Nobody did. She stayed there by herself for hours, with nothing to do except listen to the birds singing, count the leaves on the nearby branches or gaze down at the bright-yellow spread of Exidia glandulosa – witches’ butter fungus – flourishing on a piece of rotting log below.

She wished she had brought her notebook. She could have jotted down notes and drawings and ideas for the garden then. When her mother was well again, they were going to design and build it together. It would be a special place, just for the two of them, full of the most beautiful climbing roses and blooming chrysanthemums and fragrant lilies. Beatrice hoped it might also have magical things in it like fairies, and her mother had said that if they made it pretty enough and welcoming enough, then they would surely come.

Beatrice loved to draw and had started sketching ideas for it already, but with her notebook back at the house, she had only the key from her mother’s collection to play with. She tried to imagine it was a magic key that might take her far away from her home and into a world where people did not get ill and die.

Finally she tired of the game and slipped the key back into her pocket. She wished that her father would come looking for her, that he would spot her up in the tree and speak gently to her from below, perhaps persuade her to come down so that he could wrap his arms around her and they could comfort one another. He had never done anything of the kind before, but she still hoped. Her mother was the only person who ever embraced her, and Beatrice knew, deep down, that this would not happen ever again. She shivered, despite the heat of the day.

An hour later someone finally came, but it wasn’t Lord Sitwell. Beatrice heard the rustling of leaves and the creaking of branches and looked down to see a dark-haired boy climbing nimbly up the tree. James Sheppard was a couple of years older than her and spent even more time outdoors than she did. His father was Half Moon House’s head gardener, and James was due to become his apprentice very soon. Beatrice’s nanny had explained that this meant they were not allowed to be friends, because one did not become friends with servants. And yet Beatrice liked James because he loved plants and animals as much as she did. He did not chastise Beatrice for being too strange, or too quiet, or getting the game wrong, or saying awkward things, as her cousins so often seemed to do. It didn’t appear to matter to him that she was not like other children.