‘Mother’s arranged for us to have tea in her own drawing room,’ Alexander said quietly as he took her elbow again. ‘It’s cosier than the main one.’ He didn’t add that he had requested this; he was well aware that the house and its contents would be overwhelming for her and he wanted to make this as easy as possible.

The young footman led the way through the hall and into a wide corridor, and halfway down this he knocked on a door before opening it and saying, ‘Mr Alexander and guests, ma’am,’ his face impassive as he stood aside for them to pass him into the room. As he closed the door the footman said, ‘I will let the master know you are back, sir,’ and Alexander inclined his head.

The room was lovely; the gold velvet drapes at the window perfectly matched the thick carpet, and the upholstered couches and several small armchairs were in a lighter shade. Like the hall it was as warm as toast courtesy of the blazing fire in the hearth, but all this was on the perimeter of Rose’s vision. Her whole being was concentrated on the regal-looking woman who had risen as they had come into the room and was now walking forward with her hands outstretched, saying, ‘Do come in and get warm, the weather is frightful again, isn’t it. I’m Arabella, Alexander’s mother, and you must be Rose. And this, of course, is Betsy.’

In truth, her first sight of the young woman her son was so in love with had taken Arabella aback. She had expected her to be attractive but the girl’s beauty was striking; not only that but she held herself with the poise common to the upper classes rather than a working-class person. And then she silently reprimanded herself. She had to stop thinking that way if the girl was going to be Alexander’s wife in due course, and she mustn’t say or do anything to make Rose feel she was looking down on her.

‘How do you do, Mrs Bembridge,’ Rose said quietly. ‘It’s very good of you to invite us to tea.’