Ditte and Beth lived between Bath Station and Royal Victoria Park, so the cab ride was short. We stopped in front of a three-storey terraced house, identical in every way to the terraced houses that stretched left and right. Beth saw me staring up at the attic windows.

“It was left to us,” she said, “so we’d never have to marry. It’s far too big, of course, but we have a lot of guests, and a woman comes every morning to clean. Mrs. Travis insists we keep the rooms on the top floor closed. Saves on dusting, she says. She has very little aptitude for dusting, so we’ve agreed.”

All those rooms, I thought. I would have dusted my own if they’d invited me when I was fourteen.

Beth was younger than Ditte and her opposite in almost every way, yet there seemed to be no tension or argument between them. I’d always thought that Ditte was like the trunk of a great tree: anchored securely to what she knew to be true. After just a few days in Bath, I began to think of Beth as the canopy. In mind and body, she responded to whatever forces came her way. Despite her fifty years she shimmered, and I was mesmerised.

I had a week’s grace—“to settle in,” Beth said—then she began inviting visitors for afternoon tea. “We can’t talk about you all of the time,” she teased.

On the day our first visitors were due to arrive, the sisters called me downstairs to lay a tray in preparation. “Mrs. Travis is an ordinary housekeeper,” Ditte said, as she transferred the cake from a cooling rack to a plate, “but her Madeira is unrivalled.”

“Perhaps I’ll stay in my room,” I said.

“Nonsense,” said Beth, coming into the kitchen. “It will play out perfectly. We will talk about Edith’s revision of her English history and then her employment of you will make perfect sense to everyone.” She leaned in and said in a conspiratorial tone, “You are not without a reputation of your own, you know.”

My hand went to my belly, still hidden, and I blushed scarlet. Beth made no effort to calm my fears.

“Don’t tease her, Beth,” said Ditte.

“But it’s so easy,” she said, smiling. “You have a reputation, Esme, as a natural scholar. According to Dr. Murray you are the equal of any Oxford graduate. He is particularly fond of telling the story of you camping all day beneath the sorting table. He claims his lenience has allowed the development of a particular affinity for words.”

Horror turned to gratitude, and the heat stayed in my face.

“He would not approve of me telling you this, of course,” said Beth. “Praise dulls the intellect, in his opinion.”

There was a knock at the door.