the centre of the floor. The flags must have been laid centuries ago, May thought, wishing that Sam were here to show off his knowledge of history; he would love this old house. May stumbled slightly on the uneven stone as she hurried to keep up with Mrs. Cage.
“Isn’t January blooming awful?” Mrs. Cage said, her voice echoing around the high grey walls. “Mind you, Sussex in winter can be beautiful, and I’ve known some lovely ones over the past nine years,” she continued, the words flying up to the ceiling and returning in shadow form. “But I cannot help thinking about how nice it will be to be warm again.”
“I miss the warmth too,” May said, agreeing with her enthusiastically.
“Do you like swimming?” Mrs. Cage asked, turning to look at May.
“Yes, I love it. Is there a beach near here?”
“Yes, there is, in matter of fact, down at Cuckmere Haven. Florence and I sometimes go there even though it is a bit of a walk.”
“Florence?”
“Oh sorry! Florence is my daughter. She is nine, well, nearly ten, as she is constantly reminding me! She lives for the chance to swim in the sea!”
Mrs. Cage pushed open the panelled door at the end of the long corridor.
“Sir Philip has a telephone call or two to make so if you wait in here I am sure he will come and find you shortly. Shall I send you in a cup of coffee?”
May declined the offer and was left alone. She sat down in a chair in the far corner. A powerful smell, a combination of freshness and spiciness, puzzled her until she spotted a neat line of hedgehog-like balls placed along the windowsill. She recognised them from the linen cupboard at home. Every Christmas she and Sam had punctured the pitted skins of oranges with little clove heads and tied a ribbon around the fruit from which the perfumed ball would hang and scent the sheets.
Books were piled on every surface, their multicoloured spines displayed on the shelves stretching from ceiling to floor on three sides, while on the remaining wall of the room the brick red wallpaper was obscured by two fraying tapestries of ancient wooded hunting scenes. Curtains made of rich dulled gold silk had the fullness of Cinderella’s gown. May tried to work out how long it would take to read every book in the room. A week, maybe a month for each volume? A year for each shelf? She gave up, giddy with the calculation. Abandoning the improvised fortune-telling cup, she shoved the handkerchief back in her pocket, closed her eyes and wished she felt less nervous.
The sound of the door opening startled her. A tall young man in spectacles burst into the room and flung himself onto the burlap-covered armchair opposite her, spread-eagling his legs. Evidently he thought he was on his own. He opened a yellow-jacketed book on which the words “Left Book Club” were stamped on the cover. In case he unexpectedly caught sight of her and suspected she had been deliberately hiding, May felt she should say something.
“Hallo.”
The young man looked up at her from his book. His hair was almost white, the colour of thick honey. Putting his finger to his lips he motioned to her to be quiet.
“I am escaping from the dreaded sister,” he hissed. For a moment he studied her closely. “I must say, you look awfully smart sitting inside with your hat on.”
“Oh,” May said, suddenly unsure. “Do you think I should take it off?”
“Well, it depends what you are planning to do next. If you were staying for lunch, I would definitely take it off. But if you have a head cold and are here to study branch formation of Elizabethan oak trees in the garden, then I suggest you leave the hat where it is.”
“I’m waiting for Sir Philip,” she explained defensively. “I am hoping he will ask me to be his driver.”
“Oh I see,” said the young man, examining her a bit more closely. “What fun! You are nothing like Cropper, although I hope there isn’t a small flask of whisky hidden under that hat.”
May looked puzzled.
“Oh dear. Sorry. I must learn to be a bit more discreet. Joan has a phrase for it. ‘PD,’ she always says to me. Pas devant, meaning ‘not in front of.’ It’s the Blunts’ private alert for discretion in front of the servants. Awful outmoded way of talking, isn’t it? I can’t bear it. And anyway I think there’s far