A very nervous Queenie made her way down the platform to find the third-class carriages. As I watched her go I pondered on the irony that my maid was wearing a fur coat, whereas I only had good Scottish Harris tweed. Some girls were given a fur coat for their twenty-first birthday. I had been tempted to buy one with the check from Sir Hubert, the one of Mother’s many husbands and lovers of whom I had been the most fond, but luckily I had banked it instead. It kept me in funds for over a year but had finally run out. The thought of Sir Hubert sparked an exciting memory. He was still in Switzerland, recuperating from a horrible accident (or was it attempted murder?—now we’d never know). I could visit him on the way home. I’d jot him a line as soon as I reached my destination.

As I stood there alone in the carriage I realized two things. One was that my chaperon had not appeared and the other was that I had no idea of the actual destination to which we were going. If she didn’t turn up I didn’t even know at which station we were to alight. Oh, dear, more things to worry about.

The hour for departure neared and I paced nervously. I was just double-checking that my jewel case was securely on the rack when the compartment door was flung open and a voice behind me said, “You, girl, what are you doing in here? Maids belong in third class. And where is your mistress?”

I turned to face a gaunt, horsey-looking woman wearing a long Persian lamb cape. Standing behind her was a most superior-looking creature in black, laden with various hatboxes and train cases. Both were staring at me as if I were something they had just discovered on the sole of their shoe.

“I think you’ve made a mistake. I am Lady Georgiana Rannoch, and this is my compartment,” I said.

The horsey face turned decidedly paler. “Oh, most frightfully sorry. I only saw your back and you have to admit that that overcoat is not the smartest, so naturally I assumed...” She mustered a hearty smile and stuck out her hand. “Middlesex,” she said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s the name. Lady Middlesex. Your companion for the journey. Didn’t Her Majesty tell you?”

“She told me there would be a chaperon. She never gave me your name.”

“Didn’t she? Dashed inefficient of her. Not like her. She’s usually a stickler for details. She’s worried about the king, of course. Not at all well.”

She pumped my hand energetically all the time she was speaking. Meanwhile the creature in black had slunk past us and was busy loading cases onto the rack.

“All is done, my lady,” she said with a strong French accent. “I shall retire to my own quarters.”