It was lonely working in that room all day, every day, cataloguing eggs in silence. The hours dragged. The house was so big, she was often the only person in the whole of the west pavilion. She had seen and spoken to Billy only twice since moving out; Jenny had waved once from the other end of a hall. She had seen nothing at all of Barra, Mrs McKenzie or Mr Graves; they kept below stairs whenever possible but Fanny would try to dart in whenever she was passing with her duster or a vase of flowers, and share with her the latest news – the earl and countess were shortly leaving for Skye to visit Sir John MacLeod; Sibyl and Sholto were throwing a party but couldn’t decide on a theme . . .

Effie saw some things for herself from the window where she worked and she watched the household’s lives continuing on the other side of the glass – Henry ‘walking’ Margaux on her lead across the lawns each morning, the cheetah straining and panting happily at the sight of the plump sheep grazing. Sholto and Sibyl walking around the flower beds after lunch or playing croquet in the late afternoon. It was always the same between them – Sibyl lively and full of the joys, her laughter carrying like a bird’s song across the terraces, Sholto quietly smiling with infinite patience, moving sedately through the days. Once he had glanced up at the window, as if sensing Effie’s stare, but she had quickly ducked down out of sight. Another time she had almost run into him as she was taking the stairs two at a time and he passed by in the corridor above. He hadn’t seen her but she had waited in the stairwell, heart thumping, until she could no longer hear his footsteps. They hadn’t seen nor spoken a word to one another since their confrontation at the station. She wouldn’t forgive what he’d said. Everything that had once been alive between them was now dead and he had been right that it was better not to see one another at all.

She put her boots back on and closed the collection room door behind her, making her way outside. Another day was done and summer was being squeezed out by autumn, the long days growing shorter, the sun dropping behind the hills on Bute before seven now. They would be eating pheasant stew tonight; she had put it on at dinnertime and left it simmering all afternoon.

‘Oh! Hello, Fanny,’ she said, surprised to find the maid standing out on the terrace at the top of the steps. She was staring up at the roof, her arms reaching towards the sky. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Oh Effie,’ Fanny groaned. ‘I’ve been out here almost an hour trying to get Miss Petunia down. But she’s stuck!’