Lucy has been receiving letters from Fabricio, although she continues to insist there is nothing to it beyond friendship. But, you and I know differently, my love. I wonder if their ‘friendship’ will be renewed when we return to Tuscany later this year. Yes, my dear, we have decided that as widows of means we are perfectly within our rights to flit over to Italy as often as we wish. Or perhaps we might go to Spain or France. We have discussed this also. Our tickets for June are already purchased. We are going to stop first in London for the coronation of Elizabeth.

Father Anthony is thrilled with the news and has given us the specific task of taking in two or three churches during our time away – places he has always wanted to go. Naturally, the first on his list is the Duomo in Florence. We did, of course, go there last time, its sage and pink beauty glorious, but he has a distant relative there, a clerk or some such he wishes us to look in on.

We are happy to oblige.

Of course, having Father Anthony’s blessing for our trip also helps keep Mother’s tongue in check. I am not as selfless as I pretend. She does not approve of two single ladies of breeding gallivanting around the world without a chaperone. She certainly would not approve of Lucy’s friendship with Fabricio, but she is none the wiser on that count. But what can she say if we are on a mission for Father Anthony?

Mother and Father have joined me again for the holiday season. Father’s wit seems to have slowed somewhat in the past twelve months and Mother is pressing him to retire. She has her building now and a wing of the library, so perhaps she feels she has got all she can out of his situation.

In our quiet times alone I encourage Father to continue working for as long he wishes. He is a happy man ensconced in academia.

It may not surprise you to learn that Mr Wetherby is no longer in the family home. He is back with his parents. Joan is telling everyone who will listen that it is due to the ill health of his mother, but the entire town knows that the sour woman has kicked him out. Not that he is not deserving – the wretched scoundrel is the worst of men. Why she married him so quickly I have never understood.

Almost the whole of the cove heard the raging argument that preceded the separation, though we act as if we did not.

I saw her yesterday, though she pretended not to notice me. Beneath her usual cantankerous expression I believe I saw genuine sadness. Perhaps it were a trick of light, but her cheeks appeared moist. My heart did reach out to her, even if I did not.