They had told her he was affluent enough. Wealthier than she expected; not the son of a vicar or a doctor. She would never be as rich as she’d hoped, but nor would she struggle. She’d heard all the details about his family. Just two or three generations ago they were simple farmers in the middle of England somewhere. The sort of family Mrs Foster took charity gifts to at Christmas. Not the sort of family she would consider for one of her daughters, no matter how slutty the said daughter had proved to be. However, one of the great-great-uncles had been ambitious and gutsy. He’d emigrated to America to become a pioneer farmer. He’d invested in developing farming equipment and apparently invented a plough with a shiny steel blade that cut far into the dense black sod. This uncle patented the design, then earned a fortune selling his equipment to other farmers; bought more land, sold more ploughs, bought more land. All this activity meant that he never found time to marry and had no one to leave the profits to. When he died, the extensive farm cutting across most of an entire state was split up and sold on (Vivian couldn’t quite remember which state, although she was sure they had told her). The money, a sizeable amount, came back to England to be inherited by the grandfather of the man they wanted her to marry. He reinvested in more land, this time English soil, and the subsequent generations concentrated on being respectable.

They’d done a good job. It had been a vertiginous social rise. There was even a title now: Sir Charles and Lady Owens were unquestionably upwardly mobile. Vivian’s was an old family on the opposite trajectory; she realised that was limiting. How bad might it be to be married to the man with a head like an otter? Aubrey Owens. She muttered his name. Let her tongue play with it. Being married was a safe place to be. What else could she do? There wasn’t a choice. No, there wasn’t. If she married, heritage and the rules would shield her. The laws and habits provided a protective shell. Over time she’d be able to tough it out.

‘Look sharp, his mother is approaching.’

Thoughts crashed into Vivian’s head. Would she like spending time with this woman? Would this woman like her? She couldn’t imagine it one way or another, but the mothers made the marriages, the fathers gave their blessing, the young men and women just did as they were told, so she must try.

Astonishing! Lady Owens was wearing a large navy hat with ribbons and ostrich feathers flowing around and over the brim. Her gown was a mass of pleats, frills and pearls. Vivian was not really able to concentrate on the introductions, she was so fascinated by the intricate, incongruous layers. A hat at the theatre? How awful. She knew that she really ought to try to impress; instead she trailed her eyes along the white kid gloves, the small, practical heel on the shoe, the large, cumbersome bag, taking it all in. Lady Owens had clearly come straight to the theatre from afternoon tea; what a mistake. Vivian wondered how her mother could think this was the family for her. Mrs Foster was normally so pedantic about etiquette and correctness. This woman was at best eccentric, at worst boorish. Vivian saw it for what it was. In an instant she understood how low her mother had had to sink to find anyone interested in her. Eventually she lifted her eyes and met Lady Owens’ empty, small brown ones, so dense and flat they looked like burnt currants in a pudding. They flicked over Vivian for a moment and then away again damningly.