For a time the only sound is cutlery moving against china. The food is exquisite. Agnes has every reason to be content, yet somehow she is not.

It would be ridiculous to say she is lonely, while she is in the company of her closest friend. But there is something lacking. Perhaps it is the old adage that blood is thicker than water. She certainly felt a sense of fulfilment around her family which Simon cannot supply.

Her happiness should not be contingent upon another person, yet somehow, it has always been. She has clung to the memories of Papa, Montague and Cedric in turn. Lived her life for others, never forming an independent identity outside of her art. Now that the silhouette parlour has gone too there is a flatness; a part of her is missing.

Simon swirls the wine in his glass. He, too, glances to the sides of the table and the piles of food they will never manage to eat between them. He seems to read Agnes’s thoughts.

‘We have both of us lost families.’ The candlelight shines off the moisture in his eyes. ‘The pain of that never fades. I miss them all, my brother Matthew especially. Every day. But if I am honest, Miss Darken …’ He puts his glass down, hesitates. ‘The only companion I ever truly desired … was you.’

These words have gone unsaid for many years. Simon must have waited most of his life to say them. But now that they are finally out … nothing has really changed.

She knew. She knew before he went off to Scotland; she knew when she accepted Montague’s offer; she even knew when he stood at the altar marrying Constance.

But she cannot tell him that. She dabs her mouth with a napkin. ‘Your company is always a great pleasure to me, Simon.’

‘Then you will … stay here?’ He touches the stem of his wine glass but cannot look at her.

‘I do not know how much longer I am able to. I may be your sister-in-law, but people will start to talk about us.’

‘I meant …’ His throat works. ‘Miss Darken. I must ask you, at last. Is there not any way you would consider staying … as my wife?’

It is all very restrained; nothing like Montague’s ardent declarations and the kisses she showered on him. But Simon is so good, so kind, so assiduous for her health. Gratitude has done what affection alone could not.

She wants to accept.

‘Could I?’ she asks in a small voice. ‘I mean to say … is it allowed?’

‘Not by the laws of England’s Church,’ he admits. He glances up at last, and his blue eyes are imploring. ‘Although Constance and I were never … It was not a marriage.’

A log pops on the fire. Somehow her sister still hovers between them.

‘What is it you propose, then?’