‘Three years ago. We were all with him. Emmet, his brothers.’ She was silent for a moment, then she looked up. Her voice was steady, her eyes shards of ice. ‘You must have known some of this. Enough for you to come here.’

Eliza found her voice again. Explained, as briefly as possible, what had led her to Trim. Heard herself talk about her godmothers, Edinburgh, the ferry trip.

Abruptly, Sheila stood up. ‘Have you been to the castle?’

‘I walked around it yesterday.’

‘Have you been inside?’

She shook her head.

‘Come with me now. You haven’t had breakfast, have you? Do you need something first? Coffee?’

‘I’m fine.’ How could she answer in such an ordinary way?

‘It’s chilly enough outside. Drizzling too. Bring a raincoat if you have one. It can also be muddy there. Have you got any boots, or just those runners?’

The change of subject was unsettling. The apparent concern. Eliza put on her boots and picked up her raincoat. They were about to leave the room when Sheila spoke again.

‘You have his eyes. He had beautiful eyes. Emmet didn’t notice? Didn’t say anything?’

Eliza shook her head. Unsure of why they were leaving, why she was obeying her, Eliza followed the older woman downstairs, outside and across the road in the cool misty air to the castle.

Chapter Thirty-two

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

It was eight a.m. in Edinburgh. Olivia had slept badly. She was still on edge, waiting for Eliza’s call. Last night’s visit with Edgar had been one of the hardest ever. Sitting beside his bed, watching him sleeping, finally peaceful after so much distress. He’d seesawed between severe tremors and bouts of weeping. She’d sat there holding his hand, stroking it for nearly an hour before she realised something.

This was it. This was how it was going to be. He was never going to get better.

It didn’t matter how many times she visited. How many reports she read out to him. How many one-sided discussions she had about his sons or stock-control issues or staffing difficulties. Reminiscences about their first meeting or their favourite paintings. All they’d done together, the trips they’d taken, the hotel they’d built up together. He was not coming back to her.

She’d cried all night. As if the tears she had kept at bay over the past few years had been waiting for their moment. So many times she’d answered questions about him. ‘Just the same,’ she’d say, attempting to be as cheerful as possible. Who had she been fooling? Only herself.