‘I’m not sure that I do. I’m confused. I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t anymore.’

‘We are all real, Louisa. You, me, Tom, Emma, here and now, this is the reality that we share.’

Drawn to them as she was, Lou refused to look at Tom and Emma again. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t feel very well.’

Mrs Hart took Lou’s hand. This small act of kindness made Lou swallow hard.

‘Go up to your room,’ Mrs Hart said. ‘I’ll smooth your exit with Lady Mandeville. But, please, don’t be so harsh on yourself. Whatever happens will be for the best, for you and for us. I’m sure of it. You are more than equal to whatever task has been set for you.’

Lying in the darkness, Lou stared up at the ceiling and listened to the sounds of the house. After what felt like hours, she heard footsteps in the corridor; people gradually winding their way up to bed. The women came first – their footsteps light, their voices hushed – the men later, louder, heavy-footed, some laughing, having had their fill of Sir Charles’ cellar. When it all subsided, Lou was left with only confusion for company.

She tried to focus on her plans for helping the Mandevilles, but her thoughts were continually dragged back to wondering what was happening in the room along the corridor. Had the occupant removed his tie? Had he slipped out of his tailcoat and draped it over the chair at the desk? Was he sitting in the armchair beside the fire, legs relaxed, top shirt button open, the ice in a nightcap chinking against the glass as he took a drink, the warmth swirling down his throat and into his chest? Finally, she shone a light into the dim recesses of her mind. Lurking in the corner, doing its best to shrink from the light, was the truth. The truth that she had fallen for Tom. Hook. Line. Sinker. It was the worst situation imaginable. It would cloud her judgement when she needed to stay sharp. As Mrs Hart had reminded her, in no uncertain terms, these people were real. They were relying on her to help them.

26

Christmas Eve 1913

From beneath the protection of the bedclothes, Lou watched Sally balance her morning tray on the bedside table before leaving to see to some of the other guests.

When Sally returned, over an hour later, to draw the curtains, she raised an eyebrow at the full cup of tea, the congealed butter on the cold toast and at Lou, still cocooned in her blankets.

‘Are you sickening for something?’ Sally asked.

‘Not exactly.’

‘Will you be going down to breakfast?’

‘Yes,’ Lou sighed. ‘I’ll be going down for breakfast.’

If she failed to make an appearance, suspicions would be raised. People would come to check on her, and she didn’t want that. She wanted to stay in the background and away from any kind of scrutiny. She still hadn’t come up with a plan. Any prospect of bringing George to his knees felt as far away as ever. If she sat at the breakfast table and said nothing, she could slip between the cracks in conversation and everyone’s attention.