What does he want with her? The thought swelled thick in my throat.

I lifted the soap out of its china dish, stepped out of my own skirts. Welcomed the slap of water against my thighs. My shift lay slick and dark just as her hair had done, and I leaned forward, looked down the waking-up length of myself. And then ‒ I’ll confess it ‒ I brought the soap under my nose, between my legs, where it felt small and sharp as a fingernail.

I think that was when it came upon me. The madness that has lain upon me since. I lifted her towel from the floor, went back into her bedchamber, sat on her bed, and waited.

From the journals of George Benham

(Marked by George Benham as: NOT INTENDED FOR PUBLICATION)

Latest conversation with Langton’s girl, recorded verbatim.

‘Tell me about Mrs Benham.’

‘Madame? What do you want to know about her? Sir.’

‘Stop playing coy, girl. How much does she take?’

‘The drug?’

‘The drug.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘More than usual?’

‘I don’t know what’s usual.’

‘Fifteen drops? Twenty? More than that?’

A laugh. ‘I don’t keep count.’

‘Not a laughing matter, girl. I want you to note how much she takes. She is delicate. You must have seen that for yourself. All I want is to know if she shows any signs of becoming unwell. Just tell me what she does, where she goes. I can be the judge of what it means.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

My pallet stayed in her room.

‘She wants you in there now?’ said Pru, watching from her bed as I lifted my dresses from the hook in the attic room. I left my blue serge, Candide still tucked in its hem, forgotten, with my grey rag. I took my time rolling my pallet. My nerves were tuning forks. I feared she’d see the change in me, seared across my face.

But she only smiled at me, shook her head. ‘It’s a bad idea,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘She’ll get bored. Never let your lady get bored. Courtesans always turf the fellows out afterwards, don’t they?’

Always a courtesan, never a bride, Frances.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘What would you know about being a courtesan?’ I asked.

She grinned. ‘Fair.’ She tilted her head. ‘But I know more than you about being a dressing maid. And, I’m telling you, for both, familiarity breeds boredom. And boredom breeds trouble.’

Pru had been skittish with me since the night in the attic. I fancied I saw pity, when she looked at me. We hadn’t spoken again about what I’d told her. Now I see what a friend she was. Steadfast. I should have said so then, but my head was turned, one foot already downstairs.

The next morning Charles brought up a package. Sweetmeats wrapped in parchment, trailing the label of one of those fancy Piccadilly emporiums, which Madame left in a china dish on her washstand. Gold rings, ear-bobs, pearls: she mixed the sweets with them as if they were the same. I went over and picked one out and held it to my nose. Marzipan. The same smell that glazed her breath.