So on the Wednesday afternoon at the end of August when Fanny arrived home alone – her husband having been unfortunately detained up in Town – she rightfully expected to see signs of some sort of summer jollity. The coach swept in from the road, followed the drive past the cricket pitch – an incomprehensible score still displayed up on the board. Why were the numbers always so high? It seemed so unnecessary – and turned around the nursery wing. And all the while, her neck was craned for the sight of some fun: a boat trip; a picnic; the arc of a shuttlecock against a brilliant blue sky.

The place was deserted.

‘Thank you, Daniel.’ Fanny took the driver’s hand and wobbled on to the top step. ‘Where is everybody?’ Five hours in that coach and her legs were like jelly. ‘Surely they cannot be inside on a day like today?’ Safely on the gravel, she paused for a moment for the blood to return and then tottered to the edge, where the grass began and the land fell away towards the lake in the valley. ‘Ah, I see the girls!’

Halfway down the slope, Mary Dorothea and Cassy Knight were spread, lolling, on a tweed blanket – both stretched out with their legs on display, one using the stomach of the other as a pillow. Really, she thought to herself as she moved down towards them. They look practically debauched. She waved and trilled in a friendly fashion. They scrambled up, straightened their dresses and pulled down their straw hats. What on earth had been going on?

‘My dears!’ she said brightly while eyeing up evidence: lemonade and cake, they could not be minded. But the books … ‘I see you are reading! How pleasant. Anything amusing?’ Or yet more of those novels Miss Atkinson encouraged?

Cassy reached down, grabbed both volumes and clutched them to her chest. ‘Not especially.’ She stepped forward and kissed her eldest sister. ‘How was the trip, Fan? I hope not too tiring.’

‘Thank you.’ Fanny peered around Cassy. ‘Mary!’ She held out her hand. ‘You are well, child?’

Mary shuffled forward, and, as usual, they fumbled their greeting. ‘Mama,’ she said, with a slightly ironic grimace. It was ever thus – always that edge to things.

There seemed to be a general understanding that now Fanny was home, the fun must end. In her defence, Fanny had not intended it, and yet even she could detect that it prevailed and somehow must be obeyed. Together, they gathered up all their possessions and started to walk back to the house.

‘I did not expect to find the two of you alone, dears.’ This was quite an understatement. ‘Where is Miss Atkinson? William? The boys?’ Even Booker, for heaven’s sake, would be some sort of comfort.

They had now reached the front door; the girls were climbing the steps. From behind, Fanny could see the exchange of glances and intuited a sense of slight panic. ‘Um,’ said Cassy.