Grindle Hall lay to one side of the village of Little Grindle. The big house was a huge part of the village and of village life, and yet apart from it and, in both senses, above it. The lane climbed uphill, and soon Gina came to the imposing central gates of elaborately curled metal between tall stone pillars topped with perching eagles. She let herself in the little gate to the side and walked past the Lodge, which was where her uncle, Tom Arnold, lived.

From nothing more than nosiness she peered through his sitting-room window. There was his armchair, with the cushion Dora had made him as a Christmas present showing the indentation of his back, and a low table beside it on which was a small pile of books. Tom was like Nell – a real bookworm. Although he lived alone, Tom’s sitting room looked cosy, neat and cheerful, like Tom himself.

Lucky Nell, going to work with him. Still, there were other ways of getting on, and Nell would probably want to stay here gardening for the rest of her life. Gina, still cross at not even being offered the chance of the job, took a few deep breaths and deliberately replaced her feeling of discontent with pity: poor Nell, this would probably be as far as she ever got in life.

Keeping a lookout for her relatives, Gina made for the side of the house where the kitchen was. She’d been to Grindle Hall on several occasions before – Mr Stellion used to host the big annual village events – and she had taken care to do a little private exploration to see what was where. You never knew when such knowledge would come in useful.

There was a chip basket of spinach on the ground beside the back door. Her confidence bolstered by this piece of luck, Gina picked it up and, without even hesitating, knocked and entered the kitchen.

The cook turned and saw the young woman dressed in breeches, a sleeveless pullover over a striped shirt and her hair tied back with a blue scarf.

‘Good morning, Ellen Arnold,’ she said. ‘I heard you were starting work in the garden today.’

Better and better, Gina thought. She hadn’t even had to explain herself to the cook, whose name she knew to be Mrs Bassett.

‘Good morning, Mrs Bassett,’ Gina replied. ‘I’ve brought you this spinach.’

‘Thank you. Just take it through to the scullery, there’s a good lass.’ Mrs Bassett indicated the inner door, which led to a corridor. ‘Next down on the left.’