False Enchantment

FALSE ENCHANTMENT Nothing was ever the same after Perdita entered Abby’s life. She was dressed in rags, but no one noti...

Author: Helen Magee

10 downloads 766 Views 742KB Size Report

This content was uploaded by our users and we assume good faith they have the permission to share this book. If you own the copyright to this book and it is wrongfully on our website, we offer a simple DMCA procedure to remove your content from our site. Start by pressing the button below!

Report copyright / DMCA form

DOWNLOAD PDF

FALSE ENCHANTMENT Nothing was ever the same after Perdita entered Abby’s life. She was dressed in rags, but no one noticed that, only the extraordinary beauty of the exhausted child which grew even more haunting as the years passed. So too did the air of danger that clung to her, and Abby was plunged into a web of fear as Edmund, whom she had always loved, was caught up in Perdita’s spell.

HELEN MAGEE

Ê

FALSE ENCHANTMENT

Complete and Unabridged

PIP POLLINGER IN PRINT Pollinger Limited 9 Staple Inn Holborn LONDON WC1V 7QH www.pollingerltd.com First published in Great Britain under the name of Elinor Dean First published in 2001 by Robert Hale This large print edition published by Pollinger in Print 2007 Copyright © 1984 by Elinor Dean All rights reserved The moral right of the author has been asserted A CIP catalogue record is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-905665-35-8 No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical or otherwise, without prior written permission from Pollinger Limited

For Margaret and Hugh with love

1 Abby There was the faintest scent of roses as I opened the door and stood for a moment on the threshold. Then, closing it quietly behind me, I stepped into the room. I looked around at the pretty pink damask covered chairs, at the half tester bed canopied and counterpaned in the same material and finally at the two long windows on the far side of the room, curtained in heavy rose velvet. One of them was open slightly and I moved towards it, drawn by the faint sough of the sea in the distance. I stood for a moment looking out on the moors and the gleam of water beyond. I felt stifled, closed in. My veil was heavy and suffocating so I took it off and laid it and the hat on a little escritoire in front of the window. It looked sombre and out of place on the pretty little desk and the black folds of the veil stirred menacingly in the draught from the window. 1

I pushed it aside, impatient with myself for entertaining such fancies and as I did so a thick packet of papers fell to the floor. I bent to pick it up. It was sealed and on it, in large sprawling handwriting, was written ‘Abby’. I sat down slowly at the desk. My legs no longer seemed able to support me and I could feel the blood beat in my temples for I had recognised that writing. It was Perdita’s, and I felt suddenly afraid. It is strange how one person can change the whole course of another’s life. That is what Perdita did when she came to Hadley Grange. Perdita – she was a creature from another world, a nymph, a changeling and from the moment she appeared she fascinated all who came in contact with her, and I, so different from this exotic ﬂower, was a willing admirer. My childhood, before she came, seems almost like a dream now, a beautiful memory, something that happened to someone else. It was as if my life had been destroyed and remade after she came. Nothing was ever the same again. When I think of that childhood it is like looking into an old and dim looking glass where the world was a calm and predictable place and I had not learned to be afraid. I was born Abigail Augusta Hammond, a grand name for a sickly child who came near to dying, as did my mother, who 2

after a long and painful labour gave up the fight and died whilst I was being drawn from her womb. So you might say that I was born an orphan for my father had died in a shipwreck some months before my birth and it was his death, so Aunt Josephine always said, that broke my mother’s spirit and took away her will to live. Aunt Josephine was not my real aunt. My mother had been the daughter of a parson and when he died she, having no other relatives, was faced with a choice: to marry the curate and be assured of a roof over her head for life or to find employment and make her own future. ‘I wish you had known your mother, my dear,’ Aunt Josephine had said as she told me the story, ‘such a spirited girl and so pretty. There was no question of her accepting the curate although I understand he was more than willing and was by all accounts quite a personable young man.’ And so it was that, on the recommendation of some mutual friends she came to the mistress of Hadley Grange whom I now called Aunt Josephine, as lady’s maid and companion. ‘A delightful creature, like a breath of spring air,’ said Aunt Josephine, dabbing at her eyes with an inadequate scrap of lace, ‘and when your father came to see Uncle 3

