I had nothing to wear. I had packed for two nights in Brighton: two clean blouses, a spare slip, a nightdress, two sets of underwear and the beaded evening dress. The silver evening shoes and bag I had brought to go with it were hardly suitable for going about London in the daytime, so I had no change of shoes. I had no cardigan or sweater to put over my silk blouses, only my tweed jacket and skirt, and a raincoat. And I had run out of stockings, though a pair I’d rinsed out in Aidan’s bathroom were drying on the curtain rail in the bedroom.

“Aidan,” I said sheepishly the next morning, “I need some clothes.”

He gave an exaggerated moan and clapped his hand to his forehead. “Of course you do!” He began to gather his wallet, cigarettes and outdoor clothes in a businesslike way. “Look, we’ve got to go to Somerset House this morning anyway, so let’s go via Oxford Street and buy you some new things. And we need to go to the post office in Trafalgar Square when we’ve finished all that, so I’ll set up a poste restante address and we can get your possessions sent from the Thamesbank.”

I had so many questions. I did not know which to ask first, so I said nothing.

“Come on, get your hat,” said Aidan, already halfway out the door. “We’ll have some breakfast on the way. Do you like muffins?”

I followed him down the stairs, struggling into my coat. “But I haven’t got all that much—”

“Don’t worry, I can write a cheque.” He stopped, one hand on the door and the other held up, palm out. “And don’t say, ‘Oh, Aidan, you mustn’t!’ I know you don’t want to be beholden to me, and you’re not. You can pay me back when you are able. Now, come under my umbrella. It’s raining stair-rods out there.”

The Aidan of last night, who had so openly laid bare the painful events of his past, was gone and the playful façade had returned. His feelings were back in the place he normally kept them: locked deep inside his heart. I felt privileged to be one of the very few who had glimpsed something more profound. “Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for everything.”

He took a large black umbrella from the stand, opened the door, crammed his hat on his head and regarded the weather with a grimace. “And thank you.”

He took my arm and we hurried out of Raleigh Court and into Bayswater Road, huddled under the umbrella. “What are you thanking me for?” I asked. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Of course you have!”

“What?”

“Well, Miss Clara Hope…” He paused while we crossed a busy road, dodging puddles and horse dung. When we got to the other side he pulled me so close I could feel his breath on my face. “The clue is in your name. You’ve given me hope, Clara. Hope that there may be an end to the guilt David Penn’s conduct has inflicted on me. Or at least” – he pushed the door of a café advertising freshly baked muffins – “a lessening of it, which is probably the best I can get.”