Odd to see those grand old iron contraptions manned by armed security guards, FBI ones at that. For as long as she could remember the gates had remained open. Beechtrees had been a wild and wonderful place where she and her brother had played and run free. Since her Royal guests had taken up residence she had not been there. Poor old Beechtrees. Built at the turn of the century, like most of the other robber barons’ country houses around the Stockbridge Bowl, it had only come alive with people for short seasons: the summer months, a week at Christmas, some years at Easter. It was faintly bewildering to ride up the avenue of trees as a luncheon-guest in your own house. She felt even more out of sync to see, as the car manoeuvred the gravelled, crescent-shaped drive in front of the limestone mansion, the sovereign and her consort standing at the front door. Lined up on the white marble stairs, flanking either side of the Palladian portico to the house, her staff, her cook, and Beechtrees’ house-maids, estate manager, gardener, stable lads.
