Last Christmas they’d opened the hall to the poor, and scraped together food to feed five hundred, even though only fifty had turned up. With snow on the ground and the lake frozen, she’d written Dear Mother, I know I’ve made a terrible mistake, it all got on top of me, Fagus, Ian, I simply lost my nerve, I got confused but I’ve had time to calm down. Written and crumpled up.

Dear Douglas, I’m very surprised you haven’t tried to find me. The children must be anxious. What have you told them? You needed only to sit down and listen to me and all of this could have been avoided. I was unhappy for the longest time. You left me alone to go mad in that house and everyone blamed me for everything. I couldn’t stand it. How is Fagus? How are they all? Please send them my love. That was after the snowdrops but before the crocuses. She hadn’t sent that one off either, and now bluebells coloured the woodland floor. She pushed the covers off and got up. It was time for chores anyway. She padded along the hallway in socks, an old woollen jumper thrown over her dress. She could do the potatoes before anyone else turned up, and be back in bed in an hour.

Down in the kitchen, cream tiled arches dominated a series of connecting rooms, rooms of sinks and chopping tables. A wall dividing the narrow hall stretched the length of the house and was lined with glass cabinets that stored bowls, platters, tureens and plates – enough to feed the five hundred who never turned up; a hangover from when the house was a social whirl and not the least bit dedicated to God. Ruby could plan her next big adventure into healing, and Enid could play the game of finding matching crockery when she was bored.