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she fetched her pattens. It wasn’t until they were in the courtyard, however, with a large Persian rug draped over a washing-line, that Mary learned why.
    “Is any of my hair showing?” demanded Amy, patting at her three inches of exposed face. The rest of her head was shrouded in a huge cap she’d pul ed down to cover her ears and eyebrows.
    “Only your eyelashes.”
    “What about my dress?” This, too, was entirely swathed in a dust-wrapper that went from neck to ankles. Combined with the pattens – wooden blocks strapped to her boots to raise her clear of the mud –
    Amy looked like a hot-air bal oon about to take flight.
    “Can’t see any of it,” said Mary.
    Amy remained unappeased. “The usual work’s dirty enough, but this is horrible. I’l be grey with dust in two minutes.”
    “We’l be done by dinnertime, and then you can have a wash.” Something about Amy’s expression made Mary pause. “Unless … you have other plans?”
    Amy flushed and beckoned Mary to her side of the carpet. “I can trust you, can’t I?”
    “Of course.”
    “I’m expecting … somebody … a cal er.”
    “Here?” Domestic discipline was strict, and while letters and parcels were unrationed, staff were certainly not al owed to entertain guests.
    “It ain’t certain, mind.”
    Aha. “Mr Jones?”
    Amy flushed and squirmed. “Maybe.”
    “Oh, come on,” teased Mary. “He’s al you talk about.”
    “That ain’t true!” squealed Amy, but she looked pleased despite her words. “Did I show you what he give me?”
    “You know you didn’t.”
    Amy glanced about in a conspiratorial fashion –
    total y unnecessary, as they were quite alone in the service courtyard. Opening her dust-wrapper, she plunged a hand into her dress and drew out a long silver chain. On it dangled a heart-shaped locket, from which protruded a few wisps of mousy hair.
    “Ain’t it beautiful?” she whispered reverently.
    Mary had her own opinions about heart-shaped lockets crammed with hair, but she smiled anyway.

    “Very sentimental. It looks as though things are serious with your Mr Jones.”
    “D’you think so?” asked Amy with eager pride. “I do, but sometimes I can hardly believe it’s al real.
    And listen, tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day. I want one of them big, beautiful Valentines – you know, with real lace and feathers – and that’s just the start.”
    “Are you going to see Mr Jones tomorrow evening?”
    Amy made a face. “I asked Mrs Shaw for an hour’s leave – to see my mam, I said it was – but she wouldn’t say until tomorrow. I think she suspects.”
    Mary smiled very slightly. “I suppose everybody wants to go and visit their mother on Valentine’s Day.”
    “But we’l see. Al ’s not lost, even if she don’t give me leave.” Amy nodded and gave a sly wink.
    “How d’you mean? You’ve worked out a way to slip out at night?”
    But Amy only smiled and winked again.
    “Wel ,” said Mary, for this was the time to turn the conversation in the direction she needed, “if you want a bit of time in the day, you’ve only to say. I could dust the drawing rooms for you, and the like.”
    Amy was responsible for cleaning the Blue Room –
    the one from which the original figurines had gone missing. So far, Mary had managed passing glances in the daytime and a careful night-time inspection, but it was possible that a leisurely cleaning session by gaslight would yield useful information.
    Amy’s eyes sparkled. “You’re a dear. I don’t mind tel ing you I’ve high hopes for tomorrow…”
    “And so have I, my darling,” purred a new voice.
    Male. Smooth. Educated. And naggingly familiar.
    Both Mary and Amy jumped at the interruption, although their reactions were entirely different. Amy squealed and grabbed at her bonnet, whisking off the frumpy dust-covers as fast as her shaking hands would al ow. Mary, however, went very stil . Then, with a grim feeling of certainty, she turned slowly towards