The Good Servant
Windsor, March 1932 “Good evening, Miss Crawford.”
A smart young man in uniform was waiting on the platform when she stepped off the train. She was startled. “Aye. That’s me. How did you know?”
“Easy.” He smiled. “There aren’t that many young ladies travelling alone on the train from London and wearing a tartan scarf.”
She followed him through the station, where a car was waiting. He opened the front passenger door for her, before putting her bags in the back and hopping into the driving seat.
“Thank you so much.”
“All part of the service.” He turned the ignition over and let the handbrake off. “Have you been to Windsor before, Miss Crawford?”
She shook her head. “I’ve never been out of Scotland until now.”
“Welcome, then, Miss Crawford.”
“Please… call me Marion.”
“And you can call me Peter, but to the rest of the household I’m known as Jackson the Chauffeur, just as you’ll be known as Miss Crawford the Governess – or something else. If I know anything about the
