She didn't hear the footsteps, or the door opening.

'Why are you in my room?'

Dorothy spun round. She couldn't think of anything to say.

'As long as I'm in this house, this is my bedroom, and I'd thank you to get out of it.'

'From what my father says, it sounds as if it won't be your bedroom for long,' Dorothy replied.

'That still doesn't answer my question. What were you doing poking around in my things?'

'Your things? Ha! Half of these clothes are my mother's or my sister's. You came here with nothing; everything you have has been cheated from us!'

Molly advanced until they stood eye to eye. 'You're a mean, spoilt girl. You spend your whole life thinking about yourself, and how someone or something is cheating you. My God, to think you are Elizabeth's sister a it doesn't seem possible. I warn you, years of hard work have made me strong, and if you don't get out this minute, I'll have no choice but to pick you up and throw you out.'

'You're a cheap and common whore, and I hate you, and all that you've done to this family!' Dorothy screamed, backing to the door. She slammed it behind her and ran downstairs to the carriage.

Her mother was waiting; Lorenzo was on the box. He got down and opened the door, but kept his face turned away from her. Throwing herself onto the velvet seats Dorothy bit her lip in an effort to control her emotions. As the coach drew under the archway a solitary tear escaped down her cheek.

37.

January 1741 Three weeks after Elizabeth died, Molly and Ruth sat, doing the mending. Norton had already become a house of ghosts. The servants moved through the rooms silent and unseen, and Molly slipped in and out of the shadows, careful to avoid both William and his son.

Her conscience plagued her. The kiss should never have happened, but she relived every moment. She was miles away when Ruth brought her back to the present with an admiring glance at her work.

'Start a dressmaker's shop, love; you are gifted at stitching. I gave my mam the kerchief you made, and she won't blow her nose on it. Too precious, she says.'

Dear Ruth, with her simplistic ideas. A shop needed money. Molly needed money.

Ruth sighed. 'There's no reason you should stay. It's not like it used to be, is it, love? And with poor Letitia gone, God rest her soul, Master Thomas won't be here for long. Who can blame him a there's naught to hold him in this gloomy house.'

Molly dropped her work, barely managing to keep her composure before fleeing to the library.

Leaving the door ajar, she wandered aimlessly from shelf to shelf, running her finger along the leather spines. She read the titles hoping they would distract her; she could remember only too well the morning she had seen Thomas carrying Letitia's body in his arms. She had not meant to witness his private grief, but now the image of his despairing face haunted her.

'Molly! I was looking for you.' She looked up, startled. Thomas was in the doorway. 'I hope you don't mind; I saw you run down the hall. Don't look frightened, I just want to talk.'

'You mustn't, sir. What we did was wrong. You know that as well as I.'

'I understand. But don't go, please.' His face looked pale and his eyes strained. 'I want to show you something. I promise it has nothing to do with us, or what happened between us.'

He moved to the shelves and pulled down two heavy leather volumes, opening them on the large library table. 'I found these books after the funeral; they must have belonged to my grandfather. You may find them interesting. These are the Oxford colleges, Christ Church, Queen's.' He pointed to the black and white engravings. 'But this one,' he said proudly, 'is University College, my college, possibly the oldest and finest of them all.'

'You are lucky to be in a place like that. I always wanted an education. Lizzie taught me to read. Did she tell you?'

'She did,' he said. 'Perhaps now you have read the letters I sent you.'

'I never received any letters,' she replied.

'But I wrote to you several times.'

'The only thing I have is this poem.' She pulled the crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and held out her hand.

Thomas took it from her and opened it, his eyes widening in amazement. 'You kept it for all these years?'

'Of course I kept it. You gave it to me, and I don't know what happened to your letters a they must have been mislaid. But please, too much has happened. Too much hurt. Let's not create any more.'

'I know, Molly. But I must ask you this: how could you have gone with my father?'

'Because you were lost to me. I was at home in my father's house, emptying the slops and cleaning the fires, and Sir William wanted me back. He gave me a way out. What else could I do?'

'Oh, Molly,' he sighed. 'The fates are against us.' He moved towards her, and then he seemed to think better of it. He handed the poem back to her, and shaking his head, he left the library, closing the door quietly behind him.

Several hours later Molly was in the stillroom, her place of refuge. She took a bottle of rose oil from the shelf and opened the stopper. The sweet aroma reminded her of Elizabeth.

