Isabel went to her and embraced her, all concern.

Being taken into the arms of the woman who now had her child made Briony’s shoulders heave. Tears seemed to burst from her eyes. These hands, so soft and gentle, the hands that had held her and petted her throughout her pregnancy, were the same hands that would caress and protect her son. Would hold him when he cried, would rub a sore knee better. The very touch of the woman whom Briony both loved and despised brought out the tears that needed to be shed.

Isabel held Briony tightly to her. She stroked the hair that her son had inherited, whispered endearments. She realised that in her own excitement, in her own longing for a child, she had forgotten the very person who had made all her dreams possible.

It would take all her tact and diplomacy now to right the enormous wrong she had done. But one thing was for sure: Briony Cavanagh would not get her child back. Isabel could no more part with him than she could cut out her own heart.

When the crying subsided, she kissed Briony’s cheek and under pretext of plumping up her pillows, tried to be as normal as possible.

‘Are you feeling better, dear?’ Her voice was all kindness and sympathy.

Briony nodded.

‘I have heard tell that many women get crying fits after a birth. It’s natural.’

‘How’s the child?’ Briony’s voice seemed harder than Isabel remembered it.

‘Oh, very well. A big healthy child. Briony, how can I ever thank you for what you’ve done for me? I look at him, and everything in my life has taken on a new meaning. I’ll give that boy the earth if he wants it. I’ll give him everything he wants and more. Much more.’

Briony nodded, gratified to hear that. She could hear the love and the want and indeed the need in the other woman’s voice as she talked of the child, and already it seemed he was long gone from her.

‘Is he a good baby?’

Isabel heard the little tremor in her voice and found it in her heart to pity this girl-woman in front of her.

‘Oh, he’s a perfect little boy. Sleeps on his tummy, as young as he is. Not a day old! He pushes his arms from the swaddling and turns himself on to his stomach. He’s a baby who knows his own mind already. Like his mother, I would say.’

Her voice was jocular, and it pleased Briony to hear that, as Isabel knew it would.

‘And Henry, what does he think of the child?’

Isabel took a small breath.

‘Henry wants what I want. His opinion is nothing in this.’