‘Good luck!’ said Harriet.

‘Cheerio.’

Harriet watched the boy mount his horse and gallop away. The gig moved up until it was opposite the front door and the driver jumped down. Harriet folded her hands and waited for the first of her uncle’s guests to disembark. This was the owner of one of the larger steelworks, a portly man. She hoped the boiled mutton would be big enough to go around. Harriet smiled politely as he hurried towards the shelter of the house, the agitated boy already forgotten.

Albert Boothby was the last to arrive and the youngest by far of her uncle’s guests. She guessed he was in his early thirties and while his eyes widened in an effusive greeting, the smile on his lips was thin. He had a narrow face and receding blond hair that he compensated for with a pair of bushy sideburns. Polly had told her he was a widower who had inherited his wife’s fortune as well as amassing his own and could afford to take a gamble on property development.

During supper, Harriet felt his speculative gaze on her. He did not look away, or even appear abashed to have been caught staring, when she returned his gaze. She lowered her head first. He continued to observe her as she circled the table with the brandy decanter, replenishing the glass of another guest, determined not to glance at him, inwardly cursing the blush that stained the skin of her throat and rose into her cheeks, her body betraying her discomfort.

‘Walter,’ he said, finally, ‘how quaint it must be to have a close member of the family for a housekeeper. That’s not to say Harriet is not doing a sterling job. In addition, I hope you do not mind my saying that she is very easy on the eye.’

There was a moment of silence.

‘Lining up your next wife, Boothby?’ said one of the men.

Harriet’s gasp was lost in the guffaws that filled the room. She tightened her lips and put the decanter down on the table. They were talking about her as if she was not present. Well, she would make herself absent. Fingers closed around her wrist. Her uncle.

‘Harriet, my dear, they only tease you,’ he said. He turned to Mr Boothby, whose eyes were dancing with mirth. ‘Harriet is the beloved and only niece of my dear wife,’ he said. ‘I would rather have her looking after the household and her cousins, particularly dear little Alice, than a stranger brought in from the street. She is housekeeper, but not servant, eh Harriet?’

‘Yes, Uncle.’ Harriet forced a polite smile.

‘I am sure she keeps a good account of herself,’ said Mr Boothby. ‘Perhaps the young lady would bring that decanter over to me?’

‘Please refresh Mr Boothby’s glass, Harriet.’

The general chatter resumed as she poured brandy into the glass Mr Boothby held out. He was talking to the gentlemen sitting on his left and now ignored her entirely, which was equally infuriating. He had no manners at all. Harriet fought an overwhelming urge to pour the liquid over his head.