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It was the kind of winter where comfort food could cause no guilt. The snow and rain poured down endlessly and the biting wind left Scarlett Kennedy’s eyes watering and her face numb. She missed the gloriously abundant sunshine of Los Angeles but the gothic Yorkshire mansion was the only real estate her father had salvaged after his investments turned sour, and so the family had been forced to move, just as the last leaves dropped from the trees.

Yorkshire was unglamorous and cold and the house was the same. It was gigantic, with chilly stone cellars and winding staircases that ran all the way up to the top steeples. It was spooky in a way, when the wind howled around the single glazed windows, it felt like someone, or something, was trying to get in and wreak havoc upon the mansion and its inhabitants.

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