“Are we really leaving, then?”

“Maybe. But I want to be ready, just in case.”

The candle was lit and Queenie departed.

I started to write the letter. Dear Granddad . . .

Then I paused, my pen in midair. Was it even right to ask him if I could stay? He had very little money himself and his health had not been the best lately. The last time he wrote to me his bronchitis had returned, aggravated by the London fog that crept out across the marshes into Essex. In truth I worried about him. At least Mrs. Huggins, his next-door neighbor, would be taking care of him and making sure that he ate well. She had designs on marrying him, I knew, but I wondered if he was more fond of her cooking than he was of her. In fact . . .

I gasped as a flash of brilliance struck me. A wonderful thought had entered my head, so wonderful that I hardly dared to think it. Mrs. Huggins was a good plain cook and she and Granddad had acted brilliantly as housekeeper and butler one time when I’d needed to produce servants for a visiting princess. I sat there in the darkness, waiting until I heard everyone go to bed. Then I tiptoed down to Binky’s study and picked up the telephone. I knew that Fig would have a fit if she knew I was making a trunk call, but for once I didn’t care. This was more important.

“Brown’s Hotel,” came the polished voice at the other end of the line after what seemed like hours of waiting for the operators to make the necessary connections. I asked to speak to the former duchess of Rannoch.

“I cannot disturb Her Grace at such a late hour,” said the voice sternly. “It wouldn’t be seemly.”

I wondered if this was a polite way of saying that my mother was not occupying her bed alone. It wouldn’t be the first time. “This is her daughter, Lady Georgiana Rannoch, calling on a matter of great importance,” I said. “So if you could possibly see if Her Grace is still awake?”

He was instantly gushing. “Yes, yes, of course, my lady. Please hold the line and I will try to connect you.”

I waited, thinking of the minutes being added to Fig’s telephone bill. At last an agitated voice said, “Georgie darling? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Mummy, but I just had an absolutely brilliant idea for you.”

“I was sound asleep,” she said.

“You’ll be glad that I telephoned. Listen, you know Granddad’s next-door neighbor Mrs. Huggins cooks decent plain food,” I said. “I thought you could ask her and Granddad to come down and run the cottage in Tiddleton-under-Whatsit for you. They were frightfully good at playing butler and cook when I had to entertain that German princess.”

“I can’t ask my own father to wait on me,” she said. “Besides, he’d never do it. He’s too proud.”