She forced herself to meet his gaze. ‘I’ve been thinking…’

‘Always a dangerous occupation for a woman.’

‘Haha. You are droll.’ She untied the strings of her gardening smock and pulled it over her head quickly. ‘I’d like to suggest that after the funeral we observe a suitable period of mourning before we have our celebration.’ He looked at her, his face unreadable. ‘I think it’s appropriate to delay the wedding, just for a short while. I’m worried for my aunt, now she is alone. Adam is soon leaving for boarding school…’

‘Quite. Funded by me. And the younger two shall follow him if I have a say in it. Polly has Sadie to look after her and can continue to lig around, growing fatter and more stupid with each passing day.’

Harriet was aghast. He would never have dared to speak so when Walter was alive.

‘And your duty will be to your husband.’ He cocked his head, reminding her of the parrots in the botanical gardens, and now she was thinking about Silas and was certain it must show on her face. She watched the water swirling in the sink. ‘Really, Harriet. You should be grateful that I am prepared to take responsibility for you. Come to me.’

He held out his arms and she could think of no reason not to step forward. She had made her bed and now she must lie in it. She managed to suppress a shudder at the thought of laying in a bed beside this man; she could not imagine it and it was better not to think of it. Not yet. She did not love him; she did not even respect him. She could go to London, to live with James and his fiancée. James would take her in. But then what would happen, with Walter gone, to Polly and Adam and the younger boys? Her marriage to Albert Boothby would secure the future of her cousins and keep Polly safe, and Silas, too. Boothby had won, and he would be satisfied with that and let Silas be. She could engineer no alternative fate for herself. She could hear Polly’s voice inside her head. Men hold all the cards in this world and are permitted to cheat, while women must make the best of the hand they’re given.

Albert Boothby enfolded her in a tight embrace. He smelled of sweat and cigars. She returned the embrace, resting her head lightly on his shoulder. Walter would still be alive if she had managed to keep hold of Alice, if Harriet hadn’t lost her in the swirling torrent, if Walter had not dived into the filthy water time and time again, filling his lungs with the poison that had eventually killed him. Dear Alice. She would name her first girl Alice. That thought brought some comfort. She would keep herself busy, running the household, raising her children, and perhaps eventually she would come to love, or at least respect, the man whose arms caged her now, and forevermore.