Bart about business, well it was love at ﬁrst sight for both of them. So romantic, really it was quite affecting,’ and she dabbed once again. There they were then, those two young people, so much in love and set for a glittering future for the young Augustus Hammond had plans and ambition, but tragedy struck and he went down with the ship and the cargo that was to make his fortune and within a few months I was born and my pretty mother had joined her young husband. ‘She always said that if she had a girl she would be called Abigail, for that is the old name for a lady’s maid and she would never have met your father if she had not come to me as lady’s maid,’ said Aunt Josephine, ‘and of course Augusta after your dear father.’ My father’s people were glad enough to leave me with Aunt Josephine and Uncle Bart. Had I been a boy they might have had more interest in me but I was a girl and they had tied up much of their fortune in the enterprise that ended in my father’s death and had lost most of it. They were not particularly wealthy and I think I would have proved a sad reminder to them of the losses they had incurred. And so I remained at Hadley Grange where my mother had been awaiting the return of Augustus 4

Hammond and the fortune he was going to make and as the years passed no-one could have been kinder than Aunt Josephine and Uncle Bart and of course Edmund. Edmund was their only child, the apple of their eye for they had quite given up hope of a child and when he was born, a son, they were overwhelmed. If anyone should have been a spoilt darling it was Edmund but it was just not possible to spoil him. We grew up together, he and I, and he was like a brother to me, always there to protect me when Sinclair Rothwell called me an orphan or worse in that mocking way he had even when a child, and they would ﬁght even though Sinclair was twice the size of Edmund and, oddly enough, Edmund would sometimes win for he was lighter and quicker than Sinclair and did not lose his temper so easily. I have seen Edmund come upon a group of boys tormenting a cat and rush pell mell into their midst, arms ﬂailing for he could not bear to see anything weak or helpless being picked on whether it was me or a stray cat. These were the only times I ever saw Edmund really angry and Sinclair would wade into the ﬁght after him grumbling and I would hop from foot to foot until they emerged bloodied but triumphant with the cat which would more often than not spit at them and scratch 5

them for their pains. And so we grew up, Edmund, Sinclair and me, squabbling and laughing together in a magical world where I would trot at the boys’ heels with Sinclair muttering about stupid girls and Edmund, my champion, defending me. Oh, how I hero worshipped him. Sinclair and I on the other hand were forever arguing. I once accused him of being jealous because I always agreed with Edmund and he stumped off in a rage. We didn’t see him for two days which was wonderful for me because I had Edmund all to myself. Mostly, however, we were together. Sinclair’s people owned the adjoining estate which was in fact much bigger than the Grange’s and when we were a little older he would ride over every day and we would go off on our ponies along the cliff tops. There was an old ruined church up on the moor and we used to visit it sometimes, playing kings and queens amongst its crumbling walls. The graveyard was still in use and we would play hide and seek amongst the headstones. Sinclair said it gave him the creeps and I must admit I did not care overmuch for playing amongst the graves but Edmund liked the place so I said I did too and Sinclair was overruled. We would ride our ponies as close to the cliff edge as we dared and lie down ﬂat 6

on our fronts to peer over the edge at the foaming sea below. There was one place in particular where the sea came rushing into a natural funnel in the cliff face with a curious sucking noise. On stormy days it would seethe and boil and Sinclair told us in blood curdling tones that it was called the ‘Devil’s Cauldron’. I tried to take no notice of him for he was always trying to scare me but I crept back from the edge just the same. ‘You’re a terrible liar, Sinclair Rothwell’, I said. ‘Oh, no I’m not, and it’s true. The bones of the damned are thrown up from Hell and boiled for soup in the cauldron,’ he intoned in a sepulchral voice and began to creep towards me making horrible gurgling noises. ‘Stop it at once,’ I said severely, ‘you’re just a baby if you believe that nonsense.’ ‘Then why did you scurry away like that?’ ‘I did not scurry. I was only . . .’ ‘Oh, be quiet you two,’ said Edmund, ‘we’ve only got another week and then we’ll be going off to school.’ Sinclair and I fell silent. All summer it had been at the back of our minds. I was to continue my morning lessons with old Reverend Hargreaves at the Vicarage but it was time for the boys to go away to school. Many boys were sent away earlier than 7

they were, for Edmund was now twelve and Sinclair was already thirteen, but Aunt Josephine was in no hurry to send her boy away and Sinclair, who was supposed to have gone the year before, had been disinclined to go which means that he had schemed and plotted his way out of it. This year however he could no longer avoid it and every time school was mentioned a cloud seemed to settle on him. ‘School,’ he groaned, ‘disgusting food and no ponies.’ ‘At least we’ll be together,’ said Edmund. Sinclair brightened visibly, ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and at least we shan’t have to drag a silly girl around with us all the time.’ It was my turn to feel unhappy then and Edmund jumped to his feet and tweaked my hair, ‘Come on, Abby. Race you home.’ And we were up on our ponies and galloping off before Sinclair had time to mount. We had slowed to a canter when there was a rush of galloping hoofbeats behind us and Sinclair careered past us at a sharp angle, cleared a drystone wall and thundered off in the direction of Moreton Hall. 8

