The attention which Mrs Elliot paid to me was unlike that which I had ever received from one of my own sex. I had known true love from Allenham, but here I had become the object of constant care and affection of the sort one might bestow upon a kinswoman. There seemed no gesture too generous, no deed too conciliatory. At times I felt as if Mrs Elliot were in my debt, rather than the contrary. I ruminated upon this, how it could come to pass that a person, once a perfect stranger, could demonstrate such heartfelt concern for another. My conclusion was that my friend was guided by her sense of remorse; to some degree she held herself accountable for the loss of my jewels.

This conviction was made firm to me shortly after I had completed our portraits. One morning, my friend announced that we were for the Comédie-Française that evening.

‘It is Le Bourreau bienfaisant tonight. Monsieur Préville will be upon the boards,’ said she, her features dancing with excitement. ‘Madame de Flaghac, who is a friend most dear to me, has bid us accompany her. Her box is well situated, near enough to the stage, but with a fair view of the box of the Duc d’Orléans.’

It was not clear what she insinuated by this, but I continued to smile.

‘What do you propose to wear, Hetty dear? The mode in Paris differs from that in London for such occasions. If you like, I shall advise you . . .’

‘Why yes . . . yes please,’ I stammered, quite flattered by her suggestion.

She asked that Lucy fetch my finest attire. So out came those lavish pieces, those flamboyant souvenirs of a past from which I once hid. Laid before me were my embroidered green silk open gown, another in pale lavender satin and a third of saffron stripes, with three voluminous red furbelows upon the skirts. The hats were retrieved too, every one of them purchased for me for lying upon my back, the vast bonnets with crowns arrayed in blue, pink and white feathers, and caps flounced with the richest lace. There was my hooded cape of ottoman silk, and another trimmed with Russian fur, and fichus of the thinnest gauze embroidered with pearls and delicate needlework. My satin and bright leather shoes were paraded before her, some with the soles scarcely scuffed by wear.

I observed her as she fingered each flounce and ruffle, admired the fabrics and colours, and held my shoes to the light to watch the purple-green taffeta shimmer. Anxiously, I awaited her judgement. I ached to hear her approval of my taste.