Chapter 1

As I passed through the black and gold gates, many of Gatley Hall's Sunday visitors were driving in the opposite direction as it was nearing closing time. The drive was bordered by grass verges lined with trees and beyond the hedgerows were the rolling Surrey Hills and a patchwork of fields as far as the eye could see. The house came into view and although I'd seen it when attending my interview, I slowed down the car in order to take a proper look. Gatley Hall was majestic, with big white columns at the front like a Roman villa. Following the Association of Treasured Properties sign to the staff car park, I found a space and lifted my suitcase out of the boot. It would take a few journeys to and from the car to unload all my stuff and I'd come back later, after a cup of tea.

Rosalind, the house manager, had shown me Rose Cottage with its charming white picket fence after my interview but didn't have a key with her at the time, so I hadn't seen inside. Being desperate for somewhere to live, I wasn't going to be choosy. My dad had died only days before my thirtieth birthday and this was followed by my break-up with Miles the day after the funeral. I'd moved out of his flat in Wimbledon, wounded after he revealed his vision for our future. My mother, or Deborah as she liked to be called, put me up, reluctantly, at her home in Richmond upon Thames. Being an actress, she could be rather self-involved, and she'd dropped regular hints about how good it would be for me to have my own space again. So I'd agreed to live at Rose Cottage without seeing inside, and despite the prospect of living alone in the countryside.

I wheeled my suitcase over the gravel path, sighing as white dust from the stones covered my most expensive piece of luggage. As I passed the back of the cafeteria's kitchens, the smell of food came through an extractor fan, reminiscent of school dinners and mixed with the odours emanating from two rather large and stinky refuse bins. But as I continued, a fairy-tale world came into view, fields in shades of green ranging from lime to pistachio to emerald, and punctuated by woodland. Smoke rose from the chimney of a farmhouse in the distance, and a tractor chugged nearby. To my left stood Gatley Hall, viewed from the side, a vast lawn descending to a lake.

Seeing the sign for the rose garden on my right, I lifted the latch and pushed open the cast-iron gate. Rosalind had informed me that the rose garden, enclosed by a red-brick wall, was Edwardian. An arch covered the main path and there were numerous flower beds filled with a variety of roses, divided by paving stones, some of them a little loose in places. A curved white bench filled one of the corners and it would make a nice spot to read in during warmer months. Passing through the gate at the other end, I dropped the latch back into place, and there was my new home: Rose Cottage. Rosalind said the cottage had been divided into two for staff members at some stage. 1A would be mine and 1B was where the head ranger lived. At first, I hadn't relished the thought of living on the property on my own, but the idea of someone living next door had put my mind at rest. I pictured him as a middle-aged outdoorsy type who could be relied upon if anything broke, and it was a comfort to know he'd be there at night.

Reaching the cottage, I searched for the key in my bag. A rose bush was sprawled over trellis attached to the wall between matching green front doors and I imagined the cottage would look pretty in the summer when the roses were in bloom. Being a born and bred Londoner, I felt like Cameron Diaz in The Holiday. The countryside was new to me, my only remotely rural experience being walks in Richmond Park growing up and strolls on Wimbledon Common with Miles when the flat got hot in the summer. Was I doing the right thing, leaving the world I knew for this place? It was beautiful, but would I be lonely? Perhaps I'd become inspired by my new surroundings and take up art again. Dad's death had brought some kind of urge to be creative in recent weeks. Being a film director, he'd always encouraged me to nurture my creative side, telling me I had real talent.

Unlocking the front door, I found myself in a small living room with a sofa to sink into, a couple of mismatched armchairs and a pine coffee table with spilt-drink stains all over it. It was clear that no one had lived there for a few weeks, the temperature chilly, and I needed to switch on the heating. There was a bay window with a large sill, perfect for plants and candles, and a Victorian fireplace complete with mantelpiece, and it was flanked by bookcases. A set of tools made from brass took up one side of the hearth, but having no idea how to build a real fire, I couldn't imagine using them. The furniture had a musty smell, and the cottage needed a good airing as well as a thorough dusting and vacuuming. I followed the hall to a small kitchen with a round table, and two stools tucked under a worktop running across the centre. The floors were wooden, and my boots clumped as I went up the stairs to explore further. On the landing, I spotted the programmer for the heating, and switched it on, hoping to warm the cottage up before bedtime.

The main bedroom at the front of the cottage overlooked the Surrey Hills and a box room faced the back, with a view of the cafeteria bins. A wardrobe took up most of the space and a tired-looking mattress was propped against the wall. It wasn't as if I was expecting any overnight visitors. Looking out of the window, I saw a patio area with table, chair and umbrella, and a makeshift barbecue made from bricks. A few terracotta pots were dotted around, the plants dried up and dead. A small bathroom was tucked in between the bedrooms, with a bath and shower. There was limescale in between the tiles and around the sink. I'd need to give everything a good scrub. The cottage certainly needed a bit of TLC and perhaps it would be good to have a project to keep me busy.

Back downstairs, I found a handful of tea bags in a canister by the kettle, but when I opened the fridge it was bare apart from old stains. Yuck. My phone said four thirty, and I hoped the cafeteria was still open so I could get something to eat. Heading back through the rose garden, I followed signs to the cafeteria – called The Stables – and as it was getting late, the staff were packing food on display into plastic containers. I bought a small quiche to take away. In the shop opposite, I looked for something exciting to drink, but the only alcohol to be found was a bottle of ginger wine on sale. Imagining long quiet evenings, I scanned the book selection, searching for something that would help with research for the Below Stairs exhibition I'd be organising as research and exhibitions officer. I found Mrs Field's Diary,written as part of the Mass Observation during the Second World War.

Back at the cottage, I poured a generous measure of the ginger wine into a tumbler, mentally adding wine glasses to my shopping list. I tucked into the quiche at the kitchen table, delicious, but quite rich and creamy. Although the ginger wine tasted a little acidic, I carried on drinking it, craving some kind of kick as the near silence struck me. The only sound was a bird tweeting outside. In Wimbledon, there was almost always passing traffic, as well as the murmur of people talking as they walked past the house. Living in the countryside was a shock to the system for someone like me. Could I adjust to this way of life? Opening my laptop, I played a smooth playlist on Spotify – I'd have to get my speaker out of the car when unloading the rest of my stuff later.

A key turned in the lock of the front door. I heard it creak open and then footsteps across the floor as someone approached through the living room. My heart raced. Who had a key to my cottage? As I stood up and grabbed the bottle of ginger wine, ready to smash it over the intruder's head, a man appeared at the open doorway to the kitchen. I shrieked, ready to strike until I saw he was bare-chested, with a royal-blue towel wrapped round his waist. What on earth was a half-naked man doing in my house?