After such a day, Pat could not muster any enthusiasm about going down for dinner. She had had more intense conversation over the course of a few hours than she usually had in a month, not to mention the extraordinary one she’d overheard. She would have liked to retire to bed with a plate of sandwiches and a chance to think: to cherish that time with Fen around the lake, to consider both of their predicaments in the light of their talk, and mostly to recover her moral strength. She found people far more exhausting than any bodily exercise, and the prospect of two hours of conversation over a meal with Maurice Haworth followed by tea with the ladies felt like a burden she had no desire to lift. She just hoped the evening would be less unpleasant than the previous night.

But Fen would be at dinner, so Pat dressed as best she could. If she’d owned a gown that could be called frivolous she might have selected it to demonstrate solidarity, but she did not. She donned her best necklace, a seed pearl choker that had been a gift from Louisa, and toyed with the idea of asking the maid to arrange her hair into something more elaborate, but lost her nerve. It was only an informal party. Bill would think she’d run mad.

Her reluctance delayed her to the point that she was the last into the drawing-room. Everyone else was there, everyone was silent, and the atmosphere as she walked in had all the joie de vivre of a thunderstorm.

Preston Keynes even looked thunderous. He was standing in a corner with Miss Singh, shoulders hunched aggressively. Miss Singh’s face was blank in the sort of way that made Pat think she was trying very hard not to let her feelings be seen. Lady Anna’s eyes were bright, her facial muscles tight, and she spoke to Jack Bouvier-Lynes in a rapid, high-pitched tone that would doubtless have sounded natural at a Chelsea cocktail party. Bill and Jimmy stood with Fen and the Countess. Jimmy looked strained; their hostess had spots of red on her cheekbones; Fen was smiling, but her cheeks were scarlet, and not in a pretty way.

Maurice Haworth and the Earl were together in the centre of the room, angled as if speaking but too far apart from one another. The Earl’s face was tense. Haworth was smiling.

Pat straightened her back as she came in. “I’m terribly sorry; am I late?”

“Not at all, Miss Merton,” the Earl said with hollow heartiness.