Emerald, his nineteen-year-old daughter, gave him a sympathetic smile. If asked, she would have been forced to admit that she had always been far closer to her father than her mother, who, unfortunately, was a terrible snob. It upset her to see him looking so worried and haggard but there was nothing she could do about it apart from hope things improved. He had admitted some months before that his business – a brickworks in the nearby parish of Stockingford – was struggling, and Emmy – as he affectionately called her – was not surprised. Her mother was very demanding and expected the very best of everything and more than once recently Emmy had heard her father ask her to curb her spending as it was eating up any profit they made. Yet only that afternoon she had decided that the drawing room really must be redecorated, even though it had only been done less than two years ago, and she had sat poring over a book of wallpaper samples that cost more per roll than most people would earn in a week.

She mentioned it now to her husband, and Emmy saw him visibly flinch, although he said not a word.

‘Mrs Henderson-Ward had her room done in paper from this particular book,’ she gushed. ‘And it really does look quite regal. I particularly like the silk patterns, although they do tend to be a little more expensive. What do you think, dear?’ Suddenly Dorcas was all smiles again but her husband merely shook his head and, rising from the table, he left the room.

‘Really!’ Dorcas tutted her disapproval. ‘Your father’s manners are quite appalling lately. He didn’t even ask to be excused.’

Quite suddenly Emmy’s appetite had vanished too, although Abigail more than made up for it and had second helpings. The two girls took after their father in looks with brunette hair that shone like polished conkers and deep-green eyes, but there any resemblance ended for they were like chalk and cheese in nature. Emmy, who was the tallest and the slimmest of the two, tended to be the more quiet, studious one, while Abigail was more like her mother: petite and quite demanding. She attended a private school in Coventry. The same one that Emmy had attended until she had reached the age of eighteen. Sometimes Emmy almost wished she was back there, for ever since she had finished school her mother had done nothing but parade what she considered to be eligible suitors for her daughter’s hand in marriage under her nose, each one a little bit richer than the last.

Now, Emmy sat impatiently waiting for the meal to be over, and when it was, she immediately excused herself and went in search of her father.

‘I reckon he’s in his study, miss,’ Hetty informed her in the hallway, and smiling her thanks, Emmy headed in that direction.