Mrs Hart smiled indulgently. ‘Indeed, we did. My intention, Louisa, was to give my niece an education in art and music; instead, I spent most of the month fending off potential suitors. But Charlotte is above such silly things as admirers, aren’t you, my dear?’

Charlotte’s cheeks flushed. She held the plate to Lou. ‘Please, Louisa, won’t you try one.’ Sensing Charlotte’s embarrassment and her desperation for a diversion from talk of romance, Lou took a biscuit and bit into its buttery surface. It melted on her tongue.

‘How would you describe it?’ Charlotte asked, placing the plate back on the tray.

Lou thought for a moment. ‘Like eating a mouthful of cloud.’

‘Yes, it is! How perceptive you are.’ Charlotte clapped in delight and collected up her newspaper. ‘There’s a fascinating story in here about a scientist in the Lake District who’s attempting to capture a cloud in a huge net so that he can study its construction and design a machine to shoot clouds into the sky to make rain in very dry climates. How clever! Have you read it?’

Lou said that she hadn’t, and Charlotte proceeded to recount every detail she could remember. Mrs Hart threw herself into the conversation wholeheartedly, humouring her niece and steering her back on track when her enthusiasm veered off on to scientific fantasy rather than fact. There was real affection between the aunt and the niece; gentle laughs, a shared language of short cuts and in-jokes. Lou experienced a pang of longing. By way of distraction, she studied the ornaments in the display cabinet; small vases decorated with Highland scenes of stags on high, craggy peaks and delicate porcelain creatures – foxes, hedgehogs, badgers. A wave of tiredness washed over her. She attempted to stifle a yawn, but Mrs Hart, who seemed to miss nothing, saw her.

‘Charlotte, dear,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid that we have lost Louisa somewhere in our conversation.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Lou said. ‘I didn’t mean to be rude.’ Although, surely, rather than fall asleep, she was about to wake up.

Mrs Hart held up her hand. ‘There should never be the need for apologies between friends. I’ll ring for Jones to show you to your room. I’m sure you will be glad of a rest before dinner.’

‘Thank you, yes, I’d be glad of that.’

Glad of that! When had she started to talk like Bobbie from The Railway Children? All the rainy Saturday afternoons spent immersed in Nesbit, Kipling and Hodgson Burnett hadn’t gone to waste after all. At least she was managing to sound like these people.

Mrs Hart pulled the cord to summon the maid. She appeared within seconds. ‘Rest well,’ Mrs Hart said as Lou followed the maid from the room.

‘Dinner is at eight o’clock sharp,’ Charlotte called after her. ‘Don’t be late! Mother does not tolerate tardiness.’

Lou followed the maid, Jones, across the hall, her heels clicking on the mosaic floor. Up the stairs they went, up the scarlet carpet, Lou running her fingers along the handrail. The maid showed her to a room at the front of the house on the first floor with a pale wooden dressing table positioned between two tall windows and a matching wardrobe on the opposite wall. Beside the bed, a door stood open, leading to a bathroom.