“This way,” she said.

Lizzie tried to pull up her skirts to climb the wooden structure, but as she released one hand to steady herself, the fabric dropped and caught on the weathered timber. I hadn’t thought to bring a split skirt, and neither had she. I should have known better—I’d spent a year in Scotland, where walking was the only relief from that dreadful school, and shorter split skirts were part of the uniform. But Lizzie had never left Oxford, and she had packed for both of us.

Lizzie began to laugh. “We’ll wear trousers tomorrow,” she said.

“We can’t wear trousers.”

“We have no choice. All the clothes in that wardrobe at the cottage belong to a man,” she said. “I’m sure no one will mind if we borrow them.”

The next day, Lizzie laid two pairs of trousers on the bed for us to change into after breakfast.

“Have you ever worn trousers, Lizzie?” I asked when I joined her in the kitchen.

“Never in my life,” she said, smiling as if she knew the pleasure that awaited.

Lizzie had cooked oats overnight in the low heat of the range. She drizzled them with fresh cream from the Lloyds and topped them with apples she had stewed before I woke.

“Everything aches,” I said, holding the edges of the chair to lower myself into it.

“I know,” Lizzie said. “But it’s a wholesome ache, not a knackered ache.”

“An ache is an ache.”

“I can’t recall a day when I haven’t had an ache in some part of my body. This is the first time I’ve thought it might be a sign of good, not ill.”

I took up my spoon and stirred the apple and cream into the porridge. There was an ache in the centre of me that I couldn’t shift, but that morning I did feel it a little less urgently.

After breakfast, Lizzie pulled on a large pair of trousers and an oversized shirt.

“They’re too big, Lizzie.”

“Nothing a belt won’t fix,” she said, searching the wardrobe for one. “And who’s around to judge?”

“Mr. Lloyd could pop in at any time.”

She coloured a little, but shrugged. “He don’t seem the type to judge.”

My trousers were made for a smaller man, or perhaps the same man when he was young. They were short in the leg but a better fit around the waist. Lizzie insisted I too wear an oversized shirt so she wouldn’t have to wash my blouses each day.

“There’s a pair of thick socks in the drawer,” Lizzie said. “They’ll keep your ankles from getting scratched.”