The baby had finally arrived with a squall of defiance, his little fists waving angrily about as if he wanted to fight the world. Rhys’s face was a picture as he cut the cord and held his son, and Gwyneth fell in love with him all over again – so glad that he’d got his wish. And then the pains had come once more, and the urgent need to push – and before Rhys could draw breath she’d given him a second son.

Gwyneth blinked away the tears as she remembered that moment. They had both shed tears of joy as Rhys gently placed her twin boys in her arms. ‘Two precious gifts you’ve given me today,’ he’d murmured as he kissed her. ‘You are my darling, my treasured wife, and I will love you forever.’

And he had loved her, right up to the moment he’d died – and it was at times like these that she missed him the most. Yet she’d always felt he was with her, watching over her, waiting patiently for her to join him, and that had sustained her through the darkest days.

She sniffed back her tears and gave a watery smile as she stared, unseeing, out of the window. Hugh and Maximilian were very grand names for such small babies, but Rhys had chosen them and she hadn’t wanted to spoil that heady moment. It was a different story when her next baby had arrived, and she’d argued fiercely against the stuffy-sounding Aurelia, insisting upon calling her Bethany.

Gwyneth felt the twist of disappointment that always accompanied her thoughts of Bethany. She should have let Rhys have his way with her name too. Bethany conjured up an image of someone sweet and soft – the exact opposite of her daughter. Aurelia would have been far more appropriate.

‘What’s the matter, Gran? Are you feeling unwell?’

She blew her nose rather forcefully. ‘Not at all,’ she retorted. ‘I was just remembering the day Max and your father were born – and thinking about your Aunt Bethany.’

‘I’ve heard of her, of course, but I don’t remember her at all,’ Terry replied, his gaze fixed on the track.

‘You wouldn’t,’ she said with a sniff. ‘She was a larrikin, with a terrible temper and a wilful way about her. She left home at sixteen for the bright lights of Sydney and never came back – and I confess I didn’t miss her. She was nothing but trouble from the moment she was born.’

She saw Terry’s shocked expression and realised she’d been rather too forceful in her condemnation of her daughter. ‘I speak as I find,’ she said with a sigh, ‘and if Bethany were here she wouldn’t be offended. She and I never got on.’

‘That’s so sad,’ murmured Terry.