An Almond for a Parrot: the gripping and decadent historical page turner. Wray Delaney

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      The idea that anyone – let alone a woman – might have that power was an intoxicating thought.

      ‘Mama insists that Martha’s time could be better spent than seated beside the fire turning the spit. Yesterday a wheel and pulley was put up and a turnspit dog purchased just for that purpose.’

      ‘Oh my word,’ I said, ‘what magic.’

      ‘No,’ said Hope, ‘it’s what all sensible kitchens have.’

      It took me a little while to trust Hope. I waited, wondering if she would turn on me once finding a weakness, and use it for cat and mouse games. In that I did her much wrong, for I can honestly say that Hope hasn’t a mean bone in her body.

      I once asked her if there was anyone she didn’t like, and she said, ‘Tully, if you don’t like someone, stand out of their way and let them pass.’

      Hope had wisdom and, as I discovered later, was furiously loyal. She never wasted her words on false promises, but I did not know that when she told me that the dressmaker was to call. I could hardly believe it for I had only ever worn second-hand clothes that Cook bought for me in Long Lane market. I had mended my stockings and my shift so many times that they were only good for rags. The very notion of having a dress made for me was too giddying for words. After all, clothes cost money – and that was one thing my father was loath to part with when it came to me.

      ‘Then, when you are completely recovered, you will come out with us in the carriage,’ Hope continued. ‘The doctor said that it was the lack of fresh air that brought on your fit.’

      I secretly thought it had a lot more to do with the gentleman visitor.

      Mercy, unlike Hope, had a boyish figure and was taller than her sister. She could not be described as beautiful, more handsome, her face had an altogether sterner profile and at first I thought that perhaps she hadn’t taken to me, or saw me as a foolish, fluff-headed girl. She never said as much as Hope and sat quietly studying me. But by degrees I began to realise that Mercy’s soul ran deep and when she spoke it was very rarely of ribbons and tittle-tattle. She would read to me, and that’s what I looked forward to the most, for the story she read was about a woman who against the odds survived on her wit and a knowledge of just what took a gentleman’s fancy. I couldn’t imagine that the gentleman visitor would have left Moll in the blue chamber.

      By late April, spring had taken hold; birdsong filled the morning and a golden light the afternoon. The dressmaker had indeed come and, under Hope’s guidance, I was fitted with new bodices and petticoats and a round gown. It had sleeves of about three-quarter length with lace flounces at their ends, the fabric stiff and embroidered with small flowers. My bosom sat high, pushed up by the tightness of the stomacher, and Hope made sure that the kerchief designed to go round my neck for decency showed as much of my assets as modesty would allow.

      The first time I wore my new gown, Hope dressed me. I still felt surprisingly weak, but was pleased finally to be in an upright position, helped in no small part by the tightness of the bodice and the stiffness of the petticoats and fabric. At least it anchored me to the ground. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror as Hope pinned up my hair under a lace cap.

      It was that afternoon that Mrs Truegood asked to see me in her chamber. The fact that the house now had servants and that doors were opened and closed and visitors ushered in and out without fuss made me feel vulnerable. I had little confidence that my new clothes would save me. Perhaps they were no more than wrapping paper for a parcel, a sweetener before being sent to another house.

      I found my stepmother sitting at her dressing table and was much taken with the alteration of the room, for although the skirting was still blue, the walls had undergone a transformation and were filled with birds of paradise sitting on impossibly thin branches of trees. Above the windows, which before had only had the luxury of shutters, there was now a confectionery of fabric. The furniture was no longer oppressive but light and spindly, crafted no doubt by fairies. Before I could think of the right words to describe how pleasant the room now seemed, Mrs Truegood told me to stand in the light. My fears returned.

      ‘Please, madam, don’t send me away,’ I said. I felt tears pricking my eyes.

      ‘Why would I do that?’ she asked.

      It was only then that I realised there was another person in the chamber, a sombre-looking gentleman, all in black, wearing a full-bottom wig. His face resembled a pig’s bladder, inflated and ill defined. Only his nose stood out, heavy and bloated with wine. The tip of his pink tongue flicked across his lips as he studied me.

      ‘This, Mr Quibble,’ said Mrs Truegood, ‘is Miss Truegood, my stepdaughter.’

      ‘Are you sure, madam, that this is the girl – there has been no mistake?’

      ‘Quite sure, sir.’

      ‘What is her age?’

      ‘She has sixteen summers, sir.’

      ‘Why does the gentleman ask about me?’ I whispered to Mrs Truegood.

      Mr Quibble cleared his throat. ‘I am a lawyer representing a gentleman of means who has asked me to make enquiries about Miss Truegood’s eligibility.’

      My heart took a leap. The fates must be on my side. They must be, for they had brought forth the gentleman from the blue chamber. Who else could possibly have any interest in me? I blushed to remember that he had seen me in my birthday suit and hoped that he had not told Mr Quibble about our indecent meeting. The lawyer walked round me then went to the far side of the chamber and squinted at me as I had seen my father do in front of a painting.

      ‘Can you dance?’ he asked.

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Have you had any education in etiquette at all?’

      ‘No, sir.’

      ‘Can you read and write?’

      ‘A little, sir. Not much.’

      He thought for a long while and then said, ‘Hmm. She has an interesting face,’ as if this wasn’t quite what he was searching for. ‘Pretty it is not.’

      ‘I agree,’ said Mrs Truegood. ‘But I believe she may have something more than just the passing cloud of youth. I think she may have beauty. As I am sure you are aware, Mr Quibble, I have only recently married and I find my husband has somewhat neglected his daughter.’

      ‘So she has no education?’

      ‘A little.’

      These two seemed to be playing a game of tennis and I the ball. Mr Quibble’s tongue flicked across his top lip again.

      Mr Quibble stood and, by the buttoning of his coat, disciplined his ungainly shape.

      ‘In her present state,’ he said, ‘she is far from suitable and needs to be brought on quite considerably.’

      ‘It can be done, Mr Quibble,’ said my stepmother. ‘She is a bright girl and has a compliant nature.’

      He gave a quick bow and left.

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