It does not appear so this morning.

A few of her acquaintances nod to her from their seats – other impecunious spinsters, with which the city is swelling to capacity. Agnes does not count many friends amongst the pale, tired faces peering out from beneath dark bonnets. Even her own kind brand her as rather odd. They use the word as a sort of armour; in truth they are shying away from the scandal, the poverty and, most of all, the legacy of the Accident. It saddens her, but she does partly understand. She would not know what to say to a woman like herself, either.

The bells toll eleven o’clock.

The Honourable Reverend Brodrick acquits himself admirably during the service. It is not his fault that Agnes cannot lose herself in the sweet unity of prayer. She blames the engagement ring, which today feels enormous and insistent when she clasps her hands together. She wants to settle, to give thanks, but her thoughts are ungovernable. They fly around the abbey like a flock of doves let loose.

Did you miss me.

What if it is him?

She remembers her father coming back to shore. How she would pitch into his arms and sob, overcome with the relief that she was no longer alone. It sounds foolish, because of course she had Mamma while he was away, but it was not the same, just as having Simon around is not the same as having Montague.

She has missed Montague more than anyone.

When she was so ill with pneumonia, Simon said it was a miracle that she survived, and maybe it was, maybe this is why: she has been granted a second chance to live the life that was stolen from her.

Montague will be different now. Older, wiser, less susceptible to temptation. She can forgive his past errors. In all honesty, she never fully blamed him, but he left before she had the opportunity to explain that. She imagines the joy of introducing him to Cedric and their future taking a different course, away from Bath. She sees them being able to afford holidays together. How she would love for the three of them to visit the Isle of Wight!

Left to her own devices, Agnes would have passed from the abbey and back home caught in her dreamy cloud. But half a dozen women are clustered in the aisle, blocking her way, their cloaks pulled high on their hunched shoulders. Although they lean forward and show all the indications of whispering, their voices echo.

‘Drowned, they told me. Humane Society couldn’t revive him.’

‘Oh, how sad.’

‘That’s nonsense. He would have been able to swim.’

‘Look, I’m just telling you what I heard.’

‘Does anyone know who he is?’