Catching sight of myself in the mirror I am forced to admit that the look of despair that I received earlier might have been warranted. My long, dark hair is bundled on top of my head in a style that most closely resembles the rooks’ nests that tangle in the treetops outside my window. The ends that have tumbled down from the hastily inserted hairpins are sodden, dripping on to the soft material of my dress – once a pale blue, but now a dirty grey, and streaked with grass stains, dark swathes of mud and several paw prints. The dress is old, like everything else in my wardrobe, and slightly too small for me, pulling tight across my chest and hips. Unlike my mother I am built on sturdy lines, more a reliable workhorse than a high-bred filly.

I turn away from my reflection and prepare to do battle with my appearance. I have less than thirty minutes before the guests are due to start arriving, and the thought is not a particularly inspiring one. At least this dinner party will be something different, I tell myself, aiming for optimism. At least it will actually involve other people. Perhaps it will be a resounding success and my parents will be so delighted by my model behaviour that I’ll avoid a further scolding over the glow-worms and the lake and the bare feet.

I fall to my knees and lift my hairbrush to my lips before raising it aloft, pledging my troth like a knight of old. “I solemnly swear,” I say, “that this time nothing will go wrong and I will be a perfect daughter.”

Full of hope and good cheer I clamber back to my feet and head for the bathroom to wash off the grime from the lake and transform myself into a proper young lady.

Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

It is exactly twenty-six minutes later, and all is going according to plan. I am as neat and tidy as it is possible for me to be. My clean, brushed hair is swept back in a long, smooth braid, and my soft lilac dress is perfectly acceptable, if an inch or two too short and a deep breath or two too tight. I am standing next to Mother in the hallway, greeting guests with a charming smile and making the sort of small talk that not even our fusty old vicar can find fault with.

He is, of course, in attendance, with his equally sour-faced wife. Their attitude towards my family is a confused mix of deference to our ancient name, and spiteful pleasure in our reduced circumstances. They are vocal in their disapproval of almost everything I say and do and, unfortunately, the vicar’s disapproval often comes in the form of lengthy bible quotes.

Now, though, I am listening sympathetically as they tell me about one of their horrible children who has a head cold.