‘I hope he makes it safely home,’ said Edmund. ‘Someday he’ll break his neck doing things like that.’ ‘The devil takes care of his own,’ I said sourly. Edmund smiled at me, ‘Come now, Abby. You like him really.’ ‘Huh! I thought we were supposed to be having a race,’ I said, gathering the reins. He was looking at me speculatively. ‘Oh, he’s all right, I suppose,’ I said. He grinned and suddenly we were ﬂying homeward, the turf spurting beneath the ponies’ hooves and the wind whipping our cheeks to crimson. That was the afternoon that Perdita arrived and nothing was ever the same again. I had been sent upstairs immediately we got home to wash and change for tea. ‘My dear, you really must not romp so,’ said Aunt Josephine. ‘After all you will soon be a young lady.’ She did not look over conﬁdent as she made this last remark and I kissed her, ‘I’m only eleven, Aunt Josephine. I won’t be a young lady for years yet but I promise I won’t ‘romp’ so much if you dislike it.’ ‘You’re such a good girl, Abby. Just like your dear mother and really you’re becoming quite pretty.’ 9

I laughed and ran upstairs to my bedroom. Tossing my riding hat on the bed I turned to the mirror, shaking my hair loose as I did so. My hair was easily my best feature being silver gilt in colour and both abundant and naturally curly. As for the rest I was of the opinion that Aunt Josephine was decidedly biased in her opinion. The face that looked back at me was decidedly pudgy, the blue eyes round and solemn. I looked like a serious baby owl. There was a tap on the door and Mary, the new little maid, came in with a can of hot water. ‘Thank you, Mary,’ I said. She bobbed a curtsy and made to leave. ‘Mary,’ I said, ‘how old are you?’ She ﬂushed and looked shy, ‘Thirteen, Miss, if you please.’ ‘Thank you, Mary, that will be all,’ I said, but when she had gone I sat for a moment by the window. Only thirteen, only two years older than I was. Perhaps Aunt Josephine was right after all. I decided that if I was a young lady I should have a maid all to myself and Mary would do nicely. I would ask Aunt Josephine about it at tea, I thought as I dressed. However all thoughts of being a young lady with a maid of my own or of even wanting to be a young lady evaporated as 10

I emerged from my room. I had reached the head of the staircase when I heard the commotion and as I looked down on the hall below it was as if time stood still for a moment and I was looking at a painting or a stage set. There in the centre of the stage stood a girl of about my own age. Even the deplorable clothes she wore could not hide the grace of her ﬁgure. Uncle Bart and Aunt Josephine, closely attended by Bowman the butler, seemed frozen in attitudes of horror but it was not at any of them that the girl was looking and nor was she looking at the crumpled body of the man who lay at her feet, his face deathly pale and his breath a rattle in his throat. She looked not at any of these but at Edmund who was standing below me on the staircase where it curved in a great sweep down into the hall. I could not see his face from where I stood, only the angle of his head as he seemed to bend towards her, but I had a clear view of the girl’s face and on it was what I can only describe as a curious mixture of hunger and adoration, and then all was noise and confusion and the scene below me shivered and broke into a thousand pieces and I too shivered as a cold wind seemed to blow about me. In a moment it was gone and as I ran down the stairs I chided myself for my foolishness 11

and ignored the little voice inside my head that whispered ‘danger’. The man on the ﬂoor was half carried, half dragged into the morning room and propped up on a sofa. He looked ghastly and his breathing was becoming more laboured by the minute. All the while the girl had scarcely moved and had said not a word. She looked scared to death, as well she might, for it would appear that the man was her father. Aunt Josephine bustled out of the morning room, her good natured face full of concern. ‘Bowman, tell Alice and Kate to come to the rose room at once,’ she said as she enfolded the girl in her ample embrace and guided her towards the stairs. I felt a slight sense of shock. No one was ever allowed to use the rose room. It was Elizabeth’s room, or had been until she had run off and married some penniless music hall singer. I had always thought it quite romantic but Aunt Josephine would not speak of it. Elizabeth had been Uncle Bart’s step-sister, much younger than he was and very much the spoilt darling of her older half-brother. Her elopement, said Aunt Josephine, had upset him greatly and her room was kept just as she had left it in case she should ever return. I looked 12

