There was a scuffle on the other side of the door and hushed voices.

‘Mr Bainbridge won’t be happy that people are wandering into the house without a by your leave,’ a young girl’s voice whispered. ‘I’d like to know how she found her way down here. And why would she want to find her way down here?’

‘She found her way on her feet, how do you think, you stupid girl,’ the chef answered dismissively. ‘And how Mr Bainbridge runs the house is no concern of yours. Do you reckon to know the role of a butler when you can hardly manage the job of kitchen maid? Go and pour two glasses of ale for Pennymore’s deliverymen, they are due any second. Even you cannot get that wrong.’

This was incredible; these people were staying in character even when they were on their own, incorporating her unexpected arrival into their Edwardian world.

With an ominous warning from the chef, connecting the girl’s continuing position in the house with how quickly she could clear the breakfast pots still in the sink, they left. Or so Lou thought.

‘Mary Parkinson!’ a woman whispered forcefully in a broad Belfast accent. ‘What on Earth do you think you are doing, sneaking around at my door?’

‘Sorry, Mrs Moriarty. I was keeping an eye on the visitor. We don’t know how she found her way down here or why and –’

‘When I need your appraisal of a situation, I shall be sure to ask for it. Until that time, get about your chores. If Monsieur Gotti has no need of you, then with all the bedrooms to air and make up, I am sure I can find a hundred and one things to gainfully employ your time.’

‘I’m to clean the pots from breakfast and pour the beer for the deliverymen,’ Mary added quickly.

‘Well, you better get on with it then. And change that filthy apron. What will it look like if the maids and kitchen staff arrive from Caxton Hall to find you looking like a waif dragged in from the workhouse? I don’t want them returning to Lady Caxton after Christmas saying I do not run an orderly household. Have you made up the rooms for them in the attic yet?’

‘Yes, Mrs Moriarty. Sorry, Mrs Moriarty.’

Footsteps hurried away up the corridor. The door opened, and a woman dressed entirely in black entered. With her auburn hair pulled back severely from her face, a single streak of white at each temple, she carried an aura of authority, intensified by the large chatelaine of keys hanging from a belt at her middle. She stood before Lou, her eyes dipped. There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘Good morning?’ Lou tried.

The woman looked up. ‘Good morning, madam,’ she said and curtseyed, her dress pooling like a black lake on the floor around her. ‘I am Mrs Moriarty, the housekeeper. I cannot apologise enough that nobody was here to greet you on your arrival. It is no excuse, but I’m afraid that with the preparations for the party this weekend, our normal routines are somewhat disturbed. Please, won’t you follow me?’