‘My mother died when I was sixteen. She was a weak woman. After years of abuse, I think she just gave up the ghost.’ Vanda stared at the stove. ‘I’m older than my sister by two years. After Mother’s death I was expected to run the house, take over her role. My father rewarded me with my own bedroom. So it began. Every night he came to me. I couldn’t stop him. I lived in dread of his step on the stairs, I knew what it meant. He told me I’d asked for it, that it was what I’d wanted. It lasted for two years. Two years of hell. I’ve never told a soul, not even my sister. I did all in my power to protect Una. I prayed that he never touched her. And then I realised I was pregnant. He found me a husband, the cobbler, and I married him on the understanding that my sister would marry the baker, and so it was.

‘My husband never said a word when I gave birth four months later. I was spilt open so that the baby could be pulled from me feet first. I remember I looked at him and wished he was dead. But for a reason I don’t understand, Misha chose to live. I felt nothing for him. I wouldn’t let my husband touch me after that. But he’s been a good father to Misha, a good husband to me.’

She paused. ‘I did everything to keep my sister from him, only for her to be careless with her own daughter. And do you remember what she said when I told her about the hunting party? “Men will be men.” That’s all. But it wasn’t all.’ She stopped again. ‘Could I have a little more?’ Edith refilled her glass. ‘You must have heard the gossip about your shepherd.’

Edith felt her stomach turn over. She was afraid of what she was about to hear but still she didn’t look away.

‘The men in the inn joke that my father killed him. I wouldn’t put it past him.’

Edith’s eyes filled with tears and Vanda reached across the table and took her hand. ‘Surely what I’ve said has made you find your tongue? You honestly can’t speak?’

Edith shook her head.

‘Your stitchwork is some of the finest in the village. It always has been. And as for your painting, you are an artist.’ Vanda still held Edith’s hand. ‘I’ve never told anyone what I’ve told you. Not a doctor, not a priest. Now, nearly too late, perhaps far too late, I realise that I married a good man, a kind man who has put up with me for eighteen years. My son is a good boy. I think hell has a special place for women like me. Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you for listening.’