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“That’s wonderful; thank you so much. Mum will really appreciate it.”

She hung up the phone and turned, spotting Lucie.

‘I’ve just secured a box at the theatre to see Cabaret tomorrow night.”

“Oh, wow. That’s amazing! How did you wangle that?”

“I know people.”

Lucie reminded herself that Frances was the granddaughter of a Marquess. It was easy to forget.

“Hopefully it will cheer your mum up. She seems a bit quieter than usual. She was a bit subdued on my visits this week too.”

“I think Christmas has worn her out. Even in Holly Court she isn’t entirely shielded from everything going on.”

“Where are all the plants?” Rose asked, suddenly appearing through the arch.

“They’re at home, Mum. At the hall. We can’t keep them here.”

“But this is my home.”

“It is, but so is the hall. We don’t come here often, so we couldn’t keep them watered.”

Rose paused, then turned and left the kitchen without another word. Lucie wondered if she had accepted the answer or was merely more confused by it. As she looked back at Frances, she was met with a flat smile.

“It’s natural to have a strong emotional attachment to somewhere from earlier in her life,” Lucie said. “To them it can feel like they never left.”

Frances hummed. “There was always a lot of joy connected with this place. It was the first home she shared with my dad.”

Lucie nodded, recalling that it was a wedding gift to the young couple.

Frances finished making the tea while Lucie perched on a stool at the island, pretending to scroll on her phone, though she was watching her every move. Sometimes she found it too difficult to keep her eyes off of her. If they were to be parted soon, she wanted to hold on to the simple, everyday moments with Frances that somehow felt like everything.

She noticed a bouquet of fresh flowers on the island. “Where did they come from?” she asked, nodding at them.

“I have a cleaner that comes in once a month to give the place the once-over. It’s how the fridge is stocked, too — look.” Frances held the door wide open and took out a bottle of milk. “I just let her know when we’re coming, and she gets the place ready.”

“Handy.”

Frances filled a jug with milk and a teapot with hot water, arranging them on a tray with three cups and saucers.

“Would you take these through?” Frances asked, sliding a packet of biscuits across the island.

“Of course.” Lucie picked them up and headed into the sitting room, closely followed by Frances. “It’s peaceful here,” she added, setting the biscuits on the coffee table.

She made her way over to the window while Frances poured the tea. Outside, the square lay still except for an old man walking his dog.

Frances joined her, handing her a cup of tea. “Not all of London is busy; there are quiet pockets.”

“I like it here,” Rose said from her chair. “It isn’t busy like the other place. There’s always so many people there making noise. There never used to be.”

“It’s certainly a beautiful spot,” Lucie said, trying to get her head around the middle of London being quieter than a huge estate in the countryside. The Christmas period, though, had been relentless.

“I used to sit here and watch the nanny pushing you around the square in your pram,” Rose said, her gaze drifting to the window.

Lucie caught Frances’s eye and offered a small, sympathetic smile. The look she returned was pained but resigned.

“I wanted to be the one pushing you,” Rose went on. “Going to you when you cried at night. Teaching you to walk. Washing the gravel from your knees.”