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the blackness, their silhouette outlined against the night sky. Dorothy burst into tears and Lady Keyt drew her daughter onto her lap as she did when she was little.
    ‘I hate him, Mama. He’s always angry.’
    ‘You mustn’t, darling. You should never hate anyone, let alone your father.’
    ‘He used to be kind; now he only drinks and shouts.’
    ‘Underneath he is still kind. Do you not remember, he was loving and generous? Look at the time he spent with you. Look how he spoilt you.’ She spent the rest of the evening talking of the past with Dorothy. Sir William was Lady Keyt’s first dancing partner and her first love. Dorothy envisioned her mother as a young girl, guiding her father through the storm when, at only thirteen, he lost both his father and beloved grandfather. She imagined their wedding at Toddington church, her father waiting for the beautiful bride who would comfort and support him throughout the years.
    When her mother spoke again, her voice faltered. ‘I will always love your father, just as I will always love all of you. But for now, Lizzie is my priority. She needs me most. Do you understand that, little one?’ She held Dorothy tightly.
    ‘Perhaps God has punished me for too much happiness,’ she said at last, kissing the top of Dorothy’s head. ‘So much tragedy: John, Lizzie, Ophelia. But don’t make it your own life story, and don’t judge your father too harshly. Don’t hate him for all our sakes. You can still realize your dreams.’
    Dorothy tried to believe her, but she didn’t see her father again for five days.
    The months passed slowly, and Sir William’s absences grew longer. Elizabeth became quiet, immersing herself in painting. Her horizons might have shrunk, but she observed her world with clarity and simplicity. The bust of an ancestor, an embroidered cushion – each took on a new life. The ancestor had thought, breathed and lived; likewise, someone had worked that cushion, pricked her finger, and strained her eyes.
    She thought of her own life. ‘Do you know what makes me very sad?’ she told her sister. ‘I always imagined having children, and now I shall have none. I shall simply be a burden to you all.’
    ‘You will never be a burden,’ protested Dorothy. ‘I will always look after you, so please don’t talk like that.’
    ‘I’m sorry, that was thoughtless. I just can’t bear the thought of becoming an encumbrance.’ Though Dorothy loved her sister, she couldn’t help her frustration. How was Elizabeth always so serene when she, Dorothy, was always angry? Elizabeth never judged, she never criticized and she rarely complained. Amongst her family she became the confidante, always ready to listen to their miseries. But Dorothy could not see inside Elizabeth’s heart. In private she wept, mourning the loss of her freedom. She grieved for her family, but she also grieved for herself.

8
    Dorothy found Norton stifling. Thomas, who had been her constant companion, increasingly retreated to the library to read or write poetry. The tree house, once a symbol of their freedom and solidarity, remained empty. At times she was tempted to read more of her father’s diary, but her lingering guilt discouraged her. Instead she escaped into the fantasy world of novels, romances that she could barely understand. She longed to be one of the heroines, enjoying a never-ending quest for love and adventure.
    Had she stayed in her room on that stuffy summer’s day she would not have known the truth about Miss Byrne’s departure. She was lying on her bed, trying to focus on her reading, with little success. Everything annoyed her: the heat, the flies, her restricting clothes. She dropped her book to the floor and looked in the mirror; her faced was flushed and small beads of perspiration stood out on her upper lip. She grimaced at a patch of sweat spreading beneath her armpits and pulled open the drawer to her tallboy. She found a clean blouse and was about to change when