“I dare say.” Jimmy didn’t sound enthusiastic himself. “Here’s your room. There will be a maid up in a moment. We’re a little short-handed what with five unexpected people, so my apologies for that.”

“I could send for someone from home, if you need?”

“Not at all. We’ll manage.”

Her allotted bedroom was panelled in old wood, dark and heavy, with a carved bedframe. Light was flooding in through the small window now, but it would be gloomy in the mornings. There wasn’t even a gas-mantel, merely candlesticks and an oil lamp. No doubt bringing gas up here would be prohibitively expensive. Perhaps they could go straight to electricity, if Miss Carruth’s father was generous enough.

As promised, a maid knocked at the door after a few moments, bringing hot water and offering help with dressing. Pat didn’t need much assistance: she had no intention of lacing herself into an S-shaped silhouette with a pigeon-chest, her waist squeezed to nothing, and her bottom jutting out in the name of health. Her evening gowns were not fashionably low-cut, since she had no glittering jewels to display, and not a great deal of bosom to display them on. She put on her mother’s turquoise necklace with a simple blue-grey gown that the maid clearly found disappointing, allowed the enthusiastic girl to pin her hair into loops, and went downstairs as a huge clock boomed seven.

The drawing-room was an improvement on the hall in terms of light, offering a good-sized window with a view across the landscape. Bill was already there, talking to an attractive Indian woman. She had black hair and dark brown eyes, and wore a striking dark red gown with a necklace that looked like amber across a modest décolletage.

“Ah, Pat,” Bill said. “Miss Singh, please let me introduce my sister, Patricia Merton. Pat, Miss Singh, Lady Witton’s god-daughter.”

They exchanged the usual politenesses. Miss Singh had an oval face, strong features, and marks on her nose that suggested a spectacle-wearer.

“Are you come up from London?” Pat asked.

“Yes, I live in Knightsbridge. And you?”

“Outside Ludlow, quite in the countryside.”

They made conversation about that. Miss Singh was somewhat abrupt in her answers, in the way shy people often were, but seemed pleasant enough in their brief chat until the next pair entered: a tall man in his late thirties with sleek chestnut hair and a well-clipped moustache, and a very thin woman with fair hair and prominent facial bones, tightly corseted in the most fashionable style. They were introduced as Lady Anna Haworth, Jimmy’s sister, and her husband, Mr. Maurice Haworth. The latter greeted the other guests with great bonhomie, including Pat.

“Ah, Miss Merton, the lady shooter! Do I understand you’ll be making one of the guns on Monday?”

“I will, yes.”

“You shoot?” Miss Singh asked, sounding startled.