Читать книгу Torn - Karen Turner - Страница 13

January crept slowly by. Heavy snowfalls transformed the park into a glittering white landscape and made it impossible to venture outdoors. Master Baxter was spending the festive season at Kendall with his family and had not yet returned, and so, free from lessons, I spent much of my time reading those books that were more to my liking than my tutor’s. I wept over Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers, knew irony in the tragedy of Oedipus the King, and marvelled at Donne’s image-laden words.

Poetry was all the rage at court and I felt quite the modern woman one snowy afternoon with a companionable fire, Jemima at my feet, and lost in Shelley’s poetic visions of the moon. I closed my little book, and quoted from memory,

Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless

I thought I was alone until Patrick completed the last lines for me.

Among the stars that have a different birth, And ever changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy?

He was leaning against the door frame but now he came forward. Pleased to see him, I made space beside me.

“Do you understand it?” he asked.

With our recent hostilities still so near the surface, my hackles rose immediately. “Of course,” I snapped. “I’m not a fool, you know.”

“I never suggested you were, Miss Prickle, but generally the empty-heads who profess to enjoy these works, do so because it’s fashionable. They’ve not the slightest idea what our most expressive Master Shelley was on about.”

“Well, I’m not one of those empty-heads,” I said firmly, and rising with much dignity, stalked out, Jemima trotting behind. Congratulating myself on my cleverness, it was only as I shut my bedroom door that I realised how silly I’d been. Patrick had clearly sought a conversation and in trying to act grown up I’d proved myself the opposite.

Master Baxter returned and lessons resumed. Simon and Patrick began preparing for their journey to Oxford and, even though they’d be commencing midway through the term, Simon was as excited as a boiling pot. Patrick, conversely, seemed rather apathetic, and I recalled his bitter words about life being planned for him. Still penitent over my childish behaviour, I resolved to redeem myself before his departure and awaited a likely opportunity – that presented itself sooner than I’d expected.

I was passing Patrick’s door one afternoon when I heard the jaunty sounds of his violin. Now, music had ever been one of my great loves, and I had knocked at his door without a second thought.

The playing within ceased abruptly. “Yes?”

I opened the door. He was seated cross-legged on the rug before a cosy fire, the violin positioned beneath his chin.

“I heard you playing. May I come in?”

As usual his expression gave nothing away but he bade me enter with a jerk of his head. Holding the instrument by its neck, he rested its body on his knee watching as I shut the door.

“It’s beautiful,” I nodded towards it and sat before him on the rug.

“It is a Strad,” he said simply.

“I know.”

“How?”

I looked up sharply but his face showed only interest.

“The signature on it. I saw it at Christmas when you laid it on the settee.”

“Well, there you go …” he said, “and you’d be right for it bears the moniker of Senor Antonio Stradivari himself. But all that means is that the instruments are crafted to his design. Many are misled: the signature does not prove authenticity.”

I must have looked perplexed for he added, adopting a perfect imitation of Master Baxter, “But I heppen to know, young leddy, that this particular specimen is genuine.”

“Oh? How so?” I rejoined.

“Well, young leddy, since Gerrard Washburn’s father, the then Earl of Thorncliffe, personally brought it back from Stradivari’s shop in Cremona – he toured Italy and France in his youth, you see. But without the benefit of such information,” he leaned forward, dropping the charade, his voice low,” you need only touch and hear it to know its pedigree. Here …” he passed the instrument and I held it with respect.

“Feel the wood … its texture … it’s like silk. And this …” he plucked a string. “Feel it? It’s alive.”

I did feel it. Almost afraid, I reverently returned the instrument to him as he continued. “But to play it, to hear its voice, is to truly demonstrate one’s respect – one’s passion,” he whispered.

“Well then,” I addressed the violin, “Sing for me, Senor Stradivari.”

Pat made much of cracking his knuckles and flexing his fingers, took up his bow and positioning the instrument below his chin, began to play.

