Tom seemed entirely at home. He spun his car sharply on the gravel approach and shot through an arch into a square paved yard. As he backed into an empty garage Helen saw a fleet of other cars similarly housed. Amongst them was Oliver’s black Jaguar.

Somewhere near here must be Jasper Thripp’s domain, with his basket of squirming beagle pups and his tack-room full of lovingly polished saddles. ‘An old ally of mine,’ Oliver had called him. Helen’s throat contracted as she remembered the day, and her stunned excitement at finding herself with Oliver.

Don’t think about that any more, she warned herself. Don’t think about it, or you won’t be able to endure this visit.

‘This way,’ Tom said easily, then smiled at her. ‘Don’t look so frightened. It’s all surface, you know. Doesn’t make any difference underneath.’

They were walking along a stone-flagged corridor, frugally carpeted, with bare white walls. Servants’ quarters again, Helen thought.

Finally Tom stopped at an open doorway and a rich Gloucestershire voice called out to them.

‘You’ve never brought her in the back way, Mr Hart?’

‘Quicker,’ said Tom and beckoned Helen in to meet a broad, rosy woman in a flowered overall. ‘Mrs Pugh’s the housekeeper. Wouldn’t you expect a Mrs Danvers figure, all black bombazine and massive key rings? You’re wrong for the role you know, Mrs Pugh. Luckily Mr Maitland is more the thing, or our whole expectation would have been dashed.’

Mrs Pugh grinned like a girl.

‘That’s enough. Mr Maitland is the butler, dear, and he’s one of the old school. He’s been with the family since he was a boy, and his father before him, and he doesn’t care to see standards dropping. But what can you do, with half the country traipsing through the house every other day?’ She looked up at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘Now then, Mr Hart, don’t keep us here talking again. The Countess is waiting to see you both for lunch, and Miss Brown will want to go upstairs first.’

After a regretful backward glance at the cosy clutter of the housekeeper’s room, Helen followed Mrs Pugh through what seemed like a maze of corridors. At last a heavy door swung open and as they passed through Helen’s fingertips brushed against the green baize.

It’s really true, she thought in amusement, and then, do I belong on this side of the door?

The difference was obvious at once. The carpets here were thick and swallowed up their footsteps. The walls were hung with pictures, portraits and landscapes and sporting scenes all together, and there were carved oak chests and chairs with tapestry seats ranged like sentinels down the length of the lofty corridor.