The baroness, tall, grey-haired and charismatic despite her disability, walked stiffly, supported by her maid, who held one elbow and kept patiently in step with her. Neither the magnificence of her home, nor her evening dress – ivory silk with fabulous pearl beading – could protect her from spending much of her life in pain. Nobody talked about its causes, although the general consensus was that it was either a form of rheumatism, or perhaps a neurological issue, which Jelly did not understand. How it affected her daily existence, and her married life with Erik, was something nobody would dare discuss. Jelly, who was trying to hide her anxiety about her own painful joints, watched her, warm with sympathy, cold with dread.

The women settled in window seats or armchairs, taking turns to go into the bathroom to refresh their powder and make-up, meanwhile chatting about children and grandchildren, husbands and servants – for most of this gathering still employed staff. Jelly had little to add to any of those topics; as ever, when her friends discussed the illnesses, foibles and growing pains of children, she felt herself excluded. She went over to Ebba’s chair and crouched beside her. ‘How are you feeling, Ebba? I hope we’re not being too much of a strain on you.’

‘As if you could be, my dear.’ The baroness patted Jelly’s hand. Few of the guests felt it tactful to mention their hostess’s state of health, but Jelly knew how to show that her concern was for the person, not the problem. ‘I’m pleased to be taken out of myself for an evening,’ Ebba remarked. ‘And you know, dear, we enjoy your company – and Adila’s – so much. There are no accents in London to match yours!’

‘Oh, but baroness, darling, your accent is beautiful.’ The Swedish inflections could easily be mistaken for aristocratic English ones, with a drawn-out roundness that Jelly preferred to the delicate little vowels of Princess Alexandra or the Asquith family, including Katharine; they always sounded as if they were trying not to bite into a bee.

‘My accent should be more English by now.’ Ebba smiled. ‘But of course, it is not the accent that matters in one’s friends.’

‘Of course not. It’s the spirit, the soul!’

Ebba glanced up at a tall woman who had sailed across to stand beside them; she wore a misty blue gown, her gold-grey hair wound into a smooth chignon, her smile as toothy as any Jelly could remember encountering. ‘My dear, I don’t believe you and Lady Chiltington have had a chance to talk yet. Julia, do sit with us. We were just discussing what matters most in one’s friends and suggesting it is vitality of spirit.’