With eyes closed and face set dreamily, he played a haunting, mournful tune I didn’t recognise but which prompted me also to close my eyes and lose myself in the glorious chords.

For several minutes I listened, spellbound, as the notes lulled and swayed me, swelling, filling the room. I breathed them in, as they lifted me on a crest of sound and held me suspended on resonant threads, building dynamically to a violent crescendo that burst through to the other side, retreating in a final, plaintive minor chord.

My throat constricted with the beauty of it.

Motionless for a long moment, I sat with eyes closed, breathing as one in a trance. When finally I opened my eyes, I met his green gaze. “That is how you know a genuine Stradivarius,” he said huskily, letting the instrument rest on his thigh.

His eyes, smoky and deep, continued to hold mine with an intensity of emotion that tightened my chest. The urge to touch him was a physical thing yet I remained motionless, afraid to break the spell.

Suddenly the door burst open and Maeve, Missy in her arms, and Anne barrelled into the room. “Oh Pat that was marvy,” his sister gushed, oblivious to the weight of feeling between her brother and me.

“We heard from the hall,” Anne added. “May we join in?”

“Play that Congreve – oh what’s the name of it? My favourite one.” Maeve plumped to the rug beside her brother, settling Missy on her lap.

Anne carefully arranged her skirt about her and added, “Yes a Congreve, and we shall sing along.”

A warm wave of well-being washed over me. Patrick’s eyes had continued to hold mine, and now we smiled as one conspirator to another. Without comment, he raised the Strad and launched into his sister’s favourite tune and she began to sing in a thin pure tone. Upon recognition, Anne and I joined in.

False though she be to me and love, I’ll ne’er pursue revenge; For still the charmer I approve, Though I deplore her change.

In hours of bliss we oft have met: They could not always last; And though the present I regret, I’m grateful for the past.

We made our way through many more songs before the afternoon was over and, each time Patrick’s glance met with mine, the thrill of something shared ran through me.

Mother joined us for supper, and large though she was now, she seemed in good spirits.

Retiring to the parlour afterwards, she and Eleanor stitched baby clothes. Eleanor’s habitually disapproving face beneath the flaming red wig did not inhibit the merriment of the evening as a giggling Maeve told us how Tom, the baker’s son, had inadvertently baked his mother’s entire store of apples saved for the winter.

“She wanted to dry them, you see – out in the sun – sun-bake them. He thought she said to bake them.”

Simon and I laughed heartily for we were well acquainted with the unfortunate Tom’s lack of sense. While Mother’s mouth twitched slightly, Eleanor’s expression never changed. “When Mother Croft came home from the market,” Maeve continued, “she found every single one of them shrivelled and brown like those shrunken heads you see in books about natives in the africas … oh, poor Tom.”

“Poor Tom indeed,” Lord Thorncliffe remarked from behind a newspaper. He turned to his son and Simon, “Seems there’s still much trouble on the continent.”

“Oh Gerrard, why ruin a pleasant evening with talk of war.” Mother grumbled.

“Good grief, woman! Our troops have been there since July last year!”

“If it were that important, Isabella Camelleri would have mentioned it in her letter. She reports that things are wonderful in Italy at the moment.”

“Well it is affecting us … damned difficult getting a good brandy these days.” Lord Thorncliffe swirled the rich liquor in his glass. “In any case, it’s strangling Britain’s economy.”

“Isabella Camelleri?” Simon interrupted. “Didn’t she visit some years back?”

Mother nodded absently and failed to notice as Simon jabbed his elbow slyly into Patrick’s ribs. That individual, roused from reading over his father’s shoulder, turned to Simon.

“Isabella Camelleri has two of the most charming daughters a fellow could meet.

“Is that a fact?” Patrick responded, with interest.

Simon began extolling the virtues of the two young ladies, descriptions that were aided in some large measure by imagination, for many years had passed since their last visit.

