‘Yes, her ladyship lived in London part of the year, for the season, you know, and also in Galway. She had a lovely house just outside the town.’

‘You worked for her for many years,’ Mrs Wilson commented, glancing at the reference again, and then staring at Moira.

‘I did. I lived with her as a child; what I mean is I lived in her two homes because my mother was her housekeeper and my father the butler for Lord and Lady Fitzgerald Chandler.’

‘I understand,’ Mrs Wilson murmured, and rose. ‘Come along. I’ll take you upstairs and my housekeeper will show you your room, and we will discuss your wages and other matters.’

‘Yes, of course, Mrs Wilson.’

Once Moira was alone, she walked around the room which Mrs Wilson’s housekeeper had told her would now – as a lady’s maid – be hers. It was at the far end of the main bedroom corridor. Compact in size, it was nonetheless comfortable, with a single bed with a headboard, a chest of drawers and a sturdy wardrobe, all made of a warm dark wood. There was a rug covering the wooden floor and a small chair near the fireplace. A large window let in lots of light and the long green-and-blue curtains matched the upholstery of the chair.

Moira put her carpetbag on the bed and carefully took out the few clothes. She then reached for the photograph frame wrapped in a nightgown. After unwrapping it, she took out the silver frame and stared at the woman in the picture. Tears sprang into her eyes and she went and sat in the chair, taking deep breaths.

‘I miss you so much. I’ll miss you all my life,’ she whispered to the photograph. ‘Until the day I die, and I come to you in Heaven.’

The tears rolled down Moira’s cheeks and splashed onto the glass, blurring the woman’s beautiful face. She reached into the pocket of her dress, took out a handkerchief and wiped the glass, then held the frame close to her heart.

Moira closed her eyes, remembering … She knew then that she would always have these memories to draw on, to keep her sane in this awful world, to comfort her in times of trouble. She had belonged to them, and their imprint was on her, every part of her.

She had their manners, their way of speaking, and they had educated her, recognizing her fierce intellect, her love of books, her curiosity and cleverness. They had made her who and what she was … their creation in every way.

But now they were gone, and she would have to make her own way in the world.

After a while, Moira stood up and went to the chest. She placed the silver frame in the middle drawer, then covered it with her underclothes. Once she had unpacked the carpetbag, she put it away in a closet.