Betsy nodded firmly. ‘Yes, please. We could play with Queenie together and perhaps paint Uncle Alexander’s tree house a different colour?’ The den looked the worse for wear, its green paint flaking.

‘Well, you could choose what colour you want and we’ll ask one of the gardeners to paint it, as it is a little high for us. He can check the ladder is still safe and maybe make a small table and chairs for inside? We could have tea parties there and you could invite your friends to come and play. You could pretend it’s a magic castle and you’re a princess.’

Betsy beamed. She slipped her hand into Arabella’s as they walked on, exploring the garden together. There were some of Alexander’s little lead soldiers still dotted about here and there, and in one corner, near a small shed overgrown with ivy, a large grassy mound with a deep groove running round the bottom of it. ‘That was Alexander’s hill he made for his soldiers and he used to fill the moat with water,’ Arabella said fondly. ‘I’ve forbidden the gardeners to come in here and change anything. I wanted his children to see it as it was and now you have, my dear.’

Betsy looked up at Alexander’s mother. ‘When Uncle Alexander and Mam are married I’m going to call him Da.’

‘And so you should because he will become your father.’

‘Can—’ Betsy stopped. When she’d talked to her mother about this she had sensed it was a thorny subject.

‘Yes, my dear?’

‘I was just wondering what I should call you,’ Betsy said after a moment or two.

They had come to a small stone bench set between two lattices heavy with sweet-smelling roses, and now Arabella sat down, careless of her fine gown, and Betsy sat with her. ‘What would you like to call me?’

‘Well . . .’ Betsy chose her words carefully, with a natural wisdom beyond her years born of innate kindness. ‘I would like to call you Grandma because I’ve never had a grandma. My da’s mam an’ da live a long way away but I’ve never seen them. I don’t think’ – she paused, and then went on – ‘I don’t think they liked my mam. She’s never said that but that’s what I think.’

The child’s request had brought a lump to Arabella’s throat and a prickle of tears at the backs of her eyes, but she kept her voice matter-of-fact when she said gently, ‘I would very much like you to call me Grandma, Betsy.’

‘Good.’ Again Betsy hesitated. ‘And – and Mr Bembridge?’

‘Well, I think you should call him Grandfather, don’t you?’

‘I – I don’t know if he would like that.’