‘It’s French wine. Mr Baxter keeps a bottle behind the counter for me. You can go and fetch yourself a glass if you like,’ she offered. ‘In fact fetch the bottle.’

I did, not quite sure whether I felt like a sophisticate or a courtesan asking Mr Baxter for the French wine. He gave nothing of his thoughts away and I sat with my glass, the bottle between Mrs Rose and I, listening to the chatter and song. For the first time in a while I felt merry. Mrs Rose relaxed too, cradling her glass in her hand. She wore pretty rings, nicer than my glass one, and I thought mibbie there is something to be said for women having enough of their own cash to buy rings and French wine and not giving their love away to men, like I had.

‘Sip it slowly, for wine is halfway between ale and rum in strength and far nicer in flavour, but it goes to your head quick enough,’ Mrs Rose urged me. She did the same, taking dainty sips and dabbing her lips with a red lace kerchief each time. Red to match her rouge. I warmed up.

‘Tell me more about this perfume trade,’ she said.

My heart sank. But I did not want to be caught out in a web of lies, for I was enjoying the evening. ‘Perfume is a marvellous thing,’ I said, repeating the kind of things Spencer had said. ‘It can make an ordinary gent smell most alluring, and it can make ladies lose their minds and spend a fortune on something in a tiny bottle.’

She sniffed the air. ‘I adore fine scents. Adore them. But I do not detect any fine scent on you, Mistress Dickson. In fact I detect the smell of horses and carts and armpits.’

I shot her an awful glare at that, the kind of look that Joan would have got for saying something rude. ‘I am surprised you can smell anything,’ I said. ‘With your nose jammed in that brown bottle so often.’

Mrs Rose blinked. I dare say she was not used to talk like that. For a split second I regretted my outburst. But then she laughed.

‘Oh, you are a funny little thing, my dear,’ she said. ‘Here, have a little top-up of my wine. Just a tot. Oh, I dare say you might be right. But if you have not had the pleasure of laudanum, then you have not had pleasure at all.’

‘I should not like to try laudanum,’ I replied. That was a word I had heard before, from the tea men. It was a word uttered in whispers and shudders and with shakings of heads. You could grow to depend on it. ‘I do not like the idea of relying on bottles and potions to get through the day.’

Mrs Rose grew solemn at that. ‘You are wise,’ she said. ‘But that’s my weakness.’