The callous nature of the discussion threw me off for the rest of the day. I ought not to have been surprised. Over the years, I had witnessed a shocking coarseness in both the poor and the rich, and truly scandalous tendency to throw over their fellow man when either money or politics was involved. Still, I had been greatly affected by news of the massacre, and I simply could not bear to hear the politician dismiss it as if all of the dead had gotten their just desserts. If he was at all representative of the members of the House of Lords, as I greatly feared he was, I was indeed setting myself a great task when I thought of teaching Viviana about the sordid world of government.

However, that was something I would have to see to at another time. For before I talked about such things with my daughter, I had to plug the hole in my weary heart. And I knew a fairly wise and expedient way of doing just that.

I waited until Viviana was in bed to dress for the evening, not wishing my innocent daughter to see the getup that her mother wore when she was about to go out. My dress was striking, a scarlet so deep that it would have shocked a courtesan. Though the bodice was quite low-cut and fitted, I covered it with a coat that appeared to be even tighter after having my mother lace the stays so tight that I could hardly breathe, hoping she would make no comment on my intentions.

Her silence was enough, though, to shame me into speech. “I’m going to Rachel’s, Mama,” I said, looking away from the mirror in our hall so that I could not quite tell just how ravishing I looked.

“It is late,” was my mother’s only reply, and she handed me my coat when I asked.

“We may go to see a singer,” I said, and though my mother must have been able to tell that I was lying, she said nothing. In fact, after I kissed her goodnight and walked away, I had the unpleasant sensation that she had known the true purpose of my late evening visits for quite some time.

A hatmaker’s greatest strength is the power of her disguises. After I left mama, I went into the section of the shop reserved for widows. There I found a beautiful black hat with a veil that provided the greatest possible covering to the face. I had sold my share of carefully constructed hats with veils that were delicate and fashionable. Those ones usually did not offer much by way of shielding one’s face from onlookers. But whenever someone came in looking to help a woman who could not stop crying, I proposed an alternative. There were deep grey hats I sold with veils so dark and thick that one’s face could not be seen through them. And it was one of those hats that I wore, the veil so long that it concealed not only my features but also my neck and the top buttons of my throat.

After I left, I wondered at what my mother had said. It was certainly true that going out into the still-light evening in such attire would make me noticeable, and if anyone managed to recognize me behind the veil, I might cause a good deal of scandal.

Still, my bold decision seemed to be the one thing that might bring me peace. Before I had gone to Bath, meeting not only strange men but also my former husband, I had gone into the shop for work each day. Whenever I could, I sought the company of my friend Rachel. And once or twice a week, depending on our mutual need, I sought out Mr. Wharton for the satisfaction of various animal urges. If I could return to this pattern, perhaps I might stop feeling like a skittish foal every time I stepped outside the confines of my rooms. It was as if my whole days revolved around the fear and awe that another chance meeting with Mr. Barlow might instill in me.

Clearing my throat, I reminded myself that Mr. Barlow had not been to see me. He knew where the shop was, he had met my mother, and still he did not come. So he must have accepted my rejection as final, and I was most unlikely ever to see him again. And in the meantime, I would have to do what I could to still my nerves.

I slipped back to the servants’ entrance and let myself into Mr. Wharton’s house.