‘Your sins will never be lessened except when amongst your own kind.’ She held her hand out to me. ‘You must not feel shame for your deeds, but enjoy the liberties that have been bestowed upon you.’

I thought for a moment upon her words. That which she bid me do seemed too simple by far; I could not merely shrug away the heavy burden on my conscience.

‘Allenham has no knowledge of his son. How I longed to inform him . . . but . . . but under Lord Bolingbroke’s care the boy wants for nothing. Allenham . . . cannot provide for him . . .’ My heart heaved as I spoke of my woes. ‘Perhaps one day . . . it may be otherwise?’ I gazed at her hopefully.

Mrs Elliot tipped her head and offered me a compassionate look.

‘Perhaps. But Fate is not known for her generosity, my dear. You must reconcile yourself to that which is – to loving your child from afar. Letters can be the most cherished of gifts and your meetings will be filled with unparalleled joys.’ She pressed my hands in hers once more. ‘It is simply the way of the world. Take heart that you are no different from many of us, and that there has been no harm done to anyone by your deeds.’ She smiled, but appeared to look beyond me as she did. When I turned, I noted that she was gazing at our reflections, united in the looking glass.

‘Now,’ she announced, rising to her feet and returning to her pots and boxes. ‘Shall I restore you to your natural beauty?’

She waited for a hint of a smile from me before she set to work once more, moving her swan’s neck from side to side. It was apparent that she was as aware of my gaze as I might have been of a man’s upon me. Each lift of her chin, each tilt of her head was engineered to display her features in a more flattering light. I had never met a lady so practised in her manner that even a performance seemed artless. This is not to say that what flaws she possessed were invisible. No, she was of the age when paint and powder are no longer applied to augment beauty, but rather to disguise the withering of it. The small creases along her eyes glinted with pearl powder, and even the carmine upon her mouth failed to detract from the deepening grooves on either side of it.

‘We must rid you of Mr Savill. He is a villain,’ Mrs Elliot muttered as she stirred a measure of rouge into her preparation. She worked the mixture together, much as I would my colours upon a palette. Soon a fleshy-toned emulsion emerged. She examined my face again, and added a touch of white powder to her pot.