I stare at the floor. I do not know what to say.

“Ness . . . I was thinking about Mother the other night. Do you remember, when she died, how terrified we were when the undertakers came to take away her body?”

I gulp. I see the two of us clinging to each other on the landing as the men carry Mother’s coffin down the stairs. I rally. I must not let you drag me back to the past. Through the open door I hear snatches of music.

“You’ll find someone. You could marry tomorrow if only you would let yourself.”

I catch your surprise and drive my point home.

“Walter is clearly smitten. He can hardly take his eyes off you. And Lytton tells anyone who will listen that you are the most brilliant woman he knows.”

You are gazing at me now, your face flushed.

“You’re beautiful, Billy. Men are interested in you. All they need is for you to encourage them a little.”

I hold out my arm. You slip your coat from your shoulders and link yours through mine. I lead you back to the party.

What law is it that says one will be confronted by the very thing one loathes? You always teased me for my tendency to exaggerate, but even I cannot do justice to the awfulness of Cleeve House. There were many problems in growing up as we did but there were also compensations. We were surrounded by examples of achievement born from endeavor. The benefits of hard work were inculcated in us from an early age. Clive’s family home could not have been more different. How shall I describe its deadly blend of leisure without purpose, lavishness without taste? The snobbery and prejudices of Clive’s parents and sisters turned every encounter into a trying ordeal. The extended visits Clive insisted on were the first hurdles I had to navigate in our marriage. I was accustomed to painting for several hours each day and felt frustrated when I could not. I grew restless. I began to dream of escape.