Effie nodded, struck mute. No one had ever styled her hair in her life. Brushing it was an achievement.

‘Do you have any jewellery, at least?’ Fanny asked hopefully.

‘No.’ The married women on St Kilda had had brooches for their shawls but that was it.

Fanny’s gaze slid again towards the housekeeper, who sighed. ‘I have a necklace you may borrow.’

‘Thank you, Mrs McKenzie.’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Effie said, looking at them all in turn. ‘You’re all so kind. I wouldn’t have known the first thing . . .’

‘Eat up now,’ Mrs McKenzie simply said, not wanting a fuss, the other women already concentrating on their meals again.

Mrs McLennan came in with another jug of gravy; she eyed Effie’s half-eaten meal. ‘Eat!’ she said sternly.

‘Knock, knock.’ Fanny peered around the door before Effie had even lifted her head off the pillow. She had been staring at the ceiling for a good hour now and still had no answers to the pressing question of what she would say to these people tonight. The men she could deal with, but if Sholto’s mother was anything like Lady Sibyl . . . ‘Did you bathe already?’

‘Aye.’ Effie pushed herself up to sitting as Fanny came into the room carrying a dress in her arms. It was covered with tissue, but a peep of a fluttery hem caught her eye.

‘What is that?’ Effie asked, her hands reaching for the pale primrose fabric. She had never seen anything so light; it was like butterfly wings.

‘Silk chiffon. Barra used to work for Miss Mitford. Nancy.’

Who? Effie had never heard of the woman but it was simple enough to infer that Ms Mitford was rich. And thin. ‘I won’t fit into that!’ she cried as Fanny removed the cover to reveal a long, narrow dress with frills criss-crossing below the bust and over the hips.

‘Well, if you won’t, then no one will,’ the maid replied calmly. ‘I’ve seen sparrows with more meat on them than you.’

‘But—’

‘Relax. I know it looks skimpy here but Barra said it stretches when it’s on, don’t ask me how. Something about how they cut it. She says it’s from Paris.’

‘Oh.’ They both stared at the gown. It looked too delicate to actually wear.

‘Go on, then. Put it on,’ Fanny said as she began arranging some brushes and pins on the dressing table. ‘Barra says you just pull it on over your head.’

Effie was dubious as she shrugged off her robe. On the hanger, the dress hung like a sock, limp and skinny. She couldn’t imagine getting it past her shoulders, and yet . . . she pulled it down, feeling the silky fabric skim her skin, falling easily, framing her perfectly.

‘Oh!’ Fanny exclaimed as she turned back to find Effie standing before her, the dress settling around her ankles. ‘Well, haven’t you got just the figure.’

‘What?’