Men were forever making their fortunes. Being born poor did not absolutely necessarily mean a lifetime of poverty for a man. Not nowadays. He could work hard or get lucky. A scholarship to a grammar school was very useful to a certain type of boy, or he might invent something super. It was such a pity women couldn’t make their own money. Vivian thought she might be rather good at it, given half a chance. Much better than her lazy younger brother was ever likely to be, and people fell over themselves to give him opportunities. Tutors, Eton, and then he’d be off to Oxford. His education gobbling up the family resources. No doubt he would make friends with someone influential there who would carry him through. They could only hope! Men could open factories. Become lawyers. Sail to America. There were options. It was galling. Those suffragette women might smash shop windows, blow up cricket pavilions and fling themselves under horses, but the way things stood, there was only one career path for girls like her, and only one chance to secure a decent place in life. Marrying well was all.

A spider of nerves tickled her stomach. Yet she was exhilarated too. This was it.

The large swathes of candles bathed the room in a murky yellow light that was somehow synonymous with music halls and theatres; it created an atmosphere of intimacy. Promise and excitement lingered on the air like a whisper. Vivian spotted her best friend, Emily, just a few feet in front; if they could exert any influence at all, they always contrived to arrive at around the same time, so as to enter the party together. Besides the confidence such support provided, they were aware that together the impression they made was bigger than the sum of the parts. She linked her arm through her friend’s and gently led her away from her mother. ‘Emily, I need to remove this lace on the neckline, and then let’s go and find the fun.’

Lace unstitched and carefully stowed in her bag, she glided into the ballroom, a wisp of something. Chiffon. Silk. Youth. Inexperience. Heads turned. She felt eyes upon her. She imagined that everyone knew how important tonight was. They must. Vivian scanned the room and immediately spotted Nathaniel’s parents, Sir Robert and Lady Thorpe, standing in a cluster with other similarly rich and influential types. She wished she hadn’t ditched her mother quite so swiftly. Mrs Foster might be intrusive and interfering, but there was no denying the fact that she knew her way around every social situation. Vivian didn’t dare approach Lady Thorpe without her mother to smooth her path. She and Emily must wait until someone came to talk to them. Her empty dance card hung from her wrist, limp on a green cord.

‘There’s Ava Pondson-Callow,’ gasped Emily. They both stared with undisguised curiosity. Vivian adored and admired Ava; the only debutante she considered completely, naturally perfect. Ava was what Vivian longed to be. Effortlessly gorgeous. Carelessly rich.