“Well, it’s not too long anymore,” she said and produced from the wardrobe a dress that was now about a foot shorter than when I last saw it.

“My dress. What did you do to it? You didn’t cut it off, did you?” I could hear my voice rising dangerously.

“Oh, no, miss. I wouldn’t do a thing like that. It was just that . . . well, I saw this thread hanging down and I yanked on it and the whole thing started to unravel. Lucky I stopped or it would have turned into a jumper.”

“Queenie,” I wailed. “Is there no piece of clothing of mine that you haven’t tried to ruin? That gray dress is the only smart winter item I own, apart from my suit, and I can’t wear a suit in the house. Now I’ll have to look like a schoolgirl in my tartan kilt all week.”

“I could try knitting it back up for you,” she suggested hopefully.

“Of course you can’t knit it back up. I honestly don’t know why I keep you. You know I can’t afford to buy new clothes.”

She was now turning those big cow eyes on me, brimming with tears. “I’m awful sorry, miss. I didn’t mean no harm.”

“You never do, Queenie. But the dress is ruined all the same.”

“It might not be too very short,” she suggested. “You did say hemlines are up this year.”

“Yes, but not up to midthigh!” I held the dress up against me. “Well, there’s nothing to be done. I’ll just have to wear what I wore yesterday. And please do not touch my dinner dresses. Don’t try to clean them or iron them. I’d rather wear them crumpled. I don’t want to find there is a big hole or the nap has been rubbed off the velvet.”

She nodded bleakly. “Bob’s yer uncle, miss,” she said.

“And Queenie,” I called as she started to creep away. “Remember when Lady Hawse-Gorzley suggested that you might assist other ladies if they hadn’t brought their own maids?”

“Yes, miss?”

“Don’t,” I said. “I can’t afford to pay for ruined outfits or be responsible for anyone set on fire.”

“That was only the once,” she said. “I don’t go around setting people on fire all the time.”

“I’m just being cautious, Queenie. You are a walking disaster area and I think you should confine your activities to making my life a misery.”

“Yes, miss,” she muttered and crept away, leaving me feeling rotten. Why did she have this ability to make me feel bad when it was always her fault? I finished my toilet and went downstairs to face the arrival of the first guests—the Wexlers from Indiana.

The Americans arrived late that afternoon. We received a telephone call from Newton Abbott Station. The car was dispatched and we were urged to walk to the end of the drive to meet them at the gates. “As a gesture of welcome and goodwill,” Lady Hawse-Gorzley put it. She even made the servants line up as if to receive the new lord of the manor.