She was lying on her stomach under the tree, eyes closed, feeling the prickles of dry grass under her legs and the heat of the afternoon sun on the backs of her calves. The textbook about the French Revolution was lying face down on the grass. Her sketchbook was open but she’d abandoned her attempt at a charcoal landscape. The image of the red-haired American with the sly, fox-like grin flitted across her vision but she shook it away. It was replaced by the burning sensation of his hand on hers. Like slow waves, the sensations fell over her prone, sun-warmed body.

From somewhere nearby, the revving of an engine, a rough and shocking noise, tore through the low hum of the hot summer’s afternoon. Curious, she slipped into the house via the kitchen back door and heard voices in the hallway. With an ear to the door, she could hear Mrs Timms was clucking around Peter, but another voice chimed in, lower than the others, with a distinctive twang: foreign, assured. She took the back stairs to the landing. A rainbow of diffuse light filtered through the stained glass of the porch door into the hall but she was hidden in the shadows and could observe, unseen, the unexpected visitor from above. Through the banisters she tried to work out who it was. She could only see the tops of their heads and couldn’t be sure of the colour in the washed-out light.

‘Are you sure you won’t stay for supper, Peter? And your guest…’

‘Jack,’ said the other man. ‘A pleasure to meet you, ma’am,’ and he stepped forward into Verity’s line of vision and took the housekeeper’s plump hand in both of his.

Verity swallowed. It was the American. Of course – Peter talked of no one else. Mrs Timms must be bristling at his impertinence but he didn’t seem to notice. Verity leaned forward to try to see him more clearly, but he had his back to her.

‘That’s awfully kind of you, Mrs T,’ said Peter. ‘Maybe a drink or two would do the trick. Show this uncouth fellow how we do things in the old world. Can’t stay long, though.’

‘Peter? Is that you?’ Father’s voice cut through the hallway from his study at the back of the house. Verity stiffened.

Her father came out to the entrance hall. He was tall and used to commanding the attention of the workers on his farm and his family, but from her position on the landing he appeared to stoop. He moved slowly as if he had all the time in the world – or as if he was in pain.

‘And who are you, young man?’

Jack sprang forward and shook her father’s hand before Peter could introduce him. ‘Jack Doherty, sir. So great to meet you.’

‘Is it? I can’t think why.’