“Yes, that’s quite enough of that,” Mother snaps, drawing herself up to a sitting position. “I do not wish to relive the conversation.” She glares at me. “This is the final straw, Beatrice. I’ve had all I can take of you behaving like a hoyden, scandalizing our neighbours, scrambling around the countryside in a complete state, collecting creepy-crawlies in jars and stuffing your head with Latin – and goodness only knows what those books are about, given the sort of conversation you find appropriate for the dinner table…”

I have to contain another nervous wave of laughter at the idea of my scandalous Latin reading. (As if I don’t know about the questionable romance novels she keeps hidden behind the plant pots in the greenhouse. Now those have been illuminating reading.)

“Well, I am sorry,” I say, feeling the sharp sting of regret that always inevitably follows my bad behaviour. “I know it was wrong of me, but I just couldn’t help myself. I mean, really, Mother, Cuthbert?”

She regards me in icy fury. “Cuthbert Astley was your last great hope, my girl!” She waves a finger dramatically in my face.

I snort derisively, even though a cold hand clutches at my heart at the desperation in her voice. “Cuthbert Astley is not likely to be described as anyone’s great hope, Mother, last or otherwise.” I keep my tone deliberately light.

“Oh, that’s just like you, Beatrice,” she exclaims, and I hear real worry in her voice. “You’re so pleased with yourself, but what will become of you when your father and I aren’t here to look after you?” She sniffs, pulling a rather crumpled white handkerchief from behind one of the sofa cushions.

I sink down on to the ground beside her and take her hand. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I know you worry, but honestly, I don’t think a husband is the answer. I could get a job, like I talked about…”

It’s Mother’s turn to snort now. “A job,” she scoffs.

“Well, why not?” I say. “I could join a profession. Plenty of women work, doing all sorts of things.”

“Not women in your position,” Mother says firmly, and she rubs her forehead tiredly.

I know that she would never understand my desire to work. Or even to study. The thought of studying, of going to a university to learn, perhaps even about science or medicine, from real experts, is a sudden ache in my chest, and I press my hand there for a second, as though trying to contain the feeling.

I haven’t even tried to talk to my parents about it. I know they wouldn’t approve, and it’s not as if I can afford to go anyway. Somehow, I can’t bear to have them dismiss this idea as they have done my others – it feels too precious.