‘I can help you with moving the furniture when it comes,’ Mr Felton said, standing by the bottom of the stairs with her. ‘Would he be happy making this his bedroom, perhaps?’

She looked back at the large and bright parlour. ‘Delighted. He’s done it all his life. Why change now?’

‘Change is overrated, if you ask me.’

‘No one did,’ Billy called through with his impertinent smile. ‘Right, I must head back. I’ve been dawdling too long and Mr Graves will bawl me out if I don’t get his boots done. Can you make your own way back, Miss Gillies?’ he asked her.

‘Of course. I’ll just follow the path.’ The track bordered the vast grazing pastures beyond the ha-ha, the old wood sitting behind them here. It would be actively difficult to become lost.

‘Or I can walk you,’ Mr Felton said. ‘I’ve to collect some things from the house anyway.’

‘. . . As you wish,’ she shrugged.

Billy took off. Effie led the way upstairs, amazed to see that the cottage boasted the same creature comforts as her room in the great house – a plumbed sink, radiators, an indoor bathroom. The rooms were so much bigger than she was used to. She walked to a window and opened it, taking in a view across the fields towards a distant wood, sheep grazing in quiet contentment.

Mr Felton went and stood by the other window, both of them quiet for a moment. It wasn’t a landscape she was used to; it lacked the drama and majesty of home, but there was something reassuring in its benign, gentle curves. If she looked left, she could see the east pavilion and two-thirds of the body of the great house. Even from here, almost a half-mile distant, it was a colossus.

‘So . . . you know a thing or two about birds?’ he asked, leaning forward so that they were talking outside of the glass.

She peered round the window frame as well and perched on the sill. ‘A thing or two.’

He was quiet for a second. ‘Well, then I’ve something you’d perhaps like to see sometime.’

‘Where is it?’

‘In the woods.’ He caught her wary look and laughed. ‘Nothing untoward, Miss Gillies. Strictly to do with birds.’

‘What is it?’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t tell you that. It’s a secret.’

She looked away. ‘I’m afraid I don’t like secrets, Mr Felton.’

‘Shall we call it a surprise, then?’

‘Surprises can be nasty,’ she said quickly, not meeting his eyes. She knew her replies were ungracious, that he was only being friendly.