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Mrs Willoughby, dressed to match her former name, turned to the counter once more, as reserved and calm as she had been moments ago, to confirm that she was residing in that most fashionable of districts.

Marianne grabbed Margaret's arm to march her outside. “We cannot stay here. Come, we must go!”

Her sister protested vehemently, declaring that she would never take Marianne into her confidence again. As she was steered down the street at a pace, she caught her foot on a pyramid of pumpkins, scattering them across the path of everyone who passed by, sending them rolling into the gutter. A woman bundled in shawls shouted and raised her fist, before running off after the golden globes as they trundled down the street.

“What on earth is the matter with you?” shouted Margaret as she limped along. “Are you ill?”

“We must go home,” cried Marianne. “She cannot be here on her own. I do not want to bump into him.”

“Who cannot be here on her own? Whom are you talking about?” Margaret was losing patience with her sister.

“Did you not hear? That lady, the one so beautifully dressed and looking as elegant as ever, was Mrs John Willoughby,” cried Marianne. “Sophia Grey as was. Did you not recognise her?”

“I have never seen Mrs Willoughby in my life before,” exclaimed Margaret. “I would not know her if I fell over her in the street. Besides, I was only thinking about what I had said and was afraid you would be cross with me. Oh, Marianne, I am so sorry, I should never have said a word.”

“It was not your fault. I shouted out his name. How could I have done it?” Marianne's eyes welled and tears threatened to spill down her cheeks.

“It is over now, it does not matter,” Margaret pleaded, producing a pocket-handkerchief just in time and dabbing Marianne's face. “We shall not see her again. Let us go home, you are so upset. Mama will have tea prepared and make you better.”

Marianne stopped. She stood still, leaning on Margaret's arm as her breath slowly steadied itself. They could not go home. Mrs Dashwood would have to be told about what had happened, and Marianne did not want to relate the sorry tale to another soul, least of all her mother. She was determined they would return home with their shopping spoils as intended. “No, we will not go home,” she affirmed, taking the kerchief and blowing her nose. “I have promised you a new gown and even if we should run into an entire neighbourhood of Willoughbys, I will not be swayed. The shock disturbed me, but I am well now. We will enter the shop again in a quarter of an hour, by which time anyone who witnessed the little scene will have left.”

“But are you quite sure, Marianne? You do look most ill.”

“Of course, I was so silly to react in that schoolgirl manner. I am quite composed now. Come, we will partake of some refreshment in the coffee house just over there by the Guildhall. I do not want to go any lower into the town, if I can help it.”

“You look as though you were in shock still,” said Margaret as they took their seats at a table inside.

“Oh, do not worry about me,” Marianne assured her sister, ordering strong coffee and a dish of sweetmeats to be brought immediately. “I am well enough.”

“Have you not seen Mr and Mrs Willoughby since they married?” ventured Margaret, unconvinced by Marianne's protestations.

Marianne looked out through the window. The rain had started in drips and drops and soon gathered pace running in large, wet rivulets, down the windowpane. She watched two raindrops slide down the glass, one chasing the other but never quite catching up. “I did see them once,” she replied in a quiet voice. “The Colonel and I were just married and had gone to London for the season. We spent the entire time together of course, but on one particular day, William had some business in town, of a nature that I was not to be a party to, and so it was arranged that we should meet in Berkeley Square, at Gunter's tea shop.”

“How romantic! Are the ices as wonderful as they say?” demanded Margaret, taking a bite from a marzipan