She blushed. ‘I’m sorry. What I meant was—’ She tried to rally her mind. ‘Are you from here?’

‘So you want me to answer your questions but you won’t answer mine?’ He gave her a bemused look as he sighed. ‘Very well. I’m from Tarbet, Lomondside. Not so far. Not so far as you.’

‘I’m not sure anyone’s as far from home as me.’

‘Are you missing it?’

‘Aye.’

‘How long’s it been now since you left?’

‘Ten days and three hours. But who’s counting, right?’

He grinned as they walked and she knew she was already forgiven for her slippery behaviour. She had a feeling of familiarity with him, like he was a little brother. ‘Would you go back if you could?’

She didn’t hesitate. ‘Aye.’

‘But why? Everything’s so much harder there! You can’t even wrap your head around the idea of eating three times a day.’

‘Oh don’t worry, Mrs McLennan’s not letting me get away with skipping any meals.’ Just that morning, as Effie had tried to scuttle past the kitchen again without being seen, the wily cook – as if waiting for her – had marched her over to the table where she was told to take some porridge oats and a glass of milk before she went anywhere. It didn’t matter that she had no appetite, that even Mrs McLennan’s delicious food tasted like ashes in her mouth: she’d been forced to eat. The woman seemed determined to care for her.

‘So then why would you go back to a life of hardship and want and struggle?’

‘Because I don’t belong here.’ She raised her hands up, motioning vaguely to the extravagant estate. ‘I don’t. My brain can’t process all this.’

Billy grinned. ‘Oh trust me, you’ll get used to it. I thought the same when I first went into service. I started out with the Duke of Argyll and half thought I must be working for the king.’

‘Exactly!’

‘But it becomes normal, fast.’

‘Billy, I come from a place where iron nails were a luxury! Where we celebrated if a piece of driftwood washed up on the beach! I will never adapt to gold ceilings and . . . cheetahs sitting on a leash!’

He threw his head back and laughed. ‘It’s gonna take you longer to adapt, I grant you that, but it’s not always so dramatic. Only when she’s around; Lady Sibyl Wainwright is not your run-of-the-mill socialite.’

‘Socia-what?’

‘Socialite. A rich, eligible young woman, doing the season,’ he chuckled. ‘She’s one of the BYPs.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ she sighed, shaking her head.

‘Bright young people! They’re the young rich set who like to live fast – and, it would seem, die young. One lady died falling from a chandelier not long ago. The newspapers are obsessed with the lot of them.’