“Always on time,” Beth said to Ditte. Then she turned to me. “Just keep your hand from hovering above your belly and no one will notice a thing.”

Three gentlemen. All scholars, all residing in Somerset when they weren’t expected to teach. Professor Leyton Chisholm was an historian at the University of Wales and a contemporary of the sisters. He was so comfortable in their company that he helped himself to cake without it being offered and sat unasked in the most comfortable chair. Mr. Philip Brooks was also a friend, but not old enough to take such liberties. He had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the doorway, and Beth made a game of standing on tip-toe to kiss him on the cheek. Mr. Brooks taught geology at University College, Bristol, as did Mr. Shaw-Smith, the youngest of the three. He was a stranger to the sisters but had come along at the insistence of Mr. Brooks. His youthful face was eager but could not yet support a beard. He stumbled through the introductions.

“In time you will get used to us, Mr. Shaw-Smith,” said Beth, and I wondered if she was referring to us three, or to the whole of womankind.

When the men were seated, Ditte and I arranged ourselves at either end of the settee. Beth poured the tea and nodded for me to pass the cake. When everyone was served and compliments about the Madeira had been given, I sat back and waited for Beth to ask some provocative question that would give the men their cue. I expected gentlemen’s anecdotes and hubris, intellectual disagreements argued on ever-diminishing points of logic. I expected the occasional entreaty for an opinion (out of courtesy), and I was already anticipating my disappointment at the automatic taming of language that would be observed due to the fact we three wore skirts.

But that was not how the afternoon proceeded. These gentlemen had come to listen, to test their ideas and be persuaded otherwise—not by each other, but by the sisters. The men’s gaze fell comfortably on Beth, following her as she moved to turn on a lamp, watching her hands as she checked the level in the teapot and poured them each another cup. When she spoke, they leaned in, asked her to clarify, took it in turns to play with her ideas and combine them with their own. They argued with her, inviting her to defend her position. She often smiled before delivering a withering rebuke for sloppy reasoning. If they came around to her way of thinking, which they often did, it was never to be polite. I was astonished.