Rosie Thomas 4-Book Collection: The White Dove, The Potter’s House, Celebration, White. Rosie Thomas

Would you know what I meant if I said that Peter Jaspert is a perfect example of one of those blunt, jabbing Englishmen who can’t stay up and don’t care that they can’t?’ Adeline’s smile broadened enchantingly, and Amy blinked at her. ‘Perhaps not. Just say that they’re not ideal husband material. But she would have him, you know.’

      Amy remembered Isabel’s calm certainty before the marriage that she was doing the right thing. Surely that must make the shock of what was happening now even more profound?

      ‘He’s just the sort of man that Isabel would choose. She’s …’ Amy faltered tellingly ‘… such a rational person. If you wrote a list on paper, Peter would have all the right qualifications.’

      ‘I’m guessing wildly, of course, but if the trouble between them is what I suspect it is, it’s the very thing that none of us can work out on paper. How easy life would be if only one could.’ Adeline smoothed the silver-white points of her fur, first against the lie of the pelt and then flat again so that it gleamed like silk. ‘So, what shall we do for Isabel?’

      Amy took a deep breath. ‘I think you should say, insist, that Isabel must come away on a long holiday with you. And then take her off somewhere safe and just see how she is.’

      ‘Safe? Jaspert may be an oaf, but I don’t think he’s dangerous.’

      I do, Amy suddenly thought. Oh, I think he’s dangerous.

      ‘But, as you say, Isabel will need a long holiday. Where shall I take her? Do you know, it might be the very best of fun. Couldn’t you come too, dear heart?’

      Amy made a wry face. ‘I can’t even find six spare hours, let alone six weeks or six months, or however long you can spare for Isabel.’

      Adeline stood up and smoothed her tight skirt over her hips. She was still as slim as a girl.

      ‘And what about my huge grandson?’

      ‘There will be a nurse, and Bethan, and from the look of it Peter will be a besotted father.’

      ‘Yes,’ Adeline said meditatively. ‘And I’m sure that Joan Jaspert will do everything possible to help, if only to demonstrate to me how maternally remiss I am. Very well. We’ll do it. As soon as Isabel is well enough to leave here I’ll sweep her off to the sunshine somewhere. If she’ll come, that is. Does that make you happy?’

      ‘I think she’ll come,’ Amy said. ‘Yes. Just a little bit happier.’

      They crossed the hallway again and looked in at Isabel. She was still lying with her eyes shut, apparently asleep.

      She was safe. She could hide. Hide from Peter and the baby in its crib. And from the concerned faces that were a reproach rather than a comfort.

      It was easy to retreat into the darkness at first, but as the hours passed and then the days began to crawl by Isabel found that the precious oblivion was harder and harder to achieve.

      Sleep wouldn’t come and she lay with her eyes shut, hunched over her aching breasts, and listened to the screaming in her head. Her body felt as if it was being stretched tighter and tighter until she was certain that the livid pucker of the red and purple scar would split open again and she would fall in half.

      The tears, when they came, were a relief and then they wouldn’t stop. They soaked her chic hair so that it lay lank and flat against her head, and the pillows, and the ruffles of her crêpe-de-chine nightdresses.

      The nurses were soothing at first, then baffled, and then, helplessly, Isabel sensed their impatience. She was healing physically, but with every day she felt herself slipping further out of control of herself.

      Peter came and sat by her bed, talking significantly and at length about how the Prime Minister had made Archer Cole his Home Secretary. Isabel lay completely still, feeling the skin prickle along her arm again at his proximity. One morning he strode in and announced that his own appointment had been confirmed. He was to be a junior minister in the Home Office.

      ‘I knew Archer had something for me. It was a question of how far up he could bring me in. I’m still a new boy to most of them, of course. There’s a lot to be done, Isabel, but with a minister like Archer there’s no telling how far we might go.’ He went on, talking and talking, and looking out of the hospital window towards Westminster.

      The tears ran down Isabel’s cheeks and Peter’s face tightened with anger.

      Mr Hardwicke came, and said, ‘A little depression is very common after the birth of a child. You’ll be as right as rain as soon as you are back in your own home with your beautiful baby.’

      All of them tried to thrust the baby on her. The nurses asked, ‘Will you try to feed him yourself for a week or so?’

      ‘No,’ Isabel said, and they shrugged and gave him a bottle. She saw the bony little gums clamp round the teat, and shivered.

      When they made her hold him she looked into the tiny face, closed-up and calm, and sensed all the reserves of power and strength in it. She knew that she had none. Yet she was getting better. It was as if her own body was defying her, gathering its own strength out of the hospital air. They made her get up, dressed her in one of her pretty robes, and sat her in a chair in the window. She could see the tower of Big Ben, so she drew the curtains on it and sat in the dimness until the nurses came and pulled them back again.

      Adeline came to see her every day, always exquisitely dressed and always just on her way somewhere, or else hurrying home to change to go somewhere else. She was talking gaily about travel plans and Isabel stared uncomprehendingly at her. Even Gerald came. He looked like an old man now, and walked arthritically with a stick. He approved of the baby’s big, healthy pinkness. ‘He’s a fine boy,’ he said to Peter. ‘The first grandchild should be called Airlie.’

      ‘Airlie? Don’t be ridiculous. His name is Peter George. We’ve already announced it. Archer Cole has agreed to be a godfather.’

      Amy was the only visitor Isabel didn’t shrink from. Amy didn’t say much, nor did she coo and cluck falsely over the baby. She simply sat, sometimes holding her sister’s hand, and tried to will some of her own strength into her.

      Once, just once, Isabel felt a flicker of the old life.

      Richard came and found the two of them sitting together.

      ‘Darling sisters,’ he said, and raised an eyebrow at the room filled with flowers and presents and messages. ‘I knew, Bel, that you would be showered with tributes and I had no idea what offering to bring. And then I was passing through Covent Garden … don’t ask me what I was doing there because I won’t tell you … and I saw this.’ From a pocket Richard produced a tomato. ‘It is the most perfect tomato in London. Don’t you think? It’s very important that whatever you bring should be the best,’ he said seriously.

      The tomato was large, and evenly and floridly red. He put it reverently on the bedside locker and kissed Isabel. Richard was wearing a tight-waisted pale jacket and a Windsor-knotted emerald silk tie. His hair was slicked back and he looked taller, and more elegant than the schoolboy they had last seen. But the defensive humorousness marked his face as strongly as ever.

      ‘Well. Where is the infant?’

      Amy pointed and he peered into the crib. There was a moment’s silence.

      ‘Oh dear,’ he said at last. ‘Do you know, I always thought that all the stuff about the child being father of the man was romantic piffle. Now here is the living proof that old Wordsworth was perfectly right. This child is Lord Jaspert down to the very last wrinkle. How does it feel, Isabel, to have given birth to your own father-in-law?’

      ‘Richard.’

      It was Amy’s exclamation, but Isabel felt a ripple of laughter spreading inside her. For the briefest of instants they were together again, Amy and Richard and herself, sparring and giggling around the fire. The ripple spread and lapped outwards and more followed it. She was laughing aloud but suddenly it wasn’t the right