I know from the smell of camphor that it’s time for another treatment and I steel myself for what is to come. There is no point in begging for them to let it be, to stop. The treatment is doing me good, so they say. And this is not a bad place. There are locks but they are seldom used. We are even allowed to stroll freely in the grounds, though if we are found outside the perimeters we will be locked up.

The feelings of panic and terror that the camphor induces before the blessed fit takes over are hard to bear, especially when you know what to expect. And I do know. I have been here for three months now. I have not been allowed to see my children in all this time. I tell Arthur and Sir Charles – I tell them all, the doctors and the nurses – that if only I could see my children I might not need any further treatment, but of course they won’t listen. When you are well no one notices you and when you are sick no one listens.

The door to my room opens and Sir Charles comes inside followed by two nurses. ‘Now, now, Mrs Blackstaff, let go of the bed and let us get started. You know it has to be.’

‘It’s for your own good,’ the young nurse says but she looks unhappy. Mostly the staff are kind.

I doze and in my sleepy state I think of them, of Georgie and Lillian, and how comfortable, how picture-perfect they looked having their tea with Jane Dale by the sitting-room fire. The curtains had not yet been drawn; it was only four o’clock but already it was getting dark. I used to dread the darkening evenings but lately they have become my friends. The doctors are surprised at how strong I am. But you have to be, to walk twelve miles in one night.

I am coming home. There they are, waiting at the door, my husband and my children; my family. I am crying as I step out of the car helped by the chauffeur. Jane Dale appears behind them on the front steps. She looks so young although we are almost of an age. She is wearing a soft green dress that clings to her tiny figure. Lydia is not there, nor Nanny. My mother-in-law departed this life while I was away. Arthur came to see me at the clinic to break the news in person. He did not visit often; it was not judged to be in my best interests, he said. But he did come to tell me about Lydia having passed away and about Nanny having left. When I cried he thought I wept over his mother and, more tenderly than he has spoken to me for a long time, he said that I must not upset myself, that she had had a ‘good innings’. But it was for Nanny I wept. She had been my ally.

My husband kisses me on the cheek, gingerly as if he is afraid I burn. ‘Welcome home, my dear.’

Lillian allows herself to be embraced before running off to play with the new puppy. Georgie refuses to come near me, clinging to Jane Dale’s arm. She is smiling, not at him, not at me, but to herself. I kneel in front of my son and put my arms out but he just fixes me with those eyes I love so well and refuses to leave Jane’s side. I look up and meet her gaze and I see the triumph before she turns away to arrange a more suitable expression. ‘Kiss your mama, Georgie, and say welcome home,’ she tells him but she keeps her hand on his shoulder.

I get to my feet. ‘It’s all right, Georgie. I can have my kiss later.’

‘He thinks I abandoned him on purpose,’ I say to Arthur once we are alone.

‘Of course he doesn’t.’

‘But I didn’t; I always watched over them.’

Arthur gives me a queer look. He really does think I am crazy, but I cannot tell him or my children that I had been there, in the garden after dark, looking up at their windows, catching a glimpse of a fair head or a dark one, or a small hand opening the curtain to look out long after the lights had been turned out. Nor can I tell him that, because of those night vigils and what I saw, the mere presence of Jane Dale makes me feel mad enough to satisfy even Sir Charles. But I don’t want to go back to the clinic. I want my children, and for that I need my husband and my sanity.

‘Georgie was a little difficult for the first few weeks of your absence. It didn’t help that he had a fever for a while. We did not want to worry you but we were concerned. He kept saying that he wanted to go out in the garden to find you. But he got well and he settled. Nanny did not have a good effect on him. But luckily we had our little Jane. No, the boy’s a little cross now, but he’ll forgive you.’

‘You say he settled, but I suspect he simply gave up.’ I take off my hat and run my fingers through my newly shorn looks. ‘Is Viola back?’

‘Viola is still on her travels. Please don’t give me cause for anxiety the moment you return.’ I heed the warning in his voice.

