I move towards her, but she steps away from me, banging her back on the worktop, spilling her coffee, wincing in pain. Her tears come faster now.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, my voice cracking, as I realise I’m crying too.

She takes a tissue from her pocket, and dabs her cheeks. ‘OK,’ she says. ‘You’ve got me, governor,’ she adds in a silly cockney accent that’s at odds with how distressed she is. She raises the white tissue in surrender.

We make our way into the lounge, and sit silently at opposite ends of the sofa. I’ve unearthed something I’m now struggling to deal with.

‘How did you know?’ she says finally.

‘The coffee, the scan dated October, but most of all it was when I thought back to you crying at Drummondale House, when you were looking at the scan of your baby. At the time I thought you were crying over Elise, but looking back I recognise that pain.’

She nods.

‘But why lie, Rosamund? Why pretend?’

‘I wanted to stay pregnant,’ she says, her voice intense. ‘Is that so awful? I wanted to believe my baby was still inside me.’

‘I get that,’ I say, and I do, I really do.

‘And I couldn’t bear the thought of telling Neil.’ She leans forward and grabs tissues from a box on the table, presses them against her nose.

‘He still believes you’re pregnant?’

She nods. ‘He’s been working away for the last two months.’ She shakes her head. ‘He’s always away.’

‘But you’ll have to tell him sometime.’

She nods again. ‘Don’t you think I know that?’

A painful silence falls once more, as all the questions I have lined up in my head feel invasive, unsupportive, wrong.

‘Listen, could I have a glass of wine?’

‘Of course.’ I wander into the kitchen, grab another glass and the bottle, and return.

As I pour, she goes on. ‘I fell. Stumbled backwards, hitting my back against the coffee table. That’s how it happened. That’s how I lost him.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, sitting down once more.

‘Me too.’ She turned watery eyes on me. ‘Does it get any easier?’

I look down, and run my hand over my stomach. ‘You learn to live with the loss, but it will always be there. It’s grief, after all.’

She touches my cheek, looks deep into my eyes. ‘You know you have your mum’s caring nature, Amelia. You may not be able to play tennis like Lark, or be academic like Thomas, but you have the best quality of all – kindness and understanding.’

‘Thanks,’ I say, feeling myself blush.

‘You’ve had far too much loss, Amelia,’ she says, squeezing my hand. ‘I pray you find Lark one day.’