In fact, I was sure that Rachel would be able to comfort me. She might be already turning in, but I did not think of that as I banged at the door of her house.

It was the housekeeper, Mrs. Morris, who answered. “My lady isn’t well,” she said. “I’m sorry, she’s not taking visitors.”

“Tell her that I’d like to speak with her,” I told Mrs. Morris, exasperated that the housekeeper was not displaying her usual understanding. “I am sure that she will see me.”

Mrs. Morris cringed a bit. “She is very unwell, ma’am.”

I stood still. “Then I’ll take care she does not cough on me! Goodness, Mrs. Morris, please do not make me stand here all night.”

The door was opened, and the housekeeper stepped back, but she did not show me to any particular room. Even in my rage, I was not so impolite as to barge past her up the stairs. We stared each other down, my face plastered with a glare, Mrs. Morris looking only tired and rather discomfited.

“You’d best come back to the breakfast room, Mrs. Allen,” she said. “I’ll get us both a cup of tea.”

Uneasy, I waited in the breakfast room for the tea, all the while picking at my gown and wishing that I had chosen something that did not scream “harlot” quite so loudly. After all, I thought that I was going out for a little bit of attention from a man, not to consult with my friend, and much less to sip a hot beverage with her less than forthcoming housekeeper. Mrs. Morris brought the tea out and waited for me to take a cup before she told me what had happened.

“My lady is not well, Mrs. Allen,” she said.

I tried to be diplomatic. “You have told me once that she is not well, and yet you have not bothered to ascertain whether she might wish to see me.”

“She cannot tell me that, ma’am. The doctor says that she will not awaken, and that we may lose her before the night is out.”

At first, I put my teacup down, and then I blinked and looked up at Mrs. Morris.

“What?” I asked her. But she waited in silence until I began to half-accept the news, panicking as I did so. “You’ll let me see her!” I said, grabbing at the woman’s arm.

“Of course, Mrs. Allen. But she doesn’t know us any longer, and she asked me not to let anyone see her in such a state.”

I opened my mouth to argue as Mrs. Norris said, “Still, knowing how well my lady thought of you, I shan’t refuse you, Mrs. Allen.”

When I went upstairs, floating up the grand staircase as in a dream, my friend was sleeping. Or she appeared to be sleeping, anyway. Mrs. Morris told me that she might wake again, but she might not, and that the doctor had left because he could do nothing else for her. There was a nurse in the room, but she stepped out so I could have some last moments with my friend.

I wished to tell her how much her friendship had meant to me over the years, particularly in my darkest moments. I wished to tell her that I was thankful, and that I wanted to be with her for longer than a few stolen moments.

Her skin looked pale, and her arms were thin as she lay back on a pile of high pillows. Thinking of her looks at the opera, I recalled that she had looked both more tired and a bit thinner than usual, but I had just put that down to the normal toll of age and activity. I could have pressed her at that time, of course, but I was too busy speaking of Mr. Luke Barlow and his possible role in my life. As I had chattered on, my friend had suffered, and now it was too late to say goodbye.

When Mrs. Morris came back in, I had not been able to get a word out.

“Now then, Mrs. Allen,” she said, but my voice was hardly above a whisper.

“Why couldn’t I say goodbye,” I told her plaintively. “There’s no possibility of Rachel hearing me now. Why didn’t she tell me?”

Mrs. Morris helped me sit back down by the bedside. “You know your friend, Mrs. Allen, if you’ll pardon my speaking out of turn.”

“Not as well as I would have thought,” I said, my voice still quavering.

“Think of it, please,” said Mrs. Morris, wiping away tears herself. “Is she the sort of woman who would let her friends know, or would her first impulse be to spare them the suffering and enjoy her final months on this earth without the joy-killing sympathy of others?”

At that, I did weep, and loudly. When I had quieted, I turned to my friend. Her breathing was still loud, and my outburst had not wakened her. That told me that she was unlikely ever to wake again.

“Good night, Rachel,” I whispered. “Good night, and thank you.”