Sophie Arundel leaned forward in her chair, nearer the flames in the cast-iron grate. Despite the merry fire, the bedroom was autumn-chilly. By her feet, a black retriever yawned, and beside him, Sophie’s dog, Charlotte, gave a sleepy snore.

‘So missing central heating,’ Sophie said aloud, though she was alone apart from the dogs. ‘But I miss slouching more.’

Sophie hadn’t chosen to get stranded in an alternate 1925.

No flapper dresses here, or jolly parties, and slouching wasn’t an option, wearing what Sophie called the full Monty: a corset made of whalebone, a thin chemise, and a long, teal-blue silk gown. The skirt narrowed below the knees, making walking difficult — and striding impossible. A plain round neckline contrasted with tight elbow-length sleeves, finished with scratchy lace.

A scent of old stone edged with lemon-sharp polish permeated the Manor, and distant doors closing and the pad of maids’ footsteps outside Sophie’s room were the soundtrack of her life.

Yet only three months ago, she’d been starting university in 2017, exploring a noisy, bustling campus. She’d walked into a lift, expecting to step out into a tower block corridor, but found herself in a country lane, part of a grand estate. And then the lift had vanished, apparently into thin air.

Sophie’s four-poster bed had a canopy that cast most of the bedspread into shadow, but the morning sunlight, dappling through floor-to-ceiling French windows, was tawny-bright. Fine to read by.

She picked up The Times from a polished side table, folded it and squinted at the tiny dense print. Below adverts for face cream and dressmakers was a news article: Militia Routed in Manchester. After a reign of terror that left prominent citizens dead and injured, communist ringleaders are now safely behind bars. The whereabouts of other militia members remains unknown... Grim men and women in a police line-up stared out of a sepia photo.

Manchester was a hundred miles away, wouldn’t affect the Manor.

Sophie put the paper back on the table and glanced at an eye-catching, gaudy novel: The Duchess Novelette: A Wild Love. On the cover, a man dressed in black tie leered at a girl swooning on a couch.

Penny Dreadfuls were risqué, easy reads. Her maid, Maud Watkins, kept ‘unsuitable’ books in Sophie’s room to avoid them being confiscated by the housekeeper. Not a fan of servant-reading censorship, Sophie was happy to pretend A Wild Love was hers.

She opened a less exciting book, Etiquette of Good Society, but had hardly read a page when Maud came in.

Maud smoothed out a wrinkle on her black dress. ‘Sorry, Miss. I thought you were in the library.’ Her eyes were red-rimmed.

Sophie leapt to her feet. ‘Maud?’ Sophie used her maid’s first name in private, but as Maud was a stickler for propriety, she refused to call Sophie by her first name. So Maud was ‘Mrs Watkins’ in public and Sophie was ‘Miss’ … everywhere. ‘Is it the baby?’ Maud’s sister had recently given birth, hadn’t been well.

‘The police telephoned the Manor… Mr Slater’s died.’

Sophie thought she’d misheard, that Maud meant Mrs Slater. ‘Your sister—’

‘No, Miss. Her husband. Heart attack, they said.’ Maud gulped. ‘Very sudden. She’s in a terrible state.’

Before she had time to consider what was appropriate or proper, Sophie hugged her and after a moment of embarrassment or panic, Maud gave in.

‘You’re not alone with this,’ said Sophie. ‘You need to sit down.’ She gestured at the blue armchair by the fire.

Maud perched on the chair and Sophie rang a bellpull to get Maud a cup of tea. But Maud was here, not downstairs, in the servants’ hall or somewhere in the house. She couldn’t respond to the bell.

‘You must go to her,’ said Sophie.

‘I’d have to take the afternoon off.’

‘I can’t promise but I’ll see if Reynolds can take you.’ Reynolds was one of the Manor’s chauffeurs. ‘If it would help, I’ll come too.’

‘I don’t want a fuss, Miss.’

‘No fuss.’

A maid appeared in the doorway.

‘Could we have sandwiches and tea? And please prepare a food basket for a new mother.’ The maid nodded. ‘And can you ask the head gamekeeper if he can spare Miss Blackmore? She needs to mind the dogs.’ Charlotte didn’t need minding, but Jack did. He had cataracts, was nearly blind.

The maid scurried away.

‘I’ll clear this with Lady Lacey,’ said Sophie.

When Sophie had arrived at the Manor from the twenty-first century, confused and frightened, Lady Anne Lacey had invited Sophie to stay on as a guest. Without that kindness, Sophie would have died in a ditch. Anne agreed to Sophie taking the car, as Sophie expected she would.

