‘Well, I too had worried a little, but am newly convinced that all will be well!’ Fanny returned, smiling brightly. ‘We have two weeks after all, during which we may see some growth and – let us hope! – a new, shall we say, richness in texture. Furthermore …’ She leaned forward then, and put on the expression of a happy conspirator. ‘I have consumed all the reports of the London season and can you guess what I learned?’

Mary looked back at her blankly.

‘Our luck is in, Mary! Turbans are quite à la mode.’

A half-hour had passed since the hairdresser’s departure. The sun was now meeting its zenith; the swallows were diving; somewhere out on the lawn, willow struck leather with metronomic precision. But still, Mary sat where Hall had left her: in her room, at her dressing table, in front of the glass, where she came slowly to terms with her new reflection.

Actually, Mary remembered it now: had she not grown up assuming herself to be plain? After all, no one about her had ever said otherwise and she had somehow gathered, from novels and so on, that when Beauty was evident people did tend to remark it. And so imbued had she been with religious principle – the rigorous catechism and bible study; church twice on a Sunday – that she had learned not to much mind. Was not the soul worth more than the flesh? Of course, the recent talk of her ‘bloom’ had been rather pleasant, but then she had never quite believed it: just one look from her stepmother had been quite sufficient to return her to earth. No, plain had she been; it now seemed plain she would always be. One must simply get used to it.

Mary blinked slowly and looked back into her own eyes. The naked scalp was now hidden by her white cotton cap. Beneath it was hidden a band, to which the new hair was attached, but that was a secret known only to her and her maid. All the world could see was that around her face hung a crop of rich, chestnut ringlets which rightly belonged to some other girl. She sighed. Imagine being so poor as to be forced to sell one’s own hair. Mary fell into wondering how she might cope with such a forced deprivation, before realising that she would not have that option. Who on earth would buy hers when it ‘cried out for improvement’? It was a testament to her good, Christian optimism that the thought made her burst into laughter.

‘Have you gone mad, child?’ Booker lifted her face from the handkerchief in which she had buried it. ‘You’ve got nothing to laugh at, believe you me.’ The sobbing resumed. ‘We won’t forgive her for this in a hurry and that much is certain.’ She gulped, somewhat damply. ‘Quite tempted to—’

A maid popped her head around the door. ‘Lady Banks waiting down in the drawing room, miss.’