‘Be careful with that one, Mrs Owens, you don’t want to get too involved.’ Vivian couldn’t think what to say to that, so chose to say nothing at all. She gave the sweets and toffee to the light-fingered girl who was still skulking, instructing her to share them with her siblings, and then she headed home too.

19

THE WEATHER WAS wet, dull and gusty. The wind flung brown and yellow leaves this way and that. It was the worst sort of day. She stared out of the window at the oaks that divided the once coiffured, now neglected garden from the wild and rough fields. Further still were the grassy hills, dotted with sheep, and ploughed land, churned and brown. ‘I’m stuffed with discontent,’ she blurted. She hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Mrs Rosebend calmly put down the breakfast tray and looked at her mistress uncomprehendingly. ‘What a funny way you have of phrasing things. It’s jolly good to be discontent. It leads to improvement. You should find a hobby or go to the talks that the vicar organises. Last week’s was all about bandaging wounds.’ The housekeeper left the room evidently irritated.

Bandaging wounds? How was that likely to come in useful for the women of Blackwell? Mrs Rosebend didn’t understand. Vivian didn’t understand herself. She knew she wanted more. But more what? More comfort? More clothes? More freedom? More fun? More knowledge? That was it. Most of all she wanted to know more. She felt locked out. Life was going on all around her, but she felt she was being kept out. People thought she was easy-going, perhaps lazy, but she was not idle. She was underutilised.

She didn’t understand the fields and all that went on there. The land manager had paid her a courtesy visit, but it soon became apparent that she would not be interfering with his work. Sewing, growing, chopping, gathering: it was a mystery to her. The rain lashed down on the pane; was there ever a more depressing sound? It was only nine in the morning, but the room had the gloom of a late afternoon after a wasted day. The fire was going out; it needed a new log and a poke. She was about to ring for the maid when she decided she might as well just throw on a log herself. She knelt near the hearth and gave it a prod too. It was satisfying to see the flames leap. Vivian had become almost grateful that the rooms were so poky; at least she could stay warm. With the flames licking confidently, she returned to the window and stared out again. The lawn was soaked, waterlogged; the autumn leaves were strewn like jewel-coloured confetti.

She supposed she could rake them up, as she had seen the gardener at home do.

The trees were yellow now and gold, red berries had sprung from nowhere, although a few last fat, loose roses still gripped the pergola, and there was the odd clump of bedraggled drumstick allium. The tight purple umbrellas clung to the border, soaked, despondent. Their season had gone.