I looked to Ditte. When the review of her History was complete, I would return to Oxford and resume my work at the Scriptorium. She’d said this, and I’d agreed.

There should have been a word for what I felt right then, but despite all my years in the Scriptorium I couldn’t recall a single one.

I nodded.

The warm weather held, and I grew enormous. Ditte was happy with the research I had done, and insisted I spend long hours reclining on the couch and proofreading the edits she’d been making to her History. Sarah came for tea each Tuesday afternoon, and I sat quietly observant. I found something else to like about her every time, but they were uncomfortable hours, and my ambivalence didn’t shift. So much needed to be said, but the pouring of tea and handing around of Madeira cake kept getting in the way.

Then, one Tuesday, I waddled into the sitting room to find Sarah still wearing her hat and driving gloves.

“I thought I’d take you out,” she said.

It was an unexpected relief, and I took a deep breath as if I was already in the fresh air.

“Just the two of us,” she continued, turning to the sisters, who nodded in unison.

I was surprised when she opened the passenger door of a Daimler and helped me in. I’d rarely travelled in a private motorcar, and never one driven by a woman. Sarah had short legs and short arms, and her whole body was engaged in making the car move. She kept leaning forward to shift the gears, back to press the pedals. It was as if her arms and legs were being worked by a puppeteer. I coughed to disguise a laugh.

“Are you poorly?” she asked.

“Not at all,” I said.

Sarah never insisted on conversation and was unusually clumsy with small talk—she once responded to a comment on the weather by explaining the relationship between barometric pressure and rain—so our journey was silent except for the crunch of gears and the occasional disparaging comment about other people’s driving.

By the time we arrived at the Bath Recreation Ground, I had filled three slips with various quotations for damn-dunderhead. They looked as though they had been written in a fit of palsy.

“Somerset are playing Lancashire for the championship,” Sarah said, helping me down from my seat and craning to see the scoreboard. “Lancashire are chasing 181 runs, not a difficult target, so Philip has his work cut out. Do you like cricket, Esme?”

“I’m not sure. I’ve never sat to watch a whole game played.”