“Come,” said Pat again.

The drawing room swayed in firelight, a standing lamp was switched on, the curtains were drawn, and a brandy decanter was open on the table.

“I told you she would do this,” Joan shouted into her hands. “You said I shouldn’t worry. You said it was the right thing to do.”

Pat stood by the fire. “I said you had to.”

“You said she wouldn’t dare.”

“I want it finished.”

“You knew.”

“I knew she wouldn’t let be.”

“Why? She’s let be before. Two years, remember?”

“And then she came back.”

“And if we hadn’t, she’d have gone again.”

“She’d always have come back. She’s his mother.”

“I’m—” but she wasn’t. She wasn’t. For two years she’d thought she was, that’s all. Two years ago, Douglas had arrived with three children in tow, and she hadn’t known what to do. Where should she begin? This wasn’t her life. This was someone else’s life. This was her sister’s wretched mess, not hers.

Fagus she’d dealt with first. He couldn’t manage all the stairs at Bryanston Square – it was impossible. He was becoming a young man, grown up from a child, and his limbs were everywhere, crashing into vases and knocking against tables. Every time he broke something, he sat still for an hour after saying sorry, clinging onto his chair or wherever she’d sat him to keep him safe. The girl Mary, the nanny Douglas had brought along too, didn’t help one iota. She treated him like an imbecile – she may as well have put a lead around his neck. He wasn’t deaf. He wasn’t stupid. He just couldn’t see.

He needed normal. He needed school, like every other young man. She’d sacked Mary, employed Nanny Duncan and taken Fagus to Castlemere. Eton was out of the question; he’d needed somewhere he could get used to and manage, somewhere that could manage him. Something realistic. They didn’t all have to go off their heads, and she’d felt like the only one thinking clearly. She’d kissed him goodbye, she went to see him as often as she could, once a term at least, and she’d made the right choice; he was happy, he was safe. Finetta had slotted in prettily, there was nothing to do with her – a doll of a child, all ringlets and smiles – and then there was Ian. Little Ian, with his teddy squashed under his arm. Before he arrived she’d thought she’d known what love was.

“She’s taken him.” She couldn’t stop saying it.

“Yes,” replied Pat.

“I’m calling the police.”

“Call your lawyer.”

“We’ll have her arrested.”

“On what charge?”

“Kidnap, of course.”

“A mother has her son?”

“You know it isn’t like that.”

“But they don’t. Call your lawyer. Wire Douglas.”