‘What can you mean? Of course he’s keen on her. He’s just married her, hasn’t he.’

‘Evidently.’ Mr Foster tapped out his pipe on the heavy glass ashtray. ‘But I get the impression he’d be happy enough with whichever pretty girl he married.’

‘Well, I think that is splendid of him,’ replied Mrs Foster firmly. ‘Vivian will have to make do with temperate esteem. Habitual amicability and good manners will see them through.’

‘Do you think so?’ She knew so but could hardly say as much to the man who’d always believed her affection was particular. ‘There were occasions today when I was sure I caught Vivian looking . . .’

‘Looking what? I thought she looked incredibly fetching, particularly as we pulled the entire wedding together – trousseau and gown, et cetera – in just three months. Such a short time frame. Say what you will about Vivian, but she always looks beautiful.’

‘Quite, I wasn’t implying otherwise.’

‘Then what?’

‘I thought I caught her looking despairing, even resentful.’

‘How careless of her,’ snapped Mrs Foster. ‘I am the one that is despairing. I sometimes think she hasn’t got a clue. Do you know what she asked me last night?’

‘What?’

‘Whether she ought to tell him.’

‘Tell whom what?’

‘Tell Aubrey about her . . . infatuation with Nathaniel Thorpe.’

‘Good God, did she really?’ Mr Foster was surprised by Vivian’s impulse to be frank with her husband. Briefly, he rather admired it and felt tender towards her. ‘What did you say?’

‘Naturally, I told her she’s a fool to think of it. That it would undo everything we’ve achieved. She said that it seems dishonest.’

‘Well.’

‘I reminded her that she is dishonest.’ Mrs Foster looked disgusted for a moment, then her face adjusted. The anger dissipated slightly. ‘What he doesn’t know can’t harm him. Onwards and upwards, I say.’

‘I do wonder whether we ought to have tried for that Charlie Rushmore fellow. He seemed quite sweet on her throughout the season. Seems rather a decent chap.’

‘I don’t doubt he was at one point, but he didn’t come forward at the crucial moment.’ Mrs Foster stood up and poured herself a glass of sherry; she’d desisted throughout the wedding, but now she felt she needed one, deserved it. She held the decanter up to her husband.

‘I’d rather whisky.’

She handed over a large glass of single malt. ‘Ava Pondson-Callow volunteering to be bridesmaid was a stroke of luck. She gave the wedding a level of respectability and polish that was notably lacking until then.’ The acceptances had rolled in after it was announced that Ava would be the chief of six bridesmaids. ‘Very decent of her.’

Mrs Foster had always assumed Ava to be an untethered minx. She seemed to elude parental control; despite a veritable cornucopia of chances, she refused to marry. She was confident, knowing, yet not even a wisp of gossip clung to her, so she was at least careful. Mrs Foster’s admiration was grudging but definite. Ava had been surprisingly modest about her own needs as bridesmaid, genuinely quite helpful when it came to picking Vivian’s gown. She’d understood that a bridal gown must be designed to set off a bride’s beauty and to give her individuality and personality, although not too much of either in this case. It would not do to expose Vivian to a fashion error that might draw ridicule. When Vivian had asked what Ava would wear, Ava had replied, ‘Darling, it couldn’t matter less. The bridesmaid is merely a lay figure and her gown is created for the sole purpose of providing a satisfactory background. If I chance to look marvellous in the mode you pick, well and good, but it is inconsequential.’ Of course she was going to look fabulous in anything they alighted on. ‘You will make sure the bridesmaids are clad all alike, though, won’t you, Vivi. It’s just the proper thing. There is concord and impact in repetition. No one wants a motley array.’ Mrs Foster felt for Susan, who looked like a sack of potatoes by comparison to Ava, but Ava had a point: the bridesmaids had to match.