Estelle clutched her travel bag and turned away from the water, heading west. Millbrook was about two miles outside of town, a helpful gentleman at the train station had told her. All she had to do was follow the old mill road out of town, and it would take her directly to the estate. Just follow the people, he’d said, tipping the brim of his hat. For today was market day at Millbrook.

Estelle did as the kind stranger had suggested, joining clumps of people who were winding their way along the rutted track. Baskets were hung over arms or fastened to the rear of bicycles, and children darted from place to place, inevitably spilling into the tall grasses along the side of the road. An intrepid youth had set up a small table at about the halfway point between the town and the manor, selling ale by the cup.

If one did not wonder why there was no petrol for cars or why there seemed to be a disproportionate number of women and elderly folk in the migration of market-goers, one might convince oneself that the war had never existed. Here, the jagged holes torn into the fabric of everyday life were less noticeable than they were in the pockmarked, ragged cities like London. Yet in both places, time marched on, uncaring.

Estelle saw the house before she saw the market. Millbrook sat up on a gentle rise, as if surveying its domain, and Estelle recognized it instantly from the photo she had once examined on a gleaming rosewood tabletop. The tall shrubs that flanked the house were the same, though the sprawling lawns that rolled away from the manor had been torn up and turned into vegetable gardens. Stakes and the occasional scarecrow dotted an expanse that had, at one time, been a manicured carpet of grass.

The black-and-white photo had also been unable to capture the color that blazed from the house itself. Windows reflected the sun in a glittering array, and the stone façade glowed a rich umber. The building was architecturally impressive, a proud ambassador to a time long past. But if Estelle had been asked to describe it, she would have said none of those things. She would have said it looked like a home.

Perhaps it was the crowds of people who swirled at the base of the long drive that made it appear so. It was here that the market was set up under a canopy of ancient trees, and it was a jaunty, bustling affair, as if it were deliberately defying the years of want. A large collection of booths and tables had been set up in two rows, and someone, somewhere, was playing a fiddle. Brightly colored ribbons had been tied to the top of each booth, adding another element of festivity.