The Limehouse had a small porch made of black-painted tree trunks framing the front door. Through that was a vestibule with a coat rack and two more doors leading into the hotel hall if you turned right, or into the public bar if you turned left. Nancy Campbell stood inside the left-hand door, waiting for us to arrive.

She was a thin woman in a drably flowered pinny apron over a brown dress; her gray-streaked black hair was pulled back with diamanté clips, except for a few wisps escaping in frizzled curls around her face. When I opened the door for Jane, Mrs. Campbell held out her arms stiffly and put them around her old auntie in a quick, awkward hug.

“Aunt Jane!”

Jane planted frosty kisses on her niece’s cheeks, and Mrs. Campbell looked as if she were trying to dodge them.

“Welcome to Windyedge, Aunt Jane,” Mrs. Campbell said, with that same grim determination I’d heard on the phone. “And to the Limehouse. Was the journey all right? How is your hip? Can you manage stairs?” The landlady frowned. “I’m not sure where to put you if you can’t manage stairs. There aren’t any ground-floor bedrooms. I suppose I could convert the dining room, as I haven’t served there since the war started.…”

“I can manage perfectly, Nancy. I just need someone to carry my things.”

I was doing that now, bringing in suitcases. I struggled through the vestibule and realized Mrs. Campbell was staring with her mouth open. I felt the blood rise flaming in my cheeks. I wasn’t going to pretend it was all right for her to stare. I was used to being stared at, but she was going to be my employer.

I put down the cases with a thump, straightened, and held out my open hand to the landlady.

For another moment the thin woman’s face looked baffled. Then her mouth tightened as she realized who I was. “Oh!”

She took my hand, though. She gave it one light shake and let go. She looked me up and down with her thin lips pressed shut, assessing me. I was wearing one of Mummy’s neat tailored suits beneath Jane’s mink coat, my hair rolled tight against my head, and I knew I looked all right.

“Where have you come from?” she asked me.

“London,” I answered again without thinking.

Her thin mouth tightened even more.

“I mean—that’s where I’ve been living,” I added hastily. It’s true I was annoyed about the staring, but I hadn’t meant to be cheeky. “I’ve been in London for three years. That’s where I saw your advertisement. I grew up in the West Indies.”

The prickly woman’s voice was cold. “You might have said. On the telephone.”

“My father is from Jamaica,” I confessed now, as if it weren’t ruddy obvious.