Her wedding to Eustace had been one of the most glittering events anyone on either side of the Atlantic had ever seen. The New York newspapers had gone into raptures over it, sending reporters to cover every last detail. There had been fifteen hundred guests, two hundred clockwork turtle doves and a fifty-piece orchestra. The church aisle was an avenue of Rosa’s favourite white orchids, and the stone columns, arches and wooden pews were adorned with a record-breaking abundance of lilies, roses and chrysanthemums.

At the wedding breakfast at Raven Hall later on there were more than twenty thousand sprays of lily-of-the-valley and enough orchids that if they were laid end to end they would cover a distance of some eight miles. James Sheppard had been true to his word and had provided Rosa with countless exotic blooms, and everyone who attended the wedding agreed that it was one of the most spectacular ever celebrated in England.

Her clockwork pigeon fluttered up to her, ever hopeful that she was ready to send a letter. Rosa had created the bird to deliver messages to Beatrice, and yet she hadn’t sent any in months. She didn’t know what she could say to her old friend, but she knew that she must write to her soon. Just last week Beatrice had sent a letter by regular post saying that she might return to England to see the pop-up book for herself, and that was something Rosa could not face – to have to see her old friend again and pretend that all was well. She must send Beatrice a note with a white lie about the book. Perhaps she could say it had been lost.

In the two months since her marriage, Rosa had tried to will herself into happiness, but it was no use. Misery had sunk deep into her bones. She felt no love or tenderness whatsoever towards the baby growing inside her. This felt like the greatest failure of all, for Rosa had always wanted children, and had promised herself that she would be nothing like her own mother: so cold, and distant, and resentful.

Rosa and her brothers had received more love from Maggie, the slave who had cared for them in the nursery. Even now, Rosa still felt a twinge of grief when she recalled the day Maggie had been sold to another family.