Babe, who strutted through the house as though she had tenancy, was less tactful. ‘I’d expected rather better,’ she declared. Vivian noticed she had a slight lisp; she didn’t enunciate her ‘th’ sound absolutely correctly. She could only imagine how this must irritate Mother.

‘Barbara, you must remember that Aubrey also has a London home. There’s a war on; people everywhere are compromising. Even the very best sort.’

‘Aubrey is a decorated officer of senior rank,’ added Toby with a proud jut of his chin.

‘We have a lot to be thankful for,’ concluded Mrs Foster shortly.

‘Tea, anyone?’ asked Vivian. She already feared it would be the longest week of the war.

Toby was unrecognisable, inches taller than any of the women, and in uniform. It had been his call-up that had finally precipitated a Foster family visit to Blackwell. He, quite surprisingly, had insisted that he’d like to see his sister before he went to France. Mrs Foster couldn’t bear an extra unnecessary moment away from her boy – who was her firm favourite by a furlong now that he’d grown so tall and splendid and since Vivian had proved to be such a nuisance – and so had insisted that she and Babe come along too. She did not covet Babe’s company in the same way she did her son’s, but she could not leave her in London with Mr Foster, he was not a reliable chaperone; far too preoccupied with war business to give a young girl of a certain age the proper amount of attention. As Vivian had predicted, Susan and Barbara had been brought up on a strict, short leash following her own indiscretion, which snapped taut at the first hint of opportunity for misdemeanour. Perhaps Babe knew that Vivian was the reason for her restricted youth and that was why she behaved so rudely. Or perhaps she was simply a beast by nature.

They settled in the parlour. A huge fire was burning in the hearth and the tea was brewing in the sterling silver hand-chased teapot, which usually only came out at Christmas. Vivian busied herself. She made work of lifting the lid off, squinting in, swirling the hot water and leaves before she poured.

‘The house Susan is to live in is very much more lovely than this,’ pronounced Babe deliberately. Susan was to marry a fifty-one-year-old viscount. Vivian had missed the announcement in The Times, so the first she’d heard of the upcoming nuptials was via Ava, who’d sent a telegram. It read: Everyone is thrilled for her stop No one is talking about his gonorrhoea stop. Mrs Foster’s letter arrived a week later; it was true, she didn’t mention his gonorrhoea, or the thirty-one-year age gap, come to that. To think Vivian had once been naïve enough to believe her sister had smaller dreams than her own, or no dreams at all. She had thought Susan was simply content, which now seemed a wonderful and enviable thing to be. The engagement showed she had not been content but she did understand compromise. It was easy to mistake the two.