Lord Thorncliffe watched the boys’ exchange indulgently for a moment before returning to his paper. “It says here – wait-on, I’ve lost the spot, ‘Napoleon himself, led two-hundred thousand men into Spain’, there – Spain. Nowhere near your friend in Italy.” He continued. “ ‘The thirty-thousand British soldiers, led by Sir John Moore, fought their way through Burgos, Sahagun, Benavente and Cacobelos. Finally, after valiantly defending La Coruna, Moore was killed, resulting in an evacuation of the British troops. Napoleon has passed control to Nicholas Soult, and has returned to France.’ ”

“That tyrant must be stopped or Europe will not know a moment’s peace,” Simon stated with conviction.

“And when he’s done with Europe, he’ll march on Britain,” Patrick added. “You know, Sime, they’re always after soldiers – they’ve commissions available.”

I swallowed hard, awaiting Simon’s response, but it was a moment before he spoke, “Yes, but I’ll wager they’ll want doctors too. If I could gain some medical training first, it would go well.”

As one, Maeve and Anne cried, “You can’t go to war!”

“You could be hurt,” Maeve reasoned.

“Or killed,” Anne added dramatically.

Mother spoke without raising her eyes from her needlework, “You each have responsibilities at home – it’s out of the question.”

“They accept junior officers,” Patrick continued.

Mother sighed and put aside her work. “Gerrard, say something!”

“They’re right, they do accept junior officers.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Madam!” Patrick said suddenly, his eyes blazing vividly, “You may bully your son, but you may not bully me. What I choose for my future is no concern of yours.”

Having not heard anyone speak so to Mother; Simon, Anne and I stared in open-mouthed amazement.

With great dignity, she raised her chin and said, “Be assured you have my unconditional blessing to go and get yourself killed. But you’ll not take my son with you. Eleanor, gather my needles and things, I shall retire now.”

Two nights later, I was awakened in the small hours by the sounds of a banging door and the pounding of urgent feet along the hall. Jemima leapt from her basket and I poked my head into the corridor in time to accost a pair of scurrying housemaids carrying hot water and linen. Eleanor, poker-straight and empty-handed led the way.

“Judith!” I whispered hoarsely to one of the maids. “Is it Mother’s time?”

“Yes … oh dear,” she said, flustered and glancing nervously at the frowning Eleanor. “Why do babies always make you feel so unprepared, even though you know they’re coming?”

“Has someone been sent to fetch the midwife?”

“Get a move on,” snapped Eleanor, glaring at me. “This is no place for you – go back to bed.”

“Yes, Albert …” the maid threw over her shoulder as she disappeared down the darkened hall.

“So, to bed I returned, but not to sleep. By the glow of a single candle I awaited news, but it wasn’t until the sun was above the horizon and I’d broken my fast that Lord Thorncliffe, far too excited for a man supposedly giving his name to another’s child, announced that Margaret Maria Washburn had arrived at 8.07 am that morning, 17 February 1809.

With her pretty, little face and fine, blond hair, she bore no small resemblance to Maeve, if slightly pinker – a fact that was noted by all but mentioned by none. Recalling our conversation in the stables four months earlier, my eyes met Pat’s knowingly over the crib.

Meg was an unsettled baby who cried a lot and Mother quickly engaged a wet-nurse. In her early thirties, round and cheerful, Clara was full to the brim with the latest village gossip. She was alone in the world, having lost her own child five months earlier and her husband a year ago in a farming accident. She moved in to the nursery and took up her position in our household with calm efficiency.

When Clara was not busy feeding Meg or taking care of other baby associated tasks, I visited. Unlike Mother, Clara was fond of Jemima and didn’t mind the dog being in the room with us, and before long my afternoon routine included visiting Clara and Meg. Many hours were spent in cheerful conversation over tea and biscuits and, though there were some years between us, I enjoyed her company and we soon developed an unlikely friendship.

