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politely.
    “Stanley, not everyone shares your obsession with dead insects,” said Geoffrey.
    “No, I’m sorry. Forgive me.”
    Stanley flushed and patted his mouth again, and Marie felt sorry for him. She helped herself to some of the poached salmon that was laid out on the silver platter in the centre of the table. It was garnished with cucumber and watercress. She declined Geoffrey’s offer of wine.
    “Do you like animals, Miss Montrecourt?”
    Stanley’s second attempt at conversation struck her as equally odd. “Er… yes. Yes, I do.”
    “Stanley does,” Geoffrey interrupted. “My brother breeds St Bernard dogs, you see, Miss Montrecourt. He shows them, too. He won a prize for one of his dogs once, didn’t you, Stanley? He’s more obsessed by them than he is by The Emporium and butterflies, and that’s saying something.” As the housekeeper came in to clear the dinner plates, he noticed his brother had barely touched his food. “You’re not eating much, Stanley. Not like you.”
    “No. Well, I still have this ache in my gums. Toothache,” he explained to Marie. “It makes eating difficult.”
    “Oh, I have the perfect cure for that, Mr Minton,” she said. “It’s a tincture of cloves. I brought it from France with me. I made it myself.”
    “I should think the patented cures will do him just as well, my dear,” said Alice, quickly.
    “Really, you made it yourself?” Stanley almost smiled. “Then I should very much like to try it. Thank you.”
    “You made it yourself, Miss Montrecourt?” Alice’s husband leant towards her. “How very clever of you.”
    “I’m sure Miss Montrecourt means well,” Alice interrupted, “but I wouldn’t take the risk of trying it if I were you, Stanley. Heaven knows what it might contain.”
    Marie chose to ignore the comment. “I will make sure you have a jar before you leave, Mr Minton.”
    *
    The next day Marie arrived at the bookshop, eager to start work on the banners. The bell jangled as she went through the door.
    “Daphne?”
    Hearing a noise from the backroom, she pushed through the curtain.
    The stench made her realise that Daphne was not alone. She saw a woman sitting in the cane chair just under the cracked mirror. It was hard to tell her age. She was wearing a shawl over a thin calico dress that seemed to be held together by patches. Her hair was covered by a bonnet and her boots were bound by rags. The factory women were well dressed in comparison. She seemed unable to sit still because she was forever scratching. Marie saw that her arms were covered with sores and bites. On the floor by the side of her was a blacking box filled with cottons and tapes and stay laces.
    “This is Sal,” said Daphne. “She sometimes calls in to see me when she’s in the area – to get warm and have a cup of tea.”
    This was obviously one of Daphne’s good causes. “I’ll pour it,” Marie said, eager to help.
    “Life hasn’t been kind to her,” Daphne continued, always keen to point out the harsh realities of life. “You don’t mind me talking about it?” Sal shook her head as she gratefully accepted the tea from Marie. “She lost her job as a seamstress a year ago. Soon after, her father died and her mother couldn’t afford to keep her. There were six younger children to provide for, so Sal left home. However, she couldn’t find any work. She’s been hawking wares around the streets of Harrogate ever since.”
    “That must be hard.”
    The girl’s face was pale and she seemed very weak.
    “If she’s lucky,” said Daphne, “and she’s made some sales, then she can afford to pay for the share of a bed in a lodging house – which probably has room for two families but houses ten. If she’s unlucky, then she applies for a chit to stay in the workhouse at Knaresborough.”
    “I don’t like the workhouse.” Sal spoke for the first time and Marie was surprised by her voice. It was pleasant and low, with only a hint of a local accent.