Her mother drew closer. ‘You knew at the time, didn’t you?’ she whispered.

Grace did not want to hear any more, yet, as before, she could not turn away.

‘You are evil and wicked,’ continued her mother, her voice rising in anger. ‘I say it is you who should carry the greater shame, for you knew what he did to me and didn’t lift a finger to help.’

The villagers around them fell silent at her mother’s accusation, their expressions a mixture of pity and embarrassment for her mother — and to Grace’s horror, repulsion for her. Grace’s legs grew weak and threatened to buckle as she realised the heavy stigma she now carried.

‘Home! Now!’ ordered her mother, taking charge. ‘Ann, take Grace’s other arm and help her.’

Her mother and sister guided her out of the church grounds and onto the road that would take them back to Kellow Dairy. Grace’s memory of the journey home would always be hazy, like a distant dream of shapes and sounds. She was aware that her mother and sister were on either side of her, as she could hear their hushed, heated voices nearby. Their presence was reassuring as she no longer felt part of the world, as if something inside her had been stripped from her by the woman’s venomous tongue. Her life had been a lie, a strange voice in her head repeated over and over. Her father was not her father and a vile act of violence had created her. She was the spawn of a monster — a festering secret — a walking reminder of an unspeakable act. She had lived in her parents’ house and eaten at their table. How could they bear her presence? She should be sobbing with despair or screaming in anger, but she did not have the presence of mind to do either. She just wanted to die and forget that she had ever been born.

* * *

Grace sat in her bedroom alone, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her auburn hair lay about her shoulders, glinting like copper in the candlelight, as the green eyes of a haunted woman stared back at her. The evening had finally come to a close and all the family secrets were exposed, and left to fester in the setting sun. How do the Kellow family move on from here? How does she live her life knowing that everything she held dear had been based on a lie?

The events of the evening still felt raw. On returning home her mother had sent Ann to fetch her father. Her father. Ann’s father. Not mine, thought Grace, bitterly. Ann, who was normally highly strung and questioned everything, had left obediently. It was as if she knew that this day would one day come. As she watched her leave, realisation dawned on Grace that her younger sister already knew.

‘How long has she known?’

Her mother wrapped her in a blanket. It would do no good as her violent trembling was not from the cold.

‘Edna said something when she was a child,’ replied her mother, tucking her in. Grace recalled the old woman who had once been a frequent visitor to their home until age and infirmity had finally brought her visits to an end. Despite having eccentric ways and a coarse, rambling tongue, she loved caring for them as children and her parents remained very fond of her until the day she died. ‘It was a slip of the tongue. Ramblings of a dying woman, but Ann would not be satisfied until she knew the truth.’

‘But Edna died years ago.’

Her mother knelt beside her and gently curled a stray hair behind Grace’s ear. ‘I’m so sorry, Grace.’

‘Does Ben know too?’ Her brother and sister were closer than she was. She had always put it down to being of a similar age — until now.

Her mother nodded. ‘Ann told him, before she told me.’

Grace’s world was changing before her eyes. Nothing was as it had seemed.

‘Who else knows?’ she asked.

‘Aunt Molly.’ Her mother reached for her hand. Grace flinched away. ‘And, of course, Uncle David. They lived on the farm when your father and I married so they knew I was with child.’

‘Does Father know I’m not his?’

‘Of course he does.’

‘There is no “of course” about it. Anyone else?’

‘No one else.’

‘Everyone who matters knew . . . except me.’

Her mother reached for her hands and held them firmly in hers. ‘They kept the secret because they loved you and still do. Miss Petherbridge is a spiteful woman to spread our secrets. She hated me from the first moment we met. Vindictive . . . uncaring . . . unfeeling. Everything your father is not. He offered his home and his love to the both of us and I would have been a fool to refuse.’

‘I don’t know what to call him.’

Her mother’s hands tightened on hers. ‘You call him Father. He earned the right the moment he married me and took you on as his own. Has he ever treated you differently from your brother and sisters?’

Grace looked away, eyes smarting with unshed tears. Her mother shook her hands to draw her back to her.

‘Look at me, Grace! You know that he’s shown you the same love as he has to Mary, Ann and Ben. Sometimes he’s shown you more. No father could care for his daughter more than Daniel has done for you. Without him, I would be nothing. Without him, we would have nothing.’

‘Everyone knows,’ Grace sobbed. ‘How can I hold my head up, knowing where I’ve come from? People will no longer see me. They will see the result of a rape.’

‘You will have to hold your head up high, as I must do.’

‘But I’m not as strong as you. You were a victim. You’ll have their respect for surviving it. What have I done to prove my worth?’ The more she thought about it the more questions it raised. ‘What will happen when I have a child? What if my son takes on his grandfather’s traits? What if he grows up to be a rapist too?’

‘You’re thinking too deeply,’ muttered her mother, moving away to stoke the fire.

‘Am I?’ Grace stood and followed her, shedding the blanket as she did so. ‘I have been lied to my whole life. My sisters and brother are only my half-siblings. Have they looked at me all these years with this on their mind? How many times have they thought, “What right does she have?” Have you all been watching me grow, wondering if I’ll resemble the man who raped you? Is Father reminded of him every time he looks at me? Are you?’

Her mother turned abruptly to face her. ‘We see you, not him!’

‘Were you raped at Bosvenna Manor? Is that why you insisted I do not visit it?’

Her mother nodded.

‘Who did it?’

Her mother told her. ‘It is in the past. He cannot harm us any more.’

‘Do I remind you of him?’

She shook her head.

‘Please don’t lie to me,’ begged Grace. ‘Did he have red hair?’

‘No. His hair was fair, but red ran in his family.’

‘Am I like him?’

‘No.’ Her mother attempted to pass her, but Grace stepped in front of her.

‘I am. I must be.’

Her mother’s shoulders sagged. ‘He was . . . impulsive and restless at times, but that is all. You are kind and caring, he was thoughtless and selfish.’

‘I can be thoughtless and selfish.’

Her mother stroked her arm. ‘Don’t do this, Grace. Don’t look for traits you don’t have. Don’t question yourself. You are you. He was another person.’

‘Was?’