‘I don’t forgive you because I don’t believe a word of it,’ I say cheerfully. I look towards the queen and I see that the king is now watching us. Carefully, I turn my head a little away from Thomas Culpepper and withdraw slightly. It will not do to seem too engaged with him. I glance under my eyelashes and indeed the king is looking at me. He beckons me to him with a crook of his finger, and I ignore Thomas Culpepper and step up to the royal chair.

‘Your Grace?’

‘I am saying that we should have some dancing. Will you partner the Princess Mary? The queen tells me you are the best of her dancers.’

So now, who capers like an Italian? I flush hot with pleasure and I wish with all my heart that my grandmother could see me now, being ordered to dance by the king himself on the recommendation of the queen.

‘Of course, Your Grace.’ I curtsey beautifully; I cast down my eyes modestly as well, since everyone is watching me, and I put out my hand to the Princess Mary. Well, toll-loll, she doesn’t exactly leap up to take it, and she walks to the centre of the room to form the first line of the dance with me as if she were not much honoured by her partner. I toss my head a little at her grave face and summon the other girls, who form a line behind us. The musicians strike a chord and we start to dance.

And who would have thought it? She’s rather a good dancer. She moves gracefully and she holds her head high. Her feet twinkle through the steps, she has been wonderfully taught. I give a little sway of my hips just to make sure that the King, and every man in the room, keeps his eyes on me, but to be honest, I am sure that half of them are watching the princess, whose colour rises as she dances and who is smiling by the time we have gone through the chain part of the dance and the walking your partner down the archway. I try to look modestly pleased with the success of my partner but I am afraid I look as if I am sucking lemons. I can’t be a foil to someone else’s performance, I just can’t. It’s not my nature, I just don’t aspire to second place.

So we finish with a curtsey and the king rises to his feet and calls ‘Brava! Brava!’ which is Latin or German or something for hurrah, and I smile and try to look quietly pleased while he comes towards us and takes the princess by the hand and kisses her on both cheeks and tells her he is delighted with her.

I stand back, as modest as a little flower, but as green with envy as a spike of grass at all the praise being showered on the dull creature; but then he turns to me, and bends down to whisper in my ear. ‘And you, sweetheart, dance like a little angel. Any partner of yours would look the better for being at your side. Will you ever dance for me, d’you think? Just on your own, for my pleasure?’