With me from the clinic comes a list of instructions as to what I should and should not do. I should have complete peace and rest. I should have plenty of fresh air. I should not be allowed to exert myself in any way nor must I be exposed to any undue excitement. I should occupy my time with gentle tasks like gardening and flower arranging. If I insisted on picking up the pencil or the brush, my work should be scrutinised daily for any signs of a disturbed mind. Some visitors would be allowed and, if the improvement in my mental state continued, excursions could be considered under supervision, and later on my own. The children should of course see their mother but they should be discouraged from forming too close a bond as the illness could return at any time.

It takes a week before Georgie will come near me. I had waited for him, forcing myself to be patient and to let him take his time. I was sitting in my parlour with Lillian on my knee, reading her a story from her red book of fairy tales. I knew that he listened outside every afternoon and the previous day he had come as far as the doorway. Then my patience was rewarded. I see him there, walking in, one finger in his mouth, keeping close to the walls as if crossing the room could be dangerous, and then, with a dash, he is at my side, pressing up close. ‘Oh Georgie,’ I tell him, ‘I love you so much.’

I garden and I walk. I play with my darling children, but, as yet, I see them only briefly before breakfast and again at teatime. Arthur assures me that if I continue to make progress I shall see them as much as I could possibly want. ‘You will be begging Jane to take them off your hands, you’ll see,’ he smiles. I look at him and I find it impossible to equate this affectionate if slightly distant man with my enemy of only months before. I thought the wounds inside me would never heal but I am beginning to think I might have been wrong.

Georgie sneaks into my room, making me laugh with his furtive little glances over the shoulder and his tiptoe walk. But I stop laughing when I hear that Jane has said he must not come to me without checking with her first or I might get ill and have to go away again. ‘You don’t want to make your mama ill, do you Georgie?’ He is puzzled; that’s how he puts it himself: puzzled. How could he make me ill just by being there? Especially when I am always so pleased to see him.

I hug him close and tell him that of course I shall not get ill from seeing my own lovely children. But when Jane comes looking for him I cannot contain my anger. I tell her that she is to stop feeding my children such nonsense. ‘I will not tolerate your constant undermining of my relationship with my family. In fact, Jane, I believe you are a most destructive force in my life.’ I surprise myself with my frankness, but my voice remains level, polite, conversational. I watch as Jane flees dissolved in noisy tears.

Arthur comes up to my room. I expect him to chide me for upsetting Jane. Instead he sits down beside me and takes my hand. His cheeks are flushed and there are tears in his eyes. ‘I did what I thought was best.’

‘What do you mean? When?’

‘The clinic. Sir Charles is one of the best in his field. You frightened me, Louisa. Your moods. For weeks you’re like a sleepwalker who no one, nothing, can wake. The next you are in the grip of some mania. And then your painting, this fantasy … of you and poor Viola. What was I to do? There were the children to consider.’

‘What do you want me to say?’

My husband kneels before me, burying his face in my lap. I feel his tears through the thin silk of my dress. I watch the sun set behind the large oaks, and with a sigh I raise my hand, pausing in the air before resting it on Arthur’s curly head.

Jane Dale has left. She is working as secretary to Donald Argyll and in her letters she tells us she is very happy in her new position and that she finds London ‘exhilarating’.

For my birthday Arthur gives me a pearl necklace. And there is something else. He looks awkward as he hands me the parcel. ‘She came here to see you before she left. I told her you were to have no visitors. She asked me to give you this. I’m afraid I waited, until now …’ I get to my feet and walk to my room. There I sit down by the window and unwrap my gift. It’s a silver cigarette case. I read the inscription: Forbes Forever.

I return to the drawing room for now but when everyone sleeps I go to my husband’s studio and pick out what I need. I work that night and every night for a fortnight, contenting myself with the electric light. Each morning, in the early hours, I clean the brushes and hide the palette, hoping he will not notice what is missing. Thankfully Arthur is a messy worker. I store the canvas at the back of the gun room.

When finally I’m done and the paint is dry, I wrap my picture and write her name on the parcel, care of her parents at Northbourne Manor. I ask Jenkins our gardener to deliver it. To this day I do not know if it reached her.