Vivian opened the wardrobes and drawers in the three bedrooms, hoping to unearth something useful. She was just beginning to think she’d have no alternative but to pin up her skirts when she came across some men’s clothes, hung neatly on the back of a door in the smallest spare room. They were Victorian and large, likely to have belonged to Aubrey’s father or even grandfather, but they were clean. She considered her options. The garden was waterlogged, swollen. As the rain hit the ground, mud splashed up the fences. Nearly everything she owned was white, cream, lavender or pale blue. Even her most basic dress would have to be written off if she tried to garden in it. And then there were these men’s trousers. Men’s trousers? What use were they to anyone else? They were too out of date to ever be worn by any chap. There was a shirt, a jumper, an overcoat. So practical for the rain. Did she dare? Who would spot her if she stayed in the back garden?

The maids giggled when they saw her, and Cook gasped, but no one insisted that she abandon the masculine garb. No one told Vivian what to do here in Blackwell. That, she supposed, was the beauty of it. She might very well be starved of company and without occupation, but she was in charge.

Later, as she stood staring through the window once again, her arms, back, thighs, hands were all sore and raw, but somehow she felt well. She felt purposeful, fresh, for the first time in longer than she could remember. The small drawing room no longer felt as glum; it was edging towards cosy. The fire was roaring, throwing light and warmth over the chairs and tables, the embroidered headrests and crocheted coasters. There was a tray with tea, buttered crumpets and jam waiting for her. Importantly, the garden looked tidier. Raking had turned out to be considerably harder work than it looked, as had weeding and moving the wheelbarrow, but the smell of the violet smoke from the smouldering rubbish heap tickled her nostrils. Look what she had achieved! She had worked for six hours, only stopping briefly when Cook insisted she have some soup, bread and cheese at two in the afternoon.

‘You’ll faint, ma’am. I ain’t having Mr Owens coming here and saying I neglected you.’

‘I have work to do, Cook.’

‘Aye, well that’s as maybe, but I do too, so come in and eat.’ Her chins were wobbling with anxiety and determination. The sleeves of her dress were pushed up above her raw and hard elbows as was her habit, her pink, fleshy hands firmly on her waist. ‘Please,’ she added.

Vivian left the shears and rake for a spell and did as she was asked because she knew she was causing Cook to worry. It had been tougher going back to it in the afternoon; her muscles were already beginning to feel the unusual strain of exercise and a blue chill had set into the air. The damp clung, although she wasn’t cold, as the labour kept her warm. The rain had stopped. The exercise had brought colour to her cheeks, which she felt anyone would have to agree suited her rather well, if there was anyone to see her, that was. She had left her wellington boots at the kitchen door but hadn’t yet summoned the energy to change out of her strange costume. She drank her tea and ate the crumpets standing up because she didn’t want to get mud on the furniture. She was starving.