Hester turned to the woman called Kitty and found her staring with wide, horrified eyes, her body tense, muscles so tight her shoulders all but tore the thin fabric of her bodice.

“Mrs. Monk?” she whispered huskily. “Your husband…”

“He’s not here,” Hester assured her. “There’s no one here who will hurt you. Where are you injured?”

Kitty did not reply. She was shuddering so violently her teeth chattered.

“Go on, yer silly cow!” Lizzie said impatiently. “She won’t ’urt yer, an’ she won’t tell no one nuffin’. Nell’s only goin’ on ’cos she fancies ’er ol’ man. Proper gent, ’e is. Smart as a whip. Dresses like the tailor owed’im, not t’other way ’round.” She nursed her broken wrist, wincing with pain. “Get on wiv it, then. You may ’ave got all night-I in’t.”

Kitty looked once at the iron beds, five along each side of the room, the stone sinks at the far end, and the buckets and ewers of water drawn from the well at the corner of the square. Then she faced Hester, making an intense effort to control herself.

“I got in a fight,” she said quietly. “It’s not that bad. I daresay I was frightened as much as anything.” Her voice was surprising: it was low and a trifle husky, and her diction was clear. At one time she must have had some education. It struck in Hester a note of pity so sharp that for a moment it was all she could think of. She tried not to let it show in her expression. The woman did not want the intrusion of pity. She would be only too aware of her own fall from grace without anyone else’s notice of it.

“Those are bad bruises on your neck.” Hester looked at them more closely. It appeared as if someone had held her by the throat, and there was a deep graze across the front of her breastbone, as though a hard fingernail had scored it deliberately. “Is that blood yours?” Hester asked, indicating the splatters across the front of Kitty’s bodice.