The kitchen at Grave Hall was a long, low room. There was an enormous wooden table in the middle of the flagstone floor. A cooking range crouched in the fireplace. Pots and pans and bundles of herbs and strings of onions dangled from the ceiling.

      “This is our cook, Mrs Bernie Crawley,” Lord Grave said. He waved his hand towards the tall, broad-shouldered woman who stood with her back to them. She was stirring a small pot of what smelled like porridge simmering on the range.

      The woman turned and smiled. “Welcome to Grave Hall, Lucy. We’re all so glad you’ve come. It’s always so exciting to find a—”

      “New boot girl,” said Lord Grave.

      “Boot girl. Yes. Now, you must be hungry.” Mrs Crawley wiped her hands on her apron.

      “I’ll take my breakfast later, Mrs Crawley. Until then I’m not to be disturbed,” said Lord Grave.

      “Shall I bring Lucy to you after she’s eaten? I’m sure you’ll wish to begin—”

      “I’m not to be disturbed, Mrs Crawley.” And with that, Lord Grave left the kitchen, Bathsheba padding after him.

      Lucy realised she was staring at Mrs Crawley in a very rude way. She blinked and tried to find something else to focus on. The grey stone floor fitted the bill nicely.

      “Something the matter?” Mrs Crawley asked, smoothing the full and glossy red beard that covered the bottom half of her face.

      Lucy muttered at the floor. “You’re a …”

      “Of course I am!” Mrs Crawley brandished the wooden spoon she was holding. Blobs of porridge fell at Lucy’s feet. “Lord Grave’s a traditional man in many ways. The cook must always be known as ‘Mrs’, married or no, she or—”

      “He?” said Lucy, finally looking up.

      “Correct!”

      Lucy wondered if it would also be rude to mention the fact that Mrs Crawley happened to be wearing a dress and a frilly white apron.

      “Ah, you’re puzzled by the frock. I prefer them, you see. Better airflow. It gets hot around the nether regions in this kitchen. And look at yourself, with your nice breeches. Very smart. We should wear what makes us feel comfortable. Agreed?”

      “Agreed.” Lucy smiled for the first time in hours. She had never liked dresses herself, preferring the practicality of breeches. But she could see why Mrs Crawley might feel the opposite way. And it was refreshing to meet someone else whose clothing choices were somewhat unusual.

      “Sit yourself down here. It’s almost six and time for the servants’ breakfast.”

      Lucy settled herself at the long table. It had benches at each side and a chair at either end. Mrs Crawley put a heavy silver teapot on the table and Lucy helped herself to a cup with milk and three sugars. She gulped it down, almost burning her tongue, and then poured another. While she was drinking it, the first of the servants arrived – a fair-haired girl, a year or two older than Lucy, carrying a ginger cat with a blue ribbon tied round its neck. The ends of the ribbon were damp and chewed-looking.

      “Who are you?” the girl asked, peering sleepily at Lucy.

      “Lucy, this is Becky Bone. Becky, this is Lucy Goodly. She’s our new boot girl. You be good to her now. She’ll be sharing your room.”

      Becky stuck out her bottom lip. “Why does she have to share with me?”

      “Becky, don’t you be so rude. You know all the other attic rooms are full of animal feed.”

      “Your cat’s very sweet-looking,” Lucy said, in an effort to be friendly. She wasn’t entirely being truthful. The cat was scrawny. Its single eye was round, bulgy and bright orange. It had one and a half ears and the tip of its tail was missing. “What’s its name?”

      “He’s called Smell,” said Mrs Crawley.

      Lucy laughed. “What a funny name. I’ve got a cat at home called Phoebe. But she’s a bit younger than your Smell I think?”

      “He’s not called Smell!” snapped Becky. “He’s called Aloysius.”

      “But Smell’s so much more fitting,” chortled Mrs Crawley.

      Smell wriggled out of Becky’s arms and trotted over to Lucy. As he stood there, blinking up at her with his single orange eye, he made a very small tooting noise, like the world’s tiniest trumpet.

      “Oh,” said Lucy, wrinkling her nose. Now she understood why Smell was called Smell.

      “It means he likes you!” said Mrs Crawley brightly. Becky scowled even harder at Lucy.

      Another girl came into the kitchen, singing quietly to herself.

      “This is Violet, she’s our scullery maid. She comes in from Grave Village to help me with the cooking,” said Mrs Crawley. “Violet, this is Lucy, the new boot girl.”

      Violet smiled shyly at Lucy as she sat down. She was much younger than Becky, perhaps eight or nine. Wisps of mousy brown hair escaped from her white cotton cap. She began fiddling with her spoon, still singing softly.

      “Oh, shut that noise up, Violet,” Becky said, when Mrs Crawley’s back was turned. “This one’s a right milksop. She’s scared of everything, you know. Cries if you look at her wrong.”

      Lucy didn’t reply, but suspected Becky probably did a lot worse to Violet than “look at her wrong”.

      A very short, curly-haired