‘Or you could pursue interests of your own,’ Mr Fortescue went on. ‘If you found you had a talent for music or singing or painting you could work at that. Or if that horse of yours is anything to go by, you could find a good manager and have him set up a stud of horses.’

I nodded. ‘And there are people who could teach me everything I need to know?’ I asked. ‘Music teachers and dance teachers and manners teachers? I could learn everything?’

He smiled as if I was being engagingly eager. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Mrs Redwold could teach you everything you need to know. She could teach you to be a young country lady.’

‘How long?’ I asked.

‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

‘How long?’ I asked. ‘How long would it take for me to learn everything about being a young lady.’

He smiled at that as if the question were funny. ‘I think one learns good manners all one’s life,’ he said. ‘But I should think you would be comfortable in good society within a year.’

A year! I thought to myself. It had taken me less than that to learn to be a bareback rider with my own act. It had taken her two months to learn tricks on the trapeze. Either gentry skills were very difficult – or else they were full of nonsense and idiocy, like eating things while sitting so far away that you were certain to drop them.

I said nothing and Mr Fortescue leaned forward and poured me another glass of ratafia.

‘It’s a lot to take in,’ he said gently. ‘And you must be tired, this is your first day up after your illness. Would you like to go to your bedroom now? Or sit in the parlour?’

I nodded. I was learning some of the gentry rules already. He did not mean he thought I was tired, he meant he did not want to talk to me any more. I felt a bad taste in my mouth and I went to spit but caught myself in time. ‘I am tired,’ I said. ‘I think I shall go to my room. Good-night, Mr Fortescue.’

He got to his feet as I went towards the door and he went past me and opened it for me. I hesitated, thinking he meant to go out too but then I realized he had opened it for me for politeness’ sake. He took my right hand and raised it to his lips and kissed it. Without thinking what I was doing I whipped it away and put it behind my back.

‘I beg your pardon!’ he said, surprised. ‘I just meant to say good-night.’

I flushed scarlet with embarrassment. ‘I am sorry,’ I said gruffly. ‘I don’t like people touching me, I never have.’

He nodded as if he understood; but I wagered he didn’t.