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knew exactly why those feelings of discomfort had assailed her.
    Though she had the advantage of a good education and had worked hard to earn a respected name in her profession, she came from poverty. She had been a maid in this very house. It was Lady Rowan who, in 1912, had discovered the young domestic servant reading in the library in the early hours of the morning. Recognizing the girl’s intellect, Rowan had turned to her friend, the esteemed psychologist and forensic scientist Maurice Blanche, for advice. So began the relationship—and the opportunities—that formed the woman Maisie would become. Maurice directed Maisie’s education, the intensity of her studies leading to her winning a place at Girton College in Cambridge. She suspended her education to enlist for nursing service in the war, returning later to complete her studies, and then to work with Maurice as his assistant.
    Since inheriting Maurice’s fortune, it seemed to many of those who knew Maisie that she had taken on the mantle of wealth with confidence; however, it was likely only her father and, perhaps, Priscilla, who suspected that Maisie was now experiencing something of a struggle. She had purchased a few items of furniture for her previously spartan flat in Pimlico, and there had been some painting done on The Dower House—the home Maurice had purchased years before on the Chelstone Estate in Kent—but otherwise she had spent no money unless it was on others. There had been the investment in a semi-detached house in Eltham, which she now rented to Billy at a peppercorn rate—she would have loved to give him the house as a gift, but she knew much embarrassment would have been caused to the very proud man. She had helped Sandra where she could, assisting her with the cost of classes she attended in the evenings, and she had already planned to pay for her to attend Birkbeck College—her explanation being that it was in her interests to promote the education of her staff. She felt that in this one act she was repaying a debt. Lady Rowan and Maurice Blanche had paid for her first two terms at Girton, before she gave up her studies to serve as a nurse in France—though when she returned to complete her tertiary education, she had won a scholarship.
    Now she was parked outside the house in which she had once been a maid, where she had first entered via the side door that led into the belowstairs scullery. And now she was walking out with the master of the house who, she knew, had come to expect her to be his consort when guests arrived for supper or when a party was held. It was as if, in her flat, she could imagine her life had not changed. She could cook supper. They would sit by the fire and talk. And in truth, if she admitted it to herself, she could control how much . . . what? She rubbed her hands across her face, tired. Yes, she could control how she felt. She could pretend that Maurice’s generosity had not made everything different. There was part of her that wanted to retain the need to exercise thrift, to consider every purchase with care. It was the part of her that did not want to let go of her beginnings as she became more established. The bequest had changed all that. She was a woman of property, of wealth, and the days of want had slipped away into the past. Maurice had trusted her to accept the legacy with integrity. She knew others considered her conduct exemplary—there had been no mad spending sprees, after all—but inside there remained an element of fear. She was afraid she might lose touch with her past, and in so doing lose herself.
    Maisie walked up the front steps and rang the bell to summon the new butler, Simmonds, who, she thought, must have been lurking on the other side of the door, waiting to welcome her into the newly decorated entrance hall. The hall and broad staircase before her were now flooded with electric light that brought the old house alive; indeed, since its redecoration, Maisie thought the mansion