The cemetery rises up in her mind’s eye, dismal and crowded with row upon row of stone slabs. She always fancied the gravestones looked like teeth in the maw of some hideous beast.

‘The thought scares me,’ she admits. ‘And I am frightened of seeing Miss West, too. But I owe Pearl that much. I did not act well by that child, Simon. I used her for my own purposes.’ Her face flushes with self-consciousness as she adds, ‘I worry that perhaps … I have been using people like that my whole life: taking what I need and discarding them. It is my resolution to do better … much better, in the future. I mean to honour those who have always been so generous with me.’

Simon swallows and turns away to face the wall.

She is embarrassed. She had always assumed … But perhaps that is not the case. Maybe all his boyish passion is long since spent.

Trying to break the awkwardness, she resumes, ‘I have not been a dutiful daughter these last few months. Mamma is one of the people I must try harder to please. I know you worry that seeing her will excite me, but do you think … I should so like to be reunited with my mother and Cedric for Christmas. Could they not come here, if you think me too ill to travel? I must see how poor Cedric gets along. Is he quite recovered from his accident?’

Simon clears his throat. ‘I … I am hoping to convey you to them both very soon.’

‘Before Christmas, Simon?’

‘If you wish it.’

Something has altered. He seems more melancholy than when their conversation first began.

His gaze is fixed upon a piece of needlework hanging on the wall: a sampler that Constance worked when she was young. There are the usual numbers, letters, trees and flowers, but the verse is idiosyncratic:

Behold this piece my hands have made

When I am dead and in my grave

Morpheus whuffs.

‘Excuse me, Miss Darken,’ Simon says, shaking himself out of his reverie and moving towards the door. ‘I did not remark the time. I have patients I must attend to. Can I have anything else sent up to you?’

‘No, thank you. Only remember: my family together at Christmas. I shall hold you to that promise, Simon.’

He gives her one last, pained smile. ‘I am unlikely to forget.’

CHAPTER 35

Agnes still thinks of it as the ‘new’ gaol, built along the lines of Pentonville Prison. The turnpike road to Bristol is just visible on the horizon; in the other direction, beyond the high walls, steam puffs from engines on the railway tracks. It is cruel positioning. The convicts must watch the world go by without them, continually facing boundaries which they may never cross.