Over a mostly silent breakfast the following morning, Douglas announced he was going to the mainland and would be back that evening.

‘May I come with you?’

‘No. Not a good idea. I’m going to the convent to bring Jasmine home. Better that I do it alone so I can explain what’s happening. I don’t want her upset. She’ll need a bit of time to get used to the idea of you being around. If she takes to you, she can stay, otherwise I’ll take her back after a few days.’ He finished his tea, got up from the table and left, his dog padding along behind him. He had made no eye contact with her during the entire exchange.

Evie wanted to cry with frustration. He was so closed-up, so cold, so unfeeling. The way he talked of his own daughter, of returning her to the nuns if she didn’t settle – as if she were an unwanted library book. He seemed to lack even the slightest capacity for empathy, for any appreciation of how difficult this was for her – let alone how Jasmine might feel. Pushing away the surge of self-pity welling inside her, she decided she needed to distract herself. Since Douglas had made it clear that he expected her to run the household, she might as well start there. She would ask Aunty Mimi to show her round the entire house and explain everything involved in its running.

This plan was more straightforward in its intent than its realisation. Aunty Mimi was occupied in the kitchen, ironing while Cookie was preparing vegetables, and her puzzled expression and monosyllabic responses signalled that she was less than impressed by Evie’s desire to understand the workings of the household. Retiring from the kitchen abashed, Evie concluded that perhaps her initiative had been premature. Aunty Mimi could well be unaware of her impending marriage to the head of the house. Better to wait until the deed was done and any ambiguity removed. Meanwhile, she could easily explore the rest of the house on her own.

She began downstairs. There was only one room she hadn’t yet seen. She eased open the door to find that it was a study. Dominated by a lacquered wood desk inlaid with mother of pearl, it was a beautiful room. A rich brocaded upright chair stood in front of the desk, a chaise longue, piled with linen cushions, was in front of the window, and one wall was lined with bookshelves that reached almost to the ceiling. Evie ran her fingers along the spines of the books as she read the titles. Among others, she found a full collection of Dickens, Hardy, the Brontes, Robert Louis Stevenson, George Elliot, Walter Scott, some more recent books including several Agatha Christies and a few by Somerset Maugham, as well as English translations of Victor Hugo, Tolstoy and Chekhov. Better than the fare she’d had to read to Mrs Shipley-Thomas. There was enough to keep her occupied for years. Judging by the condition of the spines and the pristine dust jackets, no one had yet got around to reading them.