With Finlay and Ann at school, and John at work, she realised she was alone in the house for the first time since the wedding. There was Isobel, of course, but she didn’t count. Not really.

At the end of the hall, past the big staircase on the right, was the first of a pair of doors that led to the kitchen and scullery, one door set at right angles to the next. She opened each one in turn; a curious arrangement, she thought, but clearly designed to avoid noise and cooking smells from making their way into the house, while at the same time preventing any glimpse of the place where the work really happened.

She could see Isobel standing at the draining board in the scullery, peeling carrots, swaying from side to side and singing, slightly out of tune. Labelled canisters of flour and sugar and oatmeal had been set out on the wooden kitchen table, along with a green tin of treacle, in preparation for the morning’s baking session. Ursula watched the young woman working. In the short time since the wedding, she had waited to see how things were done in the house. Her experience as John’s secretary had taught her that there was no point in rushing to change what might not be broken. Isobel had served basic meals which might be described as satisfactory rather than exciting. Even Christmas dinner had been quite a simple affair. Ursula hadn’t felt able to start any new traditions, but it had turned out there were no old ones worth keeping anyway. It was time to be a little more assertive.

She needed to understand everything there was to know about the running of the house: ordering the groceries, doing the accounts, arranging the laundry collections, and supervising the cooking and cleaning. Other married women managed their households efficiently so there was no reason she shouldn’t be able to accomplish it, even though she had come to the job rather later than most. It was the start of a new year, and a new life, and it was time to take charge. She tried to ignore the butterflies in her stomach.

Isobel finished the carrots and swept the orange slivers into a bucket with the side of her hand. She turned to walk back into the kitchen and stopped suddenly when she saw Ursula.

‘I beg your pardon, Miss Smith. I mean Mrs Black. I didn’t hear you come in.’

Ursula smiled briefly. Even smiling was a worry. How to be polite and command respect, but at the same time never be over-friendly, which, she had been told by her mother many years earlier, was the worst thing to do when you were dealing with staff.

‘I suppose I will get used to walking into this house without knocking, now that I live here.’