Maggie hesitated, suddenly feeling like an imposter. Thank goodness she was wearing Charity’s outfit. Without it, she’d probably have been sent round to the servants’ entrance.

Charity had insisted on lending her a grey woollen overcoat and it was quite the smartest thing Maggie had ever worn. It had a sheepskin collar and cuffs and three large buttons. As Maggie walked, it swung out effortlessly from the waist. There was a matching hat, too: grey wool, with a feather at the side, so different from her usual pudding basin felt hat.

Charity had placed the hat on Maggie’s head and stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘There, you look quite the part!’

‘You’re quite sure you don’t mind?’

‘When do I ever get the chance to wear them here, spreading manure or digging up sprouts? No, the coat and hat will enjoy themselves tremendously, swanning about on Park Lane!’

Maggie had laughed. She was hardly going to be ‘swanning about’ but at least she didn’t look too out of place. She watched now as another woman walked confidently up the steps and into the hotel on the arm of a uniformed officer. Yes, Maggie thought, I look as good as her.

She felt a twinge of guilt about keeping Jack’s proposal from Charity but she didn’t want to be dissuaded. Charity didn’t approve of him; in fact, she didn’t really approve of marriage at all. This was something she had to decide for herself.

‘Could I leave this suitcase for one of your guests, please?’ Maggie asked at reception. She’d had to wait a few minutes to be attended to but when she added, ‘It’s for Lady Ashford,’ the man behind the desk perked up.

‘Yes of course, Madam! And who shall I say—’

‘MARY!’

Maggie turned. She knew that plummy voice. Lady Ashford was almost skipping across the reception towards her. She looked exquisite, in a blue day dress, nipped in at the waist, with padded shoulders and high heels, her dark hair tumbling to her shoulders.

She sashayed towards Maggie like a mannequin in one of Miss Sharp’s Vogue magazines and everyone turned to look: the man on the desk, the bell boy pulling a luggage trolley towards the lift and other guests milling around in the reception. A woman placed her hand under her husband’s chin and shut his mouth. Not gently, either.

‘This is awfully good of you, Mary,’ Lady Ashford said in her clipped voice. ‘Now, no dashing off. I insist you stay for morning tea, at the very least.’ She must have noticed Maggie’s hesitation because she added, ‘Or coffee, if you prefer?’

Maggie bit her lip. It was bound to be real coffee here, not that horrid treacly Camp coffee they served at Snowden which was only good for tanning your legs and which, Jack had assured her, was nothing like the real thing.