Ditte spoke far less, but she frequently bent towards Professor Chisholm to quietly discuss some point the younger men were debating with Beth. When Ditte was asked for her opinion, the company would fall silent. On points of history, she was clearly the authority, and her words were treated with a respect I had only ever seen given to Dr. Murray.

“It is that exact question that Edith intends to explore in the revision of her History,” said Beth at one point. “Which is why we have invited Esme to stay for a while. She is to be Edith’s research assistant.”

“Isn’t that your job, Beth?” said Professor Chisholm.

“Usually, yes, but as you know I have a writing project of my own.” She gave him a cheeky smile.

“And what would that be, Miss Thompson?” said Mr. Shaw-Smith.

Beth turned her whole body towards the question and paused before speaking.

“Well,” she said. “It’s scandalous, really. I’ve been writing a novel, of the very worst kind, and by some miracle it’s going to be published.”

I noticed a smile flit across Ditte’s face as she reached for another slice of Madeira.

“What is it called?” he asked.

“A Dragoon’s Wife,” Beth said with pride. “It’s set in the seventeenth century, and my task over the next few months is to add a little more steam to the narrative.”

“Steam?”

“Yes, steam, Mr. Shaw-Smith. And I can’t tell you how much fun I’m having.”

The young man finally understood and took refuge in his teacup. I reached into my pocket to feel the stub of a pencil and the edge of a slip.

“Gestures are important, of course,” Beth continued. “He might offer his hand; she might take it. But arousal is a bodily function, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Shaw-Smith?”

He was speechless.

“Of course you do,” she said. “If you want a bit of steam in a novel, the skin must flush and the pulse must race—for characters, and for readers, in my opinion.”

“You’re saying that desire should be exposed,” said Mr. Brooks.

“Of course,” she said. “More tea, anyone?”

I excused myself and the men all stood. Mr. Shaw-Smith seemed grateful for the disturbance. I wanted to write down Beth’s words before the exact quotation faded.

When I returned, there was another visitor.

“Esme, this is Mrs. Brooks.”

Mrs. Brooks stood up to greet me. She barely came to my shoulder.

“Don’t you dare call me Mrs. Brooks,” she said, holding out her hand. “I only answer to Sarah. I’m Philip’s wife and chauffeur.”

Her grip was firm and her shake efficient. I suspected there was nothing small about her character.