But the days remained short and cold, and the snow deep. It piled against our house in sodden mounds and weighed heavily on the naked branches of the trees in the orchard. The Great Oak looked forlorn; its only companions in winter were a family of squirrels. The pines in the park and forest glittered with a million icicles where their needles had frozen, while the other trees sagged like weary old men.

I was feeling stifled. Generally the melt would have started by now but the long winter was continuing to make a desert of our garden, restricting my outdoor excursions to brief strolls along the terraces. From frustration, I suggested Simon accompany me on a walk through the forest. Feeling the strain himself, he agreed and invited Patrick to join us.

The residual traces of resentment over Pat’s friendship with Simon lingered, but their departure to Oxford was imminent so I stoutly contained my annoyance and forced a smile.

The mist swirled and floated between the trees, lending an enchanted feel to the forest as we crunched through the snow. Simon chattered excitedly about the upcoming trip to Oxford, though Patrick remained quiet and kept his thoughts to himself.

They strode out, their long legs carrying them with ease, while I, hampered by my voluminous winter skirts, struggled behind.

As the snow began to fall again, they moved in and out of view between trees and over logs, and when they rounded an enormous oak, Jemima bounded after them and they were lost from sight.

I navigated the giant tree – tugging irritably when my skirt snagged – and their voices grew faint, and then were gone.

I stared about me with irritation. Their tracks should have been visible and easy to follow, but they disappeared round the base of a tree so broad a man on horseback might have hidden behind it. And with the snow falling as it was …

I studied the ground and found only my own tracks. “Blast,” I swore out loud. The grey and white landscape gave nothing away. The skeletal trees, with their limbs protruding from the mist like gnarled fingers, were making me feel slightly jumpy.

“Simon!” My voice fell dull and flat, blanketed by the snow. “Jemima!”

Nothing.

“Damn and blast!” The snow was quickly obliterating any remaining foot-prints and the enshrouding mist didn’t help – white on white. I circled the tree once more, increasingly frustrated.

“Simon!”

I listened hard. Nothing.

They had been heading towards the river. I shot a glance behind me and paused. Was I mistaken or was that a flash of blue from Simon’s coat disappearing behind a tree? They were circling, staying out of my sight. Damn them!

Deciding to catch them at their own game, I feigned confusion and called out again, then continued round another large tree and down a slope and, sneaking a glance over my shoulder, I saw them – Patrick with Jemima in his arms, and Simon, darting from tree to tree. They had doubled-back and were following – good – they thought they’d fooled me.

“Simon! Patrick!”

I was nearing the river. It was full and fast and gave me an idea. Bunching my heavy velvet skirts I increased my pace.

“Simon!”

I skirted a large pine and, relying on the obscuring mists, ducked out of sight. Now I ran as quickly as I could down an embankment toward the river. I arrived on the lip of a four-foot drop into the swiftly-flowing water. A number of fallen logs rested on the bank and one, conveniently, was partly hidden by undergrowth right by the edge. It was this that I ducked behind, flattening myself and tucking my skirt around me so that nothing showed. Scanning my surroundings, my eyes lit on a broken branch – big enough to splash, small enough for me to toss. I pulled it towards me, threw several handfuls of snow to cover my tracks, and then waited.

“Simon! Patrick!”

They were closer, I could hear them. I held my breath …

Suddenly the still air was shattered by the most piercing, the most frightened scream I could wrench from my lungs. I followed it by tossing the log and was rewarded with a satisfying splash as it hit the water.

The sound of their approach halted momentarily, followed by Simon’s alarmed shout, “Alex!” They were running towards the river, making no attempt at stealth now. I pressed myself smaller behind the log in preparation.

“Alex!” they shouted in unison and there was worry in their voices.

Simon arrived first, I could hear his heavy breathing. I was tempted to spy on them but prudently kept my head down.

