Flicking open her fan, Charlotte leaned towards her daughter, seated next to her. “I have a theory,” she whispered, “that the less talent a young lady possesses, the more protracted her performance.”

Margaret gave a snort of laughter. “I think it just feels that way. If it were indeed the case, I would be obliged to perform from dawn till dusk.”

In fact, Margaret had a rather charming singing voice but a horror of public performance. It was ironic that Walter thought his second daughter someone perpetually seeking attention, when she was a wallflower by inclination.

“Are you feeling the heat, Mama? Shall I see if I can secure you a glass of lemonade?”

Thoughtful, too, Charlotte thought guiltily, shaking her head. “Louise was right—turquoise is your colour,” she said, eyeing Margaret’s new ball gown with some satisfaction. It was a deceptively simple creation worked up from the sketch made by the princess, the fabric of the skirt falling in deep pleats, lacking the swags and ruffles her daughter detested, a bertha collar of cream lace the only adornment. “Your friend has an excellent eye for what suits you.”

“Thank you, Mama. Molly had to adjust it a little, for my waist is now a mere eighteen inches, the smallest it has ever been.”

As was Margaret’s appetite, which had all but disappeared. “I think eighteen is svelte enough,” Charlotte said, adding, “Oh, dear heavens!” as, to her horror, a violinist stepped up to join the pianist.

The pair scraped and tinkled into action. Beside her, Margaret rolled her eyes, but as she leaned in to comment, her face fell and she stiffened. “Here comes Killin,” she said. “Again.”

Charlotte watched her daughter transform into a rigid effigy, her hands clasped tightly together, quite literally bracing herself. She could not understand this visceral reaction to the man, but it was painful to witness. As Killin manoeuvred himself carefully into the empty chair beside Margaret, Charlotte felt the girl shrink towards her. The movement was instinctive; she doubted that Margaret herself was even aware of it.

The performing duo launched into something utterly unrecognisable and she tried to catch her daughter’s eye; but Margaret, her gaze fixed determinedly to the front, was no longer listening. Looking at her fixed smile and tense shoulders made Charlotte’s own jaw clench in sympathy.