She slipped a dress off its hanger and held it up for inspection. ‘A cashmere jersey dress. We’d usually have this in winter, but it’s fine as long as the weather isn’t actually boiling.’ She paused. ‘And when does it boil round here?’

‘Never,’ said Emma.

Sally held out the dress to Harriet. ‘It’s your colouring,’ she said. ‘You can wear blue. Can’t she, Emma?’

‘Yes, she can. She can wear anything, I suspect, and look like a million dollars.’

‘I can’t,’ protested Harriet. ‘This dress is lovely, but I don’t think so.’

Emma ignored this. ‘Try it on.’

‘Yes,’ urged Sally. ‘Just try it. No harm. And shoes? I’ve got the most fabulous suede ankle-boots. I promise you, they’re just made for that dress. They’re both Italian.’

‘I don’t need any shoes,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ve got shoes.’

‘You can never have enough shoes,’ said Emma firmly.

‘No,’ said Sally. ‘Emma’s right. You have to have lots of shoes.’

Harriet was led to the fitting booth and the curtain drawn for her. Sally nodded at Emma. ‘She could wear anything,’ she whispered. ‘You’re right.’

‘Find those ankle boots,’ said Emma.

‘You’ve been so kind,’ said Harriet as they left the shop.

Emma said nothing, but acknowledged the thanks with a smile.

‘Nobody has ever done anything like that for me,’ continued Harriet. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

‘You don’t need to say anything.’

They were in the street outside the dress shop but Harriet suddenly turned and embraced Emma, hugging her friend to her. Emma felt the bag containing the dress and shoes press against her uncomfortably. She felt herself flush with embarrassment.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘It’s OK.’

A couple of young men walked past them. They did not look, but one addressed the other in a voice intended to be heard. ‘Cool. I like that sort of thing.’

The other young man laughed. Harriet let Emma go. ‘I’m sorry, I got carried away. I’m just so … well, I’m just overcome.’

Emma felt slightly flustered by Harriet’s effusive show of gratitude. ‘Let’s just walk along King’s Parade. There are more shops.’

‘You mustn’t buy me anything else,’ said Harriet. ‘Ever.’

Emma laughed. ‘I might get some shoes myself. What did Sally say back there? You can never have enough shoes.’

‘No, you said that.’

‘Did I? Well, then, it must be right.’

They walked on, making their way through the afternoon crowds of visitors. Cambridge in summer was busy, even with the regular students being away; as one set of young people departed, their place was taken by another: Australians, Americans, Koreans – a hotchpotch of nationalities eager to experience the benison of the ancient academic city. On the King’s Parade, several young men, wearing straw boaters, plied their touts’ trade, trying to persuade people to rent a river punt. A small group of Japanese girls giggled at the importuning; elsewhere a crowd had gathered around a street performer who was extracting coloured handkerchiefs from a top hat; the locals, indifferent, walked past on their business. Emma said, ‘What’s the point of taking handkerchiefs …’

She did not finish. Harriet had gripped her arm. ‘Over there. Isn’t that him?’

Emma looked about her. ‘Who?’

‘That guy.’

‘What guy?’

‘Frank what’s-his-name?’

Emma looked in the direction in which Harriet was pointing. The crowds had thickened, and she was not sure whom she was meant to be looking for? Frank? Frank Churchill?

‘You mean Frank Churchill?’

‘Yes,’ said Harriet. ‘I’m sure I saw him. With that Jane girl.’

‘Jane Fairfax?’

‘Yes. I’m sure it was them.’

Emma searched the crowd, looking for Frank’s golden head of hair. He was tall; he should be visible. There was no sign of anybody who looked like him. She turned to Harriet and asked her whether she was sure.

‘I think so,’ said Harriet. ‘You can’t really miss him. And it was her too – she’s quite distinctive-looking.’

‘Where were they going?’ she asked.

‘That way,’ said Harriet, pointing down the street in the direction of St John’s and Heffers Bookshop.

Emma made up her mind. ‘Let’s find them.’

‘And speak to them?’ asked Harriet.

‘No,’ said Emma. ‘I’m just a bit curious to find out what they’re doing.’

‘There’s no reason why they shouldn’t be in Cambridge,’ said Harriet. ‘They’re probably shopping.’

‘Maybe,’ said Emma.

