‘My lady’s maid?’

‘The groom collected your trunk from the station this morning.’ The young woman closed the door and crossed the room. She opened the wardrobe to reveal a rail crammed with clothes in fabric covers and pulled out drawers which contained garments wrapped in tissue paper. ‘I hope you’re happy with how I have unpacked your clothes.’

Her clothes? Realising that the young woman was waiting for a response, Lou said, ‘Thank you. Yes, they look lovely … Sorry, I’m a bit confused. What was your name again?’

‘Morrison, Miss.’

‘No, your real name, your Christian name.’ She might be in a dream, but she couldn’t bring herself to call another woman by her surname.

‘Sally, Miss. But everyone knows me as Morrison.’

‘Would you mind if I call you Sally?’

‘As you like, Miss.’

‘And you can call me Louisa.’

‘Oh, no, I couldn’t do that. It wouldn’t be right.’ Sally’s eyes widened in a look of horror, as though Lou had asked her to call her darling or sweetheart. ‘Would you like me to draw you a bath?’ Sally added, clearly keen to re-establish the natural order of things. ‘You must have had quite a journey. Did you come directly from India?’

‘India?’

‘Mrs Moriarty said that a friend of Mrs Hart’s –’

‘Of course, yes, India.’ – what was one more fabrication? – ‘Sorry, my mind’s all over the place.’

‘It is?’

Sally took a step back. It was clear that she thought she had been sent to wait on a madwoman. Lou dredged up memories of every period drama she had ever watched and every historical novel she had read, desperate for a reference point for how she should behave. It ran against every feminist instinct in her, but finally she said, ‘Is the offer of a bath still on? I’m afraid I’m terribly tired and not sure that I’m making any sense. A soak will put me right.’

‘Very good, Miss,’ Sally said and hurried through to the bathroom.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Lou heard the gush of water. She leant over to remove her boots but stopped halfway down and let out an involuntary yelp. There was something digging in her ribs.

Sally rushed from the bathroom, a towel draped over her arm. ‘Oh, Miss,’ she said, placing the towel on the bed. ‘Let me help you undress.’

‘No!’ Lou said sharply and then remembering herself added, ‘I’m fine, I can manage.’

Sally gave her a quizzical look. ‘Not wanting to contradict, Miss, but you won’t be able to manage your corset without help.’

Lou touched her ribs and found that she was indeed trussed from waist to bust. ‘All right,’ she sighed. What choice did she have?

Kneeling before her, Sally unlaced Lou’s boots and eased them free before helping her to stand. Expertly, she unhooked dozens of tiny buttons running down the back of Lou’s blouse and gradually worked her way around, unfastening and unhooking. She eased down the skirt for Lou to step from, unclipped stockings, and set to work unlacing the corset. Lou folded her arms across her chest. In her normal life, she couldn’t bring herself to use a communal fitting room and preferred to hang around shivering after a swim, waiting for a cubicle to become free, rather than face the humiliation of being naked in front of other people. By contrast, Sally appeared completely at ease in the presence of Lou’s increasing nakedness, peeling away layers of clothes with no more ceremony than she might peel the skin from a banana to reveal the pale flesh beneath. The irony wasn’t lost on Lou. Here she was, a twenty-first century woman, and even in a dream, she was more squeamish about her nudity than a woman who lived in a rigid, prudish society.