Griselda was wearing the daring crimson gown that Madame Barbet delivered for her. In fact, in some ways Josie hardly recognized her chaperone. When they first met, two years ago, Griselda was the quintessential pretty, English gentlewoman. She dressed with the exquisite propriety of a widow interested in two kinds of reputation: that of sexual propriety, and that of good taste. She was a merry, adorable person who showed no interest in the opposite sex, other than a fervent wish to discuss their foibles. In point of fact, while she generally had a beau or two hanging in her rear, they were often foolish young men, good for nothing but bleating poetry and providing an arm on the way into supper.

But somehow in the last few months, Griselda had changed. Josie couldn’t quite put her finger on it. But as she glanced back, waiting for her chaperone, she was fully aware that her chaperone would be the least chaperone-like woman in the room. Of course, Griselda had always had a delightful little figure. But Madame Barbet’s crimson dress was fashioned in such a way that swathes of dark crimson came over the shoulders and cross – but they didn’t actually meet until almost Griselda’s waist. Now that was a gown that a debutante could not wear.