If this were a work of fiction, instead of an attempt to discern the truth, then Stella’s death, coming so soon after Mother’s, would seem like malicious overload on the writer’s part. Stella’s return from her honeymoon, thin and desperately ill, tolled a death knell for our hope that life might offer fresh chances. It was as if the awakening we had witnessed the day of her marriage had to be paid for. She had filled the void Mother left behind her only to be stolen from us in turn. We clung to each other as her life slipped away, and learned that happiness is fleeting.

The noose of domesticity draws round me. No one tells me I must stand on the steps each morning and wave Adrian off to school, or that I must carry Father’s hot milk to him at night, but I sense that if I do not do these things the great lumbering motion of the household will grind to a halt. I dare not let myself think about Stella. If I try to sleep, terrifying images crowd around me. My only refuge is my work. I paint until I am so tired I can scarcely hold my brush. Then I lie down and force myself to continue my picture in my head.

The only person I wish to see is Stella’s husband, Jack. He visits most evenings and we sit together in the drawing room. I sew in Mother’s chair while he tells me about his day. I like to feel him watching me.

“You look tired, Nessa. I’m certain you’re doing too much,” he says one evening. I am not used to being treated with such solicitude.

“I’m worried about Adrian. He has a nasty cut on his leg. I sometimes think that if there were an open field with only one obstacle in it Adrian would find it and hurt himself on it. Are all children so accident-prone?” It is unlike me to confide so much. Jack’s hand reaches out and gently clasps mine.

“You should not be carrying all this. Your father places too much responsibility on you. It was the same with Stella.” I find I can bear Jack mentioning her name. I let his fingers stroke mine.

I wait for Jack’s visits. Directly after dinner I go upstairs and tidy my hair. I loop it behind my ears then gather it in a bunch. Mother wore her hair coiled at her neck whereas Stella piled hers higher on her head. I experiment with both styles. You watch me from your bed, frowning. You sense that I am doing this for Jack and you do not like it. One evening, as I try a brooch at my throat, you can restrain yourself no longer.

“He won’t notice! Why are you wasting your time on him?” You sound like a petulant child. Suddenly you burst out laughing.