I could not find fault with Mrs Elliot’s kindness. Over the next several days, she proved herself a nurse of unparalleled sensibility and insisted that I take rest and live ‘very quiet and undisturbed’ so I might recover my nerves. In that time, she assured me that she was engaged in writing letters and paying calls to the requisite officials. All manner of visitors came and went from her drawing room, and I was instructed daily on her progress. She comforted me that every possibility had been probed and every authority canvassed, but sadly, this was to no avail. Madame Bonet vehemently protested her innocence, and when Mr Savill’s rooms were searched, not so much as a paste bead belonging to me was found. My heart sank at the words she dared not utter: that my trove of treasures was lost to me for ever.

Mrs Elliot remained tireless in her efforts to raise my spirits. When she was not at the disposal of the Duc de Biron, who I learned was foremost among her paramours, she would come to me in the mornings as Lucy completed my toilette. It was the same upon most days; her arrival would be heralded by the appearance of Thérèse bearing a pot of chocolate or a kettle and tea. Soon after, her mistress would make her cheerful entrance in some length of pale muslin, her undressed hair concealed beneath a fashionably angled linen cap. There she would perch beside me, insisting that I make an attempt at a smile. She would reach for my hand and beg me for all the gossip of London: who were now the reigning beauties of the town? What plays were performed? What had I last heard of Mrs Armistead and Mrs Robinson and dear Gertrude Mahon, from whom she never received letters? Although I attempted to amuse her, my mood was entirely devoid of levity. When she retired from my poor company, I moped and wept and stared at some pages of a book before summoning Thérèse to fetch me another draught of wild lettuce and poppy. Then I would throw myself upon the coverlet of my bed and sleep once more.

Near to a week had passed in this manner, when one morning Mrs Elliot crept into my room before I had even been roused from my bed.

I heard the bed curtains part and, thinking I should see one of her housemaids, or Lucy, I turned. At spying me, her brows arched in surprise.

‘You are awake, my dear,’ said she softly. She then gathered her skirts and settled beside me upon the bed. ‘My dear Henrietta, I have come to a resolution. I mean to make amends for the misfortune you have suffered.’

Beneath her large frilled cap she appeared particularly maternal. I calmly shut my heavy eyes and followed her words with my ears.