Her heart was racing. The cage of her enormous formal crinoline seemed to have a life of its own, despite the straps which were meant to control it. In the last few weeks, she had had little appetite for food, and Mama’s constantly deployed measuring tape showed her waist had shrunk to just nineteen inches, yet she still felt breathless, as if Molly had laced her corset too tightly.

Edging farther away from the hubbub of the ballroom, she came smack up against the balustrade, snatching at it just in time to prevent herself from stumbling down the steps and into the darkened gardens. The smell from the river was overpowering, but as usual she had mislaid the fan which should have been attached to her wrist. Her hair would be frizzing in the damp air, ruining all poor Molly’s hard work. What she’d give to pull every pin from her rebellious red mop and let it tumble wild and loose down her back. At least then one part of her would be free.

The notion made her laugh. Her laughter had a manic edge. Her feet took another cautious step backwards, down the first of the steps leading to the garden.

She wasn’t running away.

She could not possibly run away.

She really ought to return to the ballroom and get on with it. Yet somehow she found herself at the bottom of the steps.

Inside, the orchestra struck the last chords of the waltz. She had three or four minutes at most. The dancers would be making their sedate bows and curtsies. She could picture the scene with jaw-clenching clarity. The ballroom would be a blaze of light reflected in the mirrors, for the candles in the three huge crystal chandeliers were all lit, along with the gas sconces. The crush of guests, the women in their colourful gowns and the men in their black dinner suits, would be turning to face the dais. The ladies would be plying their fans, the gentlemen dabbing discreetly at their faces with their handkerchiefs. The huge displays of roses would be starting to droop. Hers was not the only coiffure that would be starting to frizz.

Of their own accord, her feet began to back her slowly away from the house, along the path that wound its way through the garden to the wall bordering the Thames. Inside, an army of footmen garbed in formal livery, their hair moulded into a wig-like coiffure with flour-and-water paste, would be lining up under the butler’s gimlet eye, ready to distribute glasses of iced champagne in anticipation of the celebratory toast to come.