‘Also a letter from you to the authorities, Luke!’ Bartholomew had congratulated him. ‘In the event of your and the others’ sudden deaths you were going to bring the Society down. Now let us forget this ever happened. I wish you good fortune and success with your plays. You have nothing to fear now about approaching the premier London theatres.’

Luke did not want his good wishes, and Alicia’s counterwishes to Bartholomew still chilled him to the marrow.

Cordelia was nibbling her food. She had witnessed Alicia turning to Jack, weeping with distress, which neither of them cared to explain. They had retired to their room and declined to come down to supper. She hoped they were not worried about the baby, but her main thoughts were about her own future. If she chose to care for Tamara, should it be here at the manor or at Marazion? Or should she choose to explore something entirely different?

Kelynen tried to raise everyone’s spirits with reminiscences of the party, but it was a lost cause and she soon excused herself to slip off to the library. There, with Rex, she would examine the figures of produce and income, the gains and losses of previous harvests.

Kerensa was quiet, thinking about Oliver.

Oliver was quiet, thinking about Kerensa.

Olivia was there. She had arrived just in time to offer Beatrice birthday wishes, her explanation, morning sickness that had lingered all day. She was pale and wan and temperamental. She was not eating because the smallest morsel would not stay down long inside her.

Only Bartholomew appreciated the food. Swallowing a giant forkful of ham and pickle, he waved his two-pronged fork in the air. ‘Tell me about your paintings, Livvy. I regret, that except for those in the manor and on Polgissey’s walls, I haven’t had time to see them for myself.’

‘What paintings?’ Olivia snapped back. She was hot and uncomfortable, her back ached and her head ached. Her feet felt too small for her shoes. She dreaded the time when she would waddle about looking fat and cumbersome. From the first week when she had realized she was pregnant, she knew she would hate the entire process of childbearing.

‘My dear…’ Timothy cautioned her.

‘What’s wrong, my love?’ Oliver asked, glancing at Kerensa. They exchanged a look of parental concern.

Olivia scratched a fingernail along the edge of the enormous table. Her voice dropped to an emotional whisper. ‘Everything’s wrong. I used to just dash off anything with brush or pencil, now nothing flows, nothing feels natural any more.’

‘Why do you think that is?’ Oliver asked gently.

‘I don’t know!’ Olivia proclaimed irritably.

Cordelia had been listening. ‘Perhaps it’s something to do with that horrible Mr Spears.’

‘What would you know about it?’ Olivia glared at her little cousin, who appeared uncommonly bright, not her usual moping, simpering, dull self.