She sped down the shining wooden staircase into the hall of Ashley House, the skirts of her pink silk morning dress rustling as she hurried. Her parents were already seated at the table in the breakfast room, her father busy reading The Times and her mother opening her letters. Ravina leant over and kissed her father on the forehead, smiling at the usual gruff “good morning, child, you are late.” Lord Ashley was a tall, thin, distinguished man in his late forties. Like his father and his grandfather before him, he held a high position in the Foreign Office. Ravina had grown up with political discussions with high-ranking foreign officials taking place around her. She had often escaped from her nanny and governesses to hide under her father’s big desk in the library. She had played happily with her dolls and toys whilst talk of trouble in the Balkans, revolutions and wars were discussed over her head.
