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to be done that the driver fell asleep and the horse discovered an appetite for the tulips. When no more excuses could be found, the Princess finally tied the ribbons of her grey bonnet and walked down the front steps for the last time. As the carriage slowly headed down the drive, she looked back at the only home she had ever known, blinking away the tears that rose, lost in the bewildering no-man’s-land between her past and her future.
    The driver of the ponderous growler dropped them at the entrance to the station, choked by a scrum of hansom cabs, carriages, omnibuses, vans, and carts collecting or disgorging passengers. A porter loaded their luggage onto a barrow, and they followed him inside. Newspaper boys yelled the day’s news over the thunder of the trains, shoeblacks cast admonishing looks atpassengers’ boots, and pickpockets slunk past, preying on the confusion. The Princess sought out the bookstall while Pooki, tightly clutching her mistress’s jewel case, went to buy the tickets.
    “But they’re third-class,” said Mink, when the maid returned with them.
    “Two first-class tickets would cost four shillings, ma’am. Those people who came to the house did not pay what we asked for the furniture, and some just wanted things for free. Ladies also travel in third class on trains. It said so in one of your newspapers.”
    Mink instantly recognised an attempt to control her extravagances. “It’s all very well travelling in third class as long as people know you can afford to travel in first,” she replied.
    “But ma’am. You were one of the first ladies to travel on the top of an omnibus.”
    “Yes, but that was for an entirely different reason. Men had had the best view for far too long.”
    When the dispute was finally settled, and new tickets purchased, the only thing left of their train was a cheerful plume of smoke. The pair stared incredulously at the empty track, then turned and retreated to the waiting room. Easing past the portmanteaux, carpetbags, and parcels, they sat down next to the Bibles chained to the wall lest someone broke the Eighth Commandment. While the passengers and a dog glanced at the curious couple, the mistress and the maid kept their eyes on the ground, silently blaming the other for bronchial Mrs. Boots waiting in vain for them outside the palace. Never once did either suggest a pot of tea in the refreshment room. And when they had waited, they waited some more, for it was an unshakeable truth that no train took longer to arrive than when its predecessor had been missed.
    Finally they pulled out of the station, the porter gazing at the generous tip the Princess had pressed into his hand with relief. As the train crossed over the viaduct, she looked down at the London streets and tried to imagine living so far away from the centreof the universe that was Piccadilly. It wasn’t long before the Princess, unsure of her future, thought again of the life she had hoped to share with Mark Cavendish, who had offered his love so generously, then snatched it back again with the greed of a miser. Reaching for the novel she had just bought, she opened it to distract herself: she had already wasted too much regret on that man as it was.
    Pooki, her face seeming even thinner in her black bonnet, finally broke the silence as they passed through fields in the early thrust of spring. “At least you will be living in a palace, as you should be, ma’am,” she said.
    The Princess smiled unconvincingly, and then lowered her head back to her book.
    The light was starting to fade by the time the train reached its final destination forty-five minutes later. A porter carried their luggage to the fly, a one-horse covered carriage whose sullen driver was wearing a filthy blanket over his knees against the damp. As they headed over the bridge towards the palace, which was already in view, two small boys ran after them, caps in their hands, hoping to earn a penny carrying the bags inside. Wondering