She stopped writing and thought about her seventeenth birthday. The tea-party to celebrate it had been a great success. It had been attended by lots of the new friends that she and her parents had made since moving to Florence, and she had received some very nice presents. Her mother had raided her jewellery box and given her a pair of her diamond earrings and two of her bracelets with pearl clasps. Other presents had included a gold bangle, a beautifully hand-embroidered cushion, an exquisite hand-painted fan, a white leather book for photographs, a prettily beribboned box of chocolate-covered bonbons and a Chinese silk shawl.

Conspicuous by their absence had been presents or cards from anyone in England. In previous years Aunt Queen had always remembered her birthday, as had Aunt Alix and her Wales cousins. This year none of them had sent so much as a birthday card. Nothing could have shown her more clearly that, as an exile, she was out of sight and out of mind.

It didn’t trouble her too much that Aunt Alix had forgotten about her, or that Georgie, Toria, Looloo and Maudie had forgotten about her, but she had been hurt that Aunt Queen had forgotten her. And then there was Eddy. It wasn’t surprising, of course, that she hadn’t received a card from him. Even in past years, when Eddy had always dutifully sent her one, she had suspected it had only been because he’d been chivvied into doing so by his mother. This knowledge didn’t alter the fact that if he had sent a card – or, better still, a short letter – it would have meant an awful lot to her.

She bit her lip. It was no use thinking of what might have happened. The reality was that it hadn’t happened, and dwelling on things that hadn’t happened was pointless. She picked up her pen again:

When not playing tennis, or attending tea-parties, I visit museums and galleries – there are lots and lots of wonderful art galleries in Florence – and I accompany my mother when she takes her daily carriage ride through the city’s central park, the Cascine. I have also been busy sitting for my portrait (if you can call sitting perfectly still while someone paints a portrait of you being busy). The artist is one of the new friends that, as a family, we have made. His name is Thaddeus Jones and I am sure that if you were to meet him, you would like him. He is known to everyone as Mr Thaddy, and he is Irish.