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Walter-Wyatt is tall and thin with shiny black hair and intelligent blue eyes that look upon us with curiosity from behind a pair of wire-framed spectacles.

He’s serious and stiff in an expensively tailored three-piece grey suit and fedora hat.

He has a mild stoop as if he’s self-conscious about being tall.

‘Boy, am I happy to see you!’ he exclaims when we present ourselves, having spotted the chauffeur holding up a cardboard sign with our names on it.

That’s one thing that hasn’t changed! He shakes Lester’s hand with a strong and confident grip.

‘Lord Ravenglass, Miss Fleet, I’m glad you made it off the ship.

’ He takes off his hat and bows to me, yet completely ignores Ruby and Glover, who are shown into the awaiting vehicle by a driver dressed in green livery to match the car, black leather gloves and a black cap.

‘Luggage?’ he says, looking around for our suitcases.

Lester shrugs. ‘Everything went down with the ship,’ he replies.

Walter-Wyatt looks astonished. ‘Good God, was there so little time?’ He clearly hasn’t a clue of what has happened. ‘Well, let’s get you back to civilisation.’

We climb into the back of the car and settle onto swish leather seats.

It’s really the most exquisite car I’ve ever been in.

Walter-Wyatt rides in front with the driver, but swivels round to talk to us.

‘It’s been all over the papers,’ he says, and I sense he’s been rather gripped by the tragedy.

I wonder whether he knows about his wife’s cousin, Mr Rowland, who drowned.

As he doesn’t mention him, I decide not to tell him.

Perhaps lists of survivors haven’t been made public yet.

Anyway, it’s not for Constance to inform him of Mr Rowland’s death.

‘First they were saying that everyone survived, and that the Titanic was being towed to Halifax! Then they said it had sunk and very few people survived. I want to hear what really happened.’ He pumps us for details and I let Lester do all the talking.

I’m much more interested in looking out of the window at the city of New York.

How different it is to the one I recently arrived in.

Manhattan is ablaze with electric lights.

The magnificent skyscrapers for which the city is so celebrated soar into the night sky.

Even though it’s not yet the shiny glass forest that it later becomes, those brownstone giants are nonetheless impressive and beautifully designed.

What strikes me at once is the lack of clutter on the roads.

There are no ugly bollards or traffic lights, telephone boxes and public bins.

No lurid markings to mar the asphalt such as zebra crossings, yellow lines and white zigzags.

Some roads don’t even have pavements. Still, it’s a sophisticated city; there are golden streetlamps and shiny shop fronts, grand public buildings and townhouses, but the place looks more open and less advanced than in my time.

I feel nostalgic looking at it like this, through the lens of the future.

It feels strangely unreal, as if I’m on a film set, which isn’t surprising considering the number of movies I’ve watched that are set in this period.

It’s a city in frenetic development. There’s a great deal of construction work going on.

High-rise towers are in the process of being built and they will form the dramatic skyline of the future.

Right now, they’re hidden behind scaffolding, and no one can imagine how glorious they’re going to be.

Down here, the streets are busy; horse-drawn carriages clatter over asphalt, and, in some streets, rattle over cobblestones.

Buses travel along tramlines, clanging their bells to alert pedestrians in their way.

There are plenty of motor cars belching black smoke out of their exhausts, but few are as grand as this one.

It’s noisy too, but with a different kind of sound to the one I’m used to: there’s the bellowing of klaxons, the screeching of whistles, the whirring of motorcar engines and the clippety-clop of hooves.

It’s late at night, but the streets are lively and full of activity.

I realise then that New York has never slept.

Lester doesn’t want to talk about the Titanic .

He’s gripped by the sights outside his window, this being the first time he has been in America too.

He manages to divert the conversation by asking Walter-Wyatt to point out buildings of interest. I imagine Ruby and Glover are just as thrilled to see this new city, and feel huge relief that we are safe, on solid ground, not aboard a sinking ship.

We pull up outside what later becomes the Aldershoff Hotel.

It’s not a hotel now. It’s a private house, Walter-Wyatt’s house, built forty years ago by his father, William, who, as I recall, is dead.

Alma is yet to be born. Walter-Wyatt lives here with his wife, Alice, and their only child, Esme.

