A soft, amber pool illuminated the writing blotter and guided the hand that held the pen. The rain and wind beat ferociously against the tall leaded windows and drowned out the sound of the careful scratch of the gold nib on card as fine as vellum, the hissing of the peat as it gently burnt in the fireplace and the occasional stomach rumble from hungry Rufus, lying next to Mrs McKinnon. Ruby carefully wrote out each of the invitations to the ball at Lady FitzDeane’s writing desk, while Mrs McKinnon sat beside her in a straight-backed chair, with a list in one hand and her folded reading glasses in the other. Lady Isobel had begun the task herself, but her concentration had waned and she had made many errors, so she handed the task to Ruby. ‘You have a lovely hand, Ruby, would you mind continuing for me? Mrs McKinnon knows who is who. She will help.’ Lady Isobel rose and offered Ruby her seat and as Ruby settled anxiously in the chair she added, ‘I will take myself to bed for a sleep.
