At that moment there was a tap on the door. Fran looked round for somewhere to hide the incriminating letter and hastily stuffed it down the side of the armchair that stood in the corner of the room before calling, ‘Come in.’

‘Excuse me, Miss Frances.’ The parlourmaid put her head round the door.

‘Yes, Hilton? What is it?’

‘Beg pardon, miss,’ Hilton said, ‘but Lady Chalfont says will you come to her in her parlour.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Fran replied. ‘Please tell Lady Chalfont I’ll be there in just one moment.’

‘Yes, miss.’ Hilton disappeared, closing the door quietly behind her.

Fran hastily retrieved the letter from the chair and looked round for somewhere better to hide it. She decided on the back of her dressing table drawer, and pulling it right out, she carefully secreted the letter behind it. It wasn’t the perfect hiding place, but unless someone was actually looking for something, it was unlikely to be discovered by accident.

And it isn’t as if it’ll be there for long, Fran thought as she went along the landing to the parlour, where her mother was waiting for her. She would probably put it back in the postbag tomorrow.

She did not. When the post came the next day, Mitchell received it from the postman and, immediately sorting the letters, took them round to their various recipients. There were two more letters of condolence from people who had only just heard about Justin’s accident, and it was Fran who replied to those. Rupert had been spending most days with Foxton, visiting the tenant farmers, and said that he could not be responsible for answering the letters as well.

The days went quickly and September passed in a blaze of colour. The trees were dressed in flaming orange, reds and gold, made brilliant by the September sun. In the evenings there was an autumnal smell in the air as wood fires were lit and stoked to fight the night-time chill. Rupert was tired at the end of each day and found himself happy enough to settle by the fire after an early supper and chat with his sister. His only disappointment was the lack of letters from Hélène. At first he explained this to himself quite rationally. Hélène and her mother were in Paris and perhaps his letter had gone astray. Perhaps he had not put the correct address on the envelope. Perhaps there had been a change of plan and they had not gone to Paris at all; they were still at Belair and his letter was waiting for her in the Avenue Ste Anne. He made no mention of the expected letters to his family. They had, for the time being, stopped talking about his future, leaving the thoughts they had implanted in his mind time to take root and put up shoots. He asked Mitchell if there had been any post for him, and the butler shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, Mr Rupert,’ he said a little stiffly, ‘but if there had been I’d have given it to you, sir.’