Driving home after what had threatened to be rather an onerous day, Joan was now feeling rather more optimistic. The atmosphere at Moo's, after the meeting had concluded, was one of lightheartedness and relief. After accepting a generous doggy bag, Lester had excused himself, citing a drive Truro to tidy up something he would only refer to as a 'private matter'. The ladies that remained had undertaken a lovely stroll around the garden, followed by several more cups of tea and, as they tended to do, a putting of the world to rights, particularly in reference to how they would deal with Terry Glasson should he ever return to Port Wenn. After Joan had dropped Helen back at her farmhouse, she'd headed to the village to pick up some fish for supper, and, gleefully, had secured the last loaf of fresh bread from the bakery. Wrapped in newspaper was a generous slice of Phil Pratt's home cured bacon and, on the back seat, a large cake tin held the second of Moo's magnificent chocolate sponges.

Killing the fattened calf, Joan thought, and she smiled to herself, unable to quite believe how well her nephew had navigated his emotional, teenage charge through a very demanding and difficult day. She felt a little swell of gratitude in her heart, relieved that there were clearly some remnants left of the sensitive, kind, little boy she remembered, despite his dreadful upbringing. Now that Louisa's situation was a little better clarified, and they were hopefully all a little more comfortable with each other's company, she was anticipating a pleasant evening with her guests. Joan found the company of young people invigorating, and was at her happiest, cooking for her loved ones and sharing a meal with them around her large, welcoming kitchen table. It was a shame, she thought, that the car radio had long since given up the ghost because she really felt like bursting into song; a sure sign of her unmitigated relief.

As she careered down her driveway, the springs of the old Land Rover screeching in protest, something up ahead caught her eye. For a moment she could have sworn it was a despondent figure, head in hands, sitting on an upturned crate inside her barn door. Joan was momentarily nonplussed. It looked for all the world like her nephew. She peered through the filthy windscreen but, just as she was close enough to make out who it was for certain, her view was obscured by the tractor.

She pulled to a halt in her usual spot. It was Martin; there was no mistaking that physique but, now, he was standing ramrod straight, chin tilted upwards, staring down his nose into the middle distance; his ruffled hair and slightly twisted tie knot the only indication of any state of perturbation.

"Marty!? What on earth's the matter?" Joan cried, extricating herself from the seatbelt with some difficultly.

Immediately and with some alarm, she noticed his expression resembled that of a condemned man and, before he had a chance to take a breath and respond, she had stopped in front of him and was eyeing him, accusingly.

"Where's Louisa?" She barked at him, and he could hear the accusation in her voice.

Hearing his aunt's implication caused a sudden surge of resentment in him. Why was he always to be the one at fault? His fists clenched at his sides as he tried to retain what was left of his composure.

"Louisa?" He snapped back. "Nothing to do with her! She, umm, she's inside. She's fine!"

He saw his aunt exhale slowly and deeply, and her face contorted into a thin-lipped frown.

"Right." She said, making a big effort to calm herself. "Then you'd better tell me what's going on."

Martin looked at her hopelessly. He'd gone round and round in circles for the last half hour, trying desperately to conceive a way to explain to her the sorry mess he found himself in but, despite forming the words with his lips, no sounds emanated from his throat. It was only when his aunt turned away, impatiently, and began to load him up with groceries from her vehicle that he managed to speak.

"It's Edith." He said wretchedly. "She's here."

Joan paused, and gave him a knowing look. A lover's tiff, she thought with some relief.

"Ah. I see." She said thoughtfully. "Did you know she was coming?"

"No."

"So I assume you didn't invite her."

"Mmm, yes, ummm, I mean no...no, I didn't invite her."

"Right. So where is she now?"

Martin dipped his chin uncomfortably.

"Umm, she's...she wanted to, aaah, shower. Rather a difficult journey..."

"I see. And, knowing there'd be no hot water at this time of day, you ran away and hid in the barn." Joan said, as a statement, rather than a question.

He was silent.

"Really, Marty." She added, shaking her head crossly, and stomping off toward the house, peering over the top of her stack of cake tins so that she could see where she was going.

After a few strides, she sensed he was no longer behind her and, turning around again, she noticed that he hadn't moved at all.

"Whether you want her here or not, she's in my cottage as your guest. So what are you going to do about it, Marty, hmmm?"

He knew that tone. It spoke volumes and brooked no dissent. Gulping with dismay, he knew he had no alternative but to follow her into, what now had become, for him, an iniquitous and terrifying chamber of horrors. For a split second he experienced supreme clarity of thought. There was nothing he could get from Edith that was worth the turmoil he was experiencing. It suddenly seemed obvious that the impassive life he so desired, even required, was only going to be achieved by an independent existence; an uncomplicated path, focussed on his career and unfettered by complicated emotional ties with confusing and demanding people. The only conceivable way forward, he thought resolutely, was to proceed in life, alone. Straightening his tie with his free hand, he accompanied his aunt down the mossy, gravel path and into the house. Edith was right about one thing though: he would need to show a lot of backbone.

Upstairs, Edith had completed her lukewarm shower in the spartan surroundings of the bathroom and had made her way back to Martin's room, feeling only marginally refreshed. Though disappointing and inconvenient as the temperature was, she couldn't help but be reminded of her years at boarding school. No hot water, gloomy corridors, lumpy beds, the smell of damp socks drying on the radiators; yet, despite the lack of home comforts, she'd loved every minute of it. In fact, she'd thrived in the competitive and often cutthroat world of catty, teenage high achievers, rejoicing in the failures of her rivals as they succumbed to eating disorders, daddy issues or an inability to cope with the unrelenting pressure. Clawing her way to the top had been so immensely satisfying that it had become her raison d'etre, and she just could not fathom why being described as ruthless was considered an insult when, to her, it was high praise indeed.

She cursed the absence of electrical sockets in both the bathroom, and in any proximity to the tiny mirror in the bedroom, and was unable to either blow dry her hair effectively or apply fresh makeup to her normal, heavy handed standards. Though the damage to her suitcase was extensive, the contents seemed to have escaped pretty much unscathed. Annoyingly, she had packed carefully for a splendid country house weekend, rather than the drudgery of a draughty, moth-eaten farmhouse. In the end, she decided on her favourite cream silk blouse, brown oxford bag trousers and a sporting check tweed waistcoat. The only other appropriate footwear she'd brought with her were a pair of knee high leather boots so they would have to do, impractical though the high stiletto heels were for rough stone farmhouse floors, gaping floorboards, and tufted carpets. A heavy layer of fiery vermillion-red lipstick, and a double string of pearls, completed her ensemble, and she decided she was presentable enough to make her way down stairs and try and salvage something from this ghastly weekend. If she was going to cement her engagement with Ellingham, she realised she had quite a lot of spadework ahead. Something about his reaction to her arrival made Edith suspect that it would take a bit more than her usual enticements to get her own way. And, it seemed to her, the more aloof and dismissive Ellingham was, the more desirable he became.