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‘I did.’

‘And what was your specialism?’

‘I taught many subjects, lecturing on how to set broken bones, amputate limbs. Remove tumours, that sort of thing.’ His voice wavers at the last, and Linette knows he is thinking of the patient he lost.

‘Most impressive,’ Lord Pennant says.

‘Most excellent, indeed,’ follows Sir John, and next to him, Dr Beddoe sniffs loudly. With a chuckle his employer pats his shoulder. ‘But you are, like my own good doctor here, so I understand, acting as physician not just for Penhelyg but the household too?’

The air shifts; as one, the party look to the conspicuously empty chair at the far end of the table, and Linette braces herself for the inevitable words of false pity.

‘How is dear Gwen?’ Lord Pennant asks. He smiles, frog-like, rubs the bezel of his ring. ‘You know, Dr Talbot, that she and Linette’s father Hugh were dearest friends of ours. We used to all be very close.’

Linette stills her spoon. A vision of fleshy bodies appears unbidden in her mind’s eye. She swallows, turns her face.

‘Very close,’ Lady Pennant adds. ‘It grieves me she never recovered from Hugh’s loss. She was so full of spirit! So uncommonly beautiful. But she has lost her bloom – her mind quite, quite gone.’

‘Indeed, such a shame about poor Gwen,’ Lady Selwyn echoes, dipping her spoon into her bowl. ‘She did love a party. What larks we had together in London! I assume, doctor, you’re doing all you can for her?’

Henry shares a brief look with Miss Carew. The exchange is fast, bare above a second, and Linette would have missed it had she not been sitting opposite them. Again, her insides quail but this time for a different reason. Her grip tightens on her spoon. Is the secret they share to do with her mother?

‘For now, yes,’ Henry says. ‘It is a complicated case.’

‘Complicated?’

‘I’m afraid I cannot discuss the treatment of my patients. Discretion, you understand.’

Lady Selwyn tilts her head. The jewels in her wig gleam. ‘But of course.’

The group lapse into momentary silence, in which the only sounds are the tinks of spoon against bowl and loud unpleasant slurps.

Lady Pennant shifts in her seat, its spindle legs creaking.

‘I’ve heard of some healing springs near Aberystwyth, much like those in Hampstead and Bath. Would those help her condition? I hear a great many positive things about the cure.’ She leans conspiratorially across the table at Lady Selwyn. ‘The Duchess of Devonshire took the waters last year, and I hear it has been to great effect!’

The women titter, and in the wake of it Miss Carew gives a small cough.

‘If I may,’ she says quietly, ‘the waters do nothing for one’s health except leave a sickly taste in the mouth.’

Again, Dr Beddoe sniffs.

‘Now now, Miss Carew,’ he says. ‘This is not the place to share your outdated methods.’

He looks about the table, a sneer etched across his face, and Miss Carew flinches as if struck. Henry’s jaw tightens. If they were not in polite company, Linette is quite sure he would strike the man.

‘I must say,’ says Henry with narrowed eyes, ‘Miss Carew’s expertise has been extremely helpful these past two days up at the mine.’

The barb does not go unnoticed by Linette, but Dr Beddoe diligently keeps his gaze fixed upon his plate.

‘Herbal remedies,’ Miss Carew says now, cheeks flushed, ‘cannot always compete with more modern treatments, but many plants have curative properties.’

‘Such as?’ Mr Lambeth, this.

She lowers her spoon.

‘Such as chickweed. I used a salve containing it on the miners who had only mild cuts and grazes. It’s very effective at reducing inflammation and itching.’

‘But surely it’s all in the mind?’