Isabel was beside herself with excitement. She had a child, a dear and blessed little child, and felt as if she had been touched by the good Lord himself. Unable to sleep with excitement, she watched the wet nurse feed him, watched his strong lips find the nipple and suck on it hungrily, and wished fervently that she could do that particular job herself. She was gratified that he looked like his mother, that he would be a handsome boy. He was big, so big. She had not been prepared for the sheer size of him. For the force of love the baby would awaken in her. Already Briony was all but forgotten.

Hardly able to contain herself, Isabel took the child from the wet nurse as soon as he was replete and, taking him back to her own room, sat in front of the fire and just looked at him.

She held him in her arms and drank in every part of him. He grasped her finger and she laughed out loud in the silent room. He was strong and he was hers.

Her son, Benedict Dumas. All the frustrated longing and the unrequited love she possessed would be channelled into this boy. He would be loved, cared for and educated. He would have everything that money and her influence could give him. He was, from that day on, her boy.

Her darling boy.

Henry walked into Isabel’s room as she sat with the child. She heard the door open but was unable to take her eyes from the child long enough to see who it was.

Clearing his throat, he walked across the room and stood behind the chair, forcing himself to look. He was unprepared for the sheer beauty of the child in his wife’s arms. He saw the strong hand holding on to his wife’s fingers. Saw the perfectly shaped lips and the button nose that were wholly his mother’s. He saw the startling green eyes and caught his breath in his throat.

Looking down on to the wide awake infant he felt a revulsion inside him that was so acute he could almost taste it. It was as if every nightmare he had ever had was there, in that body on his wife’s lap. It was his flesh and blood, he knew that, but he wanted no part of it. No part of it at all.

Molly arrived at nine the next morning and was closeted with Mrs Horlock for a good hour before she ventured up the stairs to her daughter’s room. She looked around her as if seeing everything for the first time. It amazed her that her daughter of only thirteen owned this house. Owned everything in it. That her child was now a woman of property.