For all Nathaniel Thorpe liked hunting and shooting and fishing and what-have-you, Vivian was relieved to discover that he also spent a lot of time in London. Young men did. Why wouldn’t they? This was where the best parties happened. Vivian believed she simply couldn’t live anywhere else, although when she said as much to her mother, Mrs Foster simply raised her eyebrows and commented that Vivian would live wherever her husband decided she’d live. Vivian had mumbled ‘Poppycock’ under her breath.

‘What did you say?’ asked Mrs Foster, who believed she had a right to her daughter’s every thought.

‘I said you’re probably right, Mother.’ Vivian threw out a disingenuous smile.

‘I am right. I’m always right.’

‘Yes, Mother.’

Mrs Foster had endeavoured to tell Vivian the basic facts of life, although she was keen to avoid going into embarrassing or tedious detail. Instead she offered three rules, two of which had subsections. One, Vivian was told never to travel alone in a railway carriage with a man. Two, she was never to contradict or interrupt a potential suitor when he was talking, though she should stop him if he tried to touch her body anywhere higher than her elbow or knee. Three, she was never to discourage any man who asked for a dance, but she should not allow a chap more than two dances in a row.

Vivian was aware that this was inadequate preparation for anything much, most of all a season.

Her friends were a far better source of information. Even before she came out, she’d heard the words adultery (something old marrieds did) and fornication (something maids and sluts did); and, more shocking still, therefore necessitating a Latin word, cunnilingus (something she couldn’t imagine anyone really did).

She was curious.

In the past year, Vivian had sent herself to sleep by rubbing her stomach, a slow, circular caress. The tips of her fingers became familiar with every sensation her nightgown could provide: the smooth rise of embroidery, the flat glide of ribbon, the slight friction offered up by cotton. She liked to feel her bumpy ribs, the gentle inward curve of her waist and then the hardness of her hip bones. It wasn’t long before she started to send herself to sleep by laying her hand flat on the mound that created a triangle between her hip bones and where her legs joined. It felt warm, safe, to leave it there. Then she wanted to know what it would feel like if there wasn’t the barrier of fabric. She told herself there was no harm, it was her body. No one need know. Yet it stirred a sudden muted pang, a quickening of the beating of her heart. When she slipped off her bed socks and allowed one foot to stroke the other, she could almost imagine someone else touching her bare flesh. She moved the foot up her calf to the back of her knee. No one had ever touched the back of her knee. She had no idea! Soon it was only ever enough if her fingers crept up under the hem of the nightdress and danced across her entire body.