Kitty breathed softly on the glass and with her finger made a little circle in the thick ice coating the window pane. She peered out at a London turned to a frozen wasteland.
The city was grey-white. It was as if some giant had sugar-frosted the streets and buildings. People shuffled along slowly and carefully as a glassy sheen made the roads and pavements treacherous.
The year, 1739, had been the coldest winter in living memory. The whole of Britain was locked in weather so bitter that around the coastline even the sea had become glacial.
She walked back into the shabby room. The chamber was without any form of heat, and the temperature was barely above that outside.
She shivered as her breath showed smoky on the air. Her heart sank as she looked around the dreary space. The furniture was ramshackle and worm-eaten. Warped, bare floorboards squeaked as she stepped over to the dressing chest in the corner. Kitty slumped onto a chair, which had horsehair stuffing showing through holes in the fabric.
The face that looked back at her from the peeling mirror was heart-shaped, framed by thick, dark brown tresses, which cascaded onto her shoulders.
Kitty, at 19, was pretty, with brown eyes, a flawless skin and, unusually for the age, perfect teeth.
She leant closer to the mirror. Dark circles beneath her eyes were a tribute to the brutal conditions she was working under. She thought to herself, ‘Kitty, my girl, your youth will not last another six months of living like this.’
Even now, Kitty found it really hard to accept what had happened to her…
Only a year ago she had been living happily with her mother and father in a small village in Kent.
Her father was a doctor. He
