Vivian’s world lurched, trembled. She felt instantly cold and yet clammy too. The men, just boys, pushed into her head. Charles polite, eager, trying to engage her in the subject of the theatre; Nathaniel looking after his own interests, bullish but vibrant. At least that. For the first time since the night of the ball, she was glad she’d led him to the powder room. ‘Charles Rushmore’s wife was once a dear friend of mine. If you’ll excuse me, I must go and write a letter.’

‘Of course. You ought to write to Thorpe’s wife as well.’ Vivian thought of the letter she’d been instructed to write congratulating them on their engagement. She felt sick and sorry. She longed for the days when the action was thrillingly and securely restricted to the newspaper.

The arrival of his parents initially made things more tolerable, which showed just how strained things were between them. Then, infuriatingly, Sir Charles and Lady Owens announced their intention to stay on at Blackwell after Aubrey returned to the war. They didn’t say how long they planned to visit, and Vivian was reminded that she was just a woman with very little say regarding her autonomy. She had become used to being mistress of the house. It was more hers than his; even if it had been built by his grandfather and his money paid for the staff, it was her domain. It was a long time since she’d felt the desire to inwardly scream at the provincial nature of the hydrangeas in tubs and the umbrella stand; she’d begun to view the shoots as quite cheerful and the stand as extremely practical. She liked being the manager of her own small community: Mrs Rosebend, Cook, the maids, the old men who helped on the farm, Timmy Durham. Howard Henderson. Not that she ever felt she was in charge of him. She asked him to do work for her, but no one controlled that man.

Sir Charles and Lady Owens found her arrangements paltry and lacking, even accepting that standards had slipped since the war. They questioned whether it was appropriate for her to eat lunch with the staff. Vivian remembered feeling surprised herself when the situation first arose; she couldn’t recall when doing so softened from a matter of convenience to one of habit. Eating with the servants was not what she’d been brought up to do, but dining alone whilst they ate in the next room had struck her as ludicrous. ‘It’s terribly lonely otherwise.’

‘Maybe, but we are here now and you’ll have company. The practice must cease.’ They renewed their efforts to persuade her to employ a nanny for Mabel, they were aghast to hear she’d employed a conchie, and they categorically disapproved of her wearing trousers.

‘But it’s practical for farm work.’ They could not argue with her doing farm work. It was patriotic; it was what Aubrey had sent her here to do.

‘You must be careful, Vivian. You are in danger of becoming rather eccentric. Strong-minded.’