“She couldn’t have fallen in, surely,” Patrick gasped, arriving seconds later.

“She’s not here,” Simon’s voice had an edge of panic in it. “She must have fallen … I can’t see anything … this blasted fog.”

“We’d see her down there if she’d fallen in,” Patrick reasoned, though there was doubt behind his words.

“Zan can’t swim, she’s probably sank straight down or been carried away.”

“But we’d be able to see her – what are you doing? You can’t go in – you’ll freeze!”

“You don’t expect me to just stand here!”

All the while they were discussing my disappearance, I was gathering two good-sized snowballs. Cautiously now, I peered over the edge of my log. They were standing with their backs to me. Patrick had released Jemima and was watching Simon peel off his coat and gloves and edge closer to the bank.

“Alex!” Simon called again and I ducked behind my log.

“She’s not there, Sime. I’d wager my allowance on it.”

“Well, where is she then?” Simon rounded on him, and I had to act quickly before he plunged into the icy waters.

“Right here!” I leapt from behind my log and released the snowballs, my aim true, striking them each on the back.

As one, they whirled round. The relief on Simon’s face quickly turned to anger. “Zan, that’s not funny, we –”

“You bloody cow!” Patrick raged, his face flushed with anger. He lunged towards me and I shrieked, just managing to side-step him. I lifted my skirt and took off as fast as I could – which wasn’t very fast for I’d only taken a few strides when Patrick caught the back of my coat and I stumbled. Simon fell into us and the three of us tumbled to the ground. Jemima danced about excitedly while I squirmed, flinging myself from side to side, attempting to break free, but Pat grasped my hands and held me firmly in place.

“You like snow?” Simon asked, his eyes glinting. He was laughing now as his anger subsided. “Try this …”

He shoved a handful in my mouth. I spluttered as it melted and gritted between my teeth. Kicking and fighting, the forest rang with my shrieks and Jem’s barking. Simon scooped another handful of snow.

“Hold her steady!” He fumbled with the buttons at the neck of my coat.

“No!” I screeched and increased my thrashing. “Don’t you dare Simon – Ahh!” A cold, wet, handful of snow was thrust unbecomingly down the front of my gown, followed quickly by another, and another.

Its iciness melted rapidly against the warmth of my skin and I could feel the dampness seeping through my clothes.

Finally, Pat released my hands. He threw his head back and laughed with such genuine pleasure that it stirred something within me. I’d not known he was capable of so joyous a sound. It echoed through the mist and infectiously tugged at the corners of my own mouth.

I scrambled to my feet, breathless and wet, and tried to glare down at the pair of them but found myself grinning instead. To cover it, I irritably kicked out and caused a spray of snow to shower Simon, but he gripped a wad of sodden velvet and dragged me to the ground.

At last we lay catching our breaths as the mist parted to reveal grey clouds scudding across the sky.

“All we need now is for it to start raining,” said Simon.

“Would it matter?” I responded. “I’m soaked anyway.”

“You could be wetter,” Pat sniggered menacingly.

“Don’t you dare. If I come down with my death it’ll be your fault.”

Simon jumped to his feet. “Well, I for one am getting very cold now.” He grasped my hand and dragged me up. “C’mon, let’s get back. I think we all need to thaw out.”

The weather took a turn for the better several days before my brothers’ scheduled departure and Simon suggested a ride to Wharferidge. My own horse, Juno, was being treated for a cut to his foreleg that forced Simon and me to ride pillion on Oliver.

The melting snow turned the lane into an icy, brown slush and Equus was cautious, placing her feet carefully on the uneven surface. Oliver, a less gently-bred horse and more familiar with northern winters, clopped along casually and confidently. Though never sleek, he was scruffier than normal in his shaggy, winter coat. I straddled his broad back inelegantly and hugged Simon’s waist against the sway of Oliver’s round rump.

