Although in my previous existence I had been decorated with diamond baubles and even granted the run of my own townhouse, these extravagances were but vanities masquerading as love. Unlike many ladies of my sort, I had learned what it was to own a heart and to give one in return. I understood well enough that whatever gifts were made to me on behalf of that tender organ were of the greatest value by far. Of those cherished objects Allenham bestowed upon me, none were dearer than those he set before me upon his return from a journey to Turin. Such a grand assortment it was: a parcel which contained not only a silver pen and ink, but a set of gouache pigments, brushes of silky sable hair, and three bound books of Italian paper. The largest of these was filled with sturdy sheets for painting, while the other two, bound in smooth red calfskin, were designed for use as pocketbooks.

‘I fear I have been most inattentive as your patron,’ said he with a teasing wag of his head.

I turned to him questioningly.

‘Is it not my obligation to see that your talents are amply rewarded, if not nourished with regular encouragement?’

I sighed bashfully.

‘I merely pretend at . . . dabbling . . . and . . .’

‘You know very well that is false modesty.’

I attempted to defend my humble assertion but his lip had already curled into a smile. He took several swaggering steps towards me before placing a finger beneath my chin.

‘You think I merely seek to flatter you, madam? You think my judgement has been overruled by my heart? That your beauty blinds me to your true absence of skill and I am left entirely bereft of discernment in your company? Is that what you imagine, eh?’

I could not prevent myself from laughing at his taunts, even as he covered my mouth with kisses. Like my father before him, it was Allenham who recognized and praised my early talents. My beloved had once purchased for me a table designed for my artistic endeavours, at which I sat by a window in Orchard Cottage and filled my hours painting in a contemplative reverie. I was no Angelica Kauffmann or Madame Vigée-Lebrun, but in those youthful days my burgeoning abilities displayed no small amount of promise. While most gentlemen would have taken but fleeting notice of my accomplishments, Allenham admired them. He never once condescended to me, and spoke as plainly with me upon matters of philosophy and politics as he might a member of his own sex. Our conversation turned as much upon the words of Monsieur Rousseau and Herr Goethe as it did upon whispered exchanges of love.

‘My patron’s gifts come to you with a condition,’ announced he, once we had disentangled from our embrace. ‘I should like you to practise your skills upon me, in taking my likeness.’

‘A portrait?’ I smiled.

‘A miniature portrait. A keepsake . . . for you.’