He stops before a headstone that is raw and unmarked by the weather. At its base, bare earth makes a mound four feet long.

Simon removes his hat.

So this is Pearl. Her last home looks pitifully small and narrow.

Agnes bends down and places the pansies she has brought with her carefully upon the soil. It occurs to her now that they were Constance’s favourite flower.

‘God rest you, sweet Pearl,’ she whispers. ‘Sleep tight.’

Her eyes skim the stone.

Pearl Meers

22 June 1843–3 December 1854

Her mind has a momentary blank. She wobbles, disorientated. Simon’s arm slips around her waist.

‘I am well,’ she insists, ‘I am …’

Something troubles her; a general unease she cannot put her finger upon. But why should the dates upset her?

‘I thought this was a peaceful spot.’ Simon speaks as softly as the wind that moves between the graves. ‘At dusk, the shadow of the chapel falls across it and it is most … serene.’

A blackbird sings. Agnes glances around. The place is pretty, with the church gazing down over them from above, and the river slipping effortlessly by. She thinks of little Pearl being shut away in the dark for so long, and how pleasant the girl would find this hillside with its shade and its foliage, and the city that she never managed to see spread out before her like a picture.

Her head begins to clear. ‘It is perfect, Simon. You chose well.’

They stand for a long time, staring out into the distance. Simon does not remove his arm from her waist. From the corner of her eye, she notices him watching her tenderly. It is comfortable.

They observe a grey-haired couple and their adult daughter tending a grave. They are the only other mourners, which surprises her, given the crowded nature of the cemetery and the season.

Simon inhales deeply beside her. ‘I must perform the duty of visiting another while I am here. Do you find yourself able to accompany me?’

It takes her a second to realise who he means. Constance is buried here, her grave woefully neglected.

‘I … Yes. Yes, I will go with you, Simon.’

She turns to him, and sees that he has tears in his eyes. She never thought to see him weep for his wife.

He coaxes her hand into the crook of his arm. Slowly, they descend the slope, drawing ever closer to the river. A drake plunges his emerald head beneath the water in search of food. She can smell wet dirt and weeds.

‘Just a little further,’ he urges as she hangs back.

Wind soughs through the naked tree branches. The family of mourners turn and make as if to leave. Agnes wishes they would not. There is a safety in numbers.