Vivian imagined the courtship. No doubt Susan always stayed up late in the viscount’s company but was never the last to leave the party. She probably played cards and dominoes but never won at either; she’d take her defeat gracefully, praising his superior skills. Likely as not, she confined her conversation with him to hunting, fishing, dancing and music halls; she would not talk about the war. Unless things had changed drastically, she didn’t have opinions on books or politics that she needed to suppress. However, whatever the viscount chose to discuss she would endeavour to give a good impression of being absorbed. Mrs Foster must be feeling triumphant.

Babe sighed quietly, barely hiding the fact that she was already bored and could not imagine anything more tortuous than a week in Blackwell. Then, when she realised that all eyes were on her, she tilted her head in a way that suggested a practised feminine patience and resignation. It was a shame. Mrs Rosebend had done her best to prepare the house. They had aired the spare bedrooms, checked the sheets for moth holes and patched where necessary. They’d been saving food coupons for weeks so that they could offer decent teas and suppers. Vivian was wearing a linen frock that she hadn’t worn since she left London.

‘Susan has two sweet little puppies,’ Babe commented. ‘The lord gave them to her.’

‘The actual Lord?’ Vivian asked, showing incredulity and flicking her eyes skyward.

‘Don’t be silly. You know who I mean. Viscount Lindup insists we use the less formal title of lord. After all, we’re almost family.’ Vivian didn’t bother to ask what breed had been gifted. She feared some sort of silly, small dog, Pekinese rather than spaniels. Instead she stared at her baby sister and tried to find a trace of the dear child she remembered. ‘Have they set a date?’ she asked politely.

‘Spring 1919.’ Mrs Foster looked distracted and concerned. Setting dates for anything, looking too far ahead, seemed impertinent and unwise. Now that Toby was going to war, Mrs Foster had joined the ranks of women who could not quite envisage a spring next year. Springtime seemed the season most at odds with war. It was about birth, buds and beginnings. Men dying in the spring seemed more brutal than men dying in any other season.

‘I am to be a bridesmaid,’ added Babe. ‘His niece is going to be the matron of honour.’ She looked at Vivian to see if her arrow had hit the mark.

Vivian didn’t expect a role in the wedding party for herself – she knew her family kept her as inconspicuous as possible, even now – but she was determined Mabel wouldn’t be snubbed. ‘Mabel will be a flower girl.’ Her voice rose at the end of the sentence, which was a nuisance; she didn’t want to ask a question. Her mother looked blank, as though the thought had never occurred to her. ‘Aubrey will expect it,’ added Vivian. She hated herself for collapsing back into the role of powerless daughter, whose only weight was to lever her husband’s authority. Despite running the farm, managing the indoor and outdoor staff and being a mother, in Mrs Foster’s company Vivian felt that she was without clout.