Eventually, though, they could dance round the subject no longer. The new baby was due in the third week of October and Grace, determined to discuss the birth arrangements with Charles whether he was interested or not, went to search him out. He wasn’t hard to find. The ethereal yet haunting phrases of The Lark Ascending drifted through the echoing corridors of the Hall and all she had to do was follow the sound.

Grace adored these private moments when she could eavesdrop on Charles playing purely for his own pleasure rather than practising a work for performance. She made her way to the music room, treading as softly as her bulky size allowed so that she wouldn’t alert him to her presence. He was unlikely to hear her, though. When he played like this he became entirely lost in his music. Often, Grace had learned, it was because he had something important on his mind. No doubt, she thought, his choosing this soulful piece now was to do with his apprehension about becoming a father for the second time.

She reached the music room but stayed back, hidden by the shadows in the corridor. Charles was standing near the piano, his back to her, and he swayed as the notes poured out of him. It was obvious that he had no idea she was there. She waited until he reached the piece’s fragile ending, the lark ascending into the heavens out of sight. The beautifully haunting final note was such a pure sound that its vibration sent a shiver down Grace’s spine before the echoey acoustics of the Hall carried it away into the darkness.

Certain that he had finished, Grace moved silently into the room. She expected that Charles would sense her presence or at least lower his instrument and find another score to play, but he just stood there. Reluctant to interrupt whatever moment he was having, she waited. Her back was aching and her feet were sore, but being eight months pregnant could do that to you and she was stoical about the discomfort.

After what felt like an age, Charles lowered his violin and turned to put it back in the case that lay open on the George III desk that he had purloined from her parents’ old room to use as his music table. When he caught sight of Grace, he started as if he’d had no idea that she were there, and she saw that his cheeks were wet.

‘Stupid,’ he said, tutting and wiping the tears away with the back of his hand.

‘No,’ replied Grace gently. ‘Of course it isn’t stupid. It’s such a moving piece and you play it so beautifully. You’d have to be made of stone not to be touched by it.’

She searched his face, looking for a clue as to what had made him cry, but there was nothing. Whatever emotion had consumed him had already evaporated.