For all his flaws, Montague was a good man at heart. Cedric is the last whisper of his name. But where is he? Who would take him?

Teardrops spot the dark material of her bodice, each a tiny, bloodless bullet hole. Agnes scrubs at her eyes with the handkerchief. She has gone through so many of them lately that she’s been forced to use Constance’s old ones; she has picked the initials out but the ghost of the letter C still marks the corner.

Throwing her used handkerchief onto the heap of dirtied linen, she stands and goes to the press to fetch a new gown.

Her press is far better appointed than Pearl’s wardrobe: floral-scented with a variety of shelves and hooks. Neatly folded stacks of jet clothing line up before her. Though there is scarcely any change in the hue, the material alters: poplin, coarse wool, smooth bombazine. Her fingers trail over each, selecting none. Instead she bends to the bottom shelf.

Constance’s dresses have not been disturbed in years. On top lies a royal blue gown made from Henrietta cloth. Dust has turned it the colour of the sky on a cloudy summer’s day. Underneath, better preserved, is crimson silk trimmed with black braid. Agnes pulls it out, holds it up before her.

She can move the gown, make it sway as if inhabited, but she cannot imagine herself wearing it. Nothing about the dress says Agnes.

Yet if it comes to that … What in her life truly does feel like her own, these days? There is no point left in being Agnes; there is so little to her.

Mechanically, she removes her tear-stained mourning gown and fastens herself into the crimson. It fits. She is surprised: Constance’s clothes always used to be too long and tight for her.

Before donning gloves, she considers her hands. Veins rise beneath the fragile skin. Her nails are overgrown. The only vestige of beauty left is the gold band on her third finger and the glint of its small gem.

After all this time, the ring is difficult to remove; it jams around her swollen knuckle, but Agnes tugs, ignoring the pain, until it slides free.

What a tiny item of jewellery it is, to hold all the promises and hopes she bound up in it. She takes her reticule off the dressing table and drops the ring gently inside. Technically, the ring belongs to her, but he chose it and purchased it. It shall have to suffice. She has nothing else.

Misery still hovers over her head, but at least she feels like a different, more collected woman as she heads downstairs and walks out of the front door without bidding farewell to her mother.