Comforted a little, for Clem had never lacked in devotion to either branch of his family, she reached round the table and clasped Timothy’s hand. ‘Thank you for that, Timothy. I have a word for you, my dear. Olivia is headstrong and I’ve observed that women such as her need strong men in their lives. Don’t you think it’s time you took control of your marriage?’

Clem was fetched to the parsonage to see Catherine and the children off for the journey back to Greystone’s Farm.

It had been a long farewell. Catherine, whose customary actions would have been a gentle kiss or two, had clung to him, kissing his mouth repeatedly. Her reluctance to go was on a par with his reluctance that she should stay.

He climbed the parsonage stairs to collect his own belongings. Timothy Lanyon was out on urgent parish business, his housekeeper in Marazion for the market, the maids nowhere about, and he thought the house was empty. A sudden crash coming from the floor above, followed by thuds and bangs made him fear the house had an intruder.

Investigation told him the noises were coming from Olivia’s painting room. He could hear her crying and uttering violent phrases. He opened the heavy panelled door and yelped as something cut into his cheek. A broad canvas hit the floor at his feet, bounced and fell across his leg, hurting his shin. The bright light from the windows, which took up almost all of the south-facing wall, hurt his eyes and he shaded them against a scene of wanton destruction.

‘Hey! What on earth are you doing?’

Olivia, tear-streaked and distraught, a beguiling spectacle with her red hair in wild disarray, already had another of her works in her hands and was about to send it smashing against the door. Clem hopped aside in case she did just that. She let the painting fall to the floor and, trembling violently, stood where she was and howled like an infant in the direst distress.

‘What’s the matter, sweetheart?’ Clem slipped into fatherly mode with her, as he had done on those occasions when she had played with Jessica as a child and had come to some hurt. Reaching her, he took her into his arms and she fell against him, sobbing in great uncontrollable gasps.

He guided her to the couch, having first to shovel off a heap of ripped-up sketches so they could sit down. Holding her tight, he soothed her with quiet words. She rested her face against his chest until her sobs turned into an unrestrained heavy breathing.

His shirt was soaked with her tears, his skin made hot by her contact. He used a fold of his sleeve to mop her face. ‘What is it, Livvy? What’s brought you to this?’