The servants' entrance is tucked around the side, half-hidden by a tangle of climbing roses that have not yet learned to behave. The door is painted a deep green, worn smooth at the handle from decades of use. A small brass plate reads, simply, Tradesmen and Staff.

The knock comes twice before the door opens. A woman stands there — perhaps fifty years old, with a stern but not unkind face, iron-grey hair swept into a precise knot, and a dark wool gown that speaks of authority rather than fashion. She looks at you the way one inspects a new horse: carefully, thoroughly, without apology.

The back stairs are narrow and steep, but the walls are clean and the floorboards swept. Mrs Wilson climbs with practiced ease, pausing once on the landing to glance back at you.