We did not break off the shed rhubarb. The rhubarb in the sheds is special. Kate says perhaps it hears us. We hear it, when it pops. Some children eat raw rhubarb because they are hungry. Some boys and girls pretend a stick of rhubarb is a sword.

My mother bakes rhubarb pie. She buys a big orange and squeezes juice onto the rhubarb. I do not like rhubarb pie. My dad does not like rhubarb pie. We eat it. Dad says, “That was up to your usual standard, love.”

I say nothing.

Chapter Fifteen

The oak-panelled dining room at Thorpefield Manor is mock Tudor. The fireplace would hold an ox. Plentiful coal ensured a huge fire. A certain amount of smoke belched into the room. The heat did not travel as far as the long table where we took our seats. In spite of the chill, and the need for shawls, it is a magical room. The chandelier above the table holds fat candles whose dripping wax had created intriguing shapes.

We were five for dinner. Benjamin sat at one end of the table and Gertrude at the other. The thought came to me that when they grew old, they might need speaking trumpets to hear each other across that distance. Opposite me was their friend and business partner, Eliot Dell. If you saw Eliot on the street, you would know he was well off. His suits are made by the best tailor on North Street in Leeds, who it is said knocks all London tailors into a cocked hat. Their money comes from land. He is flaxen-haired, with deep-set blue eyes, a generous nose, slightly pointy ears, and an expressive mouth. When listening, he tilts his head as if that might help him catch every word that comes his way. I would have suspected Gertrude of matchmaking, but he and his mother are still in mourning for his wife. During our drinks before dinner, I had expressed my belated condolences to them.

Old Mrs. Dell sat beside me. She dresses plainly, without so much as a jet pendant, her only jewellery being her wedding ring. She gave the impression of having spent her life in mourning. “My left ear is the sharper,” she confided. “I will try not to ask you to shout, my dear.”

I noticed that Eliot and Gertrude exchanged a small smile when she said this. It made me feel slightly uncomfortable that they seemed to patronise Mrs. Dell, just as I had felt uncomfortable when Gertrude talked about the second-class orphans from the Bluebell Home.

The exchange between Eliot and Gertrude had not gone unnoticed by Mrs. Dell. “I make the numbers odd,” she said quietly. “The vicar would have been here but he is with his ailing father. I should have liked to see him.” She gazed across at her son. “So would you, Eliot.”

He looked across at her. “I would what, mother?”

She spoke rather loudly, as deaf people sometimes do. “It is a pity about the vicar not being here. He would have visited the children.”