The servant wasn’t much of a talker, it turned out, but he greeted her politely and told her Miss Catherine had informed him and that there was a trap waiting to take her up to the house. He helped her in before getting in on the other side and off they went. The barouche or any of the other fine carriages had not been taken out for her, but Catherine wouldn’t dream of being so inconsiderate as to let the girl walk the mile up to the house.

The house was situated outside of Whitby, on higher ground, and from the park, Ellie might catch glimpses of the town and harbour below. To her left lay the headland and the glimmering sea beyond. To her right rose the North York Moors in in the distance. Ahead of her, the mansion grew in size. From the front, it was a symmetrical grey building with four sets tall bay windows on both floors and a long porte-cochère in the middle where the main entrance was. As she got closer, Ellie would probably notice the top of the taller, square belltower around which the house had been built, and the little turrets, the balconies, the high chimneys and the colonnades that ran from both sides of the house, forming a crescent around the circle drive.

The trap didn’t go that far however, but turned right, onto a smaller road that led them around the back of the colonnade to the side of the house. There, Ellie was handed over to a maid, already waiting by a servant’s entrance, who showed her up.

Catherine had been looking forward to this visit far more than she cared to admit. However, a little solitary reflection in the days leading up to it had caused her some anxiety that, if she was not careful, the interaction might be misconstrued by the uneducated fisher girl or by some of Whitby’s gossip mongers. Any formal acquaintance was out of the question. The notion that the Enningtons from Saltwick View Manor and the Russells from Tate Hill or the Crag or Boulby Bank were calling on another was preposterous. But she could not assume that a girl like Ellie Russell would understand the intricate rules of morning calls that placed this visit well outside of that category of interactions. And with Miss Pearl Carrington recent elopement with a bricklayer or what-was-he, who knew what the working classes presumed about their connections to their superiors. No, she should take care that there was no possibility of misconstruing this interaction. And so Ellie was received via one of the servant’s entrances and led up via the back stairs, not to the parlour where they received callers, but to Catherine’s own sitting room.

Catherine sat waiting in a cushioned bay window seat. She had seen her guest being driven up to the house until the colonnade had hidden her from view. Ellie Russell was on her way. Catherine picked up her copy of Emma, which lay ready by her side, and opened it where she thought she had left.

She looked up from the very same page when Ellie entered. The servant announced her. Catherine closed the book. “Miss Russell. You must excuse my not rising to greet you. I’ve been suffering with vertigo. Thank you, Maeve,” she dismissed the maid. “Please have a seat.” She gestured to the other side of the window seat. “That is a lovely dress.” She wouldn’t be caught gardening in a dress like that, but she appreciated that the girl had made an effort to look nice. And though Ellie Russell’s clothes weren’t exactly the latest from Liberty’s, there was loveliness about the girl, a freshness or innocence, which her simple but proper costume and hairstyle only accentuated.