Vivian was instructed to write a letter to CynthiaWinters passing on good wishes at the news of her engagement, as she had with all the other debutantes of the season. Mrs Foster sent a silver carriage clock from the family. She stood over Vivian’s shoulder and dictated every word. She was not leaving anything to chance. Not any more.

Vivian thought perhaps her mother knew what she was now, although she hadn’t said anything vulgar and direct (or comforting and honest, come to that). Mrs Foster had previously admired her daughter and was proud of her, as Cook was proud of a well-risen cake, a product of her making rather than an individual. She had seen Vivian’s value. Now she was ashamed of her and wondered if she was worthless. Vivian caught her mother looking at her, no doubt trying to work out if she was intrinsically evil or imbecilic, or whether she herself had done something wrong, missed a trick in nurturing and preparation. Vivian had lived a perfectly lovely and proper sort of life. She had played hopscotch and skipping rope, worn a hat when she was told, practised the piano, eaten her broccoli, retired to bed when instructed without argument. She had come out to glorious reviews; indeed, she had behaved beautifully and appeared to have great respect for the wisdom of elders, authority and tradition. No one had anticipated any trouble. Now her future was ill defined, hazy. She’d brought the instability upon herself. It was pitiable.

The pen scratched on the thick creamy parchment. Wishing you a lifetime of felicity. Vivian felt it, as though the words were being tattooed on to her chest. She must be more like him. More like a man. It was her only chance at surviving this. Indifference.

Initially, she was too terrified to process the anguish and vicious disappointment. For ten days she existed in a numb state of desolation. All she feared was that there would be a baby; a dear, sweet hybrid of her and Nathaniel (his lashes, his vigour, her colouring, her curls!). She imagined this, longing and despairing of it simultaneously. She stayed dry-eyed and silent, hardly eating or sleeping, certainly not writing in her diary – not that, never again – just waiting. Waiting. When it became clear that there wouldn’t be a baby, she was overwhelmed with relief and grief. Her legs literally gave way beneath her; as she collapsed to her knees, she banged her head on the wall in the water closet and howled. Nanny found her, pulled up her drawers and put her to bed for the afternoon. ‘Good pet. Lucky pet,’ mumbled Nanny, who after all understood more than she was given credit for. She knew of girls who had caught and were sent away. Sometimes for a year. Sometimes for ever.

Vivian was stunned to discover how short-lived desire could be. She’d been so full of need and want for him, but now there was nothing left. Nothing. Almost overnight. That sense of needing him, craving him, wanting him above all others, above anything, had disappeared. After all the longing and planning and edging ever closer, it had stopped. Abrupt. Final. She found that she was humiliated, insulted, irritated, but not in love. She’d been shocked or shoved out of it. When she scanned the weekly publications for an engagement picture of Cynthia Winters and Nathaniel, it was not so that she could place her finger on his face and trace his features with yearning or desire; she simply wanted to know what she looked like. What was it about her? How had she succeeded where Vivian had failed? She couldn’t imagine Cynthia was as tall as she herself was, or as slim, or as . . . The thoughts didn’t bother to stay in her head, but vanished, dissolving like fireworks into blackness. It didn’t matter. It didn’t change anything. Cynthia would make a home and babies with him. She would honeymoon on the Riviera, dine at the Savoy, dance the quadrille, the waltz and two-step in every stately home in Britain. Not Vivian. She resented the thought that she’d somehow been tricked. By herself.