The Savigears offered no response. It was Joyce, stopping a moment on the patchy gravel with her case at heel, who saw the plaque above the transom. She said nothing to begin with, seeming almost fearful, eyes shifting downward, downward, till they landed on the threshold. ‘There’s nothing to wipe my feet on.’

‘Are they muddy?’ Florence asked.

‘Not sure.’

‘Don’t worry. We’ve a sturdy mop, if need be. Leave your cases by the table there.’

Joyce came inside, dipping her head, and muttered to her brother, ‘Why’ve they always got to give their houses fancy names?’

‘Shh. Give it a chance,’ he said. ‘Don’t wreck it.’

Later, Florence would deliberate on those words, their houses, with regret and trepidation, but, for now, the only thing to do was act as though she’d not been listening. If she asked them to explain what they’d been whispering about, she’d seem no different from a borstal officer. In the first place, what had made her so excited by the thought of Leventree was the prospect of some youthful company – she’d spent too much of her life in service of the old and the infirm – and although that motivation hadn’t waned exactly, it was now more complicated. Nobody had ever tried what she and Arthur were attempting to achieve with these two youngsters. There were no accepted guidelines for how everybody should behave. In only half an hour with them, she’d observed enough about the Savigears to know what they could tolerate. For one thing, it was senseless to presume that she could be their mentor, or their mother, or their matron – these were certain routes to failure. No, she thought, let Arthur be the one they couldn’t bear to disappoint. Her aim would be much simpler from the outset: friendship.

Charlie slid his case under the console table and looked up at her expectantly. His jacket was now draped over his forearm. Somewhere between the platform and the hallway, he’d unbuttoned his shirt several rungs and she could see a wheatish covering of hair beneath. His features seemed to vary with the viewing angle – sometimes square and unremarkable, sometimes deft and curvilinear. She found her eyes were drawn to looking at him in the same way they would linger on an Aalto building when she flicked through Architectural Review.

‘Now, I assume that Mr Mayhood will be upstairs, getting changed,’ she said, leading them along the hall. ‘Most days, he likes to spend the first few hours in the fields, and seeing to his duties round the house. We’ve a strict rota for chores, as you’re about to learn. You might’ve seen that old man slogging in the mud as we passed by – that’s Mr Hollis. He’s helping us around the farm until we’re self-sufficient, but we’ve no one else on staff. So, if you’re hoping maids and butlers will be picking up your laundry, you’ll have to think again. Everything we do here will be done through our own labour and cooperation.’