Margaret had to leave the room before she lost her temper. She was so utterly caught up in Charles by now that she would have done anything he said. It was true that Charles had some odd ways with him. But she was so eager to comply with his wishes that there was never any quarrel between them.

Now that she was surfacing from her long confinement, though, she noticed changes in her father. He had aged. His face was more lined and set in an expression of granite-like severity which he must have attempted to soften when he visited the sickroom. She saw now, as she had never quite seen before, how much of a happy and gentle influence their mother had been. Leah had been kindly and open-minded, enjoyed life and laughter, even wearing the odd piece of jewellery. And their father had once been easier going. Now, something in him had hardened and become rigid.

In the summer, after a long period of restrained talk, things changed between Margaret and Charles. They were out walking one lovely June evening. It was near dusk and a warm breeze gently moved the willow fronds along the river. She had asked him to tell her more about his family. All she knew was that he was from London.

‘My mother and father are no longer with us,’ he said stiffly. ‘He died of consumption, she of influenza. My only remaining relative is my grandmother. I have no brothers or sisters.’

Margaret was surprised. She had somehow imagined him as part of a large, loving family, or at least hoped that he was. She thought he was not going to say anything else, and when she turned to look at him she saw on his face a dark expression she had never seen before, just for a second, like a passing cloud.

‘My mother was the pattern of all a woman should be,’ he said. ‘That’s the only way I can describe her.’

‘I see,’ she said, somehow feeling put down, against this woman whom no one could match. ‘And your father?’

He drew in a sharp breath. ‘In my family, the men are either lions or mice,’ he said. ‘My father was a mouse.’ There was such a bitter tone to his voice now that she found him forbidding and did not like to ask any more.

They had walked on, ascending the hill again, and paused to look out across the valley. Margaret’s heart had only just stilled from the brisk climb when Charles caught her hand.

‘Come,’ he commanded. His eyes met hers, with a new intensity. ‘It’s time.’