They walked on, Emma setting the pace. She was intrigued. Earlier on, she had detected Jane’s interest in Frank, but had assumed that she had disabused her of any illusions as to her chances with him. Perhaps Jane had decided on a simple friendship with Frank; that was no concern of hers, except that … She bit her lip. She felt a tug of envy. Frank Churchill was her property, not Jane’s. Jane was nothing; she was a visitor for the summer who had not even met Frank before. She – Emma – had known him for years – or rather, even if she hardly knew him, she had met him years before on one of his trips from Australia and James was virtually family; all of which meant that she, rather than, Jane, should be walking around Cambridge with him. This was not to say, of course, that she fancied him – she told herself that she did not. He was extremely good-looking and he had that smile that she had already observed, and there was that cleft in his chin … but this was not about any of that. She knew there was absolutely no point in falling in love with somebody who was not going to be interested; that was not the point: the point was that he would have far preferred to be shown round Cambridge by her rather than by that stand-offish iceberg, Jane Fairfax.

It did not take them long to reach the entrance to St John’s. There was no sign of Frank and Jane in the street, and the crowd had by that stage thinned out. They had paused in front of Heffers, and Emma had looked in through the open front door. Again there was no sign of the couple, and Emma shook her head when Harriet suggested they might have gone downstairs, or possibly upstairs. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘I don’t see Frank in a bookshop.’

‘Well, then maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t him.’

‘No,’ said Emma. ‘I don’t think you were wrong.’

‘Well, we don’t have to find them, do we? You said that you wanted to find some shoes. There was an interesting shoe shop back there.’

Emma looked up at the gate of St John’s, at the elaborate stone-carved arms. Suddenly she remembered the conversation she had had with Jane when she had called to inspect the new piano. She had mentioned that she had been at Cambridge – Emma having dragged the admission out of her – and had said that her college was St John’s. Of course; of course that was it: Jane would be showing Frank Churchill her old college.

‘Let’s go in there,’ said Emma.

Harriet was uncertain. ‘Into that college? Are we allowed?’

‘Of course we are,’ said Emma. ‘We pay for these places. It’s taxpayers’ money that keeps them going.’

‘I don’t pay tax,’ muttered Harriet.

‘I do,’ said Emma. ‘Come on.’

There was something happening at the entrance to the chapel in the First Court. A crowd of people was milling about main door of the chapel, and when this door opened, the people surged forward. Emma’s eye was caught by one of these people. ‘Frank,’ she whispered.

‘Where?’

‘Over there. Going into the chapel.’

Harriet could not see him. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, he’s gone inside.’

‘And Jane? Did you see her?’

‘I think so, but I couldn’t tell.’

They crossed the court. Outside the chapel, there was a small noticeboard announcing a special concert by the choristers in aid of an organisation that supported prisoners of conscience. This was the reason for the crowd, most of which had now been admitted to the chapel.

They went inside. A student was at the door, selling tickets. Emma paid for both of them and put the change into a collecting box on the table. The student thanked her. ‘You can sit anywhere,’ she said. ‘It’ll start in about five minutes.’

Some of those admitted to the chapel had not yet sat down, but were walking about looking up at the stained-glass windows. Emma wanted an unobtrusive seat and so she pointed to a pew towards the back. More people were coming in now, and the chapel was filling up.

They sat down.

‘Can you see them?’ whispered Harriet.

Emma scanned the rows of heads, the backs. ‘Yes,’ she whispered back. ‘They’re there. Right towards the front.’

A man emerged from the side and stood in front of a microphone near the choir stalls. He tapped the mouthpiece with a finger to attract attention.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, dear friends,’ he began. ‘The choristers of the college have kindly agreed to perform this concert this afternoon because they support the work of our organisation. As you know, we are concerned with prisoners of conscience – people who are detained not because they have committed crimes as we would understand them, but because they have expressed views that challenge those in power. In most cases, this is because they have simply told the truth, or worked for the truth as they see it.

‘I don’t need to tell you about the suffering of these people and about what your support means to them. I’m sure that you are well aware of that. Here, in this beautiful place, this peaceful sanctuary from the wickedness of the world, it may be hard to imagine the suffering of those who are kept apart from others, locked up in conditions intended to break both body and spirit. But that is what they suffer, day after day – day after day. We can turn away from the suffering of others; we can put it out of our minds. We can say that it has nothing to do with us. But that is always wrong, ladies and gentlemen, because the suffering of others is something that does not go away if we simply turn the other way, if we ignore it. It is still there.’