She had reached the midpoint of the long straight road that sliced like a blade through the maze of streets in the smoke-choked east end, when she decided she might as well walk the rest of the way. It was quiet in the late afternoon hour, the day holding its breath in the minutes before factory workers spilled out from behind high iron gates.

A two-wheeled curricle scooted by, rattling over the cobbles, making her start. The carriage’s sole occupant was urging on the horse, a white creature, ghostly in the gloom, and did not spare her a glance. Man and horse seemed to drag the last part of the day away with them.

Harriet adjusted her cloak and hurried on. The pavement was empty except for a lamp lighter who stepped into the gutter to allow her to pass, his eyes glittering under the brim of his cap. She nodded her thanks, aware of his head turning to follow her. Another half a mile and then she would be turning left to walk downhill towards the river. Across the robust stone bridge built to replace the wooden one lost in the flood and she would be home.

She crossed a junction onto the long stretch of road where high ivy-covered sandstone walls hid a handful of gentlemen’s residences from view. Mr Boothby had built some of these grand edifices with their turrets and octagonal bays, and lived in one. His villa sat in the middle of a wooded garden, a large plot, well screened for privacy. The floors in Mr Boothby’s home were of darkly polished wood, the staircase teak and the walls covered in dark plaster, mahogany panelling or burgundy flock, making it oppressive, despite its size.

Albert had told her they would fill the bedrooms with children and she would have charge of a full staff, including a lady’s maid of her own. She saw how easily she might sail into a life that was not hers, steered by other’s hands.

As she passed the iron gate in the wall that led to his residence, Harriet averted her gaze.

A shout in the distance only served to highlight the desertion of this part of the street. Harriet glanced behind her, again. The pavement was empty, except for the drifts of leaves. She reassured herself that the factory whistles would soon blow a hole in the silence. She would be just one more body in a crowd of them, not alone and easily singled out, a rabbit scuttling along a hedge, easy prey to a beady-eyed hawk.

A scuttling from behind found its echo in her chest. Harriet increased her pace. A leaf or some other street detritus blowing along, no reason to look back. But now her mind was flooded by the memory of the crunch of leaves under little Alice’s boots, her cousin’s delighted giggle. And now the sound was the rasp of Walter’s drowning lungs, finally suffocated by the same flood that had carried his daughter away, and she could not help herself. She spun around.