‘Pray, mademoiselle,’ said Langlois, beckoning me to follow him. We passed through a succession of uninhabited rooms, painted in the hues of a box of pastel chalks. In the cold, their pale colours rendered them more frigid than inviting. At last we arrived in a sitting room of moss green, a shade not improved by the dim light which seemed to cast a type of sickly glow about it. Mrs Elliot’s porter then disappeared to fetch his mistress.

I waited, somewhat impatiently, fidgeting before the fire and smiling to myself. I listened anxiously for her footfall, and at last heard its hasty approach from the distance.

I greeted her with a bright expression, but hers which met me was one of dismay and distress, not unlike the harried countenance she had borne upon the night of our very first acquaintance.

‘Henrietta! Dear child,’ she exclaimed. ‘What has occurred? Has some tragedy befallen Orléans? Has there been some upheaval?’

‘Oh. No, there has been nothing of the sort, madam,’ I answered with a fleeting smile.

‘Then what, girl? Whatever has brought you here? How did you arrive?’ She rumpled her brow.

‘It was with Orléans’s assistance that I have been able to call upon you,’ I offered demurely.

My friend continued to regard me, a look of suspicion or incomprehension forming upon her face. I could not decide which.

‘And Madame de Buffon? She was content to have you call upon me here?’

I lowered my eyes, but knew not how I might answer. On spying my uneasiness, Mrs Elliot sat herself down upon a green-striped chair and gestured for me to do the same.

‘You see, dear Mrs Elliot . . . it is on account of her that I have come,’ I began, mustering my courage. I had rehearsed my lines to her a good many times before this, but still found my heart pounding with fear at the thought of speaking my piece. ‘Madam, you know that you are to me as a mother, and I pray that I shall forever remain worthy of that name which you have called me: votre chère fille.’ I glanced fleetingly at her and then away. ‘But I beg that you hear me upon this subject, one which has caused my mind no inconsiderable torment. I would not wish to contradict you, ma chère maman, but you must accept that in the months I have lived with Madame de Buffon I have come to observe many qualities in her character which are not known to you. Indeed, I do not believe them known to most. She has been much maligned and the victim of gossip. Her break with Mrs Meyler was not on account of jealousy – and she is no murderess, to be sure,’ I added with a light laugh and again glanced at my friend. Her head was tilted and an indentation had grown between her two dark eyebrows. She did not smile.