“I know you're probably correct and I'm sorry Edwards. It's not your fault. But I hate to see her this way.”

“Leave me a little then, miss, for when she becomes too restless; it's best to stop it gradually, you know.”

Emily hesitated, unwilling to give the evil liquid back. But Edwards was right; her mother would have died from grief without the pain being dulled by opium. She examined the three small bottles. “You may have this, it's half full. But it's to be the last, be very sure of that.”

“Once Lady Althea is back home she will not need it anymore. Wait and see, Miss Gibson, madam will regain her former spirits in no time.”

“I pray that you're correct. Try and get her up and dressed; the girls will wish to see her later on. They're bursting with questions about Westerham.”

The intervening days were filled with feverish activity. Trunks were found and packed with favourite books and leisure items. Mrs Simpson and her team of seamstresses snipped and sewed with enthusiasm and produced the required garments in record time. Their arrival was greeted with speechless admiration. Lady Althea, although still too weak to remain on her feet all day, was making a valiant effort. It was she who broke the silence.

“Mrs Simpson, you have surpassed yourself. The gowns are beautiful. I had no notion that the

Indian silk would make up so well in that new high waisted style.”

The mantua maker bobbed a curtsy, beaming happily at her customer's delight. “Yes, my lady, such delicate material is perfect for the long flowing skirts. There was sufficient left over to make matching shawls and even trim your bonnets.” Her assistants held up the items for their inspection.

“Mama, you'll look wonderful in that gown. Burgundy and gold are a perfect combination,” Emily exclaimed, pleased her mother was taking an interest in her appearance once more. “And I like the long sleeves and high neckline. Your old burgundy pelisse is an exact match and now that it has been taken in, it will complete your outfit perfectly.”