‘I have never tried my hand at painting visages . . .’ I demurred.

‘Then you might apply yourself to it, my love, for I reckon you will excel at it. You have subjects enough about you here. I dare say Madame Vanderoi would make an agreeable sitter, and her household . . .’

I contemplated his suggestion and resolved to make an attempt of it. I also decided that I would put to use one of his tightly bound pocketbooks. In his absence I would scribble an account of my days, my thoughts and bons mots on to its pages and amuse him with them upon his return. What delight I took in this: pouring forth the contents of my heart and mind and occasionally committing to ink my rather petty witticisms. However, commonsense and prior experience soon reminded me what trouble often came of laying one’s thoughts bare for the discovery of servants. Although Madame Vanderoi possessed but a few words of English, it would require little more than that to learn the true nature of my relations with Mr Allen. Indeed, I believe her entire household had already guessed at it, and sniggered at the ignorance of their mistress. As my tenure there depended upon my pretence of discretion, I alighted upon the idea of recording my thoughts in a simple code and then took great pleasure in devising one. No person should ever again come to know my secrets, I determined. I had learned too much of the world to scatter my trust about so freely.

In the weeks that followed, I observed Madame Vanderoi and her household as much with my brushes as I did with my pen. I painted each of her maids and then their double-chinned mistress in her starched lace and linen cap. Only once I believed I had acquired an understanding of what it was to sketch a countenance did I attempt to take Allenham’s likeness. Of course, my little portraits were not the elaborate works one might have commissioned from Mr Cosway or Mr Bone in Piccadilly. They were but simple drawings in pencil to which I applied a light wash of colour over the sitter’s features. It was a convention very much à la mode at the time.

I recall the day in early spring when Allenham sat for me. The blackthorn blossoms were swelling upon the trees and the daylight had begun to shed its grey winter pallor and once again assume a hopeful brightness. He reclined against the back of the chair and conversed with me in an easy manner as I sketched the square outline of his handsome features and the full form of his mouth. He uttered compliments and teases, jesting that I was not taking his likeness at all, but painting the view from the window behind him. After a spell, his light chatter faded and his animated countenance fell still. As I worked, a distant, pensive expression gradually crept over his face.