But while accompanying her dear papa on business and visits should have been pleasurable, it turned out to be somewhat less so. Mary did take care to remember how her own, girlish self would have thrilled at such precious access. But as Sir Edward had disappointed her then, so he disappointed her still. Though once he had talked of his own, unending misery, now he spoke only, at some length, of his happiness: his wife’s ‘excellent feelings’; the baby’s ‘utter perfection’; his ‘extraordinary good fortune’ that the Almighty should so bless him again. And Mary – returned to her old, childhood pattern – sat, ramrod and decorous; listened politely; hoped he might notice her goodness and be minded to love her.

That sadness apart, she was, on balance, more happy than not. Her days were at least full of purpose, rather than indolence and flirting which were, anyway, only more wickedness. And at last, she could see life – real life, not that previous, poor approximation – spread out before her. A banquet yet to be tasted; the dawn of a bright, clear, new day.

‘Thank you, Booker.’ Mary looked into the glass again, and did not even pretend to be displeased with the vision before her.

The maid met the bright eyes and gave one, final pat to the hair she had just dressed. ‘Just look at those curls.’ She chuckled. ‘Not that there was much wrong before, mind, nor will I ever forgive what she did to you. Still, eel foe soof rear, that’s what my last lady used to say, though the Lord only knows what she was on about.’

‘I think it’s French, dearest.’

‘Hmph. Shame. Well, I’ll still say it anyway.’ She tucked one, last stray wisp into the chignon. ‘Eel foe soof rear and will you not look at it. Bet Madam’s pleased with herself.’

‘Oh, Books, darling.’ Mary laughed up at her. ‘She has not said a word, of course. Doesn’t notice a thing which isn’t to do with that baby.’

‘Now, now, miss.’ Booker struck Mary’s exposed bosom with the back of the brush. ‘Off you go and behave yourself.’

Mary tripped down to dinner as the gong was being struck and that evening’s diners were already in their places. At some point in the day, dear Marianne had left – so another friend lost – and been replaced by Mrs Rice, the Married Sister – the one they called Lizzie. Mary issued a curtsey and sat down beside her. Sir Edward, who famously preferred earliness over mere punctuality, raised one baleful eye but, for once, did not issue a reprimand. All of which gave the impression of something important being under discussion. How very tantalising. What on earth could it be?