Had my mother entered her boudoir then, I believe I might have run to her, though being seventeen I was too old for cuddles. Even so, there were brief occasions when, seemingly for no reason whatever, she would suddenly hug me to her and I would be conscious of the largeness of her breasts and the sweet, melting look in her eyes.

I was more about the house than my father who, when he was not in London on business, would do much shooting and riding. I did not care much for this, but my sisters, Adelaide and Bertha, did and would ride on white stallions which he preferred them to have instead of mares. I knew not why. He taught them to take horse as men do with the saddle in between their legs, my mother objecting and saying it was most unladylike and that she feared our neighbours would see. Often enough in Spring and Summer the three would ride out together after breakfast, not returning until lunchtime, flushed and bright.

Mother would not allow them to take lunch until they had bathed, which they did together to save water and to be quick while father strode about, smoked a cigar and snapped his crop against his legs. I thought my mother of an ill mood at such times, but later I better understood. Bertha was twenty and a strapping girl, rich in her curves and with a sultry lower lip. Adelaide, two years younger, but senior to me by eighteen months, was much the quieter of the pair and slimmer but well-formed. Their splashing together in the bath reminded me always of the sea-sound and the waves that lap upon the beach. They would laugh and splash each other. Mother would call out to them to be quiet. They heeded her, but then would start again. Mother would sigh and say, “I know no end to it.”

Father would take his paper up and read and not reply to her. I thought it rude of him, but adults then were a whole world apart.