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Mary believed Andrew loved her. While he drove the curricle on steadily through the green English landscape, her thigh pressed against his and her hand held his arm.

He had made love to her again just before dawn, kissing her throughout, whispering endearments over her lips, his pace excruciatingly slow. He had said, ‘I love you’ again and again.

It was not his words that convinced her; it was the gentleness of his touch. He had been mindful of her soreness. Then at the end stroked her hair back from her forehead, his eyes telling her how beautiful he thought her.

Afterwards, he slept, while Mary lay awake.

When he had woken it was full daylight. He’d got up, washed and dressed. Then helped her dress and kissed her nape while she pinned up her hair, saying, ‘I love you’ again, against her skin. She had turned and said it to him too, then kissed him for a long time before they left the room to eat breakfast downstairs.

She ate heartily, because her stomach was calmer. He had teased her over her sudden appetite. Then rose, walked about the table and licked the bacon grease from her lips.

The tenderness in that gesture still wrapped around her. It was a gentle sensation, like the weight and embrace of a shawl that constantly reminded her she was loved and she knew love to its full extent – in the expression of its ultimate physical act.