“Can I help you, my lady?” she asked.

I mentioned that I was looking for the bathroom, having been brought up by Nanny not to mention unmentionable words like “lavatory.”

“This way, please. Not far at all. I put you in the nicest of the guest rooms for now,” she said. “I hope it meets with your approval.”

“It’s lovely, thank you. . . .” I gave her an inquiring look.

“Elsie, my lady. Elsie Hobbs, head housemaid. Let me know if there’s anything that you need, and I’ll take care of it.”

She had a pleasant, open face and she was giving me a genuine smile. “Actually there is something,” I said. “My maid will be arriving shortly. I’m afraid she’s still . . . a little raw around the edges. And in a great house like this, she may need a little instruction in how to behave.”

“Don’t worry, my lady. I’ll take her under my wing. It was terrifying for all of us when we first came here.”

“Have you been here long, Elsie?”

“Fifteen years, my lady. I came as a girl of fourteen, right after leaving school. My dad was killed in the war so I had to go out to work to support my mum.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, I’m not. I landed on my feet here. Her Grace may be strict and demand a high standard from us, but she’s a fair mistress.”

“What about the present duke?”

“His Grace doesn’t show that much interest in the running of the household—unless we do something wrong. Then we hear about it. He sacked poor William on the spot last week because he tidied up the papers on His Grace’s desk so he could dust it, and apparently he changed the order of pages. I mean, how was he to know?”

I nodded in sympathy.

“And he’d been here longer than me as well. Came here right after being sent home wounded from the Somme.”

She stopped and pushed open a door, showing me a bathroom containing a tub almost big enough to swim in, and a next-door lavatory. I made use of this before I retraced my steps back to the grand staircase. I was standing in that central foyer, wondering where the Long Gallery might be when a most imposing figure in a black frock coat appeared. I’d been in enough great houses, including our own, to know that butlers often look grander than their masters.

“Welcome to Kingsdowne, my lady,” he said with a small bow. “I am Huxstep, His Grace’s butler. I must apologize for not being here to greet you on your arrival. I did not hear the motorcar, as I was in the wine cellar and my hearing is not what it used to be. Her Grace asked me to escort you through to the Long Gallery.”

I followed him through an archway to the right and found that the Long Gallery was well named. It stretched away in front of me with great, arched windows that sent in shafts of slanting sunlight at intervals. It was wood paneled with an exquisite gilded and carved wood ceiling. I guessed that it had been the great hall of the original house. In the center of the long wall, an enormous marble fireplace, big enough to roast an ox, rose to the ceiling, a log fire burning merrily in the grate. There were clusters of sofas and chairs placed at intervals along the length of the room and at one of these clusters, close to the fireplace, the dowager duchess was now seated, working her way through a pile of sandwiches and biscuits. She motioned for me to join her.