Ursula continues to smoke in silence for a moment, her eyes half closed as though she is considering her answer. “I think it will be entertaining,” she says finally.

“Entertaining?” I repeat in surprise.

She gives me a thoughtful look. “I underestimated you, Bea,” she says. “I thought at first that you were just another of those upper-class English girls. Simple, sheltered.”

“I am sheltered,” I say. “I’ve lived almost all of my life within about a five-mile radius.”

“But not up here.” Ursula touches a finger to her forehead. “You’re sharp, Bea.” She pauses again. “I think you could be good for Ben. And,” she says slowly, tapping her cigarette so that the ash falls, “I think he could be good for you.”

“Good for me?” I ask. “How?”

“Ben likes you, I can tell. And I believe he will prove to be a satisfactory lover.” Her eyes meet mine and she smiles. “However” – her tone changes, becomes more brisk – “I do not believe it will be a lasting affair. He is not a lasting affair sort of person, and that will suit you perfectly. What you need, Bea, is an adventure.”

I consider this. “Well, I certainly agree with that,” I say. “But why do you think I will be good for Ben?”

Ursula smiles, a smile that shows off all her teeth. “Because Ben’s ego needs puncturing, and you, my dear, are a perfectly sharpened pin.”

“Thank you,” I say wryly. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.”

We sit quietly, as I try to arrange my thoughts. Finally, I decide to share something that’s been worrying me.

“The way I … react to Ben,” I say carefully, “when he stands near me, or when he touches me…” I pause. “It’s strange. It feels … unpredictable, like it’s outside of my control.” I risk meeting her eyes. “I’m not sure if I like that.”

Ursula sighs again, more lustily this time. “Beatrice, my sweet innocent. What you describe is the beginning of any love affair. Don’t you understand that?” She shakes her head. “No, you don’t; but you will. You say you wish to live, Bea. Well, then you must take risks. You must make yourself vulnerable. You can shut yourself away in a cold, lonely house in England and keep your heart perfectly intact – but you will live only half a life.”

I think about this for a moment. Ursula is right, I decide. I may rail against my parents, against Langton, but all the same I have been afraid of what was waiting for me beyond those walls in a world that is messy and unpredictable, a world that doesn’t follow the careful rules I apply to my studies.

“You’re only two years older than me, Ursula,” I say. “How did you get to know so much?”