After dressing in a loose skirt and a blouse and washing down two pills with three glasses of water, Lou began to feel vaguely human. With a slice of cold toast clenched between her teeth, she wandered to the window. A fleet of cars had converged down on the drive, and a swarm of men in tweeds milled around in small groups, drinking steaming liquid from tiny metal tumblers, their breath white in the morning mist. Other men, dressed in plain breeches, loaded shotguns and boxes on to an open-backed truck while a pack of dogs sniffed around the snow.

Lou spotted Sir Charles and Edward in a group of men along with George Caxton and a man of a similar build but with a shock of white hair. He bore enough of a resemblance for Lou to realise that he must be George’s father, Lord Caxton. Another man emerged from beneath the portico to join Sir Charles’ group. Lou ducked behind the curtains. This was ridiculous: there was no way anybody could see her all the way up here. She peered down at the top of the new arrival’s head, noticing how the damp air had caused his hair to wave.

She sat down on the edge of the bed and gripped the bedspread. Only once she heard the sound of the cars pulling away, did she allow herself to get up and look out of the window. The men, the dogs and the cars were gone, leaving just footprints, paw prints and tyre tracks in the snow. She stared at the spot where the owner of the wavy hair had stood, trying to pinpoint which of the footprints were his. For crying out loud! She couldn’t even look at Tom without noticing his wavy hair, and now, here she was, staring at an empty space, picturing him still there, like some crazed madwoman in the attic. She had allowed herself to get too close to him, blurring the lines between friendship and … well, friendship and something else that wasn’t there at all. Something that was playing a trick on her because she was grateful for his kindness. Her mind was made up. She would avoid Tom completely. If she allowed her thoughts to get carried away when they were separated by glass, what would she do if she were ever alone with him again?

Channelling her energy into the task at hand, she threw open the wardrobe door and ran her hand along the dresses, jostling for space on the rail. Opening drawers, she rifled through neatly arranged underwear, evening gloves, stockings, and cushioned boxes full of gold and gems. Who needed this many things? She certainly didn’t. Spreading a tasselled shawl on the bed, she began to fill it with small items – costume jewellery, gloves, scarves – anything that looked like it might bring modest sums at a pawnbroker without raising suspicion. She threw herself into the task, feeling like Father Christmas, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny, all rolled into one. When she was satisfied that it was enough, she secured the ends of the shawl in a bow. If Sally asked where everything had gone, she could say honestly that she had made a donation to a worthy cause.