READER, I DARE say the scales have fallen from your eyes as swiftly as they had from mine. You have seen the truth as I viewed it from my invalid’s bed and, having experienced such an epiphany, I understood that the course of my life must now be altered. If I was to forswear Allenham, so the entire axis of my existence must also shift. This great movement of the stars, this realignment of the planets caused all manner of disturbance in my heart and mind. With upheaval comes confusion and in the midst of it I was made to acknowledge another truth: I could no longer bear to live at the centre of deception. That I should betray the trust of Madame de Buffon had now become utterly repugnant to my sensibilities. The mere contemplation of my actions, the secret aide-memoire I had kept, the coded notes I had scrawled in there, the devious means I had employed to send Mrs Elliot my letters, and especially the delight I had once derived in making my reports to her, all disgusted me. Never had I believed myself capable of such treachery, such unspeakable ill-usage of a friend. Every day when La Buffon came to me, as she wrapped her arm about my waist to assist me to the window or the sofa, or later to the dining table, as she read to me from the pages of Les Voyages de Madame Égalitine, the novel she had written, or conversed with me about the debates at the National Convention, there was a part of me which recoiled at myself, at the thought of my deeds. I came to wish I had never agreed to Mrs Elliot’s request. But you see, the recognition of my sentiments only resulted in a further predicament, for I could no longer conceive of how I might prove myself a devoted friend to both.

My accident and illness had caused me to all but give up my correspondence with the lady I had come to call my chère maman. Of course, this was not by calculation, but rather necessity. By the time I was again able to stand unassisted, the winter had plucked the trees free of their leaves. It required further weeks still before I was again able to hold a pen steadily in my hand. While this proved inconvenient, I confess it suited my inclinations perfectly, for the prospect of engaging in my former practice had become intolerable to me. Mrs Elliot remained a constant correspondent throughout my illness, though Lucy possessed the sense to conceal the packets amongst her own effects until my recovery. It was with some trepidation that I unfolded the first of these letters, which was by then more than two months old.

‘Madam,’ it began in its usual guise of Thérèse’s handwriting.