It had been exhausting trying to load up on the jolly luck and avoid bringing more doom. Vivian had had no idea how many superstitions there were connected with weddings. Everything was accountable: her clothes, the ceremony, the bouquet, even the cake! Of course there was no question that she would bake her own cake or sew her own gown – she had neither the skills nor the interest – but discovering that doing either was considered unlucky was an honourable excuse to avoid all labour. Cook took particular care that no accident befell the cake (which was considered particularly unlucky) and Vivian was sure to cut the first slice herself (lucky!). A blue ribbon was sewn into her hem (lucky!), and a sixpence placed in her shoe (uncomfortable!). She carried azaleas (representing moderation, forbearance and temperance) and white carnations (devotion, pure and ardent love), even though she thought lilies were so much more beautiful and made a bigger statement in a bouquet. Mrs Foster vetoed them on the grounds that they represented youthful innocence, purity and modesty; they couldn’t take the risk that anyone might see the irony. Vivian tried not to glance right or left as she was going up the aisle of the church, because apparently to do so meant one of them would shortly go elsewhere for love. She insisted that, immediately after the ceremony, she and Aubrey run out of the church hand in hand; she ignored Mrs Foster’s comment that the effect was giddy and ludicrous. Vivian wanted to rush towards happiness. She’d thought August would be providential, as the rhyme promised, ‘Married in August’s heat and drowse/Lover and friend in your chosen spouse.’ She thought that sounded lovely.

In her own, rather immature and illogical way, Vivian had tried. She was not marrying through affection or choice but from necessity; all the more reason for her to work hard at it being a success. However, she rather suspected that all the luck galvanised was cancelled if war was declared on one’s wedding day.

It was clear that half the guests had struggled to look up from their newspapers as she’d glided down the aisle. It was a great pity because, despite the scarcity of time she’d had to work with the dressmaker, her gown and veil were show-stopping, although not as show-stopping as the outbreak of war, admittedly. The most fashionable brides of the season had drifted to the altar unhampered by a train. In fact, even skirts had been lifted at least two inches off the ground, and veils, whilst voluminous, were decidedly abbreviated. No bride wanted the stale stately wedding array worn a few years ago. This ellipsis in skirt and veil was the newest note.

A subdued chatter among the guests was usual until the strains of the wedding march began, and upon entering the church vestibule Vivian had waited for the guests to fall silent. She’d expected them to gasp at the sight of her swathed in tulle and promise. They had not obliged. There was a low level of urgent murmuring and it did not cease. The vicar had had to ask for quiet. Twice.