Her mind didn’t dwell on this because soon they were passing a cinema. This fascinated her, as she’d never seen one before. The billboard advertised The Kid, starring Charlie Chaplin. Oh, I’d love to go one day. It must be amazing to watch real people on a screen.

All of what she’d seen in London was forgotten as fear-filled anticipation gripped her when they neared Harold’s house. This feeling was replaced by anger, as the cab drew up outside. Before her was a splendid building, far superior to the one that had burned down. Harold had lied to her. He must have had the work begin immediately, to achieve this.

The original house had been around eighty years old and built in the plain style of the era, relying on its size to give an aura of grandeur. But this new house was opulent in every way. Elaborate stone gargoyles stared out from each corner. Bay windows, with sills that had carved stone holding them up as if they were shelves, graced the facade. A porch jutted out over the steps leading to the front door and was held up by four Roman-style columns. This house was bigger than the one it had replaced. Mags counted eight windows across each of its three storeys. The bricks were of the finest London red, with the windows and doors framed in white concrete.

Mags walked up the marble steps, and her heart quickened when the sound of the bell resounded inside the house. Shivering more from fear than from the cold, she gathered her coat around her.

The door seemed to glide open. A butler greeted her. His expression showed a brief moment of surprise. He quickly composed himself and acted as if it was commonplace for a lady to appear, unchaperoned, on the doorstep. ‘Good afternoon, ma’am. Please come inside.’

Mags nodded and stepped into the magnificent hall, unable, for a moment, to take in her surroundings. Marble columns supported the ceiling, and the beautiful wide staircase, flanked by a deep-mahogany banister and carpeted in a rich ruby-red, was a sight she hadn’t expected.

‘May I take your name? Is Madame expecting you?’

‘Madame? I’m here to see my fiancé, Mr Roford. I’m Miss Witherbrook.’

The look on the butler’s face would have been comical, had the anxiety in Mags not suppressed her sense of humour.

‘B – but, Mr Roford . . . I mean, I – I think you are mistaken. No . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . Please come with me.’

His recovery was admirable as he ushered her into a withdrawing room, where once more Mags found herself gaping at the sumptuous surroundings. Her feet sank into the deep-pile white carpet. Two royal-blue wing-backed, quilted armchairs and a matching chesterfield sofa surrounded the fireplace, which was a grand, carved-stone masterpiece reaching from floor to ceiling.

The whole appearance of the room was one of opulence. Although agitated about the possible meaning of the butler’s confusion, Mags took in the whole of the room. Occasional furniture finished in gold leaf with marble tops stood next to the chairs, with matching Queen Anne-style cabinets, full of beautiful objets d’art, statues and ornaments, placed on each side of the French windows, through which she could see the drive leading up to the house. The ambience was one of wealth. She couldn’t even imagine the amount of money it must have taken to build and furnish such a place.