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‘Well, I’m feeling lucky today,’ she beamed, hoping this sentiment would follow through into how she was greeted by Harry. It only occurred to her this moment, as the smile faltered for the ticket inspector, that Harry might not even be at his family home. He could be back in London.

‘Are you all right, madam?’

‘Sorry. Am I holding you up?’

‘No, but the carriage driver might be a little terse,’ he said, nodding in the direction of where the hackney would meet her outside the station.

‘Oh, I’d better hurry, then,’ she said, reserving her query for the driver.

She was the only passenger to be picked up by carriage for the transfer into Cuckfield.

‘Can you help me, please?’ she asked the man who aided her into the carriage.

‘I’ll be happy to try.’

She smiled again; this had to be handled delicately. ‘I’ve come to visit the Blakeneys,’ she began. ‘Um, the problem is, I’ve mislaid the address. I’m not familiar with their home.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve travelled from York,’ she added, angling for his sympathy.

‘What a pity you missed their wedding recently at the Holy Trinity Church! The whole village turned out for them.’ He gave a crooked smile. ‘Henry Blakeney is a war hero and a true gentleman, much loved by the folk around here, and his new wife . . . well, Miss Bethany is just adored and she made a beautiful bride.’ His smile that had widened as he spoke now shrank back to a serious line as he saw her expression. ‘Are you all right, Miss?’

Alex was momentarily lost for words, shock spinning through her like a drill at maximum speed. She’d expected as much and still it hurt. ‘Er, yes. Of course I was sorry to miss the wedding, but it will be pleasant to see them now.’

‘I’m sorry, Miss. I think they’re away on their honeymoon. They’ve already been gone a fortnight, I reckon. But I’m sure Lady Blakeney will be happy to see you.’

The journey was a blur. So Harry was not here; her journey was wasted. She considered asking the driver to turn around but she couldn’t face the trip home immediately, so she decided to find a hotel. She smiled faintly at the driver when she tipped him and there was just enough wit available to her to check in at reception. She needed time to think on her situation and a hotel was the only place to be truly alone. She could return home in the morning. Once the door was closed on her room, she lay on the bed and while her eyes remained dry, her body remained rigid in one position, hours passing as night drew in.

Alex was woken the following morning by a knock at the door and tentative query. ‘Mrs Britten-Jones?’

She didn’t answer and a few moments later a folded message was slipped under the door. Alex roused herself, aware that she was in her coat, still wearing her gloves, and her small holdall with its single change of clothes was seated on the edge of the bed where she’d tossed it.

She picked up the note. It was from reception informing her that Lady Ellenor Blakeney had telephoned and invited her to the family residence today at eleven. Alex looked at her watch. It was nearing nine. How had she discovered Alex’s presence? She looked back at the bed, which appeared undisturbed. If she hurried, she could catch the train that departed for London just after ten. Or, she could refrain from being a coward and face Harry’s mother, who was surely confused but gracious enough to enquire after her son’s visitor. Going by Harry’s quip about his mother, she likely missed nothing in the village, especially the arrival of a gentlewoman asking after her family.

She sighed. She was no coward. Alex bathed, dressed in her fresh clothes and descended the stairs to the reception.

‘Ah, Mrs Britten-Jones. Is everything all right?’ the gentleman behind the reception desk said.

‘All very well, thank you,’ she lied.

‘Can we serve you breakfast? It just . . .’

‘No, I’m not hungry, thank you. I shall eat later but allow me to settle my account. Can you organise a carriage, please, to the Blakeney residence?’

‘Of course, right away.’ He rang a bell and a young porter hurried briskly across the marble floor. ‘A hackney please, Donald, to Ockenden Manor.’

__________

The carriage drew up alongside what looked to be an Elizabethan manor with five minutes to spare. The timing was perfect as Alex alighted to marvel at the beautiful grounds that the Blakeney family residence presided over. Gardens sprawled in all directions, with manicured lawns stretching to patchwork fields. Having listened to the porter as she waited for the hackney cab, Alex now knew that these fields would lead into the Cuckmere Valley, famed for its beauty and picture-postcard villages like Alfriston.

The front of the house was outfitted in a climbing plant of waxy green that clung stubbornly and was obviously trimmed regularly to reveal large picture windows. They peered out from a pale, yellow-grey stone soaring to several levels, with interesting architectural shapes of a vaulted roofline. It was one of the most handsome houses of the period she’d seen and befitting of the man who now presumably owned it.

A slim, slightly hunched woman with silver hair swept neatly to each side, without all the familiar fuss of curls and tight buns, emerged onto the porch. At full height she would have been tall but age and its stoop had shortened her. She was dressed in a navy day dress with little adornment save some embroidered flowers at one shoulder in the same colour. Her eyes gleamed, still bright and alert, over a straight nose, small neat mouth and pale skin that would have once been creamy and unblemished, Alex decided. She was striking in her senior years, surely a rare beauty in her youth. The woman leaned on a walking stick with a silver handle and a tassle of silken navy. ‘Mrs Britten-Jones?’ she enquired in a clear, crystal-cut southern accent that Alex thought a royal would be proud to own.

‘It is. Good morning, Lady Blakeney.’ She couldn’t be anyone else, Alex reasoned. She approached her elder, who had stepped onto the gravel of the drive as the cab rolled away. ‘Do you always greet your guests in person at Ockenden?’ She hoped it sounded a light comment but it came out tinged with awe.

The woman chuckled. ‘No, my dear. Only the ones who entirely intrigue me. Care for a walk? You’re dressed for it.’

‘Er, yes, that would be agreeable, thank you, but I doubt you are dressed for it.’

Alex now noticed the woman behind, who had been shrouded by shadows, attend to her mistress, helping her on with a coat and hat, offering gloves and tucking a silken scarf at her neck. ‘Don’t fuss, Polly. I shall be fine. It’s actually a splendid day. Come on, Mrs Britten-Jones. Shall we?’ The older woman pointed her walking stick in the direction of a path and Alex fell in step.