He continued to stare across the garden but said nothing. The cicadas were emitting their endless high-pitched vibrations. Avoiding her eyes, he started to speak at last. ‘It’s just that…’

She touched his arm. ‘I know. I understand how much having this child means to you. I was wrong to take a risk like that.’

She saw Douglas was still angry.

‘You don’t want the baby, do you? That’s why you did it.’

Evie was aghast. ‘Not want the baby? I want nothing more. What on earth makes you say that?’

‘The tennis. Provoking Veronica.’

‘I was trying to win the match. I thought you were too!’ She started to feel indignant.

‘That ball she slammed at you. You wanted her to do it. Why don’t you admit it, Evelyn?’

‘Call me Evie! And that’s absolute poppycock. That ball got me right in the ribs and hurt like hell but it wasn’t anywhere near the baby. I certainly didn’t want it to happen. I’m desperate to have this baby. I thought you’d be as pleased as I am.’ The anger bubbled up. Anger and frustration that they appeared to be completely incapable of communicating with each other. No matter how hard she tried, he slapped her down. Well, she’d had enough.

To her astonishment, Douglas made a strange choking sound and she realised he was struggling to control his emotions. Instinctively, she reached for his arm and guided him to the sofa. He sat beside her, his head in his hands. Evie waited, saying nothing, conscious of the sound of his breathing, mingling with the chorus of cicadas. Trying to argue or reason with him was pointless and would drive him further away from her. There was clearly something damaged at the core of the man. It must be to do with his loss of Felicity and her own apparent shortcomings in comparison. How could she possibly compete with a dead woman, one whom he had clearly sanctified, one who could no longer afford him any opportunity for criticism – if indeed she ever had? Evie felt bleak. Lost and lonely. Unsure what to do or say, she remained beside him, silent, waiting.

Eventually he stirred, glancing at his wristwatch. ‘It’s gone midnight,’ he said at last. ‘Happy Christmas, Evie.’ He reached for her hand and raised it to brush it lightly with his lips. ‘I’m sorry. I was unfair to you. I am happy about this baby. More than you can imagine.’

Relief and happiness rushed into her. She gave him a broad smile. ‘Me too. I made you a present for Christmas. Would you like to open it now?’

‘You made me something?’ He looked astonished.

She went over to the cabinet in the corner of the room and took out two gift-wrapped parcels. ‘They’re only small things, but they’re all my own work.’ She gave a little laugh, embarrassed.

He unwrapped the first gift, revealing a pile of half-a-dozen white linen handkerchiefs, each hand-embroidered with a monogram, DB. ‘You made these yourself?’