"We must be the luckiest people on Earth."

What a joyous morning that was! It made what happened afterwards all the more incomprehensible.

Lady Sallonger joined us at luncheon. We had arranged that she should not be told about the house just yet. She would not want me to go. She seemed to think that now that I was her daughter-in-law she had an additional right to my services.

She was a little peevish because she had a headache. I suggested she go to her room instead of lying on the sofa in the drawing room. I would put some cotton wool soaked in eau de cologne on her forehead. She brightened up considerably; and when she went to her room I accompanied her.

I was with her quite a long time, for when I had ministered to her headache she wanted me to stay and talk until she slept; and it must have been almost an hour later when I was able to tiptoe out.

The house was very quiet. I went to our room expecting to find Philip impatiently waiting for me. He was not there. I was surprised for he had said something about our taking a walk together in the forest as soon as I was free of his mother.

There was a knock on my door. It was Cassie.

"So you're alone," she said. "Good. I wanted to talk to you. I hardly ever see you now. Soon you'll be going to London and staying there. It'll be your home ... not this."

"Cassie, you can come and stay with us whenever you want to."

"Mama would protest. She is especially demanding when you are not here."

"She is demanding when I am."

"I am so glad you married Philip because it makes you my sister. But it does take you away."

"A woman has to be with her husband, you know."

"I know. I can't imagine what it will be like when you stay all the time in London. What am I going to do? They won't try to find a husband for me. They can't even find one for Julia. So what chance would I have?''

"One never knows what is waiting for one."

"I know what is waiting for me. Dancing attendance on Mama until I am old and just like her.''

"It wouldn't be like that for you would never be like her."

"Do you remember that time when we were all up in your grandmother's room and we talked about having a shop together . . . making wonderful clothes and selling them? Wouldn't that be lovely if we could take Emmeline, Lady Ingleby and the Duchess and all go off together? I used to dream we did and now you have married Philip and that has put an end to that."

"Cassie, when I go to London, Grand'mere is coming with us."

She looked at me in dismay.

I went on: "I have said that whenever you want to you can come and stay."

"I will come," she cried. "No matter what Mama says."

I told her about the house and the big top room which had been designed by an artist. She listened avidly and because I did impress on her that she would be welcome to visit us whenever she could she grew a little less melancholy at the thought of our departure.

I was expecting Philip at any moment, but he did not come. I could not imagine where he was. If he had been going out somewhere, surely he would have told me.

He had still not come back at dinner time, and the meal was delayed for half an hour; and still he had not returned.

We ate uneasily, for now we were beginning to be alarmed.

The evening wore on. We sat in the drawing room, our ears strained for sounds of his arrival. Grand'mere joined us. We were very worried.

We asked the servants if any of them had seen him go out. No one had. Where was he? What could have happened?

As the evening wore on so did our anxiety increase.

I was shivering with apprehension. Grand'mere put her arm about me.

I said: "We must do something."

She nodded.

Clarkson thought he might have had an accident in the forest . . . broken a leg or something. He could be lying somewhere . . . helpless. He said he would get some of the men together and organize a search.

I felt limp. In my heart I knew something terrible had happened.

It was nearly midnight when they found him. He was in the forest not so very far from the house.

He was dead . . . shot through the head. The gun was one of those from the gunroom of The Silk House.

I cannot bear, not after all these years, to dwell on that time. I was stunned by my grief. The most incredible tragedy had burst upon me. Why? I kept asking myself.

I, who had so recently become a wife, was now a widow.

The days and nights seemed to merge into one. Grand'mere kept me with her. I was in bed most of the time. She was knowledgeable about herbs and such things and she gave me something which made me sleep, so I slept and when I awoke it was as though to some nightmare from which I longed to escape in more sleep.

There was an inquest, and I was required to be present. I went with Grand'mere and Charles. He had come up hastily from London when he heard the news. I could not grasp what they were saying. My thoughts were far away ... in the forest with the bluebells ... he had been so happy; he had said we were the luckiest people on Earth, and now . . . what had happened? There were so many questions and no answers to them, but the conclusion was that Philip had apparently taken a gun from the gunroom, gone into the forest and shot himself for the evidence pointed to the fact that the wound had been self-inflicted.

It is impossible . . . impossible ... I kept saying to myself. We were so happy. Everything was set fair. We were going to buy the house. How could he possibly do such a thing? If he were in some sort of trouble he would have told me. But he was not. He was happy ... he was the happiest man on Earth.

The verdict was: "Suicide while the balance of his mind was disturbed."

I would not accept it. It could not be true. I wanted to stand up in court and shout at them all. Grand'mere restrained me.

I allowed myself to be taken back to the house. She said she would look after me. She took me to bed, undressed me and lay down beside me.

"It's not true," I said again and again.

She did not speak; she just held me close.

Days passed . . . grey days. Lady Sallonger wept genuine tears and wondered what she had done that God should punish her so. Charles was helpful. He managed all the formalities which such an event necessitated. We had to be grateful that he was there, Cassie tried to console me. Poor child, she was heartbroken. Philip had been her favourite brother.

