‘Why don’t you take today and tomorrow off, then you could go and visit him.’

‘Oh, Mrs Owens, I couldn’t do that.’

‘Why not? Wouldn’t your sister like it?’ It was a longer period of time than Vivian had anticipated releasing Mrs Rosebend for, but she’d manage. ‘Or you could look after her husband and children, then she could go.’ This proved too enticing to Mrs Rosebend’s instinct to be useful.

‘Well, if you’re sure . . .’

Which only left the problem of Cook. Cook did not have a family that needed her attention, nor could Vivian recall her talking about particular friends she might wish to call on. Not that she was an especially maudlin person, but she had devoted her life to service since she was thirteen years old. Her commitment to her work hadn’t allowed for making close friends. Vivian fretted about the problem all morning, but could not alight on a solution. She would have to brave it out. The best idea was not to make too much of the situation, not intimate that it was in any way out of the ordinary. She was the mistress of the house; she did not have to explain herself. If Ava was in her position, she would simply instruct Cook to produce dinner for her and Mr Henderson, hang the gossip, the summarising and ensuing scandal. But she was not Ava. Vivian did not have that level of audacity; she dreaded Cook’s raised eyebrow, her knowing glance that would be quickly smothered under a dutiful expression of pretended disinterest. In the end, she decided to inform Cook that she was planning on eating simply and early that evening; she asked for cold meats, a pie, some fruit and cheese to be set out in the drawing room by seven. She was depending on Cook’s habit of producing and proffering far more than Vivian could ever eat alone. She had invited him for eight; by then, with any luck, Cook might have retired to her room with a book and a sherry and the baby would be asleep.

Another reason she simply couldn’t bear the idea of asking Cook to prepare something particular for them was that she wasn’t sure he’d come at all. He had not replied to her note. Had he even received it? Vivian was gripped with panic that Timmy Durham might have dropped the envelope and another inhabitant of Blackwell village could have come across it. It wasn’t in any way incriminating; she’d been very careful and brief – Would you like to come for supper this evening? 8 p.m. Regards, Vivian Owens – yet the brevity itself suggested a lack of formality at best, intimacy at worst. She had deliberated over how to sign off the note. Mrs Owens felt faintly ridiculous; simply signing Vivian was out of the question.