Jarvis, like any good butler, was there before her, and he held the heavy oak door open, standing back as a blast of cold air laden with icy particles of snow hurled itself into the entrance hall. The ancient suit of armour nearest the door rattled ominously as if its former occupant was shivering, but Rosalind was used to the vagaries of the old castle and she automatically snapped the visor shut as she walked past. There was probably a simple explanation as to why the headpiece often looked as though it was smiling at some ancient joke, but when they were children Bertie had insisted that the spirit of Sir Denys Carey lingered on in his suit of armour. Rosalind had been terrified of it then, and even now, in the dim light of the evenings she averted her eyes when she walked past.

‘Who is it, Jarvis? Can you see?’

‘The snow is coming down too fast, ma’am. I can’t make out who it is.’

Rosalind stood behind him, peering into the swirling whiteness. She could just make out the caped figure of the coachman, and a footman leaped down from the box to open the carriage door. Both men were iced with snow as if they were decorations on a Christmas cake, and clouds of snowflakes flew around them as they moved.

The first person to emerge from the carriage was a woman whose face was hidden by a thick veil and she was enveloped in fur. Close behind her a man alighted and took her by the arm to guide her over the slippery cobblestones. Rosalind recognised them instantly and ran forward, forgetting the adverse weather conditions.

‘Mama, Claude, what a lovely surprise.’

‘I was beginning to think we wouldn’t make it,’ Claude said breathlessly. ‘The snow is piling up in drifts in the narrow lanes.’

Felicia Carey stepped into the hall and threw back her veil. ‘I don’t know why you’re surprised, Rosalind. We’re here for your sister’s wedding. Nothing would prevent me from attending.’

‘You didn’t come to mine.’ The words tumbled from Rosalind’s lips before she could stop herself. Patsy had always been their mother’s favourite. She was a younger edition of Felicia, with a mass of golden curls, although her eyes were violet blue, whereas Rosalind had inherited the hazel eyes of their mother and dark blonde hair from their late father, attributes that she shared with her brothers, Bertie and Walter. They were a good-looking family, but Patricia had the power to melt hearts if she fluttered her long eyelashes and would always be the centre of attention. Rosalind had learned at an early age that life was not fair and she loved her sister too much to be jealous. Even so, sometimes Mama’s attitude rankled.

‘That was unfortunate, my dear,’ Claude said smoothly. ‘But we were in Milan – your mama was singing at the world-famous La Scala opera house.’