My God, thought Geoffrey. Vanessa’s dress. The taffeta
was crumpled. The skirt, intended to subside in a waterfall of
fluid frills over a bustle, dragged on the floor. The bodice, its
back lined by covered buttons, hung open at the top. The neckline
gaped over uncorseted cleavage. The effect was grotesque.
Monstrous. Sluttish.

The girl pirouetted around the room, bobbing about
among the plush armchairs with their lace antimacassars in a
poor imitation of a waltz. She skirted around the papier-mâché
table with Vanessa’s work box on the lower shelf and did a little
hop over the leather footstool.

Anger gripped Geoffrey’s belly and chest. He felt it rising
like the soft lick of fresh fire, steadied himself against the carved
wood of the mantelpiece and searched for words. None came.
The girl stopped dancing. She laughed and said the room
stank. She glanced at the fireplace and asked what he’d been doing.
‘How dare you?’ said Geoffrey at last. ‘Get that dress off
this instant.’

The girl was reluctant. She reminded him that his wife was
dead, the dress was fashionable, expensive, going to waste. And,
she added, looking in the mirror, it suited her.
Geoffrey had never struck a woman in his life but he
wanted to now. He knew she thought he wouldn’t dare, that
he was too much a gentleman, too posh. But he would. He would grip her thin arms with his hands. Watch his fingers branding her flesh. He would hit her. Hurt her. Knock her down.
Make her cry.

‘Take it off!’ said Geoffrey, catching the girl by the
shoulder and turning her around to face him. ‘Or I’ll rip it off.’

She looked at him, her eyes uncertain, defiance and
ebullience gone. ‘I just want you to think I’m pretty,’ she said.