In the midst of her thoughts, the door opened and Thomas entered. 'I'm sorry, I am intruding again, but I always seem to be looking for you.'

'What are doing here, sir?'

'I have to see you before I leave tomorrow. Will you meet me in the temple at eleven o'clock? I beg of you, please be there.'

'What's wrong with here? We can talk now.'

'No. Not now. I want to be on my own with you, even if it's for five minutes.'

'You know that's impossible,' she said, but after he had gone, she leant against the wall, her mouth dry, her heart pounding.

That night, she took a shawl from the peg in the hall and made her way to the wild garden. In the cold evening air she could hear wildlife moving in the undergrowth. She sat down on the stone bench and shivered. A film of ice covered the pool. Staring at it, she tried to justify her longing, but she found no answer. Pulling her woollen shawl close around her shoulders, she stood up and walked towards the upper garden. Twice she turned back and twice she changed her mind.

She climbed the stairs and headed towards the temple; there the marble bust of Elizabeth, white and pure in the moonlight, seemed to glare in disappointment. She looked away and continued up the path. As she hurried through the door, the heat from the fire hit her. Thomas was standing by his sister's old easel. Molly noticed the half-finished watercolour. She turned the picture towards the wall.

Thomas touched her cheek. 'It's all right, my darling.' When she looked into his eyes and felt the warmth of his body, she believed him.

He kissed her gently, and then kissed her again, a deep ardent kiss, seeking to merge their souls. He cupped her thick chestnut hair, burying his face in her neck, breathing the heady sweet scent of her. He whispered her name, running his hand over her chest until Molly was lost to a desire such as she had never known in all of the nights with his father. She pulled at the buttons on his shirt and pushed her sleeves from her shoulders so that her naked breasts could press against his skin. Her nipples crushed against him as a wave of need coursed through her. There was no time for caresses, for she wanted him to fill her. They ripped and tore until his clothes lay on the floor, her dress beside it, and as he entered her she cried out with relief. An urgent feeling possessed her; she thrust against him as he touched her more deeply. As he groaned her name and collapsed onto her she felt a great shuddering within her, the force so immense that she too fell back, satisfied as she had never been before.

As dawn broke they ran through the gardens, reckless after their night together.

'Molly Johnson belongs to me!' Thomas shouted to the sky. 'She is mine at last!'

Sir William woke from a drunken slumber and stumbled out of his study. 'Who's there?' he yelled. 'This is private property. I have a gun. Show yourself now!'

They stopped. Sophie ran towards them, barking, her tail wagging. 'Thomas, is that you? Oh my God, don't let it be Molly?'

As she shrank against Thomas, their terrible deception overwhelmed her. Staggering towards them, gun in hand, William reached the top of the steps. 'You whore. You disloyal ingrates! I'll kill you. I'll kill you both!'

'Father, for God's sake, don't.' Thomas held out his hand. 'Give me the gun.'

Molly stared at the barrel. 'Please,' she begged. 'This is all my fault.'

The gun discharged as Sir William stumbled on the top step and fell towards them. The shot rang through the air, shattering the bow on the statue of Diana the huntress; her arm lay in pieces on the ground. William lay beside it.

'We're all right, my love.' Thomas moved to embrace her, but in her terror she pushed him away.

'No, it's not all right. It's over. We'll pay for this.'

'Molly, don't say that. We will leave this place. I'll look after you.'

As she knelt beside Sir William and touched his unconscious brow, Molly's course was clear. 'Do you not see? I am a whore, just as your father said.'

'That is not true. I wanted you first. He took you from me.'

'I belong to no one. My past has destroyed any chance of our happiness.'

Thomas's eyes narrowed. 'Did last night mean so little to you?' he asked.

'It meant everything to me, but what would your family say? You would be cast out. We could never make a life together.'

'Never mind them. Is my love not enough for you?'

'We could never manage on love alone.' She avoided Thomas's eyes, knowing she would have to leave Norton once more.

38.

Stumbling down the drive, Molly relived each moment of her night with Thomas. She thought of his breath upon her neck, his lips upon her brow. When he had touched her body, she had arched towards him, pleading that he take her, and afterwards, when they lay together, their bodies naked and spent, he had stroked her back, running his fingertips across her flushed skin.

