The looking glass was of poor quality and had not been dusted for some time, so I had to peer closely, but I brushed the pink wool pad across my cheek. There was not much of a difference on the first dab, but I got the gist of it soon enough and was quickly admiring myself. What a difference a spot of colour made! Spencer would fancy me like this, I thought, and then my heart sank with the fresh dismay of all that had happened, and what a shame it was that he would never see me looking pretty like this. For of course in my dreams of London, with Spencer, I was gaudy and glitzy and he quite the dapper gent, but it was all a sham now. Don’t think of it, I urged myself and put a bit of rouge to my lips this time. But just as I was smacking and pursing my lips and fluttering my eyelashes at myself, the chamber door clattered open and in marched a haughty-looking well-dressed lady. I dropped the rouge pad but, alas, a moment too late. I was caught in the act of stealing her face-paint.

‘You little thief,’ the lady cried, tossing her hat on her bed and pulling off her gloves. ‘Those are my bits and bobs, and I should never have left them out. Mr Baxter said there was a new girl lodging here tonight, but he never said she was a light-fingered little wench.’ She stood and glowered at me. She was tall and spectacularly pretty, with white-blonde hair in ringlet curls and eyes like fine blue china saucers.

‘I am hardly a thief, miss,’ I said. ‘I’ve had a tiring journey and I was only trying it on to perk up my face.’ I’ve had years of silly bickers with Joan and, in my experience, they flare up fast, but then dampen down as quick. But this lady was not having any of it and was clearly in the temper for a hot fight. She threw herself on her bed, almost squashing her hat, and folded her slim little arms crossly.

‘What’s your name and what’s your business in Kelso?’ she demanded.

‘I’m Maggie Dickson and I’m only here one night,’ I said, trying to sound reassuring. ‘I’ve come from up north, by the coast, and I’ll be off in the morning. I am bound for London,’ I added, with an air of what I hoped was haughtiness to match her own.

‘And what is your business in London?’ she asked, and I thought her a nosy cow, but I answered anyway, for I did not want her turning on her sharp little heels and telling this Mr Baxter I was bad news.