We came upon a house that had a gravel sweep in front of it, running into lawns on either side. On one of these stood the monkey puzzle, on the other three strawberry trees had long ago been planted to form a grove, which now contained ornamental seats and a table, in white-painted ironwork. The grey façade of the house was touched with white also: the front door, the woodwork of eaves and windows. Steps and pillars introduced a dwelling that was solidly matter-of-fact, with a defiantly uncompromising note about it as though some point was being established about the durability of its stone. I remembered Mamma saying she’d always thought Carriglas would look better with Virginia creeper over it.

An elderly woman and a child came down the steps to greet me, the woman in black, her grey hair tidily drawn into a bun, the child in a red dress. Blonde plaits hung down the child’s back; her eyes were so sharply blue as to seem extraordinary. Haverty shouted at the horse again, telling it to stand still, although it had already done so. Mrs Rolleston held out her hand.

‘Sarah, what a wretched journey you’ve had! Now, please come in. This is Villana.’

Rising gently, a staircase ran around a circular hall, off which there were arched passages to left and right. A table curved with the wall that faced the hall-door, and bore a silver-framed family photograph among vases of roses. The floor was flagged; the walls were a faded green, the ornamental niches of the stairway picked out in white. Gilt-framed portraits hung above chairs with tattered covers, and on the stairway wall.

‘Sherry,’ Mrs Rolleston insisted. ‘Before you drop down of exhaustion.’

Her hospitable manner hardly compensated for the continuing directness of her grandchild’s scrutiny. The strangely intense eyes were fixed on my hat, which was grey and low in the crown. They proceeded slowly downwards to my face, lingered without interest, and then passed over my grey tweed coat. The distant cousin who had come to be a governess was poorly attired and plain, her manner affected by a diffidence that stifled charm, quite unlike her brother: unwavering in their stare, the eyes alertly reflected all they saw.

‘It’s awfully good of you to agree to this,’ Mrs Rolleston said.

In the drawing-room there were further family portraits, and inlaid cabinets, armchairs and sofas, a gold-faced clock in the centre of a marble mantelpiece, a grand piano, and two chandeliers. Tall French windows were open to the garden, where another lawn stretched grandly, bounded by long flowerbeds. Wistaria trailed along a wall, flagstones were set around a sundial.

‘My son,’ Mrs Rolleston said. ‘The children’s father.’