So now I found myself all alone in a big, beautiful house. Alone with precious little to do. Sir Hubert’s former housekeeper, Mrs. Holbrook, had come back at our request and the house now ran like a well-oiled machine. The one thing I had not yet done was to find a new cook. My former maid Queenie, undoubtedly the worst maid in the entire world, had now taken over the cooking. She had proved to be remarkably good at it, but could only manage the plain cooking she was used to. Eventually one does tire of shepherd’s pie and toad-in-the-hole. And as Darcy had pointed out, I knew that as chatelaine of a great house I would eventually be expected to entertain. My neighbors had been hinting that they’d love to see Eynsleigh return to its glory days with dinner parties and balls. I pictured a glittering dinner table, women dripping with diamonds and men adorned with medals and then serving them spotted dick (which, in case you don’t know, is a suet pudding with currants in it). They would prod it politely, say “Spotted what did you call it?,” take a tentative bite . . . no, it was not going to happen. I did need a real cook, but I had hesitated, having had no experience at all in hiring servants.

Was I brave enough to do as Darcy had suggested and start off with a tea party or even a luncheon? Queenie was a dab hand with scones and little cakes. I wasn’t so sure about luncheons. I doubted she had even heard of a soufflé and the weather was no longer conducive to ham and salad. Then I came to a conclusion. Tea parties could wait. I’d go and see Zou Zou. She might even know where I could find a cook who wouldn’t cost too much. Sir Hubert was paying for the upkeep of the house but I didn’t want to use too much of his money and of course had none of my own. Darcy was almost as penniless as I was.