As it was Mary’s last day at home before she was returned to her boarding school, they were spending the entire day together in the mother’s dressing room. Mary carried in her favourite toys, her mama rooted about in the basket of scraps and they embarked on the production of an entirely new summer wardrobe for the fortunate dolls who were chosen to accompany them on their annual holiday to Sandgate later that summer.

‘I do believe that what this outfit requires,’ her mother declared as she held up a navy-blue frock in the sailor style, ‘is a straw just like your school hat. Now …’ She twisted her mouth and pretended to think deeply, in that way she did when the plan was already conceived, hatched and close to unveiling. ‘I wonder’ – she leaned in to Mary, put a fingertip to the child’s nose and wrinkled her own in excitement – ‘if I were to write to my own milliner in London—’

But Mary was in no mood to hear it. ‘Mama,’ she began. The relationship between them was happy, honest and open. Though she would hesitate before talking in such terms to her father, her mother encouraged it. ‘I have been thinking.’ If some issue was on Mary’s mind, she was expected to share it. ‘And have now firmly decided that it would be very much for the best if I did not return to Mrs Grant’s tomorrow.’

‘Ha!’ Annabella Knatchbull smiled at her fondly, turned back to the scrap basket, started to rummage and said in an absent sort of voice: ‘My funny little darling.’

‘But, Mama!’ Mary rose. ‘I am being most serious.’ She knelt down and rested her head on the comforting bulk of her unborn sibling. ‘Why can I not stay and be taught here at home? My Honywood cousins have that arrangement, as do the Finch-Hattons. And Great-Aunt Dorothea is worried that the whole idea of schools for girls is starting to look rather affected—’

Her languid mother gave a sudden jerk of alarm.

‘Forgive me!’ she cried then. ‘I beg you, do not say I said so!’ And then, in a very small, collapsed sort of voice added: ‘Please, Mama dearest. Do let me stay.’

Her mother stroked her hair and gave a sad smile. ‘You are worried, my love. And that is perfectly natural. I do believe I remember feeling something similar when your uncle was born. But that all ended happily, did it not? And this will, too. Mary?’ She lifted the child’s chin, the little replica of her own, and looked into the so-similar eyes. ‘I promise you. I have done this five times before and never felt stronger than I do now, with this baby. All will be well. I feel it; I know it.