‘I didn’t mean for you to die,’ she whispers. ‘I was only a baby. I didn’t know. I couldn’t help it.’

But it seems she is unforgiven.

CHAPTER 11

Agnes first met Montague over a table like this. Of course they went to Molland’s in those days, but the essential layout of the refreshment room is the same here in Marlborough Lane: circular tables with sprigged cloths, pale green and white crockery, spiced steam in the air. They even have a similar bell over the door. It tinkles sporadically, making no impact on the chatter and clinking spoons.

When she thinks back, her memory is hazy. To tell the truth, she had no indication at that first meeting of what Montague would come to mean to her. She was more interested in sponge cake and cocoa than the two young men Captain Darken had rushed across the shop to shake hands with.

Bedford and Montague had served under him as midshipmen, her father explained. They were due promotion any day now, and he would put in a good word for them, if his word still meant anything to the navy. It had meant something to Agnes. When the engagement was finally formed, after Captain Darken’s death, one of her chief pleasures had been the certainty that Papa would have approved of her match.

But on that day, John Montague was simply an agreeable young man who shared stories of life below deck. The only virtue to recommend him over his companion Bedford was the honour of his attention. For Bedford relished a challenge and had set out to engage Constance in conversation.

Although the sisters were similar in appearance, it was generally agreed that Constance’s visage lacked the prettiness Agnes’s possessed. Constance’s chin was more pointed, her nose like a freshly sharpened pencil. Beside the rest of the family’s brown eyes, her blue ones struck as particularly cold. But still there was something that drew gentlemen to Constance. That face: provocative, even at repose. Daring you to animate it.

Bedford did not succeed.

Was it that day, or later on, that she discovered Montague’s fondness for marchpane? A box of it sits on Agnes’s lap now, ready to take home for Cedric. It emanates a scent of almond that is almost unbearably sweet. Like her memories – one can only indulge in moderation. A surfeit is sure to cause rot, somewhere down the line.

The bell tinkles. Simon steps into the room, carrying his small black dog under one arm. The animal has a ribbon tied around his neck that matches Simon’s best waistcoat.

She is oddly touched. He always remembers the day.

‘Miss Darken!’ He walks over, takes her hand and raises it to his lips. ‘Many happy returns to you. Forgive my tardiness. A gentleman should never keep a lady waiting.’

‘So why did you?’ she enquires archly.