mistakes he made as a mere man trying to do his best on the domestic front.