'Thank you. I'll remember that,' she replied, concerned for the baby growing inside her.

Highly decorated sedan chairs wove through the traffic, and grand carriages bowled along the streets impervious to pedestrians. At Tottenham Court Road, they stopped. Molly had reached her destination.

It was easy to get lost in a city where the houses converged on the first floor and sewage swamped the gutters. It was easy to pity the children who ran through the waste in tattered rags. But Molly could not afford distraction. According to her instructions she headed east, and when she came to the bottom of Chancery Lane, she crossed Temple Bar to her final destination.

'Please, can you direct me to number nine Pump Court?' she asked the porter.

'Yes, miss. Follow me.'

In a matter of minutes, she was standing inside the private rooms of the solicitor engaged by Dorothy. Mr Skarm confirmed the details of the arrangements. She would receive money every month for the next three months. Once the baby had arrived and was safely installed in the Foundling Hospital, she would receive the final settlement.

'The living expenses provided are not large, Miss Johnson; I suggest you find a temporary position to supplement your income. For your confinement, a midwife will be arranged.'

As she listened to Mr Skarm, Molly reflected that this new life had been determined for her by Dorothy Keyt. Once again she was bought and sold.

Mr Skarm stood, signalling the meeting's end. 'Oh, one more thing, Miss Johnson. The temporary hospital has opened in Hatton Garden. You may consider it beneficial to present yourself to Captain Coram before the birth. My clerk will show you out.'

She took a room in the Old Cock Tavern on Fleet Street, a narrow, half-timbered Tudor building with leaded windows and crooked walls. She ate in the public rooms and listened to the conversations around her. Regional dialects mingled with strange accents, coming from seamen and tailors, silk weavers and patten makers, all with tales of hardship and fortitude. When she had finished her meal, she climbed the twisting stairs to her room. Standing at the window, she saw London spread out before her. The city enhanced her isolation; she had never felt so alone.

At that moment, even the thought of the child growing inside her could not sustain her. Taking her cloak she went back down the stairs and into the streets. The open air was a relief; even the vile-smelling streets were better than being cooped up inside. She was aware of the risk, but she no longer cared. Within minutes she was lost in a maze of alleys, surrounded by filth and degradation. Beggars accosted her, children followed her. She tried to turn back, but exhaustion blinded her, and one foul gutter ran into the next.

'Miss, spare a penny for a blind child?' She turned to find a small boy tugging at her sleeve. His tattered clothes hung from his body, and his face was covered with sores. Looking in her pocket, she took out her purse. 'Buy yourself some food,' she said, pressing a coin into his hand. Before she'd put the purse away she was surrounded. Boys of all ages charged towards her. Pushing her to the ground they grabbed her purse and ran off. Molly remained on her knees in the gutter. She could hear their laughter as they disappeared into the dark, polluted alleys. When she struggled to her feet, she smelt urine on her dress.

Molly ran, but she had nowhere to go; she had no money, she had nothing. Sinking down in a doorway she covered her head with her hands and wept. She slept there, and as dawn broke, with her filthy dress and dishevelled hair, she looked no different from any pauper begging on the streets. When a man tossed her a penny, she looked up dully. Then she thanked him and tucked it in her pocket.

She drank water from the spout, and when the hunger gnawed her belly, she used her penny to buy some bread. Her child turned inside her; she worried, would it be enough?

I must get back, she thought, heading down an alley that led into another that looked just the same. Ten minutes later she was back where she started. Crying with frustration, she asked a passer-by how she could get to the Old Cock. He looked her up and down and offered her a shilling for her services. Mortified, she hurried on.

She noticed three balls hanging above a doorway. She entered the pawn shop and waited while an old man came to the counter. 'Selling or buying?' he asked, his wrinkled face smiling.

'I've nothing to sell, sir,' she replied. 'I've lost my way, and I need to find the Strand.'

'You've ended up in the wrong place, but everyone gets lost here.'

Following his directions carefully, she left the last alley behind her. As she broke out of the darkness, she found herself in a wide street with shops and coffee houses. When she arrived at the Old Cock Tavern, her bag was in the store.

'So you're back,' the landlord said, eyeing her suspiciously. 'There's a pump outside. You can change in the privy, but you won't get the bag back until the bill is paid.'

Molly waited in the hall of the solicitor's offices. When Mr Skarm called her in, she explained her predicament and asked for his assistance. He listened with patience. 'I will give you an advance, but you will have to earn it. My wife mentioned her seamstress had lost an assistant. Can you sew?'

'I can, sir.'

'Well then, you may collect the money from my assistant, and come to my chambers later this morning, wearing, I suggest, a wedding ring. I'll have an address for you.' Over the next two hours, Molly went to a coffee house and ate hungrily. Revived and in clean clothes, she felt hopeful. She purchased a ring from a pawn shop in Hatton Garden, the cheapest she could find, and as she slipped it on her finger, for the briefest moment she thought of Thomas.

After collecting the address of the Misses Hogarth, two sisters living in Covent Garden, Molly resolved to find them. Avoiding the back streets, she took the long way around and found the house easily. Crossing Covent Garden, she reached James Street. Number five was a gracious house of good size. White stucco pillars adorned the front, and a neat iron staircase led to the basement. She walked down the steps, straightened her dress, and knocked on the door.

