The hours passed uneasily to an evening crushed in silences and my feelings began to thaw, leaving torment. From time to time, my fingers went to my locket and as I talked and ate I could only think how, but a little over eighteen months ago, Papa and Clara had both been alive and life had seemed so easy. The ache grew sharper, pressing upon guilt and anger. When I took Mary to bed, she held on to my hand as if to make me stay, but I was too weary of being awake and wanted only sleep and to close the door on such a day.

In the solitude of my room, I allowed my memory to drift back to this same day, but a year earlier, when I had stayed up late to decorate the little parlour with fern and dried physalis stems. The presents had lain wrapped on the table by Clara’s chair. Once again, I was by the stove with the hot blast of air to my cheek as I had sat each evening to finish the dress in time for her birthday.

I could not stop my remembrances even when they returned again to the charred air, and the roaring flames that stole the sound of birdsong; how I had launched myself through the blazing door and into the melting heat, pressing my dress to my face, each call choked back in the maw of fumes. Lying flat to the hot stone, I had pulled myself into the furnace, terror wrapped like a drum skin over my heart, but I had known already that it was too late. I had known in my soul that Clara was dead.

Alone now, in the coolness of my room, I undressed and lit a candle, took my locket and gazed for a long time at the tiny image. With pain, I saw that it had faded a little and my chest burned with emotion. It wasn’t until I got beneath the covers that I found it – there, on the sheets, a piece of paper and a small sketch of two smiling girls. It was clearly drawn by Mary and underneath she had written, ‘Elspeth and Clara’.

Mary had noticed my pain. She had seen it even though I had not spoken, and my heart ached for her kindness.

19

The following day, even the salt-spit and winter sun that cracked the ocean did not banish the lowering of my mood.

In spite of the recent unpleasant interaction with Paterson, I went to the shop and bought toffee which Mary and I then ate in the lee of the rocks. Occasionally, we turned and met each other with a smile at the gluing of our teeth. But the smile was only skin deep. I had lost not just confidence but hope.

Back at the house, I sent Mary upstairs and went in search of Mrs Lenister.

‘Would it be possible to have tea sent up to the playroom?’