But we had successfully completed what seemed to us the most hazardous part of the adventure and must rejoice.

Janine took us to our room. It had blue curtains and the furniture was of light wood. It was a pleasant room and there were two beds in it.

"I am glad you are sharing with me," said the newly humble Lavinia.

Janine said, "You'll be all right now. You've just got to wait until your time comes."

"It's another month ... at least I think so," replied Lavinia.

"You can't be sure," Janine told her. "Aunt Emily will soon find out. She'll get Dr. Ramsay to have a look at you."

Lavinia shivered slightly.

I said soothingly, "It will be all right. I know it will."

Lavinia swallowed and nodded. Now that the difficulties of getting her here had been successfully accomplished she was beginning to brood on the ordeal before her.

A tray of food was sent up to us. Janine brought it and shared the food with us.

When we had eaten, she told Lavinia, "Aunt Emily wants to see you as soon as we've finished. She just wants to discuss a few things."

In due course she took Lavinia off to see Aunt Emily. I was left alone in the room. I went to the window and looked out on a garden. There was a seat there among the shrubs and two people sat on it. One was a very old man. Although seated, he leaned forward on a stick, and I could see that his hand was shaking; every now and then his head gave a little jerk. Beside him was a girl of about Lavinia's age; she was obviously pregnant. They did not speak together; they just sat staring into space. They looked as though they were bewildered.

A shiver ran through me. I had a sudden feeling that the walls were closing round me. From the moment I had entered I had had a premonition of evil ... and that had not been soothed by the breezy presence of Aunt Emily.

In a few weeks, I reminded myself, it will be over. The baby will be with Polly and we shall all go home. Lavinia was away for the best part of an hour and when she came back she looked a little frightened.

I said, "Well?"

"It's going to cost a great deal. I hadn't thought of that."

"But we haven't got the money."

"I don't have to pay it all at once. She'll give me time. I've got to give her some money now ... to start with. It's almost all I've got."

"I didn't think about the money," I said. "Janine didn't say how much it would cost."

"I'll have to find it somehow."

"Perhaps you should tell your mother."

"No!"

"What about your brother?"

"I couldn't tell him I'd got myself into this mess. I shall have to pay for your bed and board, too."

"I could go home."

"Oh, no, no. Promise you won't go."

"Well, if it is going to cost money we haven't got."

"I can pay. She'll give me time. I told her what I'd got and she said she would open an account. I shall have to send her something every month. Oh, Drusilla, why did I ever get myself into this?"

"Ask yourself. You knew how it was with Jos."

"Oh, Jos!" She smiled faintly. "He was only a stable boy, but ..."

"Not quite so dangerous as a bogus French aristocrat."

"I don't know how I could have been so taken in."

"I do," I said. "You are bemused by flattery. After this, you'll have to be more sensible."

"I know. Oh, Drusilla, you are my best friend."

"You didn't seem to think so before this happened."

"I always did. But it is things like this which test friendship."

"Well, you only have to wait now for the baby and then we'll leave. You'll have to pay Polly something, too. You can't just have children and send them off for someone else to keep."

"Polly was always so fond of you."

"But she wasn't so fond of you. You were always rather arrogant with her."

"I didn't know."

"Well, she didn't like you."

"She's only helping because you asked her. Oh, Drusilla, what would I do without you?"

"Or Janine," I reminded her.

"I know. You have both been ... wonderful."

"Don't get emotional. Remember the baby."

She smiled at me gratefully.

Those few weeks I spent at Aunt Emily's clinic were the strangest I had ever known up to that time.

I was not sure whether I was aware of the sinister atmosphere at that time or whether I built it up afterwards.

There were twelve patients staying there and there was nothing ordinary about any of them. There were four other young women expecting babies. They were always called by their Christian names, which in itself was significant. They were under a cloud and their identity was a secret known only to themselves. But I learned a little about them during our stay at The Firs.

