‘I am sorry,’ said Polly. ‘When I ask your uncle for help, he delays and delays. I sometimes think he enjoys my discomfort.’

Harriet made a sympathetic noise but wasn’t really paying attention. She placed a bet on two raindrops meandering down the glass. If the one on the left reached the windowsill first she would be rescued by a handsome prince, a fairy-tale ending to a dark fable that had begun six years ago when her parents died. If the other drop won, she’d be stuck here forever, slowly transforming into a bitter old maid.

‘He’s gone out with his new acquaintance, Mr Boothby, to solicit business for their venture. House building, if you can credit it. From banking to bricklaying, although of course Walter won’t be getting his own hands dirty. And Boothby might be a rich man, but Walter needs to drum up more cash, which is where your brother comes into the equation.’

James. He’d been packed off to boarding school when their parents died and was now doing well for himself in London where he rented a set of chambers in a fine house. Investments, or something like that. Harriet was expected to be grateful for the occasional, if not brief, letter.

The two raindrops converged on each other before reaching the bottom of the windowpane. Harriet sighed.

‘There’s a high demand in the town, your uncle tells me. I have a demand of my own, I tell him. This was once a relatively quiet spot by the river, but we’ve been swallowed up. Why, we’re in the very stinking centre of the town now! And he wants his own horse and carriage. No man of business can be taken seriously without his own horse and carriage, he says. Mr Boothby keeps several vehicles. A curricle, a chaise… I’ve finished, Harriet.’

‘Hmm.’

‘Harriet. I’ve finished.’

‘Oh! Sorry, Aunt.’

Harriet averted her eyes from the contents of the bucket, and helped Polly back into bed, the sharp odour of piss in her nostrils. She washed her hands as quickly as she could in the basin on the bureau. The water was numbingly cold.

‘You’re forever washing your hands. You’re a fastidious child, aren’t you?’

Harriet laughed. ‘Aunt, I’m twenty-three.’

‘I cannot remember the last time I heard you laugh.’

‘Well.’ She wanted to say she had little to laugh about, but knew she would feel ashamed of herself if she spoke out. Twenty-three. Life was sliding past like a swan on a lake while she was the silly goose on the bank, running in circles around children that were not her own, an invalid aunt, largely absent uncle, and a house that, even after all this time, did not have the comforting scent of home. But no other occupation was open to her and she was not in the acquaintance of any young and eligible men, let alone a handsome prince.

‘I would like a cup of tea, if you have time, dear.’

‘I have time.’ Harriet swept strands of hair away from her face. One of her braids had come undone in the effort it had taken to manoeuvre her aunt onto the commode and back.