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I found myself at the same table as Lester and ended up partnering him at bridge.

That game, being my strength – I do not believe there is a shrewder player than I in our petit monde – induced Lester to express his most sincere gratitude for my aptitude and cunning, for we made a mockery of our opponents and collected some impressive winnings.

Nothing to Lester, really, for he likes to gamble big.

I do not. I intend to live into grand old age with my wealth intact.

I dare say, Lester will marry someone with a bottomless pit of gold.

I do hope so, for he will need it. Still, we were friends tonight and that made me surprisingly happy.

I do love my nephew. I simply wish that he were more sensible.

As for Bertha, she is a sorry sight. She drinks too much and most often loses at cards.

Indeed, for London’s most enthusiastic gossip vultures, the Viscountess Ravenglass is surely a juicy meal.

But I must be grateful that she is not yet interested in flirtations and as for marrying again, that appears unlikely.

The manner in which she gambles away her money will put off any prospective suitor with more than one brain cell and a desire to hold on to his fortune.

She sent my dear brother to an early grave, God rest his soul.

I trust no sensible man will go near this most misguided and foolish of widows!

Saturday, 17th June, 1911

What a glorious day! Forty thousand suffragettes marched from Westminster to the Albert Hall dressed in white in support of the poor suffragette prisoners languishing at His Majesty’s pleasure in Holloway.

What an exhilarating experience it was to be among the marchers.

The atmosphere was peaceful but determined, and included many different suffrage societies.

Never before has there been such a procession.

There were floats, banners, fancy dress, all led by our own brave general, Flora Drummond, on horseback.

Women came from all corners of the earth and from all walks of life, united in our common goal.

VOTES FOR WOMEN. What a turn out! What a triumph!

The route was ten people deep with spectators and bystanders.

The PM can no longer claim that most women are not interested in being given the vote!

Bertha, I imagine, was at home, filing her nails, but so many of my dear friends were out in force.

We women number over half of the nation’s population.

We are loyal subjects of the King. We deserve, no, we demand, to be heard!

Tuesday, 20th June, 1911

I am wild with excitement. I have met Orlando – I rather fancy myself as Rosalind, being quick-witted and formidable.

To be sure, she is my favourite character in all of Shakespeare’s plays.

But let me start at the beginning. I am almost too agitated to write.

Indeed, my pen is trembling in my hand. But I will take my time and draw it out, because I am quite smitten and now the world looks different!

It was a hot evening when I arrived at Bertha’s coronation party.

I have never known a hotter June. A thick haze hung over Hyde Park.

The air was sugar-scented, the light soft as the sun sunk in the sky and the moon, like a giant grapefruit, assumed her place.

There could not have been a more perfect setting for our encounter. Comme c’est romantique !

London is thrumming with activity, for the coronation is but two days away.

Bertha has decorated her garden with Union Jack bunting and embellished little cakes with golden crowns.

Her box hedges were clipped to perfection and the purple delphiniums had never looked so lavish.

Indeed, her garden is ravishing. She takes pride in collecting people and, to be sure, everyone was there.

She was crowing about the three dukes: Bedford, Beauford and Marlborough, and many other big beasts besides, who had graced her celebration, but I was more interested in Lady V, who is a keen fellow member of the WSPU.

She and I had an interesting conversation while Bertha fluttered from duke to duke like a butterfly high on nectar.

Lester, raffish in a straw boater, jaunty striped jacket and lively sea-green waistcoat that brought out the unusual colour of his eyes, did look mightily handsome.

He was on excellent form. We were enjoying some lively repartee when my eye was drawn to a group of guests I did not know.

A gentleman, three pretty young ladies and an older woman of about my age who had the imperious gaze of a duchess.

They had just come out of the house and were standing at the top of the steps that led into the garden.

I assumed, at first sight, that they were a couple with their three daughters, but, mercifully as it turned out, I was quite wrong.

‘Who are they?’ I asked Lester, my interest piqued by the gentleman who stood out on account of his height.

He had greying, mouse-brown hair, a gentle gaze and a slight stoop – there was something about the sensitivity of his expression that drew my eye.

‘They, my dear Constance, are the Aldershoffs. One of the richest families in America. They own one of the most valuable diamonds in the world! Imagine that! A Russian diamond, no less. Mother has recently added them to her collection. You see the beauty that stands a little to the left of her aunt?’ I most certainly did.

She was fine-boned and flaxen-haired, with a waspish waist and an elegant deportment.

‘She is Esme Aldershoff, daughter of Walter-Wyatt and Alice of New York. Is she not lovely?’

‘She is a picture of loveliness,’ I replied. ‘The gentleman – is he Walter-Wyatt?’

‘No, he is a cousin of Esme’s mother, Alice. His daughter is the plain one in the pink dress, on his right.’ The mention of his daughter made my heart sink. Where there is a daughter, there is sure to be a mother.

‘And the older lady is his wife?’

‘She is Walter-Wyatt’s sister, Mrs Willesden. They have all been in Italy.’ I was relieved that the gentleman and Mrs Willesden were not a married couple.

‘Does the gentleman have a wife?’ I asked, trying to keep the hope out of my voice.

‘Widowed, some years ago,’ said Lester.

‘How very tragic,’ I replied, but I admit that, apart from compassion for his motherless daughter and for his loss, I felt a twinge of joy for myself. Est-ce que c’est mauvais ? ‘Do introduce us,’ I said.

The group descended the steps, and Lester and I weaved through the throng to meet them.

One or two people attempted to attract my attention, but I was not to be diverted.

I was single-minded in my desire to meet this intriguing gentleman, to whom I had already given the heroic name Orlando!

I was not to be disappointed. He is every bit the Orlando of fame.

Mrs Willesden – Hope is her name – has the steady, lofty gaze of a woman who is used to being respected and admired.

Her face is handsome, her nose long and straight, her lips thin but not unattractive.

She is elegant and expensively dressed. When I commented upon her dress, she was quick to tell me that it was from Worth.

Of course it was! I do not imagine she gets her dresses fashioned anywhere else but in Paris.

Her daughter is winsome yet inferior to her cousin Esme in both looks and manner.

Orlando’s daughter is shy with a long face and her father’s gentle eyes.

I sensed she was accustomed to being overshadowed by her cousins and content to remain so.

I do believe she is a few years younger than they are, which perhaps accounts for her timidity.

In any case, I was not interested in the girls and was only too happy to leave them to Lester and offer the gentleman my hand.

No sooner did he take it than I was ready to offer him my heart as well, and most enthusiastically.

It was quite extraordinary. I have never been so taken with anyone in my life.

It was as if I had suddenly awoken from a sleep.

I have experienced lust and plenty of it, but romantic love? That has always eluded me. Was I now, at the grand age of thirty-eight, going to experience it for the first time? Could he be Orlando to my Rosalind?

Wednesday, 21st June, 1911

I called upon Bertha this morning for a postmortem.

As I suspected, she was still in bed when I arrived at midday!

I’m surprised the din outside her windows did not wake her up.

London is truly the gayest of cities in its pre-coronation excitement.

The route from Buckingham Palace to Westminster Abbey is already lined with people who have camped out for days in order to secure the best views of the King and Queen.

No one is a stranger. It is as if we are all friends and, as I walked around Hyde Park so as not to arrive too early at Bertha’s, I found myself chatting to all sorts of people.

I’m sure, after the coronation, we will retreat into our own little worlds again and the spirit of unity and friendliness will be lost.