Perren Place, Pydar Street, Truro Saturday 30th July 1796, 10:30 a.m.

Above us, the storm clouds seemed to be lifting. 'Father, perhaps you shouldn't delay any longer. Maybe you should go while there's this break in the rain?'

Father frowned, buttoning up his travelling coat. It was black like all his clothes, well cut and made of the finest quality, but plain and unadorned – almost too severe. He seemed more nervous than usual, all too aware of Lady Boswell's growing displeasure.

'No, no ... we must wait and see you safely off.' He reread the letter in his hand. 'Lady Clarissa definitely says the carriage would be here for ten o'clock. They must be delayed on account of the rain.'

Lady Boswell shrugged her elegant shoulders. 'Is Angelica's comfort to be considered and not my own? Dear me, perhaps I was mistaken to accept your kind offer ... perhaps I'd have been better hiring my own post-chaise?' She smiled and I watched Father melt. She had it to perfection: the coy rise to her eyebrow, the sudden pout accentuating her high cheek bones. 'Your horses are impatient to be off ... and we've such a long way to go.'

As if in league, the horses lurched against their harness and Father reopened his fob watch. 'Don't wait, Father. Lady Clarissa's coach can't be much longer – you'll probably pass it on the new bridge.' I caught Lady Boswell's sideways glance, her obvious triumph, and an icy hand clutched my heart.

Silas Lilly was certainly a good catch – in his sixties, he had the energy and enthusiasm of a man twenty years his junior. His greying hair was still abundant, his shoulders straight and strong. He might be a little rough around the edges for the politest society, but that was not going to stop her. Wealth was wealth, and she was clearly prepared to overlook the fact that he had been born the son of a foundry worker. Perhaps she was thinking of teaching him her manners: her ability to walk right past people in need, her inability to think of anyone's comfort except her own.

The luggage was piled high on the roof, secured by a heavy tarpaulin. Almost everyone was going – Father's groom, his valet, his clerk.

'Two months is a long time to be away from home,' I whispered.

He had chosen his strongest mares. The stables were now empty, the grooms taking the remaining horses to our farm on the moors. Molly and Grace were to clean the house from top to bottom and I would spend the rest of the summer with Lady Clarissa and Amelia at Trenwyn House. By the end of two months, Father would have negotiated a new smelting house in South Wales, the horses would be rested, the house sparkling, and Lady Clarissa would have secured my engagement to Lord Entworth.

Only Lady Boswell was beyond my control.

We always attracted onlookers when the carriage left, but today the crowd seemed distant and hostile. They stood watching in silence, hunching together with stooped shoulders. Our house was one of the larger properties on Pydar Street; it had thick cob walls and stone mullion windows, heavy crossbeams and a grand wooden staircase. The thatch had long since been replaced by slates, our five brick chimneys dominating the roofline. Seventy years ago, it was considered the best Truro could offer, but the road was now too busy, our lack of privacy causing Father concern.

A year ago, Father would have left among smiles and waves, small boys chasing after the carriage, but this group stood bedraggled and grey-faced, staring at us from beneath the shelter of an overhanging branch. Their clothes seemed to hang off them, filthy rags wound round their feet in place of shoes.

Molly sighed, shifting her stiff hip.

'Can you find them something to eat?' I asked.

She nodded. 'I'll make them some soup from the leftover mutton.'

Father was helping Lady Boswell into the carriage but at least they were leaving.

'I don't like this one little bit,' I whispered.

'Nor me neither – ye know what they say about two people goin' on a journey ...' She shook a crease from her dress. In thirty years, she had never allowed anyone to see her wearing her apron at the front door, always leaving it on a large hook behind the kitchen door. 'They say her first husband was too old to survive the wedding night ... an' her second husband gambled away all the money. They say she's not a penny to her name.'

Lady Boswell's eyes were accentuated by the royal blue of her velvet travelling jacket. Her hair was the colour of corn, her mouth reddened with pigmented beeswax. The coy smile was back, a slight flutter to her eyelashes. Her hand with its frill of Belgian lace lingered on Father's and my uneasiness spiralled.

'He's only taking her to her sister – then he's going up to Bristol,' I said with more hope than conviction.

Molly's mouth tightened. 'If ye ask me, she looks like the cat that's got the cream ...'

'Oh, don't say that.'

Molly was hiding her dislike of Lady Boswell very well, smiling and nodding to Father as he approached, and I knew to do the same.

Father snapped his watch open and shut. 'I really think we ought to leave, Angelica, though I'd rather see you off first ... the roads are awash and I'd like to get through the turnpike before the next shower. But ... well ... give Lady Clarissa my best regards ... and ... and, well, I'm sure she'll be successful.' He lowered his voice. 'The man's enamoured of you. You've bewitched him – he'll have no other.' He nodded and bowed, my stiff and formal father, never bending to kiss me, nor chucking me under the chin, nor pinching my cheek, nor showing me any love; my prosperous father, already treating me like I was the next Lady Entworth. 'You've packed my address in Swansea?'

I nodded. 'I'll write and tell you everything – Amelia says Lady Clarissa wants to teach me how to play cricket!'

The hard lines round his mouth softened for the first time in seven years, four months and three days. He even seemed to smile. 'Ah, cricket! It's a long time since I've played cricket.' He seemed embarrassed by his sudden outburst, glancing quickly at the carriage. 'We'll be off then. Take care, Angelica. Goodbye, Molly – two months of no cookin' will do you the world of good. Almost a holiday!'

She curtseyed stiffly. 'Ye think cleaning's a holiday, do ye, Mr Lilly? I'll be thin as a rake when ye return!'

Our smiles were as false as the silk flowers on Lady Boswell's overlarge hat. Father and Lady Boswell were in the carriage, the others squeezing next to the driver or balancing among the boxes on the back seat, and with the door firmly shut their sudden intimacy was hard to witness.

'What do they say about two people going on a journey?'

Molly's lips tightened. 'They say they come back married.'

'They better not!' I stared at the receding coach. Father had not looked me in the eyes, neither today nor last Sunday when Lady Boswell had taken my place in church, returning the congregation's astonished stares with her particular look of triumph.

Molly slipped her arm through mine. 'We mustn't blame him, my love. Yer father's a full-blooded man, an' she's very beautiful – though no one can ever come close to yer dearest mamma.'

'Father has ...' I could barely say the words. 'Father has stopped his payments to that woman.'

I knew she would sniff with disapproval. 'Has he now! Well, that's a sure sign – pigs will fly if...