'This is the beginning. There will be a thousand nights. You and I are meant to be together.' Now the memory of his hands would have to last a lifetime, his kiss upon her lips, for ever.

At the end of the drive Molly leant against a tree, her knees sagging with shock and despair as she considered her options. She had no money and only the clothes that she was wearing. The signpost pointed in two directions, Oxford to the right and Stratford to the left. After a moment's deliberation she chose the latter.

She had ridden this road in William's carriage. As she walked it now, every pothole seemed to claim her. Finally she heard a cart slowing. 'Can I take you somewhere, miss? I am going to market.'

She was in no position to turn down any offer of help. 'Thank you, sir. That would be kind.'

For the next two hours, she endured the man's foul smell and lewd conversation. When they arrived at Clopton Bridge, she stepped down with relief.

'Well, miss, if you ever fancy a jar of ale with an honest farmer, Pargetter from Mickleton, that's my name.'

'Thank you, I'll remember.' She headed off towards the centre of the market town, with the sole purpose of finding work and a roof for her head.

It was Friday, the busiest day; stalls of every description crammed against each other in the cobbled streets. Chickens in small cages clucked next to slaughtered carcasses and a rainbow of vegetables. Once she would have lingered amongst the ribbons and fabrics, but she couldn't spare the time. The coaching inns seemed her best option; they always needed serving girls. But when the White Swan and the Falcon turned her away, her confidence faltered. By the time she returned to the river she had been rebuffed from nearly every public house in Stratford.

She sat down outside the door of the Black Swan, but she couldn't muster the energy to face another rejection. Resting her head on her arms, she fell asleep.

'So! What have we here?'

Molly woke with a start, but she relaxed when she saw the amused face of the tallest man she had seen. 'Good afternoon, sir.'

'What are you doing outside my pub on a day like this?' he asked, wiping his huge hands on his leather apron. 'You could freeze to death, you could.'

'I'm looking for work, sir. I'll do anything.'

He raised a brow sceptically. 'Can you clean? Your hands don't look like a maid's hands.'

'Yes, sir, I can clean and serve. I've many years' experience, and I'm a hard worker.'

'Well, then. I'll give you ten shillings a month, and board and lodging. A word of warning: my wife, Mrs Quick, doesn't like lookers, so any trouble with the lads and you'll be out with the milk cans.'

Molly had never feared hard work. Soon she was serving the customers, swilling the floors, lifting the barrels and falling into bed, only to get up the next day and do the same. Such drudgery paid only in exhaustion. She was too tired to think, too tired to remember, and that brought her a kind of peace.

She accepted abuse from Mrs Quick because she believed that she deserved it.

'Where do you come from, landing on our step like a stray dog? I don't know what my husband was thinking. I don't trust stray dogs, you remember that.'

In the sixth week of her employment, while scrubbing the pantry shelves, the room began to spin. Putting out her hand to steady herself, she knocked the cream jug to the floor. She retched as the thick liquid spread over the stone slabs.

Mrs Quick was as good as her name. 'What's going on? I always knew you were trouble. Clear up this disgusting mess and get on with your work. Any slacking and you're out. And if there is a baby in your belly, you can pack your belongings and be off.'

Molly wiped her mouth on her soiled pinafore. It had never occurred to her that she might be with child. In those precious hours with Thomas, she had taken no precautions.

Over the next few weeks she struggled to handle her workload. The nausea came regularly. It was difficult to escape the sharp eyes of her employer. In the twelfth week the sickness disappeared.

At night, lying on a straw mattress in the stuffy attic, she examined her options. When her belly became too noticeable she would have to leave. Though she longed for her mother, she could not return to the Charter House; her father would kill her before she reached the door. She faced a stark choice: either she could trust her child to the dubious care of the parish or she could enter the workhouse.

On a busy market day in late June when the public rooms were filled to capacity, Molly recognized one voice above all the others.

'Girl! Table, near the door a hurry! Can't you see I have baskets upon my arm?'

Molly turned, but it was too late.

'Good Lord,' said Mrs Wright, 'if it isn't Molly Johnson.' She stood in front of her, her incisive eyes sweeping Molly's body. 'Have we outlived our master's pleasure, or is there another reason? I think perhaps there is. Excuse me, miss, but I no longer need refreshment.'

She swept out triumphantly, and Molly felt her heart sink to the floor.