The countryside rolled by; tufts of grass and ancient rocks emerging from the snow. Black-faced sheep congregating around bales of hay watched our progress with mild interest. The lane followed the river, and several ducks gathered on the bank fluffing their feathers in the brisk air.

Simon began to sing Greensleeves and I attempted a light harmony half a step above his tenor. The effect was quite pretty, and Patrick listened in silence with his eyes half-closed.

As an inn appeared ahead, he interrupted our chorus. “Mulled wine, anyone?”

The thought of the wine, warmed and spiced, was instantly attractive and I nodded enthusiastically. I could almost smell the cloves and nutmeg, and suddenly my stomach growled hungrily.

“Splendid idea,” Simon agreed happily as we drew even with the inn. Its damp stone walls glistened in the sun and a plume of wood-scented smoke curled unhurriedly from the chimney. Simon slid lazily from Oliver’s back then assisted me, and a pair of grubby boys ran forward to take the horses.

Patrick gallantly swung open the door. The room was warm with the mingled smells of roasting meat and tobacco smoke. Patrons sat in groups of two or three, talking, eating, drinking and puffing on short-stemmed clay pipes, beneath the indifferent gaze of a serving-wench. Now she glanced up wearily, and I saw with no surprise a new interest cross her face, and enjoyed the rush of pride as her eyes sifted admiringly over Simon’s tall frame, before passing unseeingly over me, to assess Patrick’s casual grace.

I sat on a high-backed wooden bench before a scarred trestle-table and Patrick unceremoniously shoved me further along to take up the space beside me.

“Recognise her, Zan?” Simon nodded toward the bar where the comely young woman was furtively tugging her bodice lower.

I shook my head. “Should I?”

“That’s Molly Starling, Jack’s daughter. Remember they used to sell vegetables at the kitchen door? She was a child then.”

Molly was approaching and, at close range, I recognised the abundant black hair escaping in thick tendrils from her servant’s cap, and the broad nose common among her family. “‘Ullo, Sir Simon,” she said pleasantly, and her gleaming black eyes slid slyly in Pat’s direction. “Wha’ can ah be gettin’ yers?”

Simon ordered three mugs of mulled wine and a plate of bread and cheese, and was rewarded with an inviting smile. I snorted but it went unnoticed as Molly turned to address Patrick. “An’ this’d be M’lord Thorncliffe if ah guess araight. They’s bar-wenches at ’Orse n ’Ounds been a-talkin’ ’bout ahs like emeralds – no mistakin ’em they says.” She nodded approvingly. “They says other things ’bout yer too,” she added mysteriously.

Patrick’s composure was unwavering. Lounging comfortably on the bench beside me, he returned her bold stare. “Do they indeed? How intriguing.”

“Yer calls me if there’s summat yer want,” she went on, and the proposal in her voice was unmistakeable.

Pat regarded her appraisingly, “I just might do that,” he drawled, and his mouth moved into one of his slow smiles. I watched, with growing annoyance, my companions following the swing of the girl’s hips as she sashayed towards the kitchen.

“You two are –” I began but they both laughed.

“Settle down, Zan. Your hackles are showing.”

“But she’s so … so … overt and you’re –”

“Don’t worry Li’l Sis,” said Patrick placatingly. “Harmless sport but I do believe our brother here may be tempted.”

“Give over,” Simon said, with a smirk.

Patrick laughed. “Ah, don’t be so coy. Molly there casts a shadow over the quality of companionship you enjoyed the other evening.”

“In my own defence, perhaps my perceptions were distorted by the bottom of the ale jug.”

“Never a truer word have you spoken – ah, here’s our delightful maid now.”

I was slightly appeased by the sight of the food, for even though the inn was crowded, we had waited only minutes. The laces of Molly’s bodice had mysteriously unravelled to expose large fleshy mounds that threatened to spill free as she leaned further than necessary across the trestle. I heard Patrick’s appreciative intake of air and I glowered at the girl without effect.

