She sat down on a chair beside her mother, taking her hand in hers.

“Don’t be shocked about the guinea, dearest Mama,” she said.

“It will buy you some delicious things to eat, a chicken, lots of eggs, cream and many more luxuries that the doctor ordered.”

Her mother did not reply and Thalia knew that nothing the doctor could prescribe or they could buy could heal an anxious heart that was growing near to despair.

As she looked at the sadness in her mother’s face, Thalia asked herself why, wherever he was, her father had not written.

She had sent him dozens of letters to the address he had given them in America, but after the first six months that he had been away, there had been no more news of him.

It was terrible to see her mother suffering so acutely, growing paler and thinner every day, and knowing that there was nothing she could do about it.

The three years of her father’s exile were nearly at an end, and she was sure that if he was alive he would come home.

He could not be so cruel as to stay away when he knew how desperately they needed him.

As if she wished to divert her mother’s mind from where it always lingered with her father, Thalia told her in detail about her visit to Mademoiselle Genevieve at the hotel near the King’s Theatre and how, having chosen three bonnets, she had made the Earl of Hellington pay for them.

She told the story amusingly, omitting the fact that the ballet dancer wore only her nightgown or that she had kissed the Earl in gratitude.

As it was, her mother was shocked at the Frenchwoman’s behaviour.

“How can I bear to think of you, my dearest, associating with such women?”

“I have heard Papa talking about ‘bits of muslin’!” Thalia said. “But I never expected to speak to any of them. She was extremely attractive, Mama, and I am sure she dances beautifully.”

“Dearest, you must find something else to do.”

The laughter died out of Thalia’s eyes.

“Mama, you know as well as I do that I am very lucky to have employment of any sort and it was actually you who thought that I should be a milliner.”

“I did?”

“Yes, Mama. When I was trimming that old bonnet of mine you said, ‘you are so skilful with your fingers, dearest child, I do not believe that even Bond Street could produce anything more stylish than you have just contrived out of those old ribbons and the silk flowers I bought over five years ago’.”

“I did not mean you to sell your skill,” her mother retorted, “even while I admit it is unusual.”

“We had nothing else left to sell,” Thalia replied simply, “and even Hannah dislikes the idea of starving to death.”

Her mother said no more.