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She had resolved that at the first opportunity she would hightail it to the nearest woollens shop having an end-of-season sale and buy up their entire stock. She could always turn a tartan rug into a skirt, at a pinch, particularly without Henry there to comment.
    She was a little nervous as she approached the room from whence came low, muttering voices, of the kind that were guaranteed to stop the moment a stranger entered – thus informing the stranger that she was the topic of conversation, but she took a breath and went in.
    ‘Ah, hello,’ said Felicity, jumping up. ‘Let me introduce you to my mother. Mama, this is Genevieve Porter. Jenny, this is my mother, Lady Dalmain.’
    It was with a flutter of anticipation in her stomach that Jenny turned to the Matriarch.

Chapter Three

    The woman who rose was dressed in a tweed suit and a silk blouse. She must once have been handsome, but bitterness and discontent had pulled in her lips and narrowed her eyes. She wore her greying hair in a bun at the nape of her neck. A thick rope of gold sat uneasily with the crêpe de Chine but went well with her heavy gold earrings – this was a family that went in for jewellery, thought Jenny. Lady Dalmain, who held herself very erect, extended a regal hand. It was covered in rings and was designed to keep whoever dared to take it strictly at arm’s length.
    Perhaps it was the whisky she’d drunk earlier or perhaps it was the sheer theatricality of the situation, but Jenny was beginning to enjoy the hideousness of it all.
    A huge stag, whose head emerged from the wall behind Lady Dalmain, squinted slightly, and other badly stuffed beasts stared glassily at nothing. Faded tapestries, depicting tartan-clad warriors and fainting maidens hung disconsolately from the oak panelling. Complicated wooden lamps hung with cut-glass pendants fought for space on the occasional tables with Staffordshire models of Flora Macdonald and Highland gentlemen with lions at their feet. Different generations of The Family, immortalised in sepia,stared grimly from richly decorated photograph frames. There were enough silver stags at bay, deerhounds and Highland cattle to populate a small zoo, and these were flanked by an equal quantity of drinking vessels and dishes. She even spotted an elephant-foot wastepaper basket. Felicity was neurotic and her mother was apparently a monster, but there was a funny side to this situation. Her mother, Henry and his friends, would love hearing a detailed description. Henry’s mother would have been hugely impressed.
    Then Jenny caught sight of Felicity trying not to bite her nails, and suddenly felt guilty for her amusement. It was all right for her, Jenny, to be entertained by how awful it was, she could just go home to Henry, and his nice maisonette, when her job was done. For her, it would definitely be over by Christmas. Felicity had to live here.
    Jenny took her hostess’s outstretched hand carefully, unwilling to spear herself on antique diamonds.
    ‘How do you do, Miss Porter?’ said Lady Dalmain, in a deep, surprisingly melodious voice. ‘Would you be connected to the Wilmsbury Porters, by any chance? A very old family.’
    ‘No, I think we’re connected to the Billingsgate Porters.’ Then she bit her lip; this was no place for flippancy. She imagined Henry frowning at her; she sometimes didn’t take his mother quite seriously enough for him, either.
    But Lady Dalmain nodded sagely, and for a moment Jenny wondered if there really was a family of Billingsgate Porters.
    ‘You’ve met my daughter,’ Lady Dalmain went on,‘
but
sadly, my elder son, Philip, has been held up. He’ll join us later.’
    There was a sound from Felicity that indicated the ‘hold-up’ might have been tactical, but she didn’t actually say anything.
    ‘Would you like a drink?’ Lady Dalmain went on, either ignoring or not noticing her daughter’s interjection. ‘Felicity, give Miss Porter a glass of sherry.’
    ‘Oh please