She had also forgotten how dirty London was. Smuts stained her clothes and cold mud soaked through the toes of her boots as soon as she stepped outside. When James called out to her a few moments later, Beatrice’s instinct was to ignore him and continue walking, but it felt too childish, so she reluctantly stopped and waited, committing yet another dreadful faux pas, if anyone happened to be watching. One must never stop to speak to a gentleman in the street. If he had something of pressing importance to say, then he might be permitted to say it as he walked, but stopping to gossip was not done. Beatrice was wearied by all the many rules, however, and they suddenly seemed to matter to her even less than they’d ever done before.

‘I only wanted to apologise,’ James said, stopping before her. ‘I took over and spoke for you in there, which I realise I had no right to do. It was quite wrong and I hope you can forgive me.’

Beatrice shook her head. What did it matter anyway? Even without her stutter, she could not speak for herself in such a place and would have had no contact with the president at all without James’s intervention.

‘You w-w-were t-trying to h-help,’ she said.

‘It is a disgrace,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s all there really is to say about it. I am sorry.’

‘I expected as m-much from their l-letters,’ Beatrice replied. ‘I h-hoped if I c-came in p-person it m-might h-help, but …’ She trailed off. ‘At least. I tried.’

She had owed it to herself to do so, but still the disappointment was bitter.

‘W-Will you c-come?’ she asked suddenly. ‘To see my f-finds? I should l-like to sh-show them. To s-someone. Who w-will appreciate them.’

Suddenly she dearly longed for somebody to marvel at them. She’d invited Rosa to her home several times after receiving that startling letter about the carousel, but her friend seemed to be permanently occupied with the twins these days. And if it was improper to extend such an invitation to an orchid hunter, Beatrice simply no longer cared.

‘Yes,’ James said at once. ‘I will come. I should be honoured.’

‘Next T-Tuesday,’ Beatrice said. ‘At eleven o’c-clock.’

He nodded. ‘Until next week then.’

He offered her a bow and Beatrice inclined her head before continuing on to her carriage. What a relief it was to climb up into the soft hush of the velvet interior and close the door upon the world.

Later, when she was back at Half Moon House, the opium bottle lay beside her, Wilkie snored softly at her feet and the golden haze of almost-happiness filled her body, making her feel that she could float right out of the window and rise far above the house’s chimneys, like one of those spectacular hot-air balloons they sometimes sent up from Vauxhall.