‘We will walk slowly,’ he decides, setting Morpheus down on the pavement.

The dog’s stubby black legs disappear beneath the drift, which reaches his belly. He whines. Simon ignores him and holds out an arm for Agnes to lean on.

She takes it carefully. The friction of their disagreement seems to prickle through his coat.

‘You are not cold, Miss Darken? I will not have you catch pneumonia again.’

Agnes assures him she is wearing her chest preserver and thickest boots. How does he suppose she managed to make her way to the tea shop in the first place?

‘We used to enjoy weather like this,’ she reminds him. ‘When we were young. Let’s wander up a little and see the gardens. They will look so pretty in the snow.’

She had hoped to soften Simon with the memory, but the muscles in his arm tense. ‘Not the gardens. They are too far and perhaps treacherous. I would not wish for you to slip. In these low temperatures, we really should get you home as quickly as possible.’

‘So much for pleasing myself on the day of my birth.’

The frown deepens on his face. ‘Well … Perhaps just to Crescent Fields.’

Morpheus huffs and begins to push his way through the snow. It cuts a track for them to follow.

Bath is a different city in the snow. White smothers every soot-stained building, every dungheaped road and every skeletal tree. This is how it must have appeared when the limestone mansions were freshly built and full of promise: a dazzling expanse of unclaimed space.

Well, not quite unclaimed. Even in this enchanting tableau, the iron railings at the top of the Crescent ha-ha show dark against the glare. It is the divide between the private lawns of the rich and the public ground below. Everyone carefully contained and in their space.

Today, Agnes is content to be on her own side. Those braving the fields do so with genuine glee. Laughter peals through the frigid air. She smiles at the children, who pelt each other with snowballs. Nurses scold and run after them, but they are powerless to stop the fun.

‘Do you remember …’ she begins, turning towards Simon, but the sentence dies in her mouth. The tears shining in his eyes tell her he recalls only too well.

She lowers her head, chastened. Simon was born to a large family. Sometimes it seems impossible to believe that there is only him left. She pictures the little Carfaxes running in the snow as they used to do. Their faces live in her memory, but she cannot reach all of the names. Nancy, the eldest, who used to hold Constance’s hand when Agnes would not. Edmund. Or was it Edward? There was certainly a Matthew.

Now they are only silhouettes hanging in Simon’s hall.