This was a different ward sister to the one who had been on duty when Molly first got to the hospital. Sister Jenner was older, perhaps mid-fifties, and stout, but with a round, soft face that seemed to radiate compassion.

‘Sister Constance has rallied a little,’ she said. ‘We are cautiously hopeful, as she knows where she is now and she’s managed to ask for you, Miss Heywood.’

Molly beamed at the sister. ‘That’s wonderful. I don’t think she knew me when I came in with her.’

‘It’s progress, but you’ll find her speech is badly affected by the stroke. Now, is this your young man?’ she asked, looking at Charley.

Molly introduced Charley.

‘Sister Constance is clearly very fond of Miss Heywood,’ she said to him, ‘so it will help to reassure her that her young friend is not entirely alone while she’s in hospital, which I’m afraid might be for some time. Don’t be shocked by her appearance, or too concerned if she suddenly falls asleep, and I would ask that you only stay for ten minutes at most, because she needs rest.’

She led them to the last cubicle in the ward. As she drew back the curtain Molly had to bite her lips not to cry out because Constance looked so dreadful. The pallor, she had expected, but not the way her face appeared to have caved in, leaving her jaw and cheekbones sticking out like a skeleton’s.

‘Molly,’ Constance murmured. ‘Come closer. Don’t be afraid.’

‘I couldn’t be afraid of you,’ Molly said, going right up to her and taking her hand. ‘But you gave me quite a turn today. This is Charley, the man I told you about. He’s come to see you, too.’

The ward sister’s words had made Molly feel hopeful again. All the time she’d been waiting, she couldn’t help but think how awful it would be to lose Constance. She was the one who’d helped her when she was at her most desperate; she’d shared her home, her food, become her friend, and made Molly feel loved.

She hoped she could soon find a way to express her gratitude.

Charley went to the other side of the bed and took Constance’s other hand.

‘I’d have liked to have met you for the first time under better circumstances,’ he said. ‘But I hope when you get home again I can call on you. Molly speaks of you so highly.’

It looked as if Constance was trying to smile at Charley, but it was more like a grimace. ‘It’s good to put a face to the man Molly talks about,’ she managed to get out, pausing after each word as if struggling to form each one. ‘She tells me you are a gentleman, so I hope you’ll look out for her for me?’

‘You don’t need to ask me, Sister Constance,’ he said, bending to kiss her hand. ‘I’ll do that willingly. But you must tell her she has to go to the interview tomorrow and take the job if she likes it. You know Whitechapel isn’t right for her, don’t you?’

Constance’s pale-blue eyes fixed on to his face. ‘Yes, Charley, I do. But she’s got a habit of thinking too much about what other people want. We have to set her free from that.’

‘You hear that?’ Charley looked across the bed at Molly. ‘Sister Constance wants you to go.’

The old lady turned her head towards Molly. ‘I do. I’m going to miss you, but I want you to have a good life.’

Her eyelids drooped down suddenly and Molly was so alarmed she rang the bell for the nurse. She came scurrying in but smiled when she saw Constance.

‘She’s only dropped off.’ The nurse turned to Molly and Charley. ‘Talking will tire her, but she’ll remember that you visited. Her friend Reverend Adams is waiting to see her, so you should go home now and come again tomorrow.’

It was eleven o’clock when Charley got Molly home to Myrdle Street.

‘Will you come in?’ she asked.

He put his arms around her and held her tight. ‘That wouldn’t be an appropriate thing to do tonight, as much as I’d like to. Besides, you’ve got to do what she said and go for that interview tomorrow.’

Molly smiled weakly. ‘She’s going to need a lot more help when she comes out of hospital. I’m going to feel really bad about leaving her.’

‘She has dozens of friends in this area who will all come to help her, and the church will find a nursing home for her if she can’t manage alone. Now, I’ll be around tomorrow night about seven to see how you got on at the interview. Just take one day at a time, Molly. Things always work out when you don’t over-think them,’ he said, tilting her face up and bending to kiss her. ‘Now go to bed and try to sleep. Good luck for tomorrow.’

Charley walked back up Myrdle Street to Whitechapel Road in deep thought. Would she go tomorrow? Or would a misplaced sense of duty make her stay?

He knew the East End had a habit of sucking people in and keeping them there. Sister Constance was a fine example. Molly could so easily go the same way, involving herself in saving people, be it drunks, tarts, criminals or the very poor. She had made a couple of pointed remarks about her father that had made him think the man was a bully, so it was possible he’d already trained his daughter for martyrdom. If so it would be second nature to her to feel obliged to take care of anyone who needed it.

She let Pat at the café treat her like a slave, and he had sensed that Molly had already half formed a plan in her head that she would take care of Constance when she was released from hospital. He couldn’t let her do that; she was worth more than what she had now, and a job in a decent hotel could be the making of her. If she channelled all those special qualities she had into making guests feel they were the most important person in the world, she’d rise to the top in no time.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Molly felt a pang of trepidation as she looked up at the George Hotel.

It was a lovely old inn, probably dating back to the eighteenth century, its front covered in mathematical tiles. She wondered what they represented and thought she would ask. She imagined that the building must have an interesting history; it could even be haunted. But it wasn’t that which scared her. She wasn’t sure she was good enough to work in such a place.

Rye was a medieval walled town perched up on a hill and surrounded by windswept marshes. People in the West Country tended to think all the best towns and villages in England were there but, in Molly’s opinion, Rye was the prettiest, quaintest town she’d ever seen and far exceeded anything the West Country had to offer. As she’d walked from the station up the narrow cobbled streets with their sweet little houses with bow windows and shiny brass on the front doors, she felt she had gone back a few centuries in time.

The sun had come out while she was on the train and, though it was still very cold and windy, the first thing she noticed as she stepped off the train was the fresh smell and the quiet. She’d got so used to London’s soot-laden air, the noise of the traffic and the nasty smells that she’d virtually forgotten what fresh air or quiet was like. There was some traffic, of course, on the main road down by the station but, compared with Whitechapel Road, it was like a country lane.

Already, without knowing anything about the job, she wanted to live here. She understood, too, why Cassie had mentioned this town so often in her journal.

Before going in the door to reception, Molly took a deep breath and braced herself. She hoped they didn’t ask her to take off her royal-blue coat. She knew it looked chic with the matching beret and that it suited her, but the black sheath dress she was wearing underneath looked cheap. It had been cheap, she’d bought it from the market, but it hadn’t created the sophisticated image she’d intended.

She walked up to the reception desk and said to a red-headed woman sitting behind it, ‘I have an appointment with Mrs Bridgenorth. My name is Molly Heywood.’