She would miss this little community, Rose thought later that morning as she watched her daughter with Adelaide. It was the nearest thing to a big family she’d experienced, but she had to consider what was the best in the long run for Betsy and herself. If she had a shop of her own she could open it once she had taken Betsy to school in the morning, and maybe leave it in the hands of an assistant for a few minutes when she collected the child in the afternoons. Living above her work would mean she could stay open as long as she liked, knowing Betsy was safe upstairs, and she could expand the business how and when she liked. No more standing in the market in weather like today. She glanced again at her daughter, whose little nose was bright red with the cold. No more tramping to and fro when it was pouring with rain or snowing, and trying to keep her produce dry when the wind blew the rain in the wrong direction.

Of course the rent for the sort of premises she had in mind would be much more than her present two-up, two-down house and the cost of the stall, but the advantages would be huge. It was time. She knew it was time and that she had been putting this decision off for far too long.

She came out of her reverie with a start as a deep male voice said, ‘Excuse me, may I buy a few of those delicious-looking fruit tarts?’ and realized a tall, a very tall, man must have been standing in front of the stall waiting to be served for some moments while she had been wool-gathering.

He was smiling, one dark eyebrow raised, and wondering what on earth he must think of her and more flustered than she would have liked, she said hastily, ‘Yes, yes, of course, I’m sorry. How many would you like? They’re a penny each.’

‘Shall we say six?’

She quickly put the tarts in a paper bag, knowing she was blushing but unable to do anything about it. It wasn’t just that she had been caught daydreaming; it was something about the man himself.

After she had handed him the bag and taken the payment, he thanked her but didn’t move away. Instead, in a voice that held no accent as such but which, as a child, she would have described as toffee-nosed, he said, ‘Do you make everything yourself?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Quite an undertaking. How often are you here?’