‘Please, Miss Arnold,’ Mrs Moriarty said, holding out her open palm, ‘won’t you take a seat in the morning room, so that you might be more appropriately received.’

Unable to form a single word, Lou mutely acquiesced. She stopped just inside the room and stared in open-mouthed awe. Paintings of pastoral scenes in gilt frames hung on the dusky pink walls. An immense rug with a pattern of climbing roses covered the floor, and the sofas and chairs arranged around a low table before the fireplace were upholstered in pinks and greens, matching the velvet curtains at the three long windows looking out over the snow-covered drive. A display case packed with ornaments ran the entire length of the far wall, and a writing desk of pale wood and delicately turned legs stood in one of the windows. A fire in the hearth made this feminine room feel more welcoming, homelier, than Lou had ever imagined a room in Hill House would be.

Imagined! What was she thinking? She was imagining now. This wasn’t real. That painting of sheep grazing on a purple heather covered hillside and the gold-cased clock ticking on the mantelshelf were figments of her imagination. She was dreaming, yes, that was it; she was fast asleep at home, in bed, dreaming the most vivid dream of her life. She closed her eyes, fully expecting to find herself back in her bedroom when she opened them. Instead, she came face-to-face with her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace, and, for the second time in just minutes, she gasped. It was her, there was no doubt of that, but … she ran her fingers over the long blue skirt and pink blouse and touched the silver brooch at her neck. With her hair piled up and held in place by a silver slide, she looked … Edwardian.

‘It’s French.’

Lou wheeled around. A woman had entered the morning room.

‘Rococo,’ the woman added, pointing to the mirror. ‘And a rather exquisite example. It’s been here as long as the house. Mrs Leonora Hart.’ She held out her hand to shake Lou’s. ‘And you must be Miss Louisa Arnold.’

‘Yes, yes, I am, but …’

‘I’m sure after your journey you won’t say no to a spot of tea, unless you’d rather change out of your travelling clothes first?’

Change? Into what? A hippopotamus? A giraffe? A tiger leaping from a pomegranate? ‘No. I’m fine. Thank you.’

‘I can see that you are a young woman after my own heart.’ Mrs Hart smiled. She encouraged Lou to sit next to her on one of the sofas and pulled a cord beside the fireplace. She ordered tea from the maid who answered, and Lou noticed how the tasselled, jade-green shawl around Mrs Hart’s shoulders gave her an exotic air, quite at odds with this conservative room.

The maid left, and Mrs Hart turned to Lou. ‘I have to say, the letter from Elizabeth Goodwill rather came out of the blue. I’m afraid we lost contact after she married and went out to Calcutta with the Major. It’s awful how we can allow good friends to drop from our lives. Still, Elizabeth was always an impeccable judge of character, so when she recommended you and said you needed a place to stay, I was glad to help.’