It was as if she had indeed gone back in time, as if her life with Nicholas had never happened. She had nothing but a pain in her heart to show for the past two years. She was back to square one, back where she’d started in her first disastrous days in Liverpool, and this time she’d lost far more than just her purse and her dignity on the side of the docks; this time she’d lost her heart, too.

Tears filled her eyes but refused to spill as Joan set the cup on her bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed. She had no words for what had been the most unlikely situation: a girl from Ireland just like Joan and Deidra becoming the mistress of the doctor’s house.

‘How are ye feeling?’ asked Joan as she placed her hand over Mary Kate’s.

‘I feel terrible. My head is so fuzzy.’ She stared blankly at the window. ‘He’s gone, hasn’t he? I can’t believe he’s gone.’ She had answered her own question and she was so frozen with shock, she couldn’t cry.

Joan squeezed her hand tight. ‘Deidra said the other doctor has rung, the new one, at the practice. I can’t remember his name – she said he sounded nice.’ She looked to Mary Kate for help with the details. She’d met the new doctor, he’d been to the house and had tea in the kitchen a number of times, but she wasn’t good with names.

Mary Kate nodded, her face now as white as the sheets. ‘William,’ she whispered. ‘What did he say?’ Her eyes opened wide and she pushed herself up on the pillows as her mind played tricks. ‘Oh my Lord, is Nicholas alive? Is it all a mistake? Is that what he’s coming to tell me?’ Her heart soared with hope, but the expression on Joan’s face and the memory of the previous evening brought it crashing back down again.

Joan’s mouth opened and closed. She was scared. ‘He’s coming here at ten, to see you. That’s in half an hour.’

‘He’s dead. My Nicholas. Oh, Joan, how did all this happen?’ Still no tears.

Joan shook her head. ‘He was only thirty-five,’ she whispered. She didn’t dare say what she wanted to say. That she had cried all night and made herself near sick with worry about the boys and the future. If she did, she would disintegrate, and she’d only been allowed to bring Mary Kate her tea on the promise that she would be strong.

Mary Kate threw the bedclothes back, placed her bare feet on the wooden floorboards and stood, wavering slightly. Joan reached out to steady her.

‘I’d better get ready. I have to see William. I have things to do for Nicholas – he still needs me. I have to arrange a wake, a funeral, and I don’t know where to start, but William will. He’ll help me.’

Joan descended the stairs slowly, empty tray in hand, her head full of worry for Mary Kate.