‘Em . . . Mrs O’Brien, I’m going to collect Keelin and Armand’s luggage. They’re not coming back to this neck of the woods before they fly home to France,’ Felicity said in as matter-of-fact a tone as she could muster. ‘I’ll meet them with it along the motorway one of these days.’

Imelda’s jaw dropped. She blanched, reddened and swallowed, reminding Felicity of a guppy she’d seen on one of David Attenborough’s documentaries.

‘You’d better go up and get it so,’ she said tightly, her eyes glittering, when she’d recovered some composure. ‘I’ll make the tea myself while you’re doing it.’

Felicity avoided catching Imelda’s eye. Her mother-in-law was clearly mortified and stunned; she didn’t want to add to her discomfiture.

There wasn’t much to pack away and Felicity lugged the large case downstairs and hefted it into the car boot before returning to say goodbye. Imelda was ensconced in her armchair, back straight, head high. ‘Thank you for my dinner, Felicity. It was tasty as always. Enjoy the rest of your evening.’ She nodded dismissively.

‘Can I get anything else for you?’ Even though she could have strangled her, Felicity’s heart went out to the elderly woman.

‘Not a thing, thank you. If you could close the gate, I’d be obliged.’

‘I will indeed. Ring me if you need anything,’ Felicity assured her, hurrying to get into her car and make her escape.

*

Imelda’s heart felt as though a thousand thistles had stung it. Keelin and Armand weren’t coming back to spend the last week of their holiday with her. All that lovely stuffing and gravy she’d made, now languishing in her freezer, would do her until Easter, she thought distractedly. When Felicity had told her they weren’t coming back to Glencarraig, it had taken all Imelda’s self-control not to burst into tears and make a show of herself.

This time there would be no forgiveness. And she only had herself to blame. She’d given in to herself and let her tongue, and bitterness, run amok.

With the fire crackling merrily and the lights of the Christmas tree illuminating the gloom of the evening, Imelda sat alone in her armchair, tears rolling down her cheeks.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Brigid pulled her woollen hat down over her ears. In the past she’d relied on her veil to keep her head snug in wild and windy weather; without it, she felt strangely different. As if the ‘wholeness’ of her was now emerging. She recalled someone describing a workaholic as a flower with only one petal unfurled. In a way, she too had only unfurled one petal on her beautiful flower. Now, with her symbolic discarding of the veil, and her forthcoming trip to France, other petals were opening out as a whole new life beckoned.