around for Uncle Bart but he had gone, presumably to send Hodges, the groom, for Dr Jarrow. I felt a light touch on my arm and started, ‘Edmund,’ I said, ‘what is going on? Why is that girl being taken to the rose room?’ He looked at me, puzzled, ‘Didn’t you hear their story?’ he said, ‘her name is Perdita. She is Elizabeth’s daughter.’ I fairly squeaked with excitement and dragged him off into the garden bombarding him with questions. He held up his hands in mock surrender. ‘Whoa,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you if you’d only give me half a chance.’ I grinned and linked my arm through his, ‘All right, tell all, but isn’t it romantic,’ I said. ‘Pretty sordid if you ask me,’ said Edmund, ‘they look as if they haven’t eaten for days and that poor little girl. She looked so forlorn.’ ‘Tell,’ I hissed through my teeth, ‘before I simply burst with curiosity.’ ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you know Elizabeth’s story of course.’ ‘How she fell in love with a young man who was engaged to play the piano and sing at her very ﬁrst coming out party, how the family were outraged when they found out 13

he was staying in the neighbourhood in order to meet her clandestinely,’ I sighed. ‘Isn’t that a lovely word, clandestinely.’ I caught his amused look and went on deﬁantly, ‘and how she forsook everything to elope with him leaving only a tear-stained note for Uncle Bart who was quite heart-broken.’ ‘I suppose you could put it that way,’ said Edmund drily, ‘certainly she did run off and was not heard of again, until today that is.’ I looked at him expectantly, ‘Where is she?’, I said. ‘She died some years ago, according to her husband, leaving a little daughter she had called Perdita. They had been quite successful until then, he says, singing romantic duets in the music halls but her death seems to have put an end to any success they had and things have been getting steadily worse since then. He thought if he brought the child here Uncle Bart might help them, for her mother’s sake. You know he’s even put that poor child on the stage. Think of it, a fragile little thing like that living her life in seedy dressing rooms and theatrical digs when she could have had a home here. The man’s a monster.’ His fists were clenched and his eyes fairly sparked fire as he strode on at such a pace I had to run to keep up. 14

Here we go again, I thought, another stray for Edmund to take under his wing. Let’s hope the ‘monster’ could take care of himself for once Edmund got wind of what he considered an injustice woe betide the culprit. But the culprit in this case was very ill. I stopped, ‘Edmund,’ I shouted after him, ‘Edmund.’ He turned and walked towards me, ‘Do you think he’s going to die?’ He at once looked shame-faced, ‘He certainly looked very ill,’ he said, ‘let’s go back and see how he is.’ Dr Jarrow’s carriage was drawn up in the drive as we hurried back into the house but the hall was empty. The morning room door opened quietly and Bowman came out. He looked very solemn. A moment later Uncle Bart emerged from the room. It was a shock to us to see how distressed he looked. I went to him and put my hand in his, ‘How is he, Uncle?’ I said. He shook his head and laid his hand on my hair, ‘He never regained consciousness,’ he said. ‘We must take care of the child, Abby. We must take care of Elizabeth’s child.’ And he shambled off to his study looking suddenly old. I was more upset by this than by anything. This was so unlike the Uncle Bart I knew, the dreamy, forgetful, funny, 15

pleasant Uncle who was so overshadowed by his voluble wife you often overlooked his presence and were startled when he broke into speech, although what he said rarely bore any relation to the conversation of the moment and seldom required an answer. Edmund made as if to follow him but at that moment Aunt Josephine appeared at the head of the staircase, escorted by Bowman. ‘No, Edmund, let him be,’ she said, ‘he has had a shock.’ ‘But, mother . . .’ ‘Do as I say, Edmund.’ His mother’s voice, usually so indulgent with him, was ﬁrm. ‘I shall go to him in a little while, when he has had time to collect himself.’ I envied Edmund then for having parents and such devoted ones at that whilst here was I with none, like Perdita, I thought. ‘How is she, Aunt? Is she ill too?’ ‘No she’s not ill but she is very tired. I left her almost asleep and I do not wish her to be disturbed. She will learn the sad news soon enough. You may bring tea now, Bowman,’ she said, ‘I think that would do us all good.’ And so, practical Aunt Josephine made conversation amongst the tea cups whilst across the hall a man lay dead and above us his daughter slept in ignorance of the fact 16

