Frances considered attending but eventually decided that to do so would be highly improper, especially if she was recognised; also her household duties that morning did not permit her to be absent for any length of time. It was washday, and she would be employed for several hours, boiling water, then pounding, rinsing and wringing before everything could finally be hung to up dry. Yesterday’s squally showers had passed on, leaving the day bright and clear, but it was so cold that anything hung outside would have frozen to the line, so all the linens had to be draped over clotheshorses in the kitchen where they dangled, filling the room with vapour. Usually when Frances and Sarah worked together it was a companionable time, when, while never forgetting that they were mistress and servant, they could still talk as two women united by their duties in life. On that day, Frances was largely silent. She imagined the service at St Matthew’s and the interment at Kensal Green, with herself there as an observer, perhaps appearing as a darkly veiled figure of mystery, or even as eager young Mr Williamson the reporter, casting her eyes over the assembled throng.
