The agency owner stirred her tea, lost in thought, leaving Jenny to struggle with doubt. If she couldn’t convince this woman that she was suitable as a servant, what chance did she have? Tears burnt the back of her eyes, but she refused to let them spill over. She blew her nose on a delicate handkerchief, tucking it quickly out of sight before it was seen, not sure if this was the kind of thing a servant would own.

‘Drink your tea.’ Mrs Dearing’s voice was gentle. ‘You are obviously in desperate trouble, so I’ll see what I can do for you. The lack of references might not be a barrier these days. Servants are hard to come by, and families make allowances in order to keep them. Since the war ended not many girls want to go into service, and most now prefer the freedom of the factory or shop.’

Jenny sipped her tea, watching Mrs Dearing going through the files. That sounded hopeful for her. After about five minutes the woman sat down again, studying a letter, then she looked up.

‘The only thing I’ve got is for an under housemaid with the Stannard household. They need someone right away.’

‘I’ll do it.’ Jenny put her cup down and sat forward eagerly.

‘You’ll have to buy your own uniform. Can you afford to do that?’

Jenny was stunned by that piece of information. Just when she thought things were going to work out, this came up. ‘How much?’

‘Four pounds.’

That wasn’t going to leave her much. Jenny chewed her lip in worry. Thank goodness Fred and Glad had made the pawnbroker give her five pounds. She smiled. ‘I can manage that.’

‘Good. The lack of references is not in your favour, but I’ll write a letter to Mrs Stannard explaining your situation. She might agree to take you on for a trial period to see how you work out.’

‘I’ll work hard. I won’t let you down, Mrs Dearing.’ She sounded too eager, even to her own ears.

‘You’d better go immediately in case there are other applicants.’ She wrote the letter, sealed it in an envelope, then put the address on the front. ‘It’s in Bruton Street, Mayfair. Can you find your way there?’

‘Yes, Mrs Dearing.’ Jenny took the envelope and smiled again, but in relief this time. Perhaps things were going to work out after all.

The house in Mayfair was really elegant. It had three floors and a basement. A beautiful tiled path led up to a sparkling clean step and solid wooden door, with a brass letterbox and doorknocker polished to such a shine you could see your face in it. But Jenny knew servants didn’t go in the front, so she hurried round to the back entrance. After knocking on the door, she waited, head bowed, praying that the place hadn’t been filled already.

‘Yes?’