Ann picked up all the pages of the letter, rushed over towards the fire and threw them in

Ann turned to look at the wide bed, where the pillows were all stacked up in the middle, suitable for one person to sleep. “What must Mrs Baxter think,” he’d often say. “I do not think she lies awake at night worrying about whether her employers are sleeping together,” she would retort. “As you know, I have been paying visits to Aunt Euphemia in Fife over the past year. This began on your recommendation and at first I thought it was some hitherto undiscovered kindness in you towards my elderly aunt. “But no. For although she is healthy (yes, I lied about her ill health recently), she is ageing fast and I know you had hopes to inherit some of her wealth. “Her daughter, my cousin Caroline, would undoubtedly be left the house, but you had alluded to the fact there were many jewels and other items such as her antique furniture. “So I began Sunday visits, usually arriving for luncheon, following which I would tour her estate to see if there was anything I could be of assistance with. “Then, 10 months ago I met someone there, a young woman whom I hold in high regard. “With each visit to Kirkmichael we got to know each other more and the relationship grew.” Lurched

Ann’s stomach lurched. Good God, what sort of woman was he talking about here. Young? What did that mean? Was she 16, 17?

She turned the page over. The ink had bled again and she could barely read the words. She peered at each smudge but little was legible.

She hoped the name of the girl would be written but it was difficult to read, though she could make out some individual letters. She moved on to the final page. “. . . so she and I are leaving for Tasmania on Tuesday from Liverpool. “I have been in close contact with my whale-oil dealer there and he has arranged a house, overlooking the sea.”

Ann felt her breath becoming short. She was panting now. She leant forward over the page, her eyes open wide. “Once everything is settled, I shall send word to the children and shall arrange for them to be sent over to join me.”

Over my dead body! “There is talk of a university being established in Hobart so perhaps James could attend there for further study.”

And what about your daughter? thought Ann. “I do not imagine I shall see you again, Ann, but I feel I owe you nothing. “Your life would have been so different had I not rescued you from the gutter. “In the meantime, there is a trust fund set up for the children. The mill shall continue as it is and you will have a share of the proceeds.”

She skimmed over some lines on the mill ownership. “You may keep the house. Money will be placed in the bank account each month for the upkeep and the staff. Yours, Robert.”

Ann collapsed back against the chair and stared at the heavy velvet drapes before her. She felt lightheaded, as if drunk.

What had he done to her, to them? What would she do? She felt tears starting to prick her eyes but she shook her head and sat up, pushing her shoulders back. How dare he.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and made her decision there and then. Injustice

She resolved that no one would ever know the contents of the letter.

Why should they? And as for his suggestion that he would take her children to some Godforsaken land at the other side of the world, well that would never happen.

Not ever, she thought, strumming her fingers on the dressing table.

No, what would happen was this: she would become the grieving widow, it was the only solution.

She would mourn outwards, while inwards she hoped the sense of injustice, the feeling of anger would one day dissipate.

Ann picked up all the pages, rushed over towards the fire and threw them in.

She would tell Miss Graham and the Baxters that the letter was illegible, and now was the time to begin to grieve, for there was obviously no hope, her husband must have perished.

She would say that even if a body was never found, she was to be alone, alone now with her children and together they would survive. She always did. She grasped the poker and prodded the paper in the grate, watching the last fragments of letter blacken then shrivel into ash. 2015

Fiona was going through the sequence of events at her desk. By the Sunday after the accident, three more bodies had been washed ashore, the first the woman who had been fished out of the river early on.

Her funeral was celebrated as if she had been nobility, though she was only a humble servant in some big house in Fife.

Those not washed ashore were pulled on to boats with grappling irons that caused the injuries noted in the post-mortems.

The mussel dredgers did much of the recovery work, with divers continuing to go down under the bridge.

The whalers’ prediction on timing of bodies surfacing was correct.

By Tuesday the sixth of January, there were another 11 bodies and by the end of January 37 bodies had been recovered altogether. Etiquette

Fiona leant back on her chair and thought about how the families must have felt. At least those whose loved ones’ bodies were recovered could grieve properly.

There was a specific Victorian mourning etiquette she had read about; widows were meant to dress in mourning clothes for between one and four years.

Indeed, some followed Queen Victoria’s lead and remained in black for the rest of their lives. Halfmourning was introduced for younger widows, who were permitted grey and lavender.

That seemed all well and good for the wealthy, but what about the vast majority of Dundee’s population, the poor?

They might already have black or grey clothes, but lavender?

And what about those many families who could never grieve? Only 59 bodies were ever recovered, some washed ashore months after the accident.

Though the specific passenger list was unknown, it was believed that up to 20 bodies were never found.

More tomorrow.