Her eyes opened, and she saw clouds through the window. She tried to lift her head off the pillows, but it was too heavy. Her eyelids were leaden, and she struggled to keep them open. She could hear her mother buzzing ceaselessly, like a large fly.

“So I said to Audrey—why ever not? And she said—Dorothea, she said—I can’t. Just can’t. And there was no—”

The scene faded.

Now her father was in the chair beside the bed, reading the Times. No, that couldn’t be right, could it? She closed her eyes and opened them again. He was still there, his lips moving slightly as he read.

“Daddy?”

He laid the paper down. “Genevieve. How are you?”

She moved her arms with an effort, reaching under the sheets to run her hands over her stomach. It felt like a partially deflated balloon. Inside her, all was still.

“Where’s my baby?”

Her father stood up and headed over to the door, calling out, “Dorothea? She’s awake.”

She heard her mother bustling starchily up the stairs. Lord Ticksted sat down again, folding his hands in front of him, frowning.

“So you’ve decided to join us again.” He crossed one leg over the other. He was wearing beige slippers. Genevieve hated them.

“I want to see my baby.”

“Your blood pressure went through the roof, girl! You’re damned lucky you’re still here.”

“I don’t…remember…”

“That’ll be the morphine.”

“Daddy…”

He made an odd whistling sound, then sucked his cheeks in. It was something he did at difficult moments.

“It’s dead, Genevieve. Probably for the best, all things considered.”

Her mother wanted to hug her now. But it was too late for all that.

She was told the baby was a girl. When she asked to see it, they said it had already been buried. Already! The grave was unmarked because of the need for secrecy. She named the baby Josephine but told nobody. She cut the name into the trunk of an oak in the graveyard.

Her education was completed at home by a governess. Her headmistress would never have allowed her back after what had happened, and it was felt that it would not be in her best interests to go elsewhere. They wanted her where they could keep an eye on her.

The stories about tuberculosis and nervous disorders persisted. Genevieve went out and about in the village now, but quietly and rarely. Mostly she stayed within the grounds. Everyone, her parents included, treated her as though she was an invalid—questioning the wisdom of long walks or cycle rides, urging her to cover her legs with blankets when she sat out of doors, speaking in hushed voices of her “delicate health.” They had come to believe their own cover story. She almost believed it herself.