It was as she was having this thought that she noticed the lavender purse on the carpet, itself caked in Miss Edgerton’s mess. Her eyes drifted to it. The drawstring was open and, in its mouth, was a tiny glass phial. A residue remained inside: white and crystalline, like finely ground sugar, slightly discoloured with age.

‘Oh, Miss Edgerton,’ she whispered, ‘what have you done?’

Something seized Nancy. She opened Vivienne’s eyes one after another. She lifted her head, as if to open the way to her lungs. Nancy was no nurse, but she knew enough. She’d administered enough to her father in those dying weeks and months – medicines and stern talking-tos, and all the love in the world, anything to keep him dignified and alive. ‘Miss Edgerton!’ she called, her voice rising in pitch, ‘Miss Edgerton, can you hear me?’

She pinched her cheeks urgently. Vivienne did not wake. Blood rushed to the place where her fingertips had been. That’s good, thought Nancy. At least her body can answer – even if Vivienne herself cannot.

‘Vivienne!’ she called again. ‘Miss Edgerton, I’m going to . . .’

She lifted Vivienne’s head, brought it to her lap. In the same moment, Vivienne’s body bucked. A single convulsion ran through the girl and erupted out of her throat. Bile was all that was left inside her. It splattered Nancy’s smart apron.

Vivienne opened her eyes a fraction.

‘It’s going to be all right,’ Nancy said, brushing her hair out of the smears on her face. ‘Miss Edgerton, you’ve done the most foolish thing – but it’s going to be all right. I’m going to get you help. Can you hear me, Vivienne?’ She remembered herself, remembered her place. ‘Miss Edgerton, are you there?’

Nancy looked up and called out: ‘Mrs Whitehead!’

Mrs Whitehead appeared, imperious, in the doorway. Upon seeing Vivienne Edgerton lying prone in Nancy’s arms, her face twisted. ‘Get up, girl,’ she said. ‘Quickly now!’

‘No,’ said Nancy – and was surprised to hear the boldness in her own voice. She caught herself, just in time. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Whitehead, but no – she needs a doctor, now, and he needs to come here. We can’t move her, not until we know . . . She’ll need water, and she needs warm towels, and she needs a hotel doctor now. Mrs Whitehead, I need you to fetch them.’

For a moment, Mrs Whitehead was frozen, aghast at the audacity of the chambermaid ordering her – gentlewoman, overseer, manageress – around. Then something changed. Mrs Whitehead saw the fire in Nancy’s eyes, and stepped backwards out of the door.

‘Stay with her, Miss Nettleton,’ she breathed, and hurried back along the hall.

In the bedchamber, Nancy cradled Vivienne Edgerton’s head. ‘You’re going to be fine,’ she said. ‘You are going to be fine,’ she repeated. But Vivienne only rolled her head, retching again into Nancy’s lap.

*