Would it really be so wrong? I wonder. To dress in something fine and new and pretty for once? Would Father think me frivolous, or would he want me to enjoy myself? However well I thought I had known him, it is difficult to be sure what view he would take.

An hour later I am quite breathless with laughter, and we have reduced the shop to giggly chaos, with gowns, stoles, shoes, and coats strewn across chaise, chair, and table alike.

“Charlotte,” I tell her, “you are both a tonic and a bad influence.”

“Oh, really, Lily, you can afford to update your wardrobe,” she says, helping herself to more shortbread and dipping it in the tea Mrs. Morell’s assistant has fetched for us.

“But three dresses,” I protest.

“And a rather gorgeous winter coat, which you were sorely in need of, I have to tell you. When did you buy that poor old thing you insist on wearing?”

“It’s a perfectly good coat, and not a bit worn-out yet.” I do my best to sound as if I care, but already I am completely seduced by my new finest wool version, with its sleek cut and luxurious fur at the collar, cuff, and hem.

“All I’m saying is at least you won’t look as if Queen Victoria were still on the throne next time you go out.”

“I was beginning to feel a little drab.”

“Mourning clothes can do that to a person. These lovely new things are glamorous, yes, but they are all entirely respectable and in keeping with your status, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise,” she says, polishing off her biscuit and holding out her cup for more tea. She kicks off her shoes and tucks her feet up under her. I envy her her ability to be at ease wherever she is. “It’s interesting,” she goes on, “that you agreed at last to let me help you shop for something new.”

“As you said, my wardrobe was a little … out of date. I don’t want to look old-fashioned.”

“Hmm. Perhaps.”

“Perhaps?”

“Or perhaps there’s another reason you want to stop dressing like someone’s maiden aunt. Perhaps there’s somebody you want to look your best for? Somebody new? Somebody devilishly handsome, rather charming, and obviously very keen on you? Name of Bram Cardale, artist recently arrived in the area?’

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, trying to hide behind my teacup.

“Lilith Montgomery, you are a poor liar. I have known you far too long not to notice when there is a fresh sparkle about you. A dimpling little smile when we set off for Mangan’s studio.”

“Now you are talking nonsense.”