that she had both lost a father and found a new family. He was buried in the graveyard on the moor which had always been the ﬁnal resting place of the Hadleys and his little daughter, though pale, bore up bravely during the service and the long procession from the new church a mile away. The house did not go into mourning. Aunt Josephine said that since we had not known him in life it would be an empty gesture and that the child should be encouraged to forget her past and think only of the future. Aunt Josephine did not approve of ‘brooding’. I was forbidden to quiz Perdita about her life on the music hall stage which was agony for I was consumed with curiosity about her. She was an extraordinary creature. To me she did not seem like a child at all. She seemed much older than me though she was in fact the younger by some months and always there was about her a faint air of mystery. Sometimes she would look quite haggard as if she had not slept but if I asked her if this was the case she would deny it vehemently. I was fascinated by her, by her dark beauty and her rapid changes of mood and manner. She was eager to hear all I knew of Elizabeth, her mother, but when I asked her questions in return she would become so distressed I would cease immediately. Sometimes, 17

however, she would humour me and sing me music hall ditties and show me odd tricks with playing cards. She could even juggle and promised one day to teach me. She had a locket which had belonged to her mother and inside were miniatures of both her parents. The picture of her father was of a young man, handsome and debonair, and I found it sad to think of his wretched end. There was certainly no trace of that hopeful young man in the poor creature who died so pitifully in the morning room of Hadley Grange. Her mother’s picture was instantly recognizable for there was at the Grange a painting done just before her eighteenth birthday and the pretty young girl who looked so gaily out of the locket was well known to me, for I had often sighed over that portrait as over a heroine of romance. No wonder Perdita did not wish to speak of them. Life at the Grange slipped into its usual pattern or nearly so. Edmund went off to school at the end of that summer and Perdita was crestfallen. As I had guessed, Edmund had taken her under his wing and she clearly adored him. Poor Edmund. With my hero worship and Perdita’s adoration I think he was glad to go off to school. Not so Sinclair who continued to bemoan the need for 18

education. He was enjoying himself at the Grange these days, ‘Come on, Perdita, show me that trick just once more. I’ve almost got it,’ or, ‘If you teach me to juggle, I’ll give you my best treasure.’ ‘You’re too clumsy to learn,’ Perdita would say, ‘and besides if Aunt Josephine found out she’d be angry.’ ‘Oh, I won’t tell her. Come on, Perry, be a sport.’ Then Perdita would flash at him, ‘Don’t call me nicknames, my name is Perdita.’ ‘Well Edmund calls you nicknames. He calls you Rose Red. But then he’s your handsome prince isn’t he.’ And then Perdita would ﬂy at him and Sinclair would hold her off laughing at her which only infuriated her more, ‘I’ll show you,’ she would shout, ‘just wait.’ They were well matched those two. Once Perdita sank her teeth into Sinclair’s hand and he had to go around with a bandage for days. When Aunt Josephine asked how it had happened, he said it had been an angry cat and looked signiﬁcantly at Perdita. Aunt Josephine was too busy bending over the wound to notice but Perdita fairly sparkled with rage. She did however teach him to 19

juggle though I never discovered what he offered her in return. When the boys left for school Aunt Josephine called Perdita and me into the drawing room. Uncle Bart was there too which was unusual. He was more often to be found in his study dozing over some book on rare butterﬂies which he collected with a passion he reserved for no other activity. Aunt Josephine looked rather severe so we stood demurely in the middle of the ﬂoor and waited. ‘I have decided that since we now have the education and upbringing of two girls rather than just one to consider, we would be well advised to ﬁnd you a governess, is that not so, Bart?’ Uncle Bart started violently. Every so often Aunt Josephine seemed to feel the need to involve him in the process of making a decision and it never failed to take him by surprise, ‘Oh, ah, capital, certainly. I’ll see to it at once, my dear,’ and he looked at us sternly, vaguely aware that we were somehow involved in this and taking his cue from Aunt Josephine’s unbending expression. Aunt Josephine sighed and allowed him to relax once more with the book of butterﬂy prints he had been perusing. 20

