Chapter 19

The road above the high stone arches of Lady’s Bridge was busy with traffic rattling in and out of the town centre, pedestrians streaming up and down the pavement on one side, the other blocked by a scaffold about halfway along. Harriet’s destination lay across this bridge and she was eager to cross, but her escort had stopped to observe the scene and therefore so must she.

‘Mr Boothby?’

‘Indulge me. Your uncle and I gained the contract for these repairs and it pleases me to see the work progressing.’

The top three rungs of a ladder were visible beyond the scaffold. Harriet laid her gloved hands on the rough granite of the parapet and peered over the side. The end of the ladder rested on a platform suspended by ropes a few feet above the sluggish brown waters of the Don. Here, the river was hemmed by tall brick buildings that channelled it east as far as the eye could see. The ancient structure Harriet had stepped onto had survived the tumult that had flattened the previous fifteen bridges in its path like dominos. Tons upon tons of wood and iron, and worse, much worse, had slammed up against Lady’s Bridge, clogging the arches and ripping chunks from the stonework. Bodies had been found lodged in the structure. Harriet leaned harder on the wall, fighting a sudden wave of nausea.

‘Are you quite all right, Miss Wragg?’

She gulped. ‘My foot is somewhat sore. I need a moment only to rest it.’

‘I should not have suggested we walk. I am thoughtless.’ He laughed in a way that seemed to suggest she ought to contradict him. ‘Well,’ he continued after a few moments had passed, ‘you must take your time, of course. This evening, I shall drive you home.’

Harriet took a deep breath of the familiar smell of the town, of smoke and coal and horse dung, a cold metallic whiff from the river. She focused on the scene below.

Two men balanced on the platform, the younger of the two clutching the rope and looking decidedly ill at ease to be on such a makeshift contraption. The older man stood with a board in one hand and a trowel in the other, placidly chopping and mixing mortar. The youth was taller and broader than the older man at his side, with a mop of dark hair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong brown forearms. There was something familiar about the way he pushed his fingers through his hair, the way he flexed his shoulders.

At her side, Mr Boothby took out his pocket watch, glanced at the time, replaced it and adjusted the necktie around the high collar that corralled his abundant sideburns. The necktie was silk, polka-dotted, and matched Mr Boothby’s waistcoat. In fact, Harriet considered, he was kitted out as handsomely as if he was promenading about the park rather than delivering her to the town hall. She was dressed more sombrely in black taffeta, and felt like his shadow.