It was a curious thing to look upon that face once more. I felt a sudden jolt of coldness in my belly. The memory of the last day I saw her at Meudon came back like a sharp pain.

‘Madame Elliot?’

She tilted her head up at me.

‘Oui?’

‘Mrs Elliot, do you remember me?’ I tried a smile.

There was a long pause; her face quivered. Her lace cap tied beneath her chin held the sag of her flesh.

‘I . . . do . . .’ she said after a moment, and then held out her hand to me.

I let out a small sigh of relief.

‘I have come to call upon you. I have brought you some loaves of bread, cheese, cream . . . and a box of tea, which you might enjoy.’ My heart suddenly filled with sadness. Her hand was so frail in mine, like the bones of a bird. ‘How do you do, Mrs Elliot?’

‘I . . . I do well, child.’ She smiled, but too broadly, for near to half her teeth were gone. ‘Tell me . . . do you come from London, my dear?’

‘Yes. Yes, I do.’

‘And what is the gossip in London?’

I told her of the King upon the throne, George IV, and of the building works. I talked of Mr Kean’s last season at Covent Garden.

‘Yes, I know of that . . . but tell me of you . . . tell me of Cholmondeley.’

‘I . . . am afraid I know nothing of Lord Cholmondeley.’ I peered closely at her face. ‘Mrs Elliot, do you . . . remember me? Do you know my name?’

There was a pause.

‘I do, child . . . Why, you are my daughter . . .’

It was a curious thing, but my heart, which had not felt that tug for so many years, jumped.

‘You are my Georgiana Seymour.’

‘No, madam. I fear I am not her.’ I smiled sadly and then turned from her. ‘Would you care for some tea, Mrs Elliot?’ I enquired after a moment.

The kettle upon the stove was still warm. There was no elaborate tea service like those she had once owned, but a plain white pot and a single white chipped cup and saucer. I opened the small box of leaves and dropped into the water two spoonfuls. I then allowed it to steep, to turn amber. She possessed no sugar to disguise its bitter flavour, but I supposed she would not complain. I handed her the cup and saucer and watched her press it to her lips.

‘Would you care for me to read to you?’ I asked. ‘I have brought a book from London. You have probably not been read to in English for some time. It is Sir Walter Scott – he is most popular. Ivanhoe.’

I then read to her for the better part of an hour. She listened and in that time scarcely moved so much as a finger. Then, quite unexpectedly, she drew breath.

‘Miss Lightfoot.’ Her mouth trembled. ‘That is your name.’