Poor, old Stewart had led Edith, in painstakingly slow steps, to a small sitting room, and had left her there for what felt like an hour.

He had done his best to be gracious and hospitable, but his watery eyes kept blinking in astonishment, as if he couldn't quite believe she was really there. He had called her "Lady Edith" twice by mistake, immediately apologizing. "I mean Lady Hexham, of course" he said, sheepishly. "I'll see if the master is in the house, M'lady" he had said before disappearing. Of course, they were both fully aware Sir Anthony was there: Stewart would have told her right away if he hadn't been. But in pretending he didn't know his master's whereabouts, the loyal old servant was providing him with an excuse in case he wasn't willing to receive the unexpected guest.

Edith couldn't really blame him for his little lie.

While she was waiting for someone to appear, Edith took a look around the room: it was a small boudoir, with heavy curtains and matching draperies in a pattern that had been in fashion at least two decades before. The fireplace was empty and cold, and the entire room, though tidy, had a dusty, abandoned feel to it; the whole mansion, it seemed to her, was unnaturally quiet and cold, like a ghost house or a museum. She got up and started looking around; the room was furnished with a sofa, chairs, and a small writing-desk. She went to the desk and picked up a leather address book with the letters M.S. in gold on the cover. Maud Strallan, she thought. The whole place was frozen in time.

Someone should bring this house in the twentieth century, Edith thought absent-mindedly. And then she remembered: she was the one who was supposed to refurbish the house… as the new Lady Strallan. She put the book back where it was and sat back on the sofa. At that very moment, the door opened and a tall figure appeared in the doorway.

Up until that second, Edith had been sure she was ready to see him. As it turned out, she wasn't. When Sir Anthony came in through the door, a wave of emotions - warmth, agitation, confusion, tenderness, heartache - shot through her body like a jolt of electricity; she stood up and looked at him, struggling to keep her expression calm and collected while her heart thumped wildly against her ribcage like a trapped bird.

Oh, God, she though, bewildered and distressed. He's an old man!

Anthony had aged a great deal in those seven years, and he had not aged well; his hair was mostly grey, now, and his shoulders were curved in a way that made him look shorter than Edith remembered. He wore an old, out-of-date tweed suit that looked way too large for him. He had always been an elegant man, a stately man, imposing even - always formal, always dressed to the nines; a man who walked with a purpose and kept himself as straight as a string. Now he looked scruffy and drab, devoid of any energy.

The two of them stood there staring at each other, studying each other, unsure what to say and how to say it. How was he to address her – as the Marchioness of Hexham or the woman he was once on the verge of marrying? And how was she to answer – as the grand lady or the shy young woman she had once been?

Several seconds went by. There was an unnatural stiffness in Sir Anthony's bearing, an expression both intense and wary in his eyes. He had the look of a man who had received a mysterious, unnamed parcel in the mail, and is unsure what to expect when he opens it: will it turn out to be a gift from an old friend, or an incendiary device ready to blow up in his face? Should he unwrap it or drop it and run for cover?

"Lady Hexham" he said eventually – formal, cautious, hiding beneath the shield of etiquette. "To what do I owe the pl-"

"Please", interrupted Edith, raising a gloved hand; her voice was kind but firm. "Please, Anthony, don't." He stopped midsentence and looked at her, surprised. Her voice took on a softer tone and she managed a smile. "I come in peace. There's no need to tiptoe around me."

After a moment's hesitation, he nodded. Edith took a step closer. "I'm sure you know this is not a social call."

"Yes, I gathered that much." Unexpectedly, he smiled one of his lopsided smiles and, for a moment, Edith recognized in that tired old man the same Anthony she had known and loved. There was another uncomfortable moment of silence. "We, uhm." Anthony cleared his throat and looked around the cold, depressing room. "We better go into the library. It's – warmer, there."

Edith nodded. "All right."