One time the Dame’s advice had been spot-on when she’d tried to warn Lizzie off Toby Wrenworth, a dare-devil motorbike rider.

‘That young man was made to be a lover, not a husband,’ she’d declared in her booming voice. ‘Don’t confuse the two.’

‘Auntie!’ Lizzie had exclaimed, not sure whether to be amused or aghast. ‘You’re not actually advising me to-?’

‘I’m advising you not to confuse the two,’ the Dame had repeated firmly.

But the eighteen-year-old Lizzie had ignored the advice, and in due course she’d wished she’d heeded it. The Dame had glared all through their wedding, but when the inevitable divorce happened, two years later, she’d been a rock. If she hadn’t overflowed with sympathy neither had she uttered reproaches.

‘Stop crying and get yourself off to college,’ she’d commanded. ‘It’s what you should have done before, instead of wasting time on a man who was all teeth and trousers.’

The robust approach had done Lizzie a world of good. For sympathy she’d turned to Bess, and they’d cried together.

Even as a teenager she’d been sensitive enough to feel sad for the maid who lived in her employer’s shadow and had no life of her own, although she’d always seemed contented enough with her lot. Since the great lady’s death Bess had lived in a retirement home. It was a comfortable, even luxurious place, with large gardens filled with flowers, and Bess seemed happy there.

Lizzie visited whenever she could, and made a point of going to see her friend before she left for Voltavia. Bess was old and frail, but her mind was clear, and her first words were eager. ‘Tell me all about your lovers.’

‘Lovers? Plural? You think I’m living a really exotic life, don’t you?’

‘I think you’re a pretty girl, and a pretty girl should have lovers.’

‘Well, I have a boyfriend or two.’

‘Do they break your heart?’