When she turned the final bend, the woods fell away to reveal acres of gently undulating grassland grazed by a herd of fallow deer. The house itself was an elegant and impressive stone edifice of crisp architectural symmetry with mullion windows that winked in the sunlight and a balcony than ran almost the entire length of the first floor. On the roof, battalions of tall chimneys stood to attention behind a balustrade. The front elevation looked out over a lake where several swans drifted languorously through water that mirrored the blue sky above. Imelda was disappointed. There was no question that Beaumont Hall was magnificent, but the architect’s rigid adherence to the strictures of good taste had rendered the overall effect rather bland. Imelda had hoped for rebellious gothic turrets, mysterious attic rooms, perhaps a clock tower and certainly a tangle of wisteria clinging to the wall and framing the doors and windows. She followed the drive round to the side of the house where a dozen or so cars were already parked, and left her ‘vintage’ Jaguar next to a considerably newer model. She was welcomed at the front door (Imelda refused to use the servants’ entrance as she had been instructed) by the housekeeper, who showed her through to a bright, sunny room overlooking the lake where a round table and two chairs had been set out for her to use.

‘Would you like some tea while you wait?’ the housekeeper asked.

‘That would be lovely. Earl Grey with lemon, please.’

The housekeeper nodded and left Imelda to unpack her velvet cloth, crystal ball and tarot cards. When she returned with the tea tray, the housekeeper glanced at the tools of Imelda’s trade. A tiny sneer curled her upper lip.

‘You do know that these la-di-da ladies don’t believe a word of any of this? It’s just something to keep them quiet until cocktails are served before dinner.’

Imelda smiled. ‘Well, perhaps I can change their minds. Would you like me to do a reading for you?’

The housekeeper started as though she’d been scalded. ‘Certainly not! Lady Longhorn would have a fit! And besides,’ she added, remembering her scepticism just in time, ‘it’s a load of nonsense.’

That afternoon, Imelda read for a steady stream of well-heeled women who padded across the Persian carpet in their Jimmy Choos, pressed their Wolford-clad legs together and folded them primly to one side as they sat in the chair opposite her. Their questions were familiar and predictable. Money and sex, marriage and divorce, birthrights and betrayals featured heavily. The sole exceptions were a woman who wanted to know how she could prevent sawfly destroying her gooseberry crop (Imelda referred her to Gardeners’ Question Time) and another needing help to dissuade her husband (who was ‘in trade’, she had whispered) from holding his knife like a pen when he was eating. Imelda didn’t need the cards for that one either.