Unfortunately, she wasn’t terribly well suited to companionship. Pat was neither temperamentally inclined nor trained for most of the occupations that the world presumed women of her class to enjoy: she lacked understanding of fashion, had no perceptible musical or artistic gifts, couldn’t make light conversation, felt no interest in the opposite sex, didn’t see the point of charity visiting unless it led to swift and meaningful change, and was strongly of the opinion embroidery was best done by those who enjoyed it. It made her an uncomfortable match for those who preferred drawing-rooms to ten-mile walks.

She was, however, an excellent household manager, able to turn her hand to most tasks, and a superb shot—the All-England Ladies’ Champion, in fact, as testified by the trophy on her mantelpiece—so all she needed was to find a countrywoman of her own stamp who required a companion and preferred sporting pursuits to social ones. That would be entirely possible. It was just a matter of meeting the right woman. Maybe she could advertise.

But first, she realised as the train pulled into Manchester station, she had to meet Bill. She’d been so preoccupied by her thoughts that she hadn’t noticed the passage of minutes or miles.

A porter took her luggage, while Pat attended to her own gun-cases. Bill, who had come up from London, met her on the platform for their next train, and greeted her with a cheery wave, but there was no time to speak in the bustle of supervising the transfer of luggage from one baggage car to another and finding their seats amid the chaos and smoke of the station. Once they were ensconced in the carriage, pleasantly free of other travellers, the train moved off, and Bill sat back with a sigh, fanning himself with his hat against the late August heat.

Pat took the opportunity to look him over. He’d seemed off-colour at Jonty’s wedding, hollow-eyed and tight-lipped, withdrawing into silence whenever his attention wasn’t demanded. She feared he was overworked. He’d unquestionably been the brightest of her four brothers, taking a First at Cambridge then moving to London to pursue a career in some Whitehall department; she hadn’t seen him much since. He came home to Stoke St. Milborough for brief visits at Christmas and gave her lunch when she made her infrequent trips to London for competitions, but this shooting party would be her longest period with him since he’d left university eight years ago.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Oh, very well. You?”

“You look exhausted,” Pat said, not bothering with the niceties. “Has work been busy? Or have you been hitting the night-spots?”

“Two-stepping till dawn? No, sadly, it’s the former. We’ve had rather a time of it at the Bureau. I’ve been burning the midnight oil for weeks.”

“Any particular reason?”