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Cropthorne.’
    ‘Fancy that!’
    Cassandra, too, cleared a little peephole and glanced out.
    ‘Got friends there, in the village?’
    ‘No, I’m going to Cropthorne Manor – as a governess,’ Cassandra said wretchedly.
    The others, she knew, were leaning back easily, listening, watching through half-closed eyes.
    ‘Governess, eh? So that’s the latest, is it? Anyone meeting you? If not, come in and have a cup of tea on your way. I’m at the pub down the hill from the Manor. You’re very welcome.’
    ‘I think someone is meeting me in a car.’
    ‘That’ll be Margaret, then. Well, another time, perhaps.’ She had a way of settling her blue fox across her breast and smiling down with pleasure and approval – it might equally well have been pleasure at the fur or the bosom, since both were magnificent. A dusky, pleasant perfume came from her as she stirred, and the little charms hanging from her bracelet jingled softly. ‘Tom’s a nice boy,’ she went on. ‘Margaret’s brother, that is. He’s in most nights. But we never see his lordship.’ She winked.
    Since her employer was not titled, Cassandra supposed the reference was one of contempt.
    ‘Governess, eh!’ the woman repeated, smiling comfortingly.
    The word had not seemed old-fashioned to Cassandra before. For the first time, she took a glance from outside at all it might imply. She was setting out with nothing to commend her to such a profession, beyond the fact of her school lessons being fresh still in her mind and, along with that, a very proper willingness to fall in love, the more despairingly the better, with her employer.
    ‘Nearly there,’ said the woman, leaning forward. Cassandra trembled a little as she put away her book, searched for her ticket.
    ‘Look!’ The woman tapped her on the knee, pointed out of the steamy glass. ‘Oh, it’s gone. Never mind. You’ll see plenty of it before long. All too soon be glad to get away from it, I don’t doubt.’
    Cassandra had caught only a fleeting glimpse of grey walls among trees and now could see a broad stream lying in the meadows, unmoving, thick with weeds.
    As the train slowed under the spiked edge of the platformshelter only Cassandra and the woman in the blue fox stirred. The others did no more than move their eyes a little to watch them leaving the compartment.
    ‘How is she supposed to know you?’ the woman asked, wrenching open the door. ‘You should have worn a red carnation or something of that sort.’ To herself she thought: ‘She’ll know you all right.’
    Cassandra had begun to wonder the same thing, astonished that Mrs Turner, who had made all the arrangements, done all the letter-writing, could have overlooked so important a detail.
    After all, there were not so many people on the platform to choose from. If Cassandra stood out a mile, as her travelling companion had thought, so did Margaret, waiting beside the ticket collector. She was bare-headed, with frizzy dark hair drawn into a bun at the back; her face was pale, her lips uncoloured. Of course, there had been no necessity to worry, for the woman swept Cassandra in front of her along the platform.
    ‘Mrs Osborne!’
    Margaret had seen, but, nevertheless, gave a little start.
    ‘Mrs Veal. Good afternoon. I am …’
    ‘Here she is. Now, what an arrangement. How would you have gone on if I hadn’t been here? No red carnations, I was just saying, or copy of
The Times
in the left hand turned back at the financial news. I should have liked to have seen two people meeting like that, after reading about it so much when I was a girl.’
    ‘How do you do. I expect you are Miss Dashwood. I am Dr Osborne. Mr Vanbrugh’s cousin.’
    Cassandra shifted her case to the left hand and took Margaret’s. ‘Have you your ticket?’
    ‘Oh, yes!’ She put her case down and went through her pockets.
    ‘Can I take you to the bottom of the hill?’ Margaret asked Mrs Veal.
    ‘Well, that would be nice. I certainly won’t say