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‘I know,’ she says, with effort. ‘But it is Henry that must care for Mamma now. Be thankful, at least, she is not in the care of Dr Beddoe.’

Enaid sucks in her breath. ‘No,’ she whispers, ‘no,’ and a spark of resentment rises in Linette’s throat.

Dr Beddoe, who harshly told Linette that her mother should be kept chained to her bed, then left her weak as wet paper after bleeding her nearly dry with a vigorous course of leeches. Such a horrible, disagreeable man. Linette thinks of how kindly Henry treated her mother in comparison, his gentle touch when he held her wrist, counting her pulse.

The silence that settles between Linette and Enaid is broken by a plucked minor of the harp, two majors in quick succession. Linette returns to the treatise, Enaid tackles the particularly tricky tear. But, after a while, the housekeeper looks up.

‘Dr Talbot was kind to her. You’ve taken to him, I think.’

Linette raises her gaze to Enaid’s, but her eyes instead hold within them an odd expression of reserve.

‘I would not say I have taken to him, Enaid.’

‘You called him Henry.’

Ah, here it comes. That anticipated lecture on propriety, on social boundaries that she has never – not once – listened to. Linette lifts her shoulder in a shrug.

‘Only because it is easier. That is all. I barely know him.’ She pauses, rests the treatise on her thigh. ‘But yes, he was kind. Far kinder than I expected.’

‘Yes.’ A beat. ‘You must be careful.’

‘Careful? Of what?’

The old woman licks her lips. ‘You know so little of the world, of men. I could not bear …’

She glances at Lady Gwen who plucks another major note, then a few more together in the semblance of a melody that is not altogether tuneless.

‘Oh, Enaid,’ Linette teases, ‘you can hardly think me like to be in danger? You know I have no interest in matters of the heart.’

The housekeeper shakes her head, but at what she is not quite sure. Very carefully Enaid places the dress on the bed, reaches up to snap off a sprig of gorse from the floral canopy above them.

‘Take it,’ she says, reaching over the coverlet to hand it to her.

Linette sighs. ‘Enaid, I—’

‘Please,’ the old woman says, an urgent light in her pale blue eyes. ‘I know you do not believe in its powers, but I would feel happier if you kept it with you. Take it. For me.’

Often Enaid does this, presses a piece of gorse or rowan into her hand as if it were a talisman, and Linette sighs, takes the spiky sprig of yellow flowers, slips it into the pocket of her dressing gown. If it gives Enaid comfort, then she supposes there can be no harm.

There is a soft knock. All three women look in the direction of the sound. Placing the treatise on the bed, Linette goes to open the door.

‘Henry!’ she exclaims. ‘You’re back later than I thought. Is everything all right? Have you eaten? I asked Cadoc—’

‘Might I speak with you?’

Linette blinks. ‘Of course.’ She shuts the door behind her. The hallway is narrow, and at such close proximity she smells on him the briny essence of the sea.

‘What is it?’ she asks.

The young physician looks tired, travel-worn.

‘Beddoe. How long has he been in Criccieth?’

His tone is one of displeasure. So then, he does agree with her measure of him!

‘As long as I can remember,’ she says. ‘Why?’

‘It’s a Welsh name, is it not?’