Becky hadn't expected the house to be quite that large.
A butler, under butler and two footmen were waiting on the top step to greet them. Guy brought the car to a halt on the graveled drive and the butler stepped forward to remove Becky's two small cases from the boot, before handing them over to a footman who whisked them away. The butler then led Captain Guy and Becky at a sedate pace up the stone steps, into the front hall and on up the wide wooden staircase to a bedroom on the first floor landing.
"The Wellington Room, madam," he intoned as he opened the door for her.
"He's meant to have spent the night here once," explained Guy, as he strolled up the stairs beside her. "By the way, no need for you to feel lonely. I'm only next door, and much more alive than the late general."
Becky walked into a large comfortable room where she found a young girl in a long black dress with a white collar and cuffs unpacking her bags. The girl turned, curtsied and announced, "I'm Nellie, your maid. Please let me know if you need anything, ma'am."
Becky thanked her, walked over to the bay window and stared out at the green acres that stretched as far as her eye could see. There was a knock on the door and Becky turned to find Guy entering the room even before she had been given the chance to say "Come in."
"Room all right, darling?"
"Just perfect," said Becky as the maid curtsied once again. Becky thought she detected a slight look of apprehension in the young girl's eyes as Guy walked across the room.
"Ready to meet Pa?" he asked.
"As ready as I'm ever likely to be," Becky admitted as she accompanied Guy back downstairs to the morning room where a man in his early fifties stood in front of a blazing log fire waiting to greet them.
"Welcome to Ashurst Hall," said Major Trentham.
Becky smiled at her host and said, "Thank you."
The major was slightly shorter than his son, but had the same slim build and fair hair, though there were some strands of gray appearing at the sides. But that was where the likeness ended. Whereas Guy's complexion was fresh and pale, Major Trentham's skin had the ruddiness of a man who had spent most of his life outdoors, and when Becky shook his hand she felt the roughness of someone who obviously worked on the land.
"Those fine London shoes won't be much good for what I have in mind," declared the major. "You'll have to borrow a pair of my wife's riding boots, or perhaps Nigel's Wellingtons."
"Nigel?" Becky inquired.
"Trentham minor. Hasn't Guy told you about him? He's in his last year at Harrow, hoping to go on to Sandhurst and outshine his brother, I'm told."
"I didn't know you had a—"
"The little brat isn't worthy of a mention," Guy interrupted with a half smile, as his father guided them back through the hall to a cupboard below the stairs. Becky stared at the row of leather riding boots that were even more highly polished than her shoes.
"Take your pick, m'dear," said Major Trentham.
After a couple of attempts Becky found a pair that fitted perfectly, then followed Guy and his father out into the garden. It took the best part of the afternoon for Major Trentham to show his young guest round the seven-hundred-acre estate, and by the time Becky resumed she was more than ready for the hot punch that awaited them in a large silver tureen in the morning room.
The butler informed them that Mrs.Trentham had phoned to say that she had been held up at the vicarage and would be unable to join them for tea.
By the time Becky resumed to her room in the early evening to take a bath and change for dinner, Mrs. Trentham still hadn't made an appearance.
Daphne had loaned Becky two dresses for the occasion, and even an exquisite semicircular diamond brooch about which Becky had felt a little apprehensive. But when she looked at herself in the mirror all her fears were quickly forgotten.
When Becky heard eight o'clock chiming in chorus from the numerous clocks around the house she returned to the drawing room. The dress and the brooch had a perceptible and immediate effect on both men. There was still no sign of Guy's mother.
"What a charming dress, Miss Salmon," said the major.
"Thank you, Major Trentham," said Becky, as she warmed her hands by the fire before glancing around the room.
"My wife will be joining us in a moment," the major assured Becky, as the butler proffered a glass of sherry on a silver tray.
"I did enjoy being shown round the estate."
"Hardly warrants that description, my dear," the major replied with a warm smile. "But I'm glad you enjoyed the walk," he added as his attention was diverted over her shoulder.
Becky swung round to see a tall, elegant lady, dressed in black from the nape of her neck to her ankles, enter the room. She walked slowly and sedately towards them.
"Mother," said Guy, stepping forward to give her a kiss on the cheek, "I should like you to meet Becky Salmon."
"How do you do?" said Becky.
"May I be permitted to inquire who removed my best riding boots from the hall cupboard?" asked Mrs. Trentham, ignoring Becky's outstretched hand. "And then saw fit to return them covered in mud?"
"I did," said the major. "Otherwise Miss Salmon would have had to walk round the farm in a pair of high heels. Which might have proved unwise in the circumstances. "
"It might have proved wiser for Miss Salmon to have come properly equipped with the right footwear in the first place."
"I'm so sorry . . ." began Becky.
"Where have you been all day, Mother?" asked Guy, jumping in. "We had rather hoped to see you earlier."
"Trying to sort out some of the problems that our new vicar seems quite unable to cope with," replied Mrs. Trentham. "He has absolutely no idea of how to go about organizing a harvest festival. I can't imagine what they are teaching them at Oxford nowadays."
"Theology, perhaps," suggested Major Trentham.
The butler cleared his throat. "Dinner is served, madam."
Mrs. Trentham turned without another word and led them through into the dining room at a brisk pace. She placed Becky on the right of the major and opposite herself. Three knives, four forks and two spoons shone up at Becky from the large square table. She had no trouble in selecting which one she should start with, as the first course was soup, but, from then on she knew she would simply have to follow Mrs. Trentham's lead.
Her hostess didn't address a word to Becky until the main course had been served. Instead she spoke to her husband of Nigel's efforts at Harrow—not very impressive; the new vicar—almost as bad; and Lady Lavinia Malim—a judge's widow who had recently taken residence in the village and had been causing even more trouble than usual.
Becky's mouth was full of pheasant when Mrs. Trentham suddenly asked, "And which of the professions is your father associated with, Miss Salmon?"
"He's dead," Becky spluttered.
"Oh, I am sorry to hear that," she said indifferently. "Am I to presume he died serving with his regiment at the front?"
"No, he didn't."
"Oh, so what did he do during the war?"
"He ran a baker's shop. In Whitechapel," added Becky, mindful of her father's warning: "If you ever try to disguise your background, it will only end in tears."
"Whitechapel?" Mrs. Trentham queried. "If I'm not mistaken, isn't that a sweet little village, just outside Worcester?"
"No, Mrs. Trentham, it's in the heart of the East End of London," said Becky, hoping that Guy would come to her rescue, but he seemed more preoccupied with sipping his glass of claret.
"Oh," said Mrs. Trentham, her lips remaining in a straight line. "I remember once visiting the Bishop of Worcester's wife in a place called Whitechapel, but I confess I have never found it necessary to travel as far as the East End. I don't suppose they have a bishop there." She put down her knife and fork. "However," she continued, "my father, Sir Raymond Hardcastle—you may have heard of him, Miss Salmon—"