Mags had tried writing to Ella at the address Flors had given her, as this she had been able to record in her address book without any problems. The book had been lying openly on her bureau, and not long after they had settled in Scotland, Susan had given the book to David to send on to her, along with some of her other personal possessions. At the time, although it was lovely to have her mother’s jewellery and her father’s watch and cufflinks, it had felt as though Harold had instructed Susan to clear Mags and her parents out of the house. Bitterness settled in Mags for a time afterwards, but she’d come to terms with it, with the help of Montel.

Sadly, the letter she had sent to Ella had been returned with ‘Addressee not known at this address’, and so unless she could get hold of Flora’s address, she would never again have contact with either of them. All she could remember was that Flora was living in the Languedoc area, in a village called Laurens something-or-other, and it was there that she had planned on going when she first escaped from the asylum. But as for sending post to such a vague address, she just wasn’t sure.

Going through to the small room that she used as her office, Mags set about tackling the mound of paperwork that had piled up. Invoices needed paying, receipts booking in and correspondence replying to. All was to do with the business and it now formed a major part of her own contribution. She’d have loved an office in the boathouse, where their shop was, but all available room was taken up with the pottery and the stockroom, as well as the shop itself and a studio for Montel.

After making separate piles of urgent and non-urgent post, Mags sat back. She felt restless. Her mind wasn’t on paperwork today; it was as if she had a premonition of something bad going to happen. Rising, she decided that she would go for a walk. Maybe the two little ones could go with her, if they weren’t resting.

She found Cook and the children’s minder in the kitchen, having a cup of tea. ‘We were about to shout up to see if you wanted a wee drop of tea, hen. There’s plenty and it’s only just brewed.’

‘Thank you, Helen, but no. I thought I would get some air; it’s stifling up in that office. Where are the children?’

‘Och, they’re playing in the garden . . . well, squabbling that is. But, as usual, yon Sibbie has given in.’

Mags looked out of the window. ‘They look happy enough now, so I won’t disturb them. Have you the sandwiches done for Betsy and Montel? I’ll drop them off, if you have.’

‘Aye, that’d be canny of ye. Save me walking that way. Me legs are screeching at me the day.’

‘Oh? I’m sorry. Well, get off when you like, Cook. I can see to dinner tonight.’