When I look back to that time now, I ask myself what evil twist of fate it was that robbed me of my strength, of my power to intervene. If only I had not been so ill myself, perhaps I could have prevented what happened next from taking place. Or was my sickness a premonition, a resurgence of the terror that erupted with Mother’s death and resurfaced again with Stella’s? Was it a way of shielding myself from this new nightmare? As if by losing control the agony could not touch me.

Thoby. His smile was my smile as we mirrored each other’s expressions, his body my body as we chased each other under the nursery table or set off in pursuit of a toy. When he was diagnosed with typhoid I did not believe he could die. How could I admit that what was part of me was no more? It was inconceivable that he would not survive the operation the doctors ordered. I stared at his body laid out ready for burial, dry-eyed.

Once again it was your grief that allowed me to pass safely over the vortex, or so I thought at the time. I went on with my life while you wept. I wrote to Clive.

My body, languorous and feline, thrilling to his every move. Despite all that happened later, I will never forget the gift Clive made to me then. I cast around for images. Those that come immediately to mind, of fire or water or the sudden blossoming of fruit trees in the spring, are tired and imprecise. It was as if his gentle, practiced fingers slowly stroked away a layer of dull varnish, releasing the hues and textures of the paint so that the figure could come alive at last. I did not know it was possible to experience such pleasure in one’s body. We spent long afternoons learning the secrets of each other’s delight. We netted life in the warmth of our embraces and together banished all thoughts of death. For the moment we were inviolable.

The clip clop of the horses’ hooves as I drive in the carriage George has borrowed for my wedding day signals the start of a new era. I smooth the satin folds of my dress and wonder at what I am about to do. I think of Mother’s admonitions, her insistence that marriage is the goal of a woman’s life. I am fulfilling her prophecy. I feel a glow of satisfaction as I reflect that I have done it all on my own. The man I am about to marry is of my choosing.

I am so happy I hardly take in the ceremony. There is a hail of confetti as we come out of the church. Clive takes my arm and steers me through the groups of well-wishers. I gaze at the streets on the way to the station through a veil of hope.