From that instant, I resolved to forsake all that I had become since venturing forth from Orchard Cottage. My finest watered silks, my tissues of gold thread and heavily plumed hats: those many articles of attire which served no purpose but to remind me of my bitter compromises were packed away. All of my banknotes, all of the riches I had received – the shoe buckles that glimmered with rubies and sapphires, the diamond eardrops and brooches, the collars of precious gems which formed the mainstay of my fortune – were consigned to a locked silver coffer within a sealed chest. So determined was I to rid myself of the souvenirs of my former existence that I even disposed of the silk-lined town coach in which I had made my escape from London. (That fetched me a handsome sum, to be sure.)

It was with the promise of a new life that Allenham and I proceeded to Brussels. There, he arranged for me a set of rooms upon the rue des Petits Carmes in the home of a widow by the name of Madame Vanderoi. Madame’s late husband had done well by the linen-draping profession and left his wife a genteelly appointed house in the upper town. I had at my disposal a comfortable bed hung with emerald damask, several finely made cabinets of mahogany and a snug dressing room, which was warmed in the winter months by a tall blue and white enamelled stove.

I had been introduced to my landlady as Mrs Lightfoot, a young English lady, not long married and recently widowed. Mr Allen, my only relation, had paid for my passage to the Austrian Netherlands where he resided and conducted his business as a lace merchant. A fine tale indeed, and one as embroidered and perforated with holes as any piece in which Mr Allen purported to trade. However, Madame Vanderoi appeared contented enough with this sham, and ventured to ask no questions of my concerned relation.