Her musings were interrupted then by a loud whoop travelling up from the direction of the river below them, followed by a sequence of splashes.

‘Forgive me,’ Miss Knight repeated, leaning towards Mary. ‘My brothers …’

Yet again, the lady started to flush – that long, goosey neck all red and mottling. What was the matter with her? Mary could not make it out.

And then came the unmistakeable sound of feminine squealing to add to the whoops from the water, and she formed an idea. So Miss Knight had asked those girls to look after her, and they had refused. These sisters were the excluding type, then … She knew them well from school. Still, on that afternoon, it was hard to lay blame. Who did not prefer being with their brothers? Mary certainly did.

Her mind drifted towards Hatch and to wondering: had Norton actually managed to create electricity? All that earlier, thwarted excitement thrummed through her veins, while Sir Edward opined on the latest Archbishop – ‘hell in a handbasket’ – and Miss Knight languidly enquired about her various accomplishments: ‘Not play, my dear? Then surely you sing.’

And eventually – just at that crucial point when Mary felt she could bear it no longer – there was reached a general, unspoken agreement that the visit had come to its close.

On the carriage ride home, Mary sat, face fixed towards the window, as if she were actually interested in the passing, desiccated country, when really she just wanted to cry. Of course, she understood it should be an honour to accompany her papa on a visit, but really she could only resent it. If that was this ‘calling’ she had heard so much about, then they could keep it. Her papa and those Knights seemed close to strangers and clearly had little in common beyond a shared geography. On the basis of that experiment, Mary saw no earthly reason to meet them again.

Her father reached over and patted her leg. ‘The most charming occasion I thought, did you not?’

‘Yes, Papa.’ Mary managed a smile through the side brim of her bonnet. ‘Thank you so much for taking me.’

‘You are a pleasure to take out, my dear,’ he said warmly. ‘I was most keen for you to meet Miss Knight in particular. I wonder, did you warm to the lady?’

‘Oh, very much indeed, Papa.’ She twisted her white-gloved hands in her lap. ‘She could not have been kinder.’

At that, he fell into his thoughts and Mary turned her face to the window and pondered. Had she once, since the death of her mother, had an honest conversation with a single grown-up? Lady Banks, perhaps, but even her dear great-aunt – kind though she might be – set down limitations.