'Can I help you?' A young maid opened the door.

'Thank you, I have an appointment.' Molly waited in the small hallway amongst the silks, the muslins and the dressmaker's dummies, and the prospect of a future here excited her. She would make dresses for the wealthy, and she determined that in the years to come, she would save enough to reclaim her child.

The interview lasted an hour, but it passed with the natural ease of a social occasion in the company of good friends. In a surge of delightful chatter, the Misses Hogarth told her about their lives; instead of questioning her, they chose to reassure her. 'Well, dear, I am Miss Mary, and my sister here is Miss Anne. As you can see, we remain unmarried, much to the dismay of our brother.' The sisters laughed, the most infectious, kind laugh, and Molly almost wept with relief.

'Poor dear, such a long journey you've had!' Miss Mary said. 'You must be exhausted. My sister will make you some tea.'

'Of course, how rude of me. Your husband would think my manners atrocious.'

Whether they believed her or not, they chose to acknowledge her status as a married woman. It was not mentioned again.

When they told her their brother was William Hogarth, a distinguished artist and one of the founding governors of the Foundling Hospital, Molly's composure was shaken, but as they went on, unaware of her future connections with the Foundling Hospital, she regained her self-control.

'He lives by his conscience, and much of his work depicts the vice and cruelty within our very streets. He wishes to expose the darker side of humanity; I believe he would change the world if he could. Oh, would you like a muffin, dear? And one of my sister's special tarts? Am I boring you, Mrs Johnson?'

'Of course not,' she replied, honestly, for Miss Mary and Miss Anne Hogarth were willing to give her a chance. 'And I would love a tart, please.'

Gradually, as her confidence grew, she asked them questions, and with great enthusiasm they told her about the position available in their small but reputable business. They explained about London, the pitfalls and the benefits, and when with considerable tact she led them on to the Foundling Hospital, they were able to enlighten her. She learnt about the uniforms designed by their brother: dresses with stiffened bodices for the girls, and jackets and breeches for boys. She tried to imagine what her own child might look like, wearing them.

When she left the Hogarths, she had a job and a future.

42.

The summer of 1741 was one of the hottest on record. London sweltered in the fetid heat, ravaged by sickness and disease. Molly struggled to work each morning.

When she arrived at James Street, she entered an oasis of tranquillity. She worked hard, and her employers rewarded her accordingly. They taught her with generosity, imparting their knowledge and their secrets until she became accomplished in the dressmaker's art.

'Such beautiful stitching,' Miss Anne admired. 'I can no longer sew those tiny pearls; it's my eyes, I'm afraid.'

That week Molly was assigned her first appointment.

Mrs Carmichael was pregnant like herself, and as Molly pinned her loose-fitting gown, she forgot her own circumstances while she gossiped and laughed with a woman of a similar age. Only later, as she stitched the silk of the peacock-blue mantua, would she reflect on the differences between them.

With the gown successfully completed, and a satisfied customer singing her praises, Molly was offered an important commission. It was a wedding gown for a valued and long-standing client.

'My sister and I feel that you are quite capable of making the dress,' Miss Anne Hogarth said, taking her hand, and smiling happily. 'We have watched you carefully, and the standard of your work is exceptional.'

'Thank you, miss. I will not let you down,' she said.

When they told her the name of the client, Molly felt the force of the past catching up with her.

'The Keyts are marked with tragedy. They had been on the way to London when the accident happened. We had a fitting booked for Miss Elizabeth's presentation dress. To this day it hurts my heart to think of it, and now poor Miss Elizabeth is dead, God rest her soul.' She paused, unaware of Molly's distress. 'I used to make dresses that showed her figure. Mary, do you remember the blue dress with the gold thread? There was another for Lady Keyt, so pretty, mint green with Brussels lace.'

At the mention of the mint-green dress Molly sat down heavily.

'Mrs Johnson, are you unwell?'

'I am known to Miss Dorothy Keyt and her mother,' she said at last. 'They would not appreciate my involvement.' With the sisters' usual discretion no further questions were asked, and it was agreed that while they fitted the dress and cut the patterns, Molly would do the more delicate work.

When the fitting date arrived, Miss Mary Hogarth tended to Dorothy. Against the familiar voices drifting through the door, Molly fought to maintain composure.

'My daughter wishes for organza. Would you consider organza fashionable, Miss Hogarth?'

She caught Dorothy's voice, confident and unchanged. 'My brother will give me away. He has just come down from Oxford with a first-class degree. We are very proud.'

'What a clever young man,' Miss Hogarth said.

'Absolutely,' Dorothy replied, 'and we are keeping our fingers crossed that he too will be married before the year is out.'

That evening Molly left work early, absorbed in her misery. Thomas to marry. It was another punishment. She took her usual route past the Shakespeare's Head, hurrying past the pimps and the prostitutes, past the church of St Paul's, where they gathered at night. While she waited to cross the Strand, a little boy darted into the road in front of her.

