“Yes,” I murmur, my mind more than half on the snail hunt I’m going to have to perform under cover of darkness later on, “summer colds really are the most upsetting.”

I feel Mother start to relax beside me, and her voice becomes increasingly musical as she falls into the role of hostess that she so enjoys.

“Ah, Philip,” she exclaims happily. Philip Astley is our nearest neighbour – his far-more-financially-secure estate borders our own, and he is a perfectly nice, if deeply boring, man who has known my parents for years and years and doesn’t know how to deal with me now that I am no longer a small child that he can pat on the head.

After clapping the top of my arm enthusiastically enough to leave a bruise while muttering, “Capital, capital!” he leans in to press a perfunctory kiss on Mother’s cheek.

“Looking beautiful, Delilah, as always,” he says gallantly and Mother makes a pleased humming sound at the back of her throat before her eyes fall on the young man who is following in Philip’s wake.

“Thank you, Philip.” Her voice is a smile now; she looks just like the proverbial cat presented with a very large dish of cream. “And this must be your nephew. I’m so glad you could come along and join the party. You haven’t been here since you were a boy. We’re sadly lacking in young company, and I know Beatrice will be thrilled to see you.” Her eyes meet mine and she lifts her eyebrows. Something in her gaze immediately puts me on guard.

I behold the vision before me. Philip Astley’s nephew is around my age, about two inches smaller than me and possessed of the sort of blank gaze more typically found in grazing animals. None of that matters to my mother, of course, because I realize that standing before me is the heir to the Astley fortune.

It feels suddenly as though a lead weight has settled in my stomach. This whole dinner party is a matchmaking trap and I have tripped into it as blindly as any blissfully ignorant woodland creature. I briefly squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that when I open them the scene around me will have magically resolved itself into something else. My heart pulses erratically in my chest as I conclude that my parents have moved past heavy-handed hints about marriage and decided to take action.

“How do you do?” I manage, holding out my hand while shooting a quick glare at Mother that she blithely ignores. Frustration hums inside me.

“Hello,” the nephew says, offering up a damp, limp handshake. “I’m Cuthbert.”

Despite the terrible circumstances I feel a pang for him then. The poor boy never stood a chance – however is a person supposed to distinguish himself when saddled with a name like Cuthbert?

“Beatrice,” I say, shaking his hand then surreptitiously wiping my palm on my dress.