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‘Then you’ll have to go.’

Fleur paused, shocked at his remark.

‘What?’ he asked, as though what he’d suggested was the most obvious idea to ever pass his lips. ‘You’ve bleated about wanting to give women an opening into undertaking. Here’s your chance. Prove it . . . prove to me that a woman can.’

She didn’t know whether to laugh or weep. Instead, she kissed her father. ‘I’ll take care of it. You get ready for the day and for picking up Mrs Smith.’

‘No, you can do her as well. I think I’ll work on accounts today. I want to be as fresh and alert as I can to meet your young man.’

‘He’s not my—’

‘Fleur, my darling,’ he interjected. ‘You forget I’ve known you since before you knew yourself properly. I know all your moods, all the subtle shifts within your temperament, and when you so much as say the name Tom Catchlove, your eyes light up.’

Fleur was relieved to hear him sounding more himself.

‘They certainly don’t light up for Jimmy Coglin, Dad,’ she said, taking her chances.

‘No. I don’t know what was in my mind agreeing to that.’

‘Irma is in your mind and your ear about all that she wants. Jimmy is her plan, not yours or mine. My plan is to protect your legacy and our business.’

He hugged her and in that embrace it felt as though she had her father back, the one she remembered alongside her mother.

‘I hope Tom is the right person for you, Fleur. It would please your darling mother, may her soul rest, for you to be happy in marriage and family.’

Fleur nodded, her eyes watering with emotion. ‘I hope he is too. I like him and I want you to like him.’

‘I’m sure I shall. So, off you go. Prove to me you can take over this business and set it on its new path, Fleur.’

Fleur stared at her father. ‘You mean that, don’t you?’

He sighed with a soft shrug. ‘Look at me. I’m getting old, getting weary. I must hand over to the next generation at some point, and it’s no good me hoping things will remain the same when I do. I changed things from when my father had the business. Why shouldn’t you have the same freedom?’

‘Dad,’ she murmured. ‘I . . . I’m stunned. I don’t know what to say.’

‘Say you’ll make me proud, as you always have.’ He found a tender smile and she kissed his cheeks. ‘Go on, you don’t want to be late. Make my apologies and let’s see how they cope with you fetching Mrs Smith. Robbie will drive. He’s become very reliable behind the wheel.’

Fleur had secretly designed and ordered a charcoal outfit in the hope that this day might eventually arrive. It was a dress made from mourning crepe, a special fabric that had allowed the Courtaulds brand from Essex, England, to build a new and extremely profitable empire. While she had chosen it so that the widows she met might feel comforted, she privately acknowledged that the need for special fabrics for the grieving was on the wane. It was her intention to help speed that process; not only was it expensive, but it was cumbersome. She far preferred the idea that widows – and all grieving women – could feel confident to wear the colours of half mourning as soon as they felt capable of facing everyday life again. Those colours ranged from subdued greys to quiet violets, purples and heliotrope.

However, for now, on her first official visit as the undertaker of Appleby’s, she wanted to observe every respectful part of the ‘code’ that she could, so while black felt too much, the new charcoal dress felt deferential. It included a soft lace in white at the collar and sleeves, which she hoped would subtly encourage women in sorrow to not feel ashamed of adornment. She also wore her mother’s modest and very simply designed Whitby Jet ring that her father had given Mae following their marriage. Fleur had effectively stolen it from her mother’s jewellery case soon after her passing and was glad that at eleven she’d had the courage to do so, because Irma had pillaged everything her mother had owned. This was all Fleur had of Mae’s jewellery and, although it was a rather Victorian notion to wear a mourning ring, it felt precious to Fleur because it spoke to the work that had given their family its livelihood.

The man who answered the door at the Bedfords’ blanched. ‘Sorry, no callers, please. We were expecting the undertaker.’

‘Good morning, sir. I’m Henry Appleby’s daughter, and I have been undertaking with him since I was old enough to work,’ Fleur said, glad her voice did not shake.

He frowned. ‘But you’re a woman.’

‘Thank you for noticing, and I gather I’m here to meet another one – Mr Bedford’s wife?’

In his confusion he nodded. ‘Helen, yes. My sister.’

‘Ah, thank you,’ Fleur said, stepping forwards gently but firmly, not waiting for permission.

He had no choice but to step aside but Fleur paused and held out a hand. ‘Fleur Appleby,’ she said.

‘Allen Dawkins,’ he replied, looking perplexed as he met her clear gaze.

‘Is Mrs Bedford through here?’ Fleur pointed down the corridor of the small house, and now she did await his permission.