I cannot relate to you the pleasure my friend seemed to derive from my improving spirits and contentment. Indeed, it appeared to me that nothing granted her greater happiness than to be of assistance to others in need. While I continued beneath her roof I bore witness to many acts of charity similar to that which she had extended to me. She had loaned money to Madame Meyler and had intervened in a dispute between Monsieur de Chalut and his former inamorata. Her hours were consumed in constant correspondence, assisting a former lover or even a rival in emigrating to London. She wrote letters on their behalf to solicitors and land agents and friends, hoping to ease their passages to a foreign land. Each morning, I listened to Thérèse’s footsteps upon the back stairs as she set about delivering her mistress’s messages. As I toiled over my sketches I could not have imagined that Mrs Elliot’s correspondence would have ever come to concern me, but in the final week of June, it was revealed to me that it did.

One afternoon, when the weather had grown hot and rendered the rooms too close and damp for dining, Mrs Elliot insisted that we take our dinner in the garden. We sat beneath the shade of the cherry trees where a table had been laid and a breast of veal with some ragouts and tureens were brought to us. She said little to me throughout our meal, which at the time I thought curious. At the conclusion of it, she put down her fork and knife, straightened her back and fixed her gaze upon me.

‘Henrietta’, she began, ‘I have this morning received a response to an enquiry. It appears that the apartments which once belonged to Madame de Chalmont in the Hôtel Blanquefort have become vacant. It seems she has quit Paris to join her son in London. She has left behind all of her furniture.’ My friend smiled at me, hoping I might read her implication.

I did not.

‘My dear, from the day you arrived here you made plain to me your desire for an independent life and your abhorrence for the existence you once led. The loss of your jewels was a cruel blow to that ambition and one for which I shall ever hold myself accountable—’

‘Oh, but, madam, you must not . . .’ I protested.

‘We shall not speak of it, child,’ she commanded. ‘I wish you only to know that I have taken measures to repair the situation to the best of my abilities and have hired the apartments on your behalf.’

I regarded her with complete surprise. In truth, I could not think what response to make. Some part of me was uncertain if the wish I had expressed two months earlier was indeed that which my heart still desired.

‘But . . . you . . . you have not the means . . . the Duc d’Orléans no longer pays your maintenance . . .’

Her face soured.