Molly took her time arranging the plates and mugs before us, and when finally she straightened, her eyes settled on Pat in blatant invitation. “I’ll be o’er at t’ coun’er M’lord, if yer needs owt.”

Patrick responded pleasantly. “Thank you, Mistress Starling.”

The girl’s face broke into a broad grin and giving a blatant wink, she returned to where a waiting customer was served considerably less cordially.

“I’d say from that little … er … exhibition,” Simon said with amusement, “she has set her cap firmly in your direction, your Lordship.”

Patrick sipped his wine, “So it would appear. Perhaps I’ll enquire as to what time she finishes her work.” He glanced in my direction and offered a mock grimace in response to my glare, “Or perhaps not.”

“You are rude and lewd,” I said.

He shrugged. “And we receive prompt service – no harm. In any case, I’m more discerning than Sime. It’s not my behaviour you should be concerned with.”

“Bah!” Simon said playfully. “She could be just the type our young Thorncliffe here is looking for – marriageable age, child-bearing hips …”

“Ample and willing, more to the point,” I grumbled and sipped my wine. It was deliciously warm and fragrant, and smoothed my frown somewhat.

“Undoubtedly the best attributes,” Patrick agreed. “But you, my dear Li’l Sis, have been mercilessly exposed to the more boorish qualities in your brothers’ characters, for which Simon profusely apologises.”

I gave a bark of laughter. “Simon apologises?”

He leaned back and draped a casual arm across the back of our seat, letting his hand lightly brush my thickly coated shoulder. “I shall apologise for nothing.”

My eyes widened and he grinned wickedly. “Apologies are expressions of regret – a concept that implies a person embraces more than a passing regard for the consequences of their actions. I have no such vice. I shall love where I will and give my heart to no-one. I shall enjoy to the full my essentially selfish life and sleep well at night – sated with good food, excellent wine, and affectionate wenches – like our Molly over there.”

I stared incredulously at him but he merely took a long pull from his mug, his eyes sparkling merrily over the rim. Across the table Simon was watching with a curious look on his face. As I met his gaze, he cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

Something in the mood of our banter had changed. “Surely you’re not so shallow,” I said quietly, inexplicably disturbed, my eyes drifting to where Molly leaned on the bar watching steadily.

“He’s teasing you, Zan,” Simon said, soberly.

Patrick suddenly laughed – a reckless sound – and in brotherly fashion, pulled me against him in a brief hug. “Arguable, but ‘tis no concern of yours Li’l Sis, so drink up and eat your lunch.”

I stood on the porch steps beside Gerrard in the brisk, dawn air. Mother, in queenly fashion, had bidden Simon farewell the previous evening from her bed. Patrick had neither visited nor been expected to.

Maeve stood with her forehead pressed into her brother’s chest. “Come now silly, you’re wetting the front of my coat. It’s not forever.”

“But it’s so far away,” she sniffed.

He gently unwound her tentacles from his waist and she ran to her father who put an arm about her slim shoulders.

I clenched my jaw as a myriad of emotions worked within me. If only I could go with them, be educated, and live the experience of that wonderful university town. For the first time in my life I was aware of my deficit of choice, and I envied them their freedom, their male birthright.

More than this, rising up and threatening to overwhelm me was grief, for Simon was going away, and the thought distressed me more than I’d anticipated.

He held me tightly against his scratchy, woollen coat, and I knew that despite his excitement, he also was moved. I stood on tiptoes and whispered, “We’ve not been parted before.”

He nodded solemnly, “I know,” then took my face between his hands and kissed my forehead. “And it might be a while before I’m back – more than a year I should think. Pat wants to spend next Christmas at Devon.”

I drew a long shaky breath. Anne was weeping noisily behind us and he turned to her now.

“S … Simon, you will write w … won’t you?” she sobbed.

