I enclose the annotated list within.

With high respect, I am . . .

Etta pauses, her anger barely contained under the societal game of politeness. Reading his letter again, she feels irritated anew, the heat of her annoyance spreading over her like a rash. How dare he, a man of the cloth, dismiss her as a hobbyist when she has devoted many years of her life to the study and understanding of plants? Is it not true that he is in fact the hobbyist?

She simmers as she looks over her old writing desk, out of her small bedroom window to the clouds skimming across the sky. Her reflection reminds her of the panes in her father’s hothouse, the moss garden next to it that she created with him. All gone now. The hothouse converted from a place of experimentation to an extension of the kitchen garden, filled only with fruits destined for the table. The moss garden planted over by Walter himself, turned into a formal flowerbed containing the most mundane of varieties. Her father’s herbarium sent away to a distant relative in Cornwall, far from Etta’s reach.

Etta sighs, leans forward to unlatch the window, allowing her anger to subside with the cooler air. The more one sees, the more one learns, the more one realises how little one actually knows. Light, cold, rain and heat – each of these things affect every plant. As seasons shift and stretch across the year, so too do all living things. Even ourselves, she thinks ruefully. The Reverend Grant looks but he does not see. Perhaps she ought to give up with him. She recalls reading something about James Easthope, the orchid expert, establishing a garden in Kent. Perhaps he might be interested in her findings? She thinks of the burnt-tip orchid she came across near Downton and resolves to write to him.

Scout nudges her hand and gives a short impatient bark of instruction.

‘Yes, yes. Nearly time for our walk, my friend,’ she murmurs as he reaches up and licks her ear, making her laugh as she pushes his velvety head gently away.

With high respect, I am most eager to hear your response.

She signs her name with a flourish. That will irk the old goat, she thinks with satisfaction.

‘Come on then,’ she says, as she stands, stretching out her stiffness as far as she dare without tearing the tightly fitted sleeves of her dress. ‘Come on.’

Scout yelps, dancing in circles of happy anticipation, before Etta opens the bedroom door, freeing him to pelt noisily downstairs. She follows, smiling to herself, as she puts on her bonnet and coat before venturing outdoors to brave the chill autumn air.

All are still abed when Natalya creeps out of the Harrisons’ little weatherboarded cottage, softly pulling the heavy wooden door closed behind her. The morn is yet to fully arrive and the stars still twinkle in the darkness. The sunrise lingers beyond the horizon, a faint glimmering of light tentatively reaching up.