On such occasions, I despaired that my character had grown so mercenary. I had never grasped the value of most things until circumstance forced me to live by my wits. The world is so hasty in its condemnation of ladies of my sort who it judges to be ever cogitating and counting the worth of this pair of bracelets or that patch box. How can it be otherwise when a woman such as I has not the advantages of either a banker or some male trustee to guard over her riches? She is left with no recourse but to sew her jewels into skirts, to hide her coffers up a chimney or bury them in a field. This is precisely the situation into which I had been cast. There had scarcely been a moment when I did not fear for my cache of worldly wealth. How simple it would have been for a servant with pilfering fingers to rummage through my baubles. How convenient it would have been for a spark from a fire to set it all ablaze, or for robbers upon the road to make off with my banknotes.

As I stood uneasily in the doorway I felt Thérèse studying me.

‘Do you wish to be dressed, mademoiselle?’ she enquired.

I nodded, but my thoughts were elsewhere, down some fetid alley where a gang of barefooted beggars hacked at my locks.

I splashed my face with water and washed my neck and thighs and hands. Thérèse removed my soiled chemise and pulled a fresh one over my head. I had scarcely finished tying my garters when there came a rap upon the door. Thérèse scurried across the room and opened it to reveal my hostess, along with a housemaid, bearing a silver chocolate pot and a set of dishes.

‘Dear Miss Lightfoot, have you slept well?’ she enquired with a bright smile. She seemed not the least bit disconcerted by my state of undress. Instead, she made her way to a chair beside the dressing table while waving her hand at her maid to set down the tray. ‘You appear to have recovered your colour,’ she said, making no mention of the lump still throbbing along my face.

‘Madam, I have your exceeding kindness to thank for that.’ I dipped my head to her.

‘You need not thank me, child, for it is what any sensible Christian would do for another.’ She smiled graciously.

The housemaid poured a sludge of chocolate into a dish and passed it to me as Thérèse tightened my stays.

‘But you are too kind, Mrs Elliot,’ I protested. ‘To have fetched my belongings, sent for my maid . . . and dispatched my expenses . . . I—’