"Why did he do it?" she asked.

None of us could answer that.

"He was so happy," I said.

"Charles says it was a brainstorm. People have them and then they do wild things."

"Philip was the calmest man I ever knew."

"Calm people sometimes have them."

"There must have been a reason," I said. "But what . . . what? Could he really have been so unhappy that he took his own life?"

I would not believe it. It was ridiculous. How unhappy did people have to be? How tired of this life to take that step to get out of it?

People talked about it ... whispered about it. There must have been something. So recently married.

They looked at me wonderingly. There must have been something.

People revel in mysteries and when they cannot find solutions they fabricate them. I had been closest to him. I was his newly wedded wife. Surely I knew. Was it something concerning me? He had been passionately in love with me. Why should he have wanted to leave me ... unless . . .

I began to think that in their secret hearts they were blaming me. Lady Sallonger . . . Clarkson, Mrs. Dillon ... I could imagine the conversation in the servants' hall.

"Perhaps he found out something about her. . . . Who is she anyway? Her sort has no right to marry into the family her grandmother is working for.''

There were times when I did not care what they said. They were bound to gossip. All that mattered was that Philip was dead and that I had lost him for ever.

I was drifting along in a state of lethargy. I could not go on like that. Something had to change.

One night I awoke, startled. My body was damp with perspiration and yet I was shivering. It was a dream. I was in Florence. I was walking down a street. Ahead of me I could see a man in an opera hat and cloak. I saw the assassin creep up to him. He turned to face his assailant. It was Philip's face. I saw the knife raised. Then it was Lorenzo . . . and as he fell he changed into Philip.

It took me a few seconds to realize I had had a nightmare. It had all seemed so real.

I lay there for some time. Then I put on my dressing gown and slippers and went into Grand'mere's room.

She started up in bed. "Lenore, what is it?"

"I've had a dream," I said.

She leaped out of bed and took my hands. "You are shivering," she said.

"I shouldn't have disturbed you, but I had to talk. I had to tell you about it."

"Of course you did. Here. Get into bed."

I did so and she lay beside me holding me close.

''I told you about the man in Italy . . . Lorenzo who was wearing Philip's cloak and hat when he was killed. It ... it seems clear to me suddenly. He was about the same height as Philip . . . from behind he would look exactly like Philip. It was not robbery . . . because nothing was taken. Someone must have come behind and stabbed him in the back . . . perhaps without realizing until later that they had killed the wrong man. . . ."

"The wrong man. What do you mean?"

"Philip would never kill himself. I am sure that someone killed him."

"But the gun ..."

"Would it be so difficult to stage a suicide ... I believe now that Lorenzo was killed in mistake for Philip. I know he was murdered. I am sure of it now. I knew him so well."

"None of us know the secret places of other people's minds."

"You still believe that there was something about Philip which I did not know.''

"Perhaps. But it is over. No good can come of going over all this. You should be getting your sleep."

"This dream . . . this nightmare . . . Grand'mere, it was a revelation. I am sure of it. Someone meant to kill Philip in Florence. They killed Lorenzo instead. And now . . . they have succeeded in killing him in the forest."

"Who would want to kill such a man?"

"I don't know. But someone did."

She stroked my hair. "I am going to make you a herb drink. It will soothe you. You need sleep."

I did not answer. It was impossible to convince me of something of which I was now so sure.

Obediently I drank from the cup she gave me.

"Now I am going to take you back to your own room. You will rest more comfortably there. And don't get up in the morning until I call you."

I went back to my bed.

The draught was effective and I soon slept, but when I awoke in the morning, it was still with the conviction that Lorenzo's death was in some mysterious way linked with that of Philip.

Oddly enough the thought helped me.

I no longer believed that Philip had killed himself because he found life with me intolerable.

Desperately I wanted to find out. How? I went over everything in my mind. That night in Florence. How we had stayed in. It was heartbreaking to recall how happy we had been. Lorenzo had taken advantage of the situation and slipped out in Philip's cloak and hat. Someone was lurking near the hotel waiting . . . following him through the streets and then . . . pouncing with the knife. He must have realized too late that he had the wrong victim. Was that why he had pursued the man he wanted? Was that why Philip had died in the woods . . . and by his own gun? How could that have been?

It was a theory which appeared to have few roots in reason. Whichever way I turned I was baulked. There was no one with whom I could discuss my suspicions. Grand'mere? Cassie? It all turned to the same thing. Philip had taken one of the guns from The Silk House gunroom and how could an unknown assassin do that? He had deliberately walked into the forest and shot himself.

There was only one explanation, but I stubbornly refused to accept it.

I brooded on it. I would wake in the night thinking I had the solution; then by the light of day it proved to be just nonsense.

I felt I was drifting. I could not go on like this. Grand'mere was very anxious about me.

"There has to be a change," she said.

And there was.

A suspicion had come into my mind. I hardly dared believe it. Then later it became a certainty.

I was going to have a child.

At first it was like a glimmer of light in my dark world. It seemed that I might not have lost Philip entirely. He might live on in our child.