‘I have noticed recently,’ she continued, ‘that you have been romping more than is quite suitable for young ladies.’ I groaned inwardly. She certainly seemed to have a bee in her bonnet about this romping business. ‘I trust that a governess will not only teach you your lessons rather better than old Reverend Hargreaves who is becoming rather elderly now.’ Elderly, I thought, senile more like. Most of my time was spent sticking little bits of paper on the end of his nose and watching them blow off as he snored whilst I was supposed to be completing the exercise he had set or reading an improving book. Aunt Josephine was still speaking, ‘She will also be able to instruct you in the correct ways of speech and behaviour which are so important to any young lady.’ So that was how Miss Pettigrew came to Hadley Grange. I have often wondered whether this decision of Aunt Josephine’s was a tactful way of handling an awkward situation. Perdita had been brought up in the theatre where manners are looser and vocabulary often a triﬂe colourful. It did not happen often, but I had already witnessed Bowman’s bulging eyes and outraged dignity on overhearing some 21

of Perdita’s more colourful descriptions of Sinclair Rothwell, and it must be admitted that there were occasionally difﬁculties of etiquette which needed to be overcome. I derived a great deal of pleasure from the description of Sinclair however and tea with callers present was always enlivened by the frisson of danger when Perdita was there but I had to admit that this was hardly fair on Perdita. Miss Pettigrew was a sweet creature, young and pretty and from a good but impoverished family. She was a friend to us as well as a governess and with her calm good sense and her own example over the years, eventually turned us into those most valued of creatures, young ladies. Perdita especially owed her an enormous debt but oddly enough seemed to resent her and this grew more pronounced the longer Miss Pettigrew was with us. By the time we were sixteen Perdita was convinced we didn’t need a governess any longer and especially not Miss Pettigrew. ‘She interferes too much,’ she told me once, ‘always poking and prying and asking questions.’ ‘But, Perdita,’ I said, ‘that’s because she is so interested in us and besides she does not poke and pry, she simply wants to show us how to understand ourselves and 22

other people.’ I was quoting Miss Pettigrew here. ‘That’s what she says,’ said Perdita, ‘I know differently.’ She looked at me darkly. ‘I can hear her at night sometimes pacing up and down in her room. I think she spies on us.’ I laughed, I really could not help it, ‘Oh, Perdita, what an imagination you’ve got. Of course you can hear her. So can I and she can probably hear us. After all her room is between ours.’ ‘Exactly,’ said Perdita mysteriously. I was losing patience with her, ‘Oh, don’t be such a goose, Perdita. What do you suspect her of – stealing the family jewels?’ She looked at me out of the corners of those dark green eyes of hers that could sometimes appear almost black. I felt mesmerised by them as usual, ‘Perhaps,’ she said and the spell was broken. ‘You’re just teasing,’ I said. ‘Poor Miss Pettigrew, how would you like to have no money and no family and have to depend on mischievous girls for your livelihood?’ I said and then stopped. Perdita’s face had gone quite pale, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, Perdita. It’s been so long now, I’d almost forgotten you didn’t always have us. Forgive me?’ 23

She smiled suddenly and I felt the force of her charm. ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘if you’ll forget all the nonsense I’ve been talking. I only did it to tease you.’ I shook my head. There were times when I thought I would never understand Perdita, her lightning changes of mood and her passionate likes and dislikes. I left her gazing out of the window towards the stable yard where Hodges had just led out Moonﬂeet, Perdita’s sixteenth birthday present. He was a beautiful beast, as black as midnight with the faintest bluish sheen and as swift as the wind, Perdita said. She had chosen him herself. She seemed to have a natural afﬁnity with horses. She spoke to them and they seemed to understand her, even a highly strung beast like Moonﬂeet who had a lot of Arab blood in him, was gentle at her command. Aunt Josephine had been more than concerned when she saw the animal Perdita had chosen but Perdita was persuasive and even Hodges grudgingly admitted that the ‘young miss’ was a match for the animal. There was no love lost between Hodges and Perdita for all that he admired her skill as a horsewoman, and the last thing I heard as I went down the corridor was Perdita bellowing out of the window, 24

