‘It’s all right, Jenny, really it is.’ Her haunted eyes belied her words, but she did what she could to comfort the young girl. ‘Come. Best get it over with.’ ‘What can he be thinking of?’ sobbed Jenny as she applied a touch of carmine to Madeline’s lips. ‘I don’t know,’ said Madeline. She was seated at her dressing-table in a large and gloomy bedroom at the back of a run-down house in Grosvenor Square. Outside, the last light of a summer day in the year of 1813 lingered, but inside it was dim. Dark gold paint covered the walls and heavy brocade curtains covered the windows. Everything about the room was oppressive, and as Madeline regarded herself in the looking glass she was close to tears. Her face was painted with powder and rouge, and for two pins she would have washed it off, but if she did so her guardian would make her suffer for it; as well as, most likely, dismissing Jenny. Her eyes dropped to her crimson gown. Its bodice was far too low. She did what she could to tug it higher and tried to pull the transparent sleeves back on to her shoulder, but they had been designed to fall away.
