Isobel blushed. ‘The seeds were. The rosemary was a cutting from his allotment. He’s always telling me we could grow more in the garden here.’

‘Is he indeed?’

Isobel felt some sort of explanation was needed. ‘We just share a few words when he brings the parcels. It’s been the same postman now for all the time I’ve been here.’ She tried to change the subject. ‘How do you cook the parsnips with honey?’

‘I can’t really remember. I just thought we could try it. Like roast potatoes, I suppose; part cook them and then toss them in the honey and sprinkle sage on top, or thyme, perhaps.’

‘Or both?’

‘Quite possibly.’

‘And then you just roast them in the oven?’ Isobel was willing to try anything if it stopped Ursula asking about the postman. She didn’t want her supply of Edinburgh Rock and boilings to stop.

‘Why don’t you try it with a bit of golden syrup the first time you do it? That will be less wasteful if it doesn’t work.’ Ursula picked up the parcel. ‘Now what I actually came in here for is a pair of scissors, to cut this string. Are they in the middle drawer?’

Isobel held her hand out for the package. ‘I can undo those knots for you if you like. It won’t take a minute, and string is always useful for tying a cloth around the top of the bowl when I’m making a steamed pudding.’

Ursula shrugged. ‘You can try if you want; they look very tight to me.’

But in no more than a minute or two, the string was untied and zigzagged in a twisted loop around Isobel’s fingers, making a sort of bow. She handed the loosely wrapped parcel back.

‘Thank you.’ Ursula turned to leave. ‘I’ll take it upstairs. The breakfast things are still to be cleared in the dining room and you’ll be able to get on with doing that if I’m not in the way.’

Isobel picked up the empty tray and hid her disappointment well. She, like Ann, was very keen to know what was inside the mysterious package.

Chapter 9

January 1911

The knock at the scullery door was hesitant, and Isobel didn’t hear it at first. She was concentrating on lifting a tray of jam tarts out of the oven and it was only when the knock came a second time that she glanced across at the kitchen window and saw the familiar face of the postman. She put the hot baking tin down on the table and hurried to answer the door.

‘Morning, Duncan. Come away in and get a heat in front of the range.’

‘You’re on your own, then?’

‘It’s just me for the next hour or so.’