Sitting down on the chesterfield, she looked at her sister, now bowed down not just with the pain of losing the man she loved, but with the knowledge she also carried his child. A child that would be spurned because of its colour. In her heart of hearts, Briony felt a glimmer of compassion for the poor unborn child, nestled so cosily in its mother’s womb. But she had to try to save the situation.

‘I’ll arrange for you to see Denice O’Toole, all my girls use her. She’s clean and she knows what she’s doing.’

Kerry looked up at her sister. Her face crumpled then, tears gushing from her eyes, a terrible low keening sound issuing from her open mouth. Briony went to her and pulled her into her arms, hugging her close, stroking the dark head, and murmuring words of endearment.

Later on that afternoon, when Briony had left Kerry in Mrs Horlock’s capable hands, she and Mariah walked round Berwick Manor with Mr Jackson, the solicitor instructed to sell the property. He was a tall thin man with iron grey hair and a small moustache, perfectly waxed. He blew his nose often, to the amusement of Mariah who rolled her eyes at Briony, making her smile.

They toured through the rooms, taking in their size, the high ceilings and old fireplaces. There were four large reception rooms with huge windows which looked over the Essex countryside. There were two large kitchens, with pantries and what would once have been the butler’s and the cook’s sitting rooms. There was a huge cold store, with marble slabs to keep butter and milk cool in the summertime.

A large sweeping staircase led up to a galleried landing. Off this were eight bedrooms, and above these a rabbit warren of servants’ rooms. More stairs, steeper and narrower now, led up to the attics.

Briony saw the dilapidated state of the property, but she could also see its potential. From the upstairs bedrooms the whole of Essex seemed to have been laid out before them. The Berwick Pond Road was quiet, unsurfaced, and would ensure they kept their privacy. The outbuildings were still in a decent state. Even the stables were still usable. It was only the inside that had been allowed to deteriorate. The soldiers who had convalesced there after the war had used and abused the rooms terribly. Wood panelling was wrenched off the wall, the carpets were worn, and the curtains, once beautiful Austrian silk, were in tatters. Mr Jackson, to give him his due, pointed out the finer points as best he could. But even his powers of persuasion flagged as he surveyed the interior.

‘Of course, ladies, the outside is still very much as it was before the war. A very picturesque property, don’t you agree?’