She knew that.

Well before her own coming-out ball she’d been instructed as to what she needed to do to draw his attention. She was lucky enough to have been born with what everyone agreed to be the sort of face that – more often than not – pleased. It was the first and last thing people thought about her. She was lovely to look at. They never wondered whether she was kind or reliable, able or resourceful. She wasn’t encouraged to give these attributes too much consideration either.

Mrs Foster often began her days with a quiet feeling of superiority. It was hard not to. Her daughter had been such a success this season. As a child her relentless energy and impulsiveness had, frankly, been rather exhausting, but it was a skill that transferred quite nicely now they were husband hunting. Vivian was obsessively attentive to her grooming. Her hems did not dare to hang; the maids in the powder rooms at dances never had to come to her rescue with a quick stitch – she was far too in control to need that sort of service. Other girls were so sluggish and neglectful by comparison. Vivian’s younger sisters would linger in bed far later than was polite if permitted. Susan in particular had a slow sort of nature. Her voluptuous figure was testament to that; she was entirely lacking in will power. So many girls, restricted by corsets and convention, only ever moved languidly, as though they were wading through wet sand. Vivian was altogether different, luckily. She was sprightly. Energetic. Every bit of her had a use; there was nothing unnecessary or wasteful.

Of course, as a mother, Mrs Foster had a duty to control and direct that energy, subdue her impulsiveness. It was a good thing her daughter was noticed, but she didn’t want her to be set apart. That would be a catastrophe. Vivian was trained and instructed on the importance of utilising her looks, charm and energy to the full but never hinting at wilfulness or independence. She must delight absolutely everyone. She had listened and soon the mothers trusted her, the fathers were charmed by her, the other girls adored her and the men insisted they would fight duels for her, if such a thing still went on. The opinion was that despite her waning family fortune, Vivian Foster was a success. Behind their fans the more honest chaperones often commented that she put other young ladies in the shade. She had something rare.

Mrs Foster’s feeling of superiority would have been entirely obliterated if she’d known that occasionally Vivian stood naked in front of the mirror admiring her lean long legs, her tiny waist, her small but pert breasts, whilst thinking it such a pity that no one else ever got to see any of it. She was used to accepting compliments about her face, hair and eyes; she could only imagine the sort of things he might say about the rest of her body. And imagine it she did as she gently trailed her fingers down her body. Luckily Mrs Foster’s peace of mind was never disturbed, because her involvement with her daughter was formal, superficial, while Vivian, for her part, understood the value of secrecy. She never undressed without wedging a chair under the handle of her bedroom door.