“People want to be kind and help. As you say, Deborah, he’s a grown man.”

However, she’s not wrong. Still, I have the situation in hand. I wish I could tell her that. It’s not something she needs to worry herself with.

“Stuart loved Nina, no, he adored her,” I continue. “He isn’t going to lightly replace her with some random woman in the near future just because she can cook,” I say with what I hope is a reassuring smile.

It doesn’t work. She washes up the mugs, wiping them dry with kitchen paper so as not to dirty a tea towel, while I remove the bag from the trash, tie a knot at the top and replace it with a new one.

“I’m pregnant,” I blurt out.

I want to give her something else to focus on, I want to draw her back into my confidence, to trust me again. It’s not a complete lie because you can do tests so early nowadays, my news is only a week or so premature.

It works. I can physically sense her warming toward me again now that she’s got proof that I don’t have designs on her son-in-law (technically, is he still)? She smiles and comes over to give me a hug.

“That’s wonderful news!”

“It’s very early days,” I say. “So it’s vital to keep it to yourself.”

Deborah locks up while I dump the trash bag in the outside bin.

She asks all the questions I’ve been dying for people to ask me as we amble back to the house: due dates, scans, boy or girl preference, plans for work afterward. It feels good until she changes the subject to her disappointment in the latest gardeners Stuart has employed. Time to say goodbye.

I reverse. Bumping over the cattle grid, I exit the village as I head back to my own responsibilities and worries. Red, yellow, orange and brown leaves scatter the lane. I love the colors at this time of year. Smoke wafts from a cottage chimney, reminding me of my childhood home because Mum lit fires early on in the season. I loved going stick-gathering with her in the woods. A yearning to visit her as soon as possible forms; it’s been too long.

As I slow down to avoid a trio of ponies huddled together, a horrible thought forms: Deborah will go upstairs and spend time in the children’s room. I know she will, she always does. Felix’s lion isn’t on his bed. Lies work better when I go easy on the details, stick to my own tried and tested rules. It would be careless not to keep her on my side if I’m to figure things out in a way that works best for me.

I’ll bake a Victoria sponge with the children on Sunday and use some of her homemade raspberry jam. Ben will be at work, and Stuart has never turned down an offer of child-entertainment assistance. We’ll drop it round to Deborah’s afterward as a surprise. She can’t fail to be softened by the gesture.