I stared out of the window, watching the grimy streets of London give way to suburban rows and then, just after we passed through the town of Sidcup, suddenly we were in the countryside. There were orchards on either side of us, some of them sprinkled with early blossoms. The first primroses were appearing beside the road as we came down a long hill and left the main road at the village of Farningham. Then we were driving through a leafy valley with a stream at the bottom until we came to the village of Eynsford itself. It was the quintessential English village with a pub and village shop, nestled beside an old packhorse bridge that crossed the stream. To one side of the bridge was the even more ancient ford that gave the village its name. Two little boys were standing at the edge of the stream with jars that looked as if they might contain tadpoles. Then we left the village behind, and the valley narrowed. Above us, the skeletons of ancient beech and oak trees were showing new spring leaves.

“Almost there now,” the duchess said as we turned off the road and started to climb the hill. “I think you’ll like Kingsdowne. Lovely old house. Not been ruined by Victorian opulence and lack of taste, thank God.”

We emerged from the woods to more open farmland and then before us was a high, brick wall and in it an impressive gateway—an enormous arch topped with great stone lions. As we approached it, a man came rushing out of the gate house and the wrought-iron gate was opened for us. Then we drove for a good half-mile through parkland before there was any sign of the house. Through the trees I spotted what looked like the antlers of a herd of deer.

“Knole likes to think they have a better deer park than us,” she said, referring to another nearby stately home, “but they don’t have fallow deer or Chitral deer, which we had shipped back from India when my husband was viceroy.”

Then the drive turned a corner, and I think I actually gasped. There was the house—an enormous and elegant building of mellowed gray stone, four stories high and beautifully proportioned, surrounded by manicured lawns and formal gardens. In front of the pillared main entrance was an ornamental lake complete with swans. The house was set on a rising slope of hillside, which at this time of year was covered in a carpet of daffodils. As we came out of the trees, the sun appeared from behind the clouds and suddenly the house was perfectly reflected in the lake. My spirit soared. I was going to be staying at this attractive place for the immediate future, with duties no more onerous than teaching a young Australian which fork to use at dinner. For once I could look forward to an enjoyable time ahead.

As the motorcar crunched over the gravel of the forecourt, the duchess suddenly turned to me. “I think it best if we don’t let the family know the real reason for your being here, don’t you? They haven’t yet come to terms with the fact that a complete stranger will be coming into their midst, which may mean the end of life as they know it.”