Isolda Verne arrived at the estate on a grey Thursday morning, unannounced in the way that only people who had standing never felt the need to announce themselves.
She came in a travelling coach that had seen considerable use and made no apologies for it, its lacquered panels road-dusted and its team of four horses moving with the unhurried confidence of animals that had covered long distances many times and expected to cover many more. Her steward sent word ahead by twenty minutes, which was enough time for me to be in the front receiving room rather than the kitchen corridor where I had actually been when the message arrived.