“Of course I won’t write! I’ll be far too busy cavorting and drinking – oh, and studying, of course.” He hugged her quickly, and held his arm out to Maeve. “Come, Naughty Puss, and kiss me goodbye.”

A flash of movement caught my eye. Patrick had swung into Equus’ saddle and I hadn’t said my farewell. I knew a stab of regret that I’d wasted so many weeks nurturing foolish resentment, rather than exploring the potential of his friendship.

He was smiling at me – that engaging smile I’d seen more frequently in recent times – and I drew closer.

“Adieu, Li’l Sis.”

I nodded dumbly, confused and unhappy. It seemed so inadequate and I wanted something more, something undefined and unfamiliar. I wished he’d embraced me as Simon had, but instead, he held my gaze, his face closed, eyes searching. Suddenly he stripped off one leather glove, kissed his first two fingers and, leaning from his saddle, pressed them firmly to my lips.

It was an impulsive and strangely intimate gesture that left my emotions in disarray.

He too, seemed uncommonly uneasy and he immediately looked away, saved, as Simon on Oliver moved up beside him.

I retreated to where Anne stood with Maeve and her father as our brothers wheeled their horses’ heads toward the gate and with a final jaunty wave, they loosened their reins and were shortly gone from our sight.

The household quickly settled into a new, rather feminine routine. Mother recovered well and was soon out of bed but continued to linger in her rooms for a further week.

Anne, Maeve and I attended our comparatively subdued studies each day, noting with amusement the return of Master Baxter’s supercilious confidence.

Spring had arrived and each day new life was evident in the gardens. Buds burst into glorious bloom and nestlings in the shrubbery were learning to fly. In the forest, young fawns explored their new surroundings on gangly legs.

Jemima and I visited Clara and Meg each afternoon after my lessons. Sometimes Clara and I shared village gossip and stories. Other times we sat quietly, Clara sewing while I attempted to. I thought longingly of my brothers but, as the weeks passed, no letter arrived from Oxford.

Lord Thorncliffe was frequently absent attending to business affairs in Leeds. His irregular visits to Broughton Hall often accompanied a delivery of a new book for me and consequently, I was introduced to a range of exciting writers like Walter Raleigh and Lady Anne Lindsay. The story of Auld Robin Gray haunted me once I’d deciphered Lady Lindsay’s Scots accented writing.

Meanwhile Mother noted my growing friendship with Clara and remarked that it was inappropriate for someone of my station. She suggested I invite my cousin, her sister’s daughter, Charlotte, to stay, or perhaps Julia.

But I enjoyed my afternoons with Clara and my baby sister, and knowing Mother as I did, I knew that concerns that did not pertain to her social activities were of a fleeting nature and would soon be forgotten.

Having no prior experience with babies, I’d initially been wary of Meg, but as the months passed and spring became summer, the baby girl grew and I became comfortable handling her. I decided I would rather enjoy becoming a mother one day.

Mother’s time seemed to be entirely occupied by the social events afforded by her status as a countess. So many invitations, so many women who’d previously considered themselves her equal, now curtsied deferentially before her – and she revelled in it.

She threw herself enthusiastically into society and the lion-head knocker on Broughton Hall’s doors had never worked so hard. Throughout that summer, Mother attended an endless round of garden parties and balls, charity events and dinners. The prestige her presence lent each occasion ensured her diary was constantly full.

The county had a reasonably well-established society and the glittering events attracted others who travelled from nearby Lancashire and Humberside. Some even came from further afield, progressing from one country estate to the next, where they ate, drank and whittled their days away in idle, pointless pursuits.

One day Mother, attracted to a life of wealthy indolence in Leeds and York, disappeared down the drive in a cloud of summered dust. It was to be nearly a year before she’d return.

Gerrard now remained at Broughton Hall, and the household settled into a slumberous mood, and remained so as I, with the approving nod of my stepfather, joined our tenant farmers in the annual autumnal haymaking that heralded the approaching winter.