I remember Agatha, a bold beauty, mistress of a wealthy merchant. Much to her chagrin, she had conceived his child. She had a rather curious cockney voice and a loud laugh. She was the only one who was not particularly reticent about her life. She told me she had had numerous lovers, but the father of the child was the best; he was oldish and grateful for her favours and in exchange for them was ready to lavish his wealth upon her. "Suits me, suits him," she said, giving me a wink. And in her presence it seemed to me that normality returned; and because I wanted to rid myself of that feeling of unreality I used to meet her in the gardens and we would sit on a seat while she did most of the talking. She knew I was merely accompanying Lavinia, who had been the victim of a little miscalculation, as she said with another of her winks.

"Bound to have happened to her sooner or later," she said. "She'll have to watch out and get the wedding ring soon. These little bastards can be most inconvenient."

She had successfully summed up Lavinia's character.

Another of the pregnant ladies was Emmeline, sweet-faced and gentle, no longer very young—about thirty, I supposed. I discovered a little about her, too. She was nurse to a querulous invalid lady, and she had fallen in love with the lady's husband and he with her. She had been genteelly brought up and I could see that she regarded her present position as a sin. Her lover came to see her. I was rather touched. It was clear to me that there was a genuine affection between them. They used to sit in the garden holding hands; he was very tender towards her.

I fervently hoped that the querulous wife would die and they would be able to marry and live in respectable happiness ever after.

There was one young girl who was expecting a baby. She had been raped and used to cry out at night; she was terrified at the sight of men. Her name was Jenny and she was only twelve years old.

Then there was Miriam. I think in time I grew to know Miriam better than any of the others. There was something intense about her. She was reticent and did not want to know anyone. She was locked in with her own tragedy.

I found the days long and strange. Lavinia rested a good deal. Janine had certain duties which Aunt Emily expected her to perform; but I was there more as an onlooker. I could not help feeling that I was in some way in a world of shades, among people who would one day escape from it and resume their normal personalities. At the moment they were unreal ... lost souls in a kind of Hades, fearing Hell and hoping for a sight of Heaven.

Miriam used to sit in the garden quite often, alone and brooding. At first she did not encourage me to sit with her, but it might have been that she sensed my sympathy and the temptation to talk to someone was too strong to resist.

Gradually I learned her story. She was passionately in love with her husband. He was a sailor. They had longed for a child and that blessing had been denied them. It was a sadness, but not a great one, because they had each other. She loved him deeply; she lived through one separation after another, waiting for the reunion. Her cousin had said she must not stay at home and brood during his absences, but go out a little. She had had no great desire to, but finally she had been persuaded.

She looked at me with tragic eyes. "That is what makes it all so stupid ... so pointless."

Tears coursed down her cheeks. "To think that I have done this to him."

I said, "Don't talk of it if you'd rather not."

She shook her head. "Sometimes I feel better for talking. Sometimes I think I'm dreaming and this is a terrible nightmare. What am I doing in this place? If only I hadn't gone ... if only ..."

"That is what so many people say."

"I couldn't bear him to know. It would kill him. It would be the end of everything we had."

"Wouldn't it be better to tell him? What if he should find out?"

"He never will." She became fierce suddenly. "I'd kill myself rather."

"This baby ..."

"It came about in the most silly way. I didn't know the man. They had given me too much to drink. I wasn't used to it. I told him about Jack—that's my husband—and he said his name was Jack. I don't know what happened. He took me somewhere. I woke up next morning with him beside me. I nearly died. I dressed ... I ran out. I wanted to wash everything out of my mind. I didn't want to remember that night. I wanted to pretend it hadn't happened. And when I found I was pregnant because of it I just wanted to die."

I put my hand over hers. She was trembling. I said, "Why don't you tell him? He would understand. You love him so much and he loves you. Surely he would forgive you."

"I could never face him. You see it was perfect ... and now ..."