“But sometimes getting dirty is fun, and—” Flora stopped “—and, you’re right, you would get dirty and that is such a pretty dress. It would be a shame to get it dusty.” It had driven her aunt mad that Flora could never stay clean for five minutes.

“Your dress is very bright and dazzly.”

“Thank you.” Flora glanced down at herself. “I made it myself.”

Molly frowned. “Why? You couldn’t afford to buy one?”

Jack cleared his throat. “Flora made it herself because she’s talented. And I think it’s time to move this conversation on, young lady. Let’s go through to the kitchen and see how your sister is doing with dinner and what we can do to help.” He put Molly down and sent Flora a look of apology.

She smiled, signaling that it wasn’t a problem although of course it was a problem.

Telling herself that this was bound to take time, Flora followed them through to the back of the house. If this was a test, she’d failed dismally.

As she followed him toward the kitchen she glanced through an open door into the living room, and noticed the elegant white sofas. White sofas? How did they not get filthy? Flora hoped she wasn’t going to be invited into that room. She’d be terrified to sit down in case she marked the fabric. A selection of art books were stacked on a low table and a large cream rug covered the oak floor.

It looked like a room straight out of a design magazine. If she hadn’t known a family lived here, she would have guessed the occupants were a professional couple who spent most of their time in the office or entertaining friends who wouldn’t spill a drop of red wine.

The house had a cool, elegant feel with art and large photographs crowding the walls. She looked more closely and saw that all the photographs were of the same person, a dancer. She was almost impossibly graceful and ethereal, the camera capturing the height of a gazelle-like leap into the air, the elegant stretch of her arms, the curve of her instep as she balanced en pointe. It all looked effortless.

She turned her head and saw Molly watching her.

“That’s my mommy. She was a famous dancer.”

Dancer.

And now, of course, it all fell into place. Becca. Jack’s wife was Becca Parker. The Becca Parker, darling of the media and ballet-loving audiences across the globe, a dancer who displayed the perfect combination of athleticism and grace, power and poise. Those photographs portrayed the triumph and nothing of the struggle. And they only told the early part of Becca’s story.