‘There are none.’ She wished he hadn’t sounded quite so satisfied.

‘Why not?’

‘There are memoirs, essays and reference books.’

‘But . . .’ The word came out like the phut of a kiss. She didn’t finish the sentence. But what am I to read? He understood anyway.

‘I find studying an atlas can be edifying.’

How? She considered the fact that she should have been pleased that he understood her so well – wasn’t that what every new bride wanted from her husband, total comprehension? – but she wasn’t. She was embarrassed and frustrated. Moreover, she’d spent the last three months squashed between the two emotions. Despite the smart postcode she did not feel well off; the comfortable rooms did not put her at ease. She doubted she’d ever feel cosy in her marriage. Restful or secure with her husband. The number, bulk and value of the lavish pieces of wooden furniture seemed to bloat around them, locking them in. Overpowering them. Any potential affection between the young couple was subdued by the constant parental surveillance, suffocated by the thick smell of furniture polish that saturated the rooms. The dark walls moved closer every night; soon they would squeeze the life out of her.

As a wedding gift Aubrey had bought her a pianoforte. Every evening, with irritating regularity, he said the same thing to her: ‘Play something for me.’ She resented his request; she saw it as an order. Her mother used to instruct her to play the piano too; she was not a child any longer who needed to practise her scales.

Once, she’d dared reply, ‘I’m not in the mood.’

‘Oh, but I am,’ Aubrey had replied cheerfully, assuming that his will would dominate, his will mattered. She’d sighed; he was right. How was it that she had swapped one form of incarceration for another? She must now do his bidding as she had done her mother’s. She’d stood up and moved towards the piano, started to play. The instrument trembled as she’d drummed the keyboard. Too robust to be thought of as skilful by even the most generous of critics, which she already knew Aubrey was not. Vigorous, vulgar sounds filled the room. Banged from one side to the next. The Rex Begonias and ferns quivered in their china pots, the beads on the overmantel juddered; she imagined even the miniature portraits clapped against the walls. She’d thought if she played badly enough, too awfully, he’d stop asking. She’d been wrong about that. Her appalling performance somehow only strengthened his conviction that she needed to practise.

On Saturday evenings, after the parties or dinners or theatre, he claimed his marital right. It was conventional, organised, repetitive, commonplace intercourse. She thought it had an air of smugness.

It was oppressive.

It sickened her.

She wondered when he would be called up.

Aubrey’s experience with the OTC had stood him in good stead, and it was a huge relief when he obtained a commission with the 10th Sherwood Foresters, a regiment that had some connection to his old school. She joked that it sounded awfully good fun and called him Robin Hood.