‘What did I say about no drama?’ the cook asked as Effie tried to steal her way past the kitchen. She had hoped to be first up and back to her room before anyone could see her. She had had the unenviable choice of flying through the house in either the yellow chiffon gown or her nightshirt. She’d chosen the latter. The gown wasn’t for wearing bare-footed and bare-faced. It wasn’t a dress for her to just slip on any time she liked. It demanded an occasion.

‘I’m sorry, Miss McLennan. I tried my best.’

‘You’re no end of trouble, lass,’ Mrs McLennan tutted, sighing. A gleam came into her eyes and she winked. ‘But you’ve a way about you. Henry said you were doing well till the bad news came.’

‘He did?’

‘Aye. He also said he’s lifted heavier coal buckets, so you’d best eat the oatcakes I’ve left for you in your room. Then I want you down here for breakfast in the half hour or I’ll come and find ye myself.’

Effie nodded. ‘Yes, Mrs McLennan.’

‘Now scat, before anyone else sees ye. Fancy running about the place in just that nightshirt, I don’t know.’

The cook had a point. If Billy was to catch sight of her, she’d never hear the end of it. And William would probably die on the spot. She took the stairs two at a time, hurrying down the corridor past the maids’ bedrooms and just clicking shut her door as Fanny’s opened and then closed a moment later. Footsteps trod down the hall. Effie leant against the door and closed her eyes. At least she could get dressed without causing a scandal.

She opened her eyes, grateful to be back in her narrow room. It was meagre compared to the opulence of the family’s bedrooms but it was comforting to her. She liked its simplicity and cosiness.

She frowned. She sensed there was something . . . different about it. There was nothing visibly wrong or broken, no new odour she could detect but like a stare had weight, so she somehow had a feeling of the air having been disturbed. A silent turbulence in her absence.

Her gaze grazed the room – the bed was made, her coat hanging on the hook, her towel folded on the rail by the window. The pretty rug was . . . it was slightly askew, with a slight ruck, as though someone had been standing there and caught it with their foot. Her, most likely. Caught in a hurry. Rushing out.

But her instincts told her not.

She walked slowly to the bed. Her heart was already pounding. She dropped to her knees and lifted out the suitcase, but she already knew what she would find.

The pad of a bare foot.

The creak of a floorboard.

The rustle of a sheet.

A breath in the dark.