But she couldn’t wait any more, stuck in this prison. She heaved herself up and sat on the edge of the bed to get her breath, then pulled herself over to the window. The view was oddly unchanged, looking out beyond the pines to the grey, churning sea. But as her eyes adjusted to the unaccustomed pale wintry light, she saw that the nearest fields were filthy with flecks of dirty white and yellow – the deposits of salt and sand – and the trees were misshapen and haphazard as if someone had taken shears to them and chopped them about in anger. Even worse, further down towards the sea, where the end fields had been, it was like a looking-glass reflection of the grey sky. Above them seagulls screamed and swooped, feasting on dead worms. The cold reality of what it meant seeped into her bones: the farm would be unusable for years. She was enough of her father’s daughter to know that. And yet, it was removed from her now. She had plotted her escape route. She had Jack. Her heart quickened. It was treacherous, yes, to abandon the farm when she was most needed (though what could she do? she asked herself, and pushed away the thought that another daughter would do anything) and there was a pang of guilt at leaving Peter with this mess. And Arthur. But another, far stronger emotion was gathering force: the thrill of a real decision, the thought that was rushing up through her. That she would really, actually leave. Give it all up. Oh God, she would do it, she would throw it all away, to go and live, to really do something.

In a state of trembling excitement, she pulled on some clothes and went downstairs, holding onto the rail as her legs were still wobbly. She couldn’t bear the thought of the ruined front rooms. All her mother’s furniture, some of it saved from the demolition of Felford – the last fragments of that old world – gone.

Instead, she went straight to the kitchen, where Mrs Timms was whacking some meat with a rolling pin and dropped the pin with a clatter when Verity came in.

‘You startled me there, creeping in like a ghost! What are you doing up? You should be in bed.’

But Verity smiled. ‘I feel much better. And I’m starving, Mrs Timms. Is there anything I can eat?’

Grumbling about people who miss breakfast, Mrs Timms made Verity a luncheon meat and pickle sandwich. There was a faint smell of damp in the kitchen but it had been masked by the scents of cooked meat and she noticed that the housekeeper had put up sprigs of lavender all around the kitchen.

‘Any sign of my father? Or Peter?’

‘Oh they’re both out all hours, Miss. There’s so much to do. All the poor animals and the mending and what not.’ She paused and looked doubtfully at Verity.