I had never met a creature like her. Even amongst my companions in London there were none who bore the same degree of refinement. There was a certain unfinished quality to the women of my acquaintance. They bounced and bobbed and flirted in an artless manner. While they understood gentility and polite conduct, they were also known to laugh with shameless abandon or, in the case of Lady Lade, swear like the wife of a Billingsgate fishmonger. Such would be inconceivable for Mrs Elliot with her practised simpers and courteous air. Although she was no Madame du Barry and had never lived among the court, she had adopted the manners of those who had, and never once abandoned them – no matter the circumstance. And to think that I had succeeded in winning the favour of such a flawless being, that she had deigned to take me beneath her wing; well, I felt myself to be vastly honoured.

However, as my esteem for her grew, so too did my anxiety about taking her likeness. I was most anxious to render her miniature in a manner agreeable to her. Never before had my hands quivered at the prospect of holding a pencil, and yet upon that morning they shook mightily. My friend sensed my discomfort and immediately set about putting me at ease. She chattered and passed witty remarks until we both were giddy with giggles. By the time I presented the finished image to her, I had not the slightest doubt that it would meet with her approval, for my heart had been assured that it was not the execution that concerned her so much as the artist who had executed it. Nevertheless, she exclaimed exuberantly at my skill.

‘Why, the likeness is such a fine one that I shall have it set into a frame of pearls and then have it delivered to the Duc de Biron in Valenciennes. That will remind him of the bedfellow he has left behind in Paris,’ she declared.

Her compliments caused my breast to swell.

‘And might I beg another favour of the paintrix?’ She tilted her head.

‘But of course, madam.’

‘A self-portrait.’

‘For you . . .?’ I was uncertain if I had understood her request.

‘But of course, silly! And why should I not wish a portrait of my dear friend?’

That she should desire an image of me, perhaps to place beside that of her own cherished daughter, made my cheeks flush violently.