Back in Sophie’s room, the dogs’ noses were too near dainty sandwiches and a silver tea service, and Maud was twisting her hands in her lap, ignoring the dogs and the food.

Miss Blackmore came in. Training to be a gamekeeper — a first for a girl here — her face was ruddy from working outside. ‘How long am I minding the dogs, Miss?’

Sophie handed her the leads. ‘Just the afternoon.’

Jack left with Miss Blackmore and after a mournful stare at the sandwiches, so did Charlotte.

Maud selected a day gown from a huge mahogany wardrobe. The dark blue skirt was fashionably shortened to above the ankles, and the matching hat was big and showy. Maud took out a navy cape. Floor-length, that was showy too.

‘Shouldn’t I wear mourning?’ In the wardrobe, there was a veiled black hat and a funeral dress of corded silk and wool.

Maud shook her head, close to tears, so Sophie didn’t ask why.

Once she’d changed, Sophie put on wrist-length, white linen gloves. When visiting, except when eating and drinking, ladies always wore gloves. One of an endless list of mad rules.

…

They set off in the open car with rain falling from a dull sky. Sophie’s hat was soon sodden and heavy, and the leather-soft upholstery turned slick and slippery.

‘Where’s Slater’s bakery?’ Reynolds, short and thin and sporting a neat moustache, was a chauffeur, but he wasn’t like a taxi driver, familiar with every road.

‘Halfway down the high street.’ Maud twisted her hands.

‘Is there anyone who could take over baking?’ said Sophie, hoping to distract her.

‘My sister will, Miss. And she’s got Miss Kemble, her all-sorts maid.’

‘Ladies can be bakers?’

‘Mr Slater’s mother started it, years ago.’

Counter-intuitive stuff. Women couldn’t vote here, yet they ran businesses… ‘What’s the baby’s name?’

‘Rose.’

‘Good name.’ Rain dripped off Sophie’s hat and she wiped water from the brim.

Small stores lined the road — butchers, greengrocers, dress shops — but being a Sunday, they were closed, and there was little traffic. They passed a police station, a few more shops, and stopped outside a three-storey, red-brick building. Above the door, BAKERY was written in large letters, and on the door was a closed sign.

Sophie and Maud got out, Reynolds handed Maud the food basket from the boot, and gave her a sympathetic smile.

‘Could you pick us up at three?’ Sophie asked him.

He nodded.

Maud headed for a narrow alley. ‘We can get in along here.’

Beyond the alley was a courtyard and the rear of the bakery. The back door opened into an industrial kitchen dominated by a blackened oven, set in a wall by a brick fireplace. Sturdy wooden cupboards lined the other walls and in the centre of the room a workmanlike table was bare and scrubbed clean.

Sophie sniffed, enjoying a warm bread smell. She took off her wet cape and gloves and put them on the table. Removing her hatpins, she laid them on the table too. A foot long and potentially lethal, they needed careful handling. She placed her soggy hat on top of the pins and stifled a sigh. Yes, she shouldn't have taken off the hat or the gloves, but surely in the circumstances, Maud wouldn't mind?

At the far end of the kitchen, Miss Kemble, the all-sorts maid, was making her way down a metal spiral staircase, cradling a baby. When she reached the bottom, she did a mini curtsey.

‘Miss Kemble, this is Miss Arundel,’ said Maud.

Sophie smiled at the maid, feeling awkward. Miss Kemble was a child, looked about twelve.

‘Mrs Slater’s in the front parlour,’ said Miss Kemble, leading the way through a doorway.

Maud’s sister lay on a ruby threadbare sofa in a loose dark dress, her eyes closed. Her hair was up in a messy bun, the exact auburn shade of Maud’s, but Mrs Slater’s face was more angular. A fire was lit in an inglenook that dwarfed the room, making the bread-scented air toasty warm.

‘Mr Slater’s in there.’ Miss Kemble glanced at a shut door.

Maud put the basket on a chair. ‘We’ve bought cake and meat and a nice pudding.’

Mrs Slater opened her eyes and registered Maud, saw Sophie and hastily sat up.

‘How can we help?’ said Sophie.

Mrs Slater patted her hair. ‘Miss Kemble, tea.’

‘Yes, Miss.’

Miss Kemble gave Maud the baby and hurried to the kitchen.

Rose started to wail and Maud rocked her, making shushing noises. She sat beside her sister. ‘Lizzie, you’re going to be all right.’

‘I’ll help make tea,’ said Sophie. She wasn’t helping at all. Coming here had been a mistake.

Just as Sophie stepped into the kitchen, the back door crashed open.

Two men brandishing shotguns barged over the threshold, followed by a man and a woman, each waving a pistol.