“Thomas,” I said when I had composed myself, “go to my brother, he knows where to find the priest.”

“He doesn’t need a priest. He’s getting better,” said Thomas.

The difficulties with our eldest son began as soon as he could talk, which he did at a later age than his brothers and sisters. Year upon year of misunderstandings had hardened into a decade of hurt, on both sides, that brooked no improvement. Always, somewhere in my mind, I was trying to find a way to help him believe he belonged to our family as much as did his siblings, for he never seemed convinced of it.

“I’ll go,” said John and left the room. I heard the outside door close quietly.

Arthur bent down and George began to whisper to him with an urgency that could mean only one thing. Arthur cried; his shameless tears were one reason I had fallen in love with him.

“… There is little coin but a property…” said George, staring at Arthur to compensate for his weak voice.

“Do not trouble yourself,” said Arthur, placing a hand on George’s forehead.

“Do not trouble yourself!” shouted Thomas, stepping forward as if to strike the visitor.

Arthur flinched but George appeared not to hear him, although people passing in the street must have done. My husband took my hand and placed it in Arthur’s, as if officiating at a wedding. Thomas wrenched them apart.

George was too weak to shout but he held up a hand to his son who, with vile looks, took a step back, cursing us both. Arthur wrapped his fingers firmly around mine and relief confused my heart. If George died, I would not be left alone with the care of six children and a large household because Arthur would protect us; but I did not want my husband to die. I rarely lauded his part in my happiness; he was unnoticed but essential, like the foundations of a house. Love for this man completely filled my heart and I lifted his hand and bent to kiss it while not letting go of Arthur with the other.

At that moment the notary entered, ushered in by Barbara. If he thought it strange that a dying man’s wife was holding hands with another, he did not say so. Richard Weston also appeared and George beckoned to him.

“Look after them…”

“I promise,” said Weston, although I wondered how this low-born, pugnacious man could serve us.

“Are the signatories present?” the notary asked. Arthur and I nodded.

“Why is he an executor? Why not me?” said Thomas.

George closed his eyes and I squeezed my hands together to stop them from slapping my son.