Changing into the dress that had been laid on the bed before me I caught sight of myself the mirror and wiped a patch of flour from my cheek. I released my long tangles of red hair from the rubber band that had retrained it since early that morning. The last of the orange hues of sunset sunk beneath the Thames as a handful of heavy curls framed my small freckled face. I felt the usual churn in my stomach that accompanied the growl of hunger that emerged from my stomach every night and sat on the edge of the bed. I smelt of bread and felt comforted by that; as I sat and waited I watched the beginning of the drunk hour in the streets of London. Every night just after sunset a parade of drunken men, some old and some young, would stumble through the streets on their way to one of the other pubs or home to lie to their wives. I was scared. Scared because they were loud and sometimes very violent. I sat and allowed a single tear fall quickly down my face; letting it trace a curving path through the think layers of dust and dirt on my face.

She was calling me from downstairs...a sense of dread and fear washed over me as I opened the door and hurried nervously down the stairs.

Looking up at him I felt instantly better. He was neither old nor dunk nor arrogant and rich. Instead he was a face I had not been able to rid my mind of for the past few days . I shyly looked down at my shoes and realised how awful I looked standing in the dingy flickering light from the candles that lined the corridor. I barely heard anything that the mistress had said but I caught her warning glare and smiled up at the man. Jack Hammond. Why did it have to be you Mr Hammond.

My cheeks flushed furiously as I smiled up at him and led him up the stairs to my temporary room...