I meant no insult to him, but it is a foolish woman who puts her whole trust in a husband. My own father drank and gambled away my mother’s inheritance and together they died in want; grief for her lodged in my ribs and has not waned. It is a hurt without remedy. One cannot act as if these things never happened. George neither drank nor gambled, but to move in Court circles, even as a doctor, incurred enormous expense. Debt hung around our necks and a short run of bad luck would have bankrupted us. If there was something I could do to make our lives less precarious, and to recover the honor forfeit by my mother for marrying beneath her, I would do it.

I took off my cloak and put it on the bed. The miserable young Countess looked at me for so long I thought I should charge. What did she find? I took great pains to preserve the remnants of my youth so the years between us were less marked than they might have been. We could pass for sisters, just. Compared to her rich potency, my looks are muted. Blue eyes brighten an oval face framed with pale gold curls. I have been called beautiful, but I am not vain. For my blessings I thank God and my angel keeper, who embraces me with unfelt hands and guards me from harm even though I spend little time at confession.

“You dress like a man,” she finally pronounced.

She was beguiling and noble, but exceedingly rude.

“Moll Cutpurse dresses like a man. I dress as if I am not afraid,” I countered.

She paused a moment to consider that. “My mother does not like to be outshone. Why would she ask you to dress me? Does she think that if I look like a harlot, as you do, my husband will bed me more often?”

How was I to reply to that? “Does he need encouragement?” I said.

She was angry with him, perhaps with everyone. With a combative lift to her chin she weighed up what was safe to tell. I tried to feel indifferent to her judgment but something of her defiant spirit had already captured me. “Better a sheep than a shrew,” the saying goes, but not to my mind. My courage would appeal to her, and my greater age and lower rank would save us from rivalry, but my taste would be too outlandish.

“I can trust no one,” she said, “not even my family and servants.”

I shrugged slightly, making clear it made no difference whether she confided in me or not. She lifted her chin higher, yet never took her eyes from mine. Suddenly her face softened. She took a great breath and a step closer, as if spies listened at the door.

“My husband beats me because he has been home from his travels for two months and I am still a virgin.”