In the evening they assembled in the sitting room for caviar and champagne and foie gras, which Edward had brought from London. Marina was dressed and Camilla had helped with her hair and her make-up. She was almost ghostly, ethereal in her beauty, as she leaned lightly against George and looked up at him with an expression that was rapturous. He placed his arm around her thin shoulders to draw her closer to him and then he bent to kiss the top of her head. Watching them, Camilla saw that he was quietly weeping. She accepted then that he did indeed love Marina, and she admitted to herself that she had never before seen her mother truly happy. But the realisation was cruel, and she found herself unable to deal with the irony of it all. She went into the kitchen where Edward was putting the finishing touches to dinner. He had turned out to have a passion for cooking, and during the early evening he had whipped together a meal that would be light enough for Marina to enjoy, but festive all the same. Camilla had set the table with candles and decorations they had found in the village, and her father had made a careful selection of wine, while Marina arranged flowers in her favourite bowl. They had never worked together to create a simple, family occasion that was full of love and harmony, and the effort carried a poignancy that affected them all. They knew that their time together would be brief, and there would not be another Christmas to share.