Isobel nodded. ‘He’s twined himself round my heartstrings,’ she said sadly, mopping at her eyes. ‘And I dread telling him he’s going back home because he was such a nervy little scrap when he arrived here and he’s settled so happily with us. Despite all my grumping and grumbling and jealousy I can’t help loving him, but oh! you don’t know how much I wish that he were my son too. . . as well as Giles’s.’

‘I suppose,’ suggested Louisa tentatively, longing to comfort her but very much afraid of saying the wrong thing, ‘that he must have almost identical genes to your own children even if he isn’t actually yours. Aunts and uncles can be very much resembled, and he’s got every bit as much of your lovely parents in him as Edward and Amy have. Does that make it better or worse?’

‘I’m not sure . . .’ Isobel blew her nose violently. ‘I hadn’t thought of it that way. I’m probably being thoroughly unreasonable about the whole thing. It’s what Lorna does to me. She brings out my worst self – the bits I don’t like to admit are there.’

‘Well, I think you’re a bloody marvel, and who wants to be reasonable?’ asked Louisa bracingly. ‘Being reason-able’s a dead bore.’

At this moment a yawning Amy appeared through the door wearing a pair of boxer shorts and an old T-shirt. She twined herself round her mother in a bear hug, all the sophistication of last night’s concert performer vanished. Louisa thought she looked about twelve. She felt a sudden pang of envy for Isobel – so loved and so loving; so needed. A round peg who’d discovered and settled into her round hole at an early age and, despite the inevitable storms and demands of family life, still fitted her chosen space to perfection. Surely I can’t be getting broody, wondered Louisa with surprise.

‘Hi, Louisa,’ said Amy. ‘What’s for breakfast, Mum?’

‘Breakfast! You’re hopeful.’ Isobel laughed. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime!’

‘No lovely weekend bacon?’ wheedled Amy. ‘I’m starving.’

‘You’re always starving. There might be some bacon left in the Aga if Dad and the boys left any – finish it up if there is. We’re only having larder scrapings for lunch because I thought we could all forage for what we feel like and use up all the bits before we start again on proper meals this evening.’

‘Great,’ said Amy, taking a dish out of the oven and demolishing crispy slices of pancetta in her fingers. ‘You OK, Mum?’ she asked, looking suspiciously at her mother. ‘You look a bit weird.’

‘I’m fine. The pollen count must be high or something.’