My mind turns then to the Potemkin Diamond.

I won’t go out of my way to find it – where would I begin?

But I’ll keep my antennae alert just in case I find clues to its whereabouts.

Walter-Wyatt has inherited it and only he knows where it’s hidden.

It’s night, but I can see in the glow of the streetlights that the trees have already started to sprout their new leaves.

Some are already in blossom. The sweet scent of warming earth and burgeoning plants is carried on the breeze with the odorous smell of horse manure.

The big door is opened by a butler who, on greeting us, reveals himself to be English.

We are shown into the house. I catch my breath.

It’s even more impressive than the hotel.

When Mr Stirling explained that he had worked hard to keep the integrity of the original home, he was right, he had, and he did a good job.

But the original house is infinitely more remarkable.

The grandeur takes my breath away. I stand in the hall and look around in wonder.

It’s like a mini-Versailles with the elaborate trompe l’?il on the ceiling and the giant murals painted on the walls and bordered with gold frames.

Chandeliers dazzle above us with hundreds of glass crystals that drop like tears from a great height, and the magnificent staircase dominates the hall with a bright-scarlet runner and intricate iron balustrade.

A woman appears on the landing and glides down in an indigo-blue dress.

She’s strikingly pretty with light brown hair loosely pinned up in the Edwardian fashion, a flawless, creamy complexion enhanced with a touch of rouge, and a very small waist. Her smile is blithe and carefree.

She must be in her late thirties. ‘You poor darlings!’ she exclaims in a languid American accent, putting out her hands to take mine.

They’re pale and delicate, and shining with gems. ‘Was it dreadful? You must be tired and hungry.’ She smiles warmly and looks me up and down, not unkindly. ‘My dear Miss Fleet—’

‘Please, call me Constance After all, we are soon to be family.’

She smiles, pleased. ‘Constance, then. You must want to change out of your travelling clothes.’ She looks at her husband. ‘Has Henderson arranged for their luggage to be taken to their rooms?’

‘There is no luggage, Alice. Apparently, it all went down with the ship,’ he replies.

I notice that the butler has handed him the walking stick Alma uses.

I recognise the silver dog’s head handle.

I find that curious, because he doesn’t have a limp, and he’s young.

Perhaps it’s part of a gentleman’s attire, like shirt studs and cufflinks.

He runs his thumb over the furrows of the dog’s jowl as if caressing a beloved pet.

‘Everything went down with the ship. Imagine that! Not a thing left.’ He’s clearly enjoying the drama. ‘Lester, may I call you Lester?’

Lester nods. ‘Of course, if I may call you Walter-Wyatt.’

‘Everyone calls me Walter,’ he corrects. He turns to his wife. ‘Lester and Constance are going to have to buy a whole new wardrobe.’

Alice beams happily. ‘How exciting!’ She turns her bright brown eyes to me.

‘I’ll summon my dressmaker tomorrow to run you up a few outfits.

In the meantime, we’ll go shopping. If you’ve lost everything, you’ll need to start from scratch.

I know just the places to go. Lester, you can borrow from Walter until his tailor can fix you up.

’ She evidently has no understanding of the horror we have both been through.

Neither does Walter-Wyatt. ‘Esme will see you tomorrow. She’s relieved, as we all are, that you survived the disaster.

Why don’t I show you your rooms and then I’ll send up some supper.

It’s late and you’ll be wanting to bathe and go to bed.

I can’t wait to hear about your adventure, but perhaps you’d rather tell us tomorrow, when you’re rested.

’ I’m astonished that they consider it an adventure, as if it’s all been wonderfully exciting.

‘That’s a good idea,’ I reply. I suddenly feel overwhelmingly tired.

It’s exhausting keeping up this charade.

There are so many pitfalls if I’m not on my mettle.

I glance through to what in the present day is the Walter-Wyatt drawing room and think of Ulysses in there, keeping an eye on me.

I wonder how long I’ve been in trance. The room is totally different now, more like a library full of bookshelves.

Alice’s smooth brow furrows. ‘You know, they say John Jacob Astor died on the ship. You’d have thought he’d have gotten into a lifeboat, wouldn’t you? I can’t imagine why he didn’t.’