‘Good evening, Mrs Foster.’

‘Lady Owens.’

‘So this is your daughter whom I’ve heard so much about.’

Mrs Foster swallowed. ‘Quite. This is Vivian.’

Lady Owens stared at her for what seemed like a lifetime. ‘How delightful to meet you,’ she stated politely, not entirely convincingly. Vivian couldn’t help but glance in the direction of the son; she was wondering whether he’d join them. Lady Owens shook her head, barely perceptibly, but Vivian understood. Their private business mustn’t be played out here in public. ‘I am sure we’ll see one another again soon,’ she added. ‘I shall look forward to it,’ although her face did not reflect the sentiment in the slightest.

Vivian nodded. ‘Good evening.’ Lady Owens walked away, quite hurriedly.

‘We must go and call on him tomorrow,’ declared Mrs Foster.

‘Shouldn’t he call on us?’

‘Yes, but what should and should not happen is no longer a matter of pertinence to you, Vivian.’

‘I’m not sure I want to marry him, Mother.’

Her mother scowled. ‘What is marriage except attaching a secret and exciting someone to one’s self in a way that breeds familiarity and domesticity? It buries the very thing that attracted in the first place. It’s ruinous whether you love the man or not; best you don’t spoil anything you really care about.’

Vivian stared at her mother, surprised. She had never realised she’d suffered so.

The weather was shocking. The sky was grey as a morning coat. The rain plummeted from the heavens, ran along the gutters and cobbles, washing the manure and rats underground. It was difficult to believe it was May.

‘It’s not a day for visiting,’ Vivian commented to her mother.

‘No, it’s not. Get your coat.’

Vivian was relieved to hear that Sir Charles and Lady Owens did at least have a London house. The address was smart enough; the house was Georgian, built from large white stone blocks. It was ample, dignified and had an impressive pillared porch that she admired. Disappointingly, once inside, Vivian discovered that they were (ill-advisedly) determined to boast their countryside credentials. Various parts of animals were attached to the walls or laid on the floors: skins, heads, antlers, foxes’ brushes. Entire animals were stuffed and displayed in glass cases and domes: cats, birds, rabbits, a combination of the above. Vivian had seen this sort of thing in plenty of homes, but it never impressed her. She didn’t understand it. Nature, by its very definition, ought to be outside, oughtn’t it?

Their arrival had to seem a little odd considering the inclement weather, but Mrs Foster made some comment about how tedious it was to stay indoors on such a drab day and her reasoning was greeted with polite acceptance. They were shown into the drawing room. A fire blazed in the hearth, but the place might have benefited from more subtle lighting. As it was, three electric lights glared. Lady Owens saw Vivian glance at the ceiling.

‘The gas ones used to give off such a pleasant luminous glow, but Sir Charles is so proud of our early adoption of electricity, he will insist on them being on whenever there is company, despite the women’s grumbles about unflattering light.’