There was an awkward pause for a moment and then Alexander said, his voice over-hearty, ‘Well, I’m famished, it seems a lifetime since lunch. Come along, Betsy, let’s have a look and see what we’ve got.’ He took Betsy’s hand and led her over to the tea trolley which the footman had placed in the centre of them. ‘Sandwiches first. This lot is cucumber and these are salmon and those are chicken in some sauce or other. And look, ham I think? And cheese and pâté. My, my, Cook’s done us proud.’

Betsy smiled at him. ‘They look as good as my mammy makes.’

‘They do, don’t they. Come along, fill your plate, and would you like tea to drink or perhaps milk?’

‘May I have milky tea, please?’

‘Indeed you may.’

Rose was feeling inordinately proud of Betsy. Although initially overawed, the little girl had bounced back and was conducting herself perfectly, remembering her manners and not being too forward as children can be when they are excited. She, on the other hand, had never felt so uncomfortable and awkward in the whole of her life. Alexander’s mother had been gracious but she had detected the disappointment and disapproval the woman was attempting to hide, and in truth she could see her point of view. Out of the blue her son had told her that he was in love with a woman from a different class. Not only that, but this woman was a widow with a young child and worked for her living. She had mentally prepared herself for the fact that at some point in the proceedings her unsuitability would be remarked on, but discreetly and politely of course.

Arabella poured them all tea and they had helped themselves to sandwiches and were sitting listening to Alexander’s opinion of the Sidney Street siege in the East End of London, where three anarchists had had a gun battle with over a thousand troops and armed police, when William opened the door to his wife’s drawing room and strode in.

‘There you are, dear.’ Arabella smiled at her husband but there was a warning in it he could not miss. They had spent a good deal of the night talking about Alexander and Rose, William stomping about their quarters and ranting and raving. In the end, at nearly four in the morning, Arabella had had enough. She had told him in no uncertain terms that as far as she was concerned, unhappy as she was at the situation, they had to make the best of it if they wanted to see Alexander in the coming months and years. ‘And I do, William,’ she’d said, a steely glint in her eyes. ‘So if that means accepting this woman and her child into the family, then so be it. I won’t lose him and I expect you to be with me on this.’