Lydia sipped her coffee and read the letter yet again. It had arrived on the doormat that morning and every time she read it, her heart sank a little deeper. ‘Dear Mrs Wilde,’ it began, ‘thank you for your application to study medicine at St Barthol-omew’s Hospital Medical College, but I am afraid I must tell you that you will not be offered a place. Yours faithfully, etc.’

It was short and to the point. She had immediately tele-phoned the hospital and asked to speak to someone in the admissions department. The receptionist had told her bluntly that women were never accepted. ‘I believe the last female physician at Bart’s was the famous Dr Elizabeth Blackwell about a hundred years ago. I’m most terribly sorry, Mrs Wilde.’

She wanted to tear the letter into shreds and throw it into the bin, but something held her back and she simply slapped it angrily down on the table. She’d keep the bloody thing as a reminder not to get her hopes up about anything important ever again.

Since Tom had gone off on his jaunt to Germany she had been living in a heightened state of anticipation. She had been certain she would get a place at Bart’s. Dear God, she had the academic background and she had been brought up in a medical household. More importantly, perhaps, her father had served as a houseman at Bart’s. After dabbling in poetry, publishing and left-wing political debate, this was the career she had been waiting for all her life. She had always done well at chemistry and human anatomy.

She had been so certain of success that she had placed an advertisement in the Cambridge Daily News for a nanny to help with Johnny when she was away in London. She had received a good number of applications and had already interviewed half a dozen of the more likely ones.

Her thought was that it should be someone young, clever and full of energy; perhaps a war widow who needed work and a place to live. Maybe someone with a young child of her own to care for; he or she would be company for Johnny.

And now this. She had placed all her eggs in the one basket. What would Tom say? Well, of course, she knew very well what he would say – he would tell her to apply to the other medical schools sharpish. He was right, of course. But she had a horrible feeling she would get the same reply elsewhere.

Perhaps she should wander down to the college. Someone there might know about places that accepted women and girls. Yes, she’d do that. The senior tutor would point her in the right direction. Or talk to their good friend Rupert Weir; as a GP and police surgeon he might have some insights.