'Stop! There's a child!' she screamed at the driver, but the carriage rolled on, crushing the boy beneath the relentless wheels. When she called for help, no one came, and as she held the limp body in her arms, no one faltered in their stride.

43.

September 1741 Though Dorothy and her mother saw few outsiders, it was impossible to escape the rumours within the village of Hidcote.

'He's mad,' Thomas said, banging his fist upon the table. 'Is it not enough to empty the family coffers? Now he will ruin our reputation. I refuse to join him for dinner tomorrow.'

'Of course you must,' Lady Keyt said gently. 'He is still your father. The women, the gaming a I believe it is caused by his melancholy. Poor William has never recovered from the deaths of John and Elizabeth.'

'Mother, how can you be so forgiving?' Dorothy cried. 'He has destroyed your life; he has destroyed everything he has touched.'

'It's not just about forgiveness, it's about understanding. Circumstances beyond our control caused our downfall.'

Dorothy could see there was no use arguing. Her mother refused to accept the truth.

Her brother took her hand. 'Poor Dotty. You will have your wedding, and your beautiful dress. Fortunately Gilbert gives not a fig for money or dowry. Don't worry, I'll go to Father and try to reason with him. He will stop this excess, I assure you.'

The next evening Thomas rode to Norton. A few hours later Dorothy heard him return. She put down her book and ran outside to meet him.

'He was most odd,' Thomas reported, passing the reins to the waiting groom. 'He'd forgotten that he'd sent for me. He asked me if I had come for the "Last Supper". He even apologized for his conduct, for The College, for everything. It seemed quite out of character. I think I should ride back, don't you?'

'Don't be alarmed. It will just be one of his drunken fantasies.'

'Dotty, that's the problem: he was sober. Maudlin, but certainly not drunk. I've a bad feeling.'

'Go to bed, Thomas. I'm going to see him tomorrow. And I'm quite prepared to stand up to him.'

Thomas smiled. 'Always my fiery sister. But please be careful, he seems a little disturbed.'

When Thomas had gone to bed, Dorothy tried to read but found it impossible to concentrate. She was fearful of the dark, of the shadows from the past, and of her imagination.

In the morning she fetched Fidelia and rode towards Norton. It was a fine day, and she decided to take the long route through the woods. She turned Fidelia's head and cantered towards the larch fence, and as the horse jumped cleanly through the air, Dorothy felt a surge of elation.

Her skill as a horsewoman had come from her father. He had taught her to ride, and he had given her Peter, Ophelia and Fidelia. All desire for confrontation disappeared. By the time she arrived at the house, she had decided to treat him with understanding and forgiveness, just as Elizabeth would have wanted. She would encourage reconciliation with him, perhaps not immediately, but in time.

Lorenzo walked across the courtyard to meet her, his face betraying only professional intent. 'Hello, Miss Dorothy. Do you wish to see your father?' he asked.

The study curtains twitched behind him. Without warning, all her previous goodwill disappeared.

'No, thank you, Lorenzo,' she said, for suddenly she wanted to run, away from the indifference in Lorenzo's eyes, away from her desperate father. 'Will you tell him that I called, and tell him that I'll come tomorrow?' Turning Fidelia's head, she cantered back through the archway, shame spreading through her chest.

44.

Only five members of the indoor staff remained at Norton: George Heron, who felt an instinctive loyalty towards his self-destructive master; three housemaids, all daughters of a tenant farmer; and a cook.

Outside, Lorenzo carried out his duties with a sick heart. It was a thankless job, for with only five horses, one carriage, and a master who never ventured out, there was little to do. Even Lorenzo couldn't explain why he stayed; perhaps it was his affection for Apollo, or his grateful devotion to Sir William, or perhaps it was because he held onto a dream.

Sir William lived in private misery, emerging only to host the occasional dinner or an evening of gambling. His guests were usually women of dubious reputation and any dissolute members of the gentry who wished to take advantage of his generous cellar a or, indeed, of Sir William himself.

After these debauched evenings, he would wake to a few hours of sobriety before the reality of his situation hit him with painful clarity. Memories of life before the accident haunted him: recollections of Ann, laughing with his four children; of Elizabeth resting in the garden, her features tranquil in the dappled light, and John running towards him with his arms outstretched.

Everyone he loved had either left him or died. He raged at Molly, but in rational moments he realized the fault was his own. His words had sent her away. He tormented himself, imagining her beautiful body entwined with his son's.

Only when entertaining on a lavish scale did he take to the new mansion. At other times, he would wander through the vast, empty rooms, marvelling at his foolishness.

William was sitting in his study when Dorothy entered the courtyard. He heard Fidelia's hooves before he saw his daughter. Inching back the curtains he looked outside. She was standing next to Lorenzo. The body language between them was unmistakable.

He smiled for a moment. 'So that's how it is,' he said. 'How alike we are. Have courage, Dorothy. Take life with both hands.'

He let the curtains fall back into place. 'Come to me and I'll tell you so. Come to me and I'll beg your forgiveness.'

He waited, willing her to enter his study. 'If she comes,' he whispered, 'I can start again. Please God, let her come.'

He heard the hooves ring on the cobbles once more. 'Well then,' he said, 'it's done.'