I was grateful for, if surprised by, the warning. Dr Mayhew had grown impatient of my grief – in his eyes it had morphed into something else, something that did not deserve sympathy or delicacy. In his opinion, I was showing signs of hysteria – that peculiarly female affliction he found so intolerable and which required a firm hand, cold baths and country retreats – a euphemism, I soon learnt, for asylums catering to the more genteel lady. He would have had me suitably incarcerated on my return from France, but Madeleine intervened on my behalf, persuading my parents that time was all I really needed. In the end, my parents relented, but Dr Mayhew continued to prowl in the wings, unconvinced by my paper-thin performance of improvement, constantly critiquing, whittling away my parents’ confidence, ever hopeful of vindication.

I contemplated the best course of action. If I returned to my room I would be doing little more than delaying the inevitable: I would either receive a summons, or – even worse – they would come and find me. I looked at Annie.

‘Come and get me in five minutes,’ I instructed, ‘say there’s a telephone call for me. You can say it’s my sister.’

I couldn’t tell whether she was regarding me with compassion or contempt and to my irritation I felt myself flush. She dipped her head in assent, and with a strategy in place, I reached again for the door handle.

Dr Mayhew stood up the moment I entered, the dainty cup and saucer with its pattern of entwined pink roses looking faintly absurd in his meaty grasp. He had been the village doctor for as long as I could remember, but I had never taken to the man. He had the habit of walking into a room and demanding its deference – such pomposity did not sit well with me and never had. He had not aged well, it had to be said. Flabby jowls folded over the starched collar of his shirt, and the red thread veins in his cheeks and a bulbous, purple-mottled nose confirmed popular suspicions he was rather too fond of his drink. His hair, once thick and black, was now thin and grey, a few lank strands draped over his sharply domed head, though his thick mutton chops still flourished and seemed to offer some balance to his generous girth.

‘Here she is, the young lady herself. How is our patient this morning?’

I smiled, but only because it was expected of me. It grated that he still saw fit to refer to me in this way, as if I was ill and always would be. I was not ill. I was grieving.

‘I am quite well, thank you, Doctor,’ I said, greeting my mother before attending to the tea things laid out upon the sideboard.

‘No more nightmares?’

I put down the teapot, pushing away the images that had plagued my sleep. ‘None at all.’

‘So, the medication is working then?’