It was a knowledge that freed her to speak to him about her feelings for Adam.

‘Another man?’ His bewilderment was total. ‘You’re not asking for a divorce, Liebchen, are you?’ His distress was almost childlike. ‘I couldn’t bear the thought of a divorce. What would happen to the children? What would happen to us? How could we still be such loving friends?’

He grew so agitated she had to take his hands firmly in hers. ‘Nothing is going to change between us, Berthold. We will always be each other’s dearest friend. And I’m not asking for a divorce. I just don’t want to have secrets from you. When I came here, at the beginning of the summer, it was to be a wife to you again—if you had wanted me to be. But it hasn’t been like that, Berthold, has it?’

Her eyes pleaded for his understanding. ‘And because it hadn’t been like that—and because we are both happy that it hasn’t been like that—I want to be free to give my love to Adam.’

He cried, but he didn’t suggest that their own relationship became sexual again, and by the time she and their children again stepped on the train on their way to Ostende, he was talking about visiting them for Christmas just as if their conversation had never taken place.

Chapter Nine

Yorkshire, August 1924

Paul strolled out of Shuttleworth Hall and, hands thrust in the pockets of his grey flannels, strolled along the terrace and round to the rear of the house where his great-uncle’s latest pride and joy, a Lanchester, was garaged in what had originally been the Hall’s carriage-house.

Today was a red-letter day in his life. He’d been twenty for all of a week and his American grandfather was making a special visit to Yorkshire to spend time with him. Not only that, but his great-uncle Arthur was allowing him to drive the Lanchester down to Little Ridding’s station in order that he could meet his grandfather from the Harrogate train.

As he entered the carriage-house and drew the Lanchester’s keys from his pocket, he was whistling. Since he was five, he had met his grandfather only twice, and on those visits, he had formed an affectionate relationship with him. Relationships were something he was good at. He even managed to enjoy a good relationship with his difficult and complex mother.

He slid behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. Just as he was fond of his grandfather, but didn’t know him well enough to love him as he loved his great-uncle, so he was fond of his mother, but didn’t love her in the way he loved his aunt. His awareness of this disparity in feeling didn’t cause him guilt. Ever since he could remember, Vicky had been more of a mother to him than Zelda had ever been—and there was also the inescapable fact that Vicky was intrinsically lovable and Zelda, though it pained him to admit it, wasn’t.