The first course of the meal came, and Lou took a few mouthfuls without noticing what it was. She drank her wine. When the fish course was placed before her, she recoiled. A trout lay on a bed of wilted spinach, dead eyes fixed on her, its silver skin pulled back to reveal tender pink flesh beneath. Beside her, George tore into the poor fish on his plate, exposing its tiny, fragile skeleton. Lou fingered the prongs of her fork. A well-placed thrust into George Caxton’s side now, and this could all be over. Her plate was removed to make way for the main course. She drank more wine.

‘As well as constructing his new stable block, Father has commissioned an architect to design a conservatory to house his pineapples,’ George said, directing his words towards the head of the table. ‘It’s his latest fancy, don’t you know.’

Sir Charles chewed his food slowly, hooking his index finger over his top lip. ‘That sounds like a splendid idea. A man must be allowed to indulge his passions, so far as he is able.’

‘Father’s never been shy of indulging his passions,’ George scoffed. ‘This conservatory business is costing a king’s ransom, but it all adds to the value of the estate. It’s a sound investment for the future.’

Lou fixed her gaze on the little white caps, like chefs’ hats, obscuring the bones protruding from the lamb cutlets on her plate. She wanted to stick her fingers in her ears to block out George rubbing Sir Charles’ nose in the Caxton wealth. All of Sir Charles’ responses were suitably diplomatic, but it had to smart.

George carved a chunk of meat and shovelled it into his mouth. ‘From the plans I’ve seen,’ he said, talking as he chewed, ‘I dare say it will be larger than this whole wing of Hill House.’ He waved his knife in the air as though to indicate size. ‘Possibly even the whole of your ground floor.’

‘Oh, George, you do exaggerate,’ Emma interrupted, laughing. ‘It’s nowhere near as large. Besides, not all of us want to live in a house with so many vast rooms that one couldn’t possibly ever use them all. Some of us would prefer a more intimate home.’

At the far end of the table, Tom sat mutely beside his father. Why wasn’t he standing up to George as he had earlier in the day with Ambrose? How could he and the rest of the Mandevilles bear to sit around their exquisitely laid table while George filled his face with their food, repaying their generosity with insults? If Lou had her way, she would have taken one of the strands of ivy decorating the tablecloth and strangled him with it. Didn’t they know, couldn’t they see, what he had planned for them? She slumped back in her chair. Of course they couldn’t.

‘At any rate,’ Lady Mandeville interjected, smiling a little too sweetly, ‘Hill House will more than serve for the ball, I’m sure.’