‘Hodges, that is not a carthorse you are leading. Mind his mouth, man.’ For such a slender girl she had an unusually powerful voice, and as I continued out into the yard and along the trellised terrace which bordered it I had to suppress a smile as I heard Hodges thick accent muttering, ‘Aye, and you might mind your mouth and no harm done.’ It was later that same summer that Miss Pettigrew left us, ‘under a cloud’ as they say. I could not understand it and Aunt Josephine refused to discuss the matter with me. I was furious. I stormed into Perdita’s room, ‘Why is Miss Pettigrew leaving? Do you know, Perdita, for if you do I demand you tell me?’ Perdita turned from the window seat where she had been contemplating the moor and the sea beyond, ‘Why should I know any more than you do?’ she said lazily, ‘I rather have the impression that it concerns a subject that is not quite suitable for a young lady’s ears.’ I could have shaken her, ‘What do you mean? How can you say such a thing about Miss Pettigrew and anyway, who on earth . . .’ 25

‘I’m only guessing, just like you, Abby,’ she said, ‘but can you think of any other reason why Aunt Josephine would refuse to even discuss it with us?’ She was right, I couldn’t, but no more could I believe what that implied. I felt thoroughly miserable. ‘Oh, sit down, Abby, do, and stop looking so stricken. She was only a governess.’ ‘You’re hateful, positively hateful,’ I cried, ‘she was our friend.’ ‘Not mine,’ said Perdita, ‘she may have been yours but not mine.’ I looked at her. She was half turned towards the window and the light of the setting sun fell on her glossy black hair turning it to dark ﬁre. ‘You never liked her, did you?’ I said. ‘No.’ She did not turn her head. ‘Perdita, who do you like?’ I said. She turned this time and contemplated me calmly for a moment. ‘Those who like me,’ she said. There was a long moment while we continued to hold our gaze, then she said, ‘Think on the bright side. Aunt Josephine says we need not have another governess. After all we are sixteen now and at last ﬁt to be called ‘young ladies’. When did you last romp, Abby?’ she said and her eyes danced with mischief. I could no more 26

control the bubble of laughter that rose in my throat than could a thrush its song. I am ashamed to say that poor Miss Pettigrew was forgotten as we romped and pillow fought until a scandalised Aunt Josephine arrived to see what the commotion was. We narrowly escaped another governess thanks to Perdita’s powers of persuasion but the scene stays in my mind as the moment I ﬁnally said goodbye to childhood. I remembered Miss Pettigrew in my prayers that night and for many nights afterwards and I often wondered how she fared. Well, I hope; she had been a good friend to me. It was strange to be alone together, the two of us. I don’t think either of us had realised the way in which Miss Pettigrew had formed a bridge between us and it was almost like getting to know each other all over again. I was not so much in awe of Perdita as I had been when we were children although she still managed to get her own way most of the time. Our days were spent in feminine accomplishments like playing on the piano, sketching and painting, and of course riding which we both loved. I could never keep up with Perdita of course. Moonﬂeet was far faster than my Princess and she would gallop off across the moor with never a backward glance. I would 27

always ﬁnd her though stretched out on the turf, her back against a gravestone or simply wandering aimlessly around while Moonﬂeet cropped the grass. It was then that I felt closest to her. Her father was buried here, mine was somewhere at the bottom of the sea that crashed against the rocks not many yards away. She never mentioned her father and neither did I mine. On one such occasion just after her eighteenth birthday I came upon her stretched out on a fallen tombstone, her hands crossed on her breast, her face serene. She opened an eye and regarded me wickedly, ‘What do you think, Abby? Does the pose suit me?’ ‘How gruesome,’ I said, ‘get up at once or you’ll catch cold.’ We sat together, our backs against the warm stone of the crumbling church, ‘They’ll be home soon,’ she said. I did not have to ask who she meant. Edmund and Sinclair had come down from Oxford the last summer and had been travelling in Europe since then. We had hardly seen anything of them since they had gone up to Oxford for they preferred to spend their holidays tramping around the globe with friends rather than stay dully at home. They would almost be strangers to us. We looked at each other and 28

smiled. This was another thing that brought us together. Almost in unison we said, ‘Our coming out ball,’ and we laughed. This was to be our ﬁrst season and the boys would be home. I would soon be seeing Edmund once more. I wondered if he would have changed greatly or if he would ﬁnd me changed. It was a year almost to the day since we had last seen Edmund and Sinclair, a year during which Perdita and I had grown into women and attractive ones at that if the sons of local families were to be believed. We made a striking pair, she so dark and I so fair. Edmund’s old names for us had never been more appropriate. I turned to look at Perdita. Her back was against the wall and her mouth was curved in a smile of sheer contentment, her eyes closed and her face turned up towards the sun. ‘Do you remember what Edmund used to call us,’ I said. For a moment I thought she had not heard for she gave no sign, then she murmured, ‘Snow White and Rose Red, yes I remember.’ ‘And do you remember how we acted out the fairy tale?’ ‘And Sinclair said it was soft and soppy until we told him he could be the bear,’ her eyes were open now and dancing with merriment, ‘do you remember that awful old skin he got from somewhere . . .’ 29

