Once she had given her address to the inscrutable coachman the door closed and the next minute they were off, Betsy clutching her hand tightly and staring out of the window in rapt fascination as the shops and house windows glowed through the falling snow.

Alexander broke the silence when he said quietly, ‘I was sorry to hear about your husband, Mrs O’Leary. It must have been difficult for you with a little one to care for.’

She was startled into looking straight at him. So he had been making enquiries about her to the market manager. She hadn’t imagined it. ‘Initially, I suppose, but we do very well on our own now.’

There had been a pointedness to her reply but he merely smiled genially. ‘I don’t doubt it. You are clearly a very resourceful woman and I’m sure business must be booming if those tarts were anything to go by. Where did you learn to cook like that?’

‘I’ve just always loved it, that’s all.’

‘Well, you have a true gift. Some of our army cooks could do with a few lessons from you. They say a soldier marches on his stomach but if that was true I’m afraid we’d be a poor lot overall. Still, one can get used to anything if it’s necessary.’

But it hadn’t been necessary, not for him. He had chosen to go into the army against his family’s wishes.

Her face must have given her away because he leaned forward slightly. ‘What is it?’

She thought about prevaricating for a moment but then found herself saying, ‘If something is unavoidable, I suppose that is true.’

‘But that wasn’t the case for me?’

She hoped the darkness in the carriage was hiding her blushes. Now she did prevaricate. ‘Was it?’

He laughed softly. ‘You should take up fencing. You would be very good at it.’

She stared at him. He didn’t seem in the least offended.

He opened his mouth to say something more but before he could, his goddaughter had tapped his arm saying, ‘That man, Uncle Alex, why is he dancing like that?’ Tram cars loaded to the hilt with Christmas shoppers had passed them, and the pavements were equally crowded, but now they all looked to where Rosaleen pointed and saw a man, still with the red dust of the ironworks on him, doing a kind of Irish jig as he lurched on and off the pavement.

Quite seriously, Alexander said, ‘He’s just full of the festive spirit, sweetheart, that’s all. He’s happy that it’s Christmas,’ and as his gaze met Rose’s he smiled and she smiled back.

‘He’s drunk.’ Nicholas’s voice held a bitterness that was all at odds with his age. ‘Like Father gets sometimes.’