Vivian could relate to that.

Yet. There was still something attractive about them. There was something interesting about anything that could endure. Gardens always had an indefinable sense of the unexpected. One never knew what was next, what might suddenly appear, shoot up out of the earth or blossom from the most unpromising seed. It was an encouraging thought. Red, green, yellow leaves at the end of branches sat in front of the colourless sky, indomitable, undefeated, despite the persistent autumn gloom. Those dropped leaves really did need sweeping into a barrow.

Oh my goodness, what was that? At the far end of the garden a deer burst out from the hedgerow; it shuddered into the air. So frail yet strong, elegant but panicked. In a flash it was gone. Vivian laughed out loud with the surprise of it. She’d never been so close to a deer. What a wonderful creature. She ran into the kitchen to find someone to tell about the experience.

‘Oh yes, we get all sorts of wildlife, ma’am.’ The housemaid bobbed a curtsey, trying not to be flustered at the sight of her mistress in the kitchen. Cook wouldn’t like it, though luckily she was paying a visit to the water closet. ‘Hares, badgers, foxes. Things are forever darting and scampering all around.’

Vivian returned to her spot by the window in the drawing room. Once again she looked out to the horizon, half hoping she’d spot the deer for a second time. She didn’t, but the vista seemed to morph and mutate in front of her. Perhaps after all it wasn’t deadly boring.

She would garden.

She had nothing to wear. That was a frequent cry of Vivian’s, but in this case it happened to be literally true. She was grateful that she’d grown up in a time when barbaric cinched-waist corsets had been abandoned. How had her mother ever moved, let alone breathed, when she was young? The new straight-line corsets were far more comfortable and elegant; she could at least freely drift around the house and village in her flattering, form-fitting gowns. She wore her waistline high, and her skirts stopped at the ankle, which meant there was a lot less laundry for her maid to worry about; hems used to get caked. Still, everything she owned was far too fussy and restrictive for outdoor activities. She needed a shirtwaist; that was the uniform of working women.

She asked the maids if they had anything suitable that she could borrow. They both looked horrified and each confirmed that they only owned two dresses. ‘The one I’m standing up in and my Sunday best,’ admitted her lady’s maid. As an afterthought she added, ‘I suppose I could run home for my Sunday best, Mrs Owens, if you really need it to garden in.’

‘No, no, that won’t be necessary.’ Sweet girl, but silly. Vivian made a note to herself that she ought to sort out some of her own dresses for the maids. She had things she hadn’t worn for an age, and the girls were both slim like she was, although a little shorter. She couldn’t imagine that would be a problem; they were both bound to be good with a needle.