‘Moreton’s attics,’ I said, ‘there are hundreds of attics up there all stuffed with the strangest things.’ ‘Yes, some bloodthirsty ancestor of his had shot it. Ugh, how it smelled.’ ‘Moth-eaten and totally disgusting,’ I said. ‘He was in his element charging around growling and snarling. Just like Sinclair.’ ‘He scared you half to death with it though,’ she said, ‘you really did think it was a bear for a moment. I can remember your expression quite clearly.’ ‘Nonsense,’ I protested, ‘he didn’t fool me for a minute.’ She tilted her head to one side, ‘If you say so,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose Sinclair has changed,’ I said, refusing to argue the point. She rose in one graceful movement and stood with her back towards the sun looking down at me. ‘Sinclair will never change,’ she said, ‘there’s no hope for him.’ I laughed at the mock tone of doom she had used and took the outstretched hand she offered me. ‘He never would be the prince,’ I said, ‘do you remember? When we came to the part when the bear had to change back into a handsome prince he always made Edmund take over.’ Perdita smiled, 30

‘Much more ﬁtting, don’t you think?’ There it was again, that smile contented and yes, satisﬁed, like the cat that got the cream and something more, something almost secretive about it.

* * * There was a sharp, rhythmical banging sound and her smile seemed to linger in the air before me like the Cheshire cat’s in the book by Mr Lewis Carroll. I felt dizzy. I could still feel the warmth of the sun on my face and hear the echoes of my own laughter ringing in my ears but I was no longer up on the moor by the ruined church. I looked around. I was in the rose room. I dragged myself back into the present with difﬁculty. I was still seated at the little escritoire and I started as something soft and black brushed against my hand. It was the black veiling on my hat stirring and moving in the wind that came through the now wide open window. I rose hurriedly and caught the window frame before it could bang once more against the wall. I fastened the catch and watched as the veil subsided and lay still. I turned back towards the window. The light was fading and the wind was gusting up on the moors. The ﬁgure that thundered 31

on galloping hooves up there so near to the cliff edge was only a black shape against the lowering sky. I sighed and drew the heavy warm curtains against the gathering darkness and the moor and Sinclair Rothwell riding out his own particular devil. I felt cold and cramped and in my hand was clutched the packet of papers which bore my name.

32

2 Perdita I sat for some time before opening the packet of papers. So much had happened this last year, since Edmund and Sinclair had come home from Oxford and their travels. I was afraid to open it, but afraid of what? Of the truth? Afraid or not I had to know what was in those papers. I sat once more before the little escritoire and opened the packet. There were two bundles. One was thick and tied with a narrow black ribbon and the other not so thick, just a few sheets really, but sealed with sealing wax. I looked at the red seal with the rose imprinted on it and I traced its outline with my ﬁnger, then I put that bundle away and took up the thick packet. That other was for later. I could not open it yet. I untied the black ribbon and began to read, and as I did so her presence seemed to ﬁll the room so that I was no longer alone. 33

My dear Abby, I feel that I must tell you how the things that have happened to us all this last year came to happen. You will of course realise that it will not be easy for me but neither will it be easy for you to relive those times. I do not know how much you will understand even after you have read what I have to say, you who have been so sheltered from the world, until that is the events of which I must speak. You may burn this now. Perhaps you do not wish to relive that time, to discover the truth, but I do not think you will do that. You have never lacked courage, have you Abby? You will understand that if I am to do this I must do it in my own way, but then that was always the case with me, so you will not ﬁnd it too strange. I have tried to discover when it all really started. I thought it was when Edmund returned from Oxford that last time but I know now that it started long before that. I must go back to the ﬁrst moment I ever saw him, to the day of my arrival at Hadley Grange. How can I make you understand what that meant to me, the comfort, the solidity, the safety of the Grange and Edmund, most of all Edmund. I think, Abby, that I am writing this not so much for you after all as for myