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Elizabeth

The dining table is set beautifully. Our finest china is laid out and candles are lit, their dim light concealing the cobwebs. A joint of pork sits in the centre of the tablecloth, with potatoes and homemade apple sauce accompanying it. There will be apple pie for desert.

I sit at the head of the table, Margaret sits beside me. She does not seem herself. Her eyes move shiftily from the apple sauce on the table to the empty seat where my husband should be seated.

It's a shame he is currently fucking the maid out in the orchard.

He is still fucking her when the Williamsons arrive.

She will have to go.

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