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‘Now, that’s resourceful.’ Alex took the metal cylinder from Holly, popped off the lid and they both leaned in closer to watch as she pushed the tiny bar on the side of the internal cylinder to force the tube of raspberry-coloured wax upwards. ‘Better than those messy pots. To be honest with you, Holly, I think this whole business of getting dressed only to be undressed within a couple of hours is so daft, don’t you?’

Holly looked back over her shoulder into the mirror’s reflection. ‘I like these traditions – especially how the women get into their finery for dinner and the men put on their dinner jackets and cummerbunds. How would I earn my keep if I didn’t have a lady to dress for all of the occasions in her life?’

Alex puffed out her cheeks. ‘How do you do that, Holly? How do you always manage to make me look at a situation differently?’

‘You’re just a modern woman, Miss, but in spite of your rebellion you will never be able to escape your beauty, even if you wore a sack and not even a smudge of rouge.’ They shared a smile.

‘You’re generous, Holly, thank you. And the best answer to your question is that you wouldn’t wait on a lady any more. You’d become independent and open that shop of yours.’

‘I’ll dream on while you enjoy dinner, Miss. What time would you like to retire?’

‘I can do it. Don’t you want to go to the play tonight?’

‘I didn’t think I’d be able to.’

‘I’m perfectly capable of taking off my hair clip without losing fingers and I’m sure I won’t break any limbs as I desperately wrestle with a nightgown. Oh, and listen, wear my lipstick when you go out.’

‘Really?’

‘You’ll enjoy it far more than I do.’

Holly gave a soft whistle. ‘Thank you. Only a touch, I promise. And I’ll lay out your night attire for you.’

‘Just in case I can’t work it out?’ Alex teased, squirting a puff of perfume. The room instantly filled with the fragrance of warm aniseed and fresh bergamot before softer, powdery notes of rose, violet and neroli enveloped both women.

Holly inhaled. ‘Mmm, I do love that scent.’

‘L’Heure Bleue,’ she said, replacing the squarish bottle on her dressing table. ‘My cousin has excellent taste.’

‘What does it mean, “Lerbloo”?’

Alex didn’t baulk at her maid’s poor pronunciation. ‘A direct translation is “the blue hour”. . . just prior to dusk, before the stars appear.’

‘Sounds just like it smells, Miss. I suppose that’s the point.’

‘Yes. Wish me luck in my blue hour as I try out our new plan to convince my parents to extend me some freedom.’

‘They’ll be fine, Miss. Mark my words. They’ll be proud of you volunteering for the hospital. Oh, and you’ve got company.’

Alex halted halfway to the door. ‘Company? Not one of my father’s stuffy colleagues from the city, is it?’

Holly gave a knowing look. ‘Yes. But I saw the gentleman in the hall arriving. He’s very handsome.’

__________

Alex hurried down the two flights of stairs, pausing at the grand trio of small paned windows with triumphant stained glass in the middle panel, which took the shape of a wreath of flowers. Normally light flooded into the atrium of this hall but the nights were closing in faster as winter approached and the long twilights were shortening swiftly. Already lamps were lit and the great chandelier in the reception hall was sparkling its artificial light over the warm panelled timbers. She continued her descent, her hand on the smoothly worn banister, to where Minerva had arranged a vase of fresh roses on the newel post.

Clearly they had someone her mother considered important for dinner tonight; these touches did not go unnoticed by Alex. Her low heels were silent on the thick carpeting that ran down the middle of the flights and her feet moved swiftly over familiar ground. She used to flee down these same stairs as a child, to fling herself into her father’s arms when he’d returned from London or somewhere exotic. He’d always arrive laden with gifts, seemingly trying to make up for what they’d lost. She banished the thought as her heels now clicked impatiently on the flagstones of the main reception hall and Alex winced at the time as the grandfather clock showed she was late as she reached for the dining-room doorknob.

Suddenly the handle turned without her help and she was all but pulled into the room. ‘Oh, there you are, darling.’ Her mother gave a soft gasp. ‘My word, Alexandra, that’s a most avant-garde outfit.’ She didn’t sound entirely disapproving, though. If anything, her mother appeared impressed. Another sign of trouble.

‘It’s from Lucile’s in Hanover Square,’ she murmured only for her mother’s hearing. ‘Apologies for my tardy arrival.’ She leaned to kiss her mother good evening. ‘My ride took a little longer than I intended. Good evening, Lambton.’

The housekeeper nodded with an affectionate smile. ‘Miss Alex.’

She turned to face the room; they were now in the main salon where her mother’s commitment to the Arts and Crafts movement was on comprehensive display. ‘Evening, Dad . . . er, good evening . . .?’ she said, eyeing the sandy-haired stranger. He was dressed for dinner in a black evening suit and stiff white collar and bowtie. Alex knew enough about tailoring to note his three-piece had Savile Row’s finest talent behind its stitching. A low-cut black waistcoat pulled ever so slightly at its buttons, she noticed, as he put down his glass to stand; here was someone leading a comfortable life . . . and a wealthy one.

‘Alex, this is Matthew Britten-Jones,’ her father introduced, ‘er, from Bristol.’