Ann was about to push open the door to the kitchen when she heard voices.

‘I don’t care what you say, I’m fed up with her airs and graces, she treats us like dirt.’

‘You can’t say that, fair enough she gets sulky if she doesn’t get her own way but…’

Ann flung open the door and swept into the kitchen, head held high.

‘Mrs Baxter, I need your help to fetch my mourning clothes from the attic. All of them.’

Baxter got to his feet and grabbed his cap from the table then headed for the door. His wife was making a production of untying her grubby apron and did not look up at Ann. How dare they talk about her like that.

‘Come along. We need to get down my other black gowns and the heavy black veil and that dark hat with the lace.’ She was fingering the jet brooch at her throat. ‘There should also be a black fur muff up there.’

Mrs Baxter folded her apron, placed it on the table and came towards her. ‘Very well, Mrs Craig.’ She frowned. ‘Have you had any more news?’

Ann drew herself up even taller so that she towered over the rotund little housekeeper. ‘No, but I have decided that, since I now know my husband was on the train, he is, sadly, deceased.’

‘Did the letter say that?’

Ann glared at the housekeeper. ‘The letter was illegible. We must all now accept the situation.’ She marched towards the stairs, the black silk crêpe of her gown rustling. Mrs Baxter huffed along behind.

‘And I need you to ask Jessie to go to Bruce the milliner’s on Perth Road, to purchase a mourning cap. Ask her to take one of my other hats to size it. One made of tulle, perhaps with a little black lace. And with long silk streamers, of course.’

Jeannie Baxter nodded. ‘I’ll go with her. Just so she buys what’s required.’

‘Good,’ Ann said, walking up the stairs. ‘I shall be going out presently to the Donaldsons, but Miss Graham is busy with the children in the nursery all day. I have asked her to don black attire. And I should be grateful if you and Mr Baxter and Jessie wear black armbands. I do not, however, want the children to alter their appearance. I think children in mourning outfits are morbid and sad.’ She looked at Mrs Baxter whose mouth was open.

‘And of course the children are sad. But they must continue their lives. Do you not agree?’

Jeannie Baxter puffed up the stairs then hung onto the banister to catch her breath. ‘It’s not for me to say, Mrs Craig.’

‘Very well then. Let us get up there and open those trunks.’

* * *