If you stopped to count the windows – I’m guessing about thirty, just on the side we approached from – you might begin to comprehend the size of the place. But all the little additions seem to conceal its real scale, and even though it is large, the house doesn’t look overly grand or self-important, in the way of some mansions. It just appears friendly and inviting. The red brick has aged and mellowed over the years, and that afternoon it glowed in the sun with such warmth and character that it seemed to emit an inner beauty of its own.

I was so overwhelmed by the wonder of the place that there was barely any time to get nervous, but after Pa pulled the long cast-iron bell-pull and we waited, listening to the reverberations inside the hallway, my confidence seemed to slip away. Whatever would I say to Kit? What did people talk about over tea? What was the correct way of holding a teacup and saucer?

I’d seen Mrs Waddington at the party and occasionally in church, but she wasn’t the sort of woman who made an instant impact. In fact, my first impressions had been that she might waft away in the wind, for she was as slim as a willow branch and just as delicate. Or she might simply dissolve into the background because, with her pale skin, white-blonde hair and a wardrobe consisting of soft pastel shades of grey and cream, she appeared to have no colour of her own.

‘Come in – come in, my dears,’ she said in her light, wispy voice and ushered us through the dark hallway into a bright living room. The sun poured in through tall windows overlooking an expanse of perfectly trimmed green lawns and beds of flowering shrubs, displayed against the darker green of the woods beyond.

Crisply pruned box hedges created intricate geometric shapes in what looked like a low maze, lined with gravel paths that enclosed beds of red roses and purple lavender – a knot garden, she called it. Beyond that, a perfectly trimmed lawn of the purest green led to the edge of the moat where a pair of swans stood, serenely preening themselves. It was a picture of perfect harmony.

Jimmy said it first. ‘Pretty,’ he whispered, tapping the window with his fingers and leaving sweaty marks on the pane.

Mrs Waddington turned to Pa. ‘What a sweet boy you have, Vicar. And look at you, Molly, growing up fast. Now, let me call the others, so we can have tea. We’ll take a stroll in the garden afterwards, if you like.’

When Mr Waddington walked into the room everyone automatically pulled their shoulders back, even Jimmy, like troops standing to attention.

‘Where’s that wretched boy?’ he barked, as though it was his wife’s fault their son had not yet appeared.

She flinched a little and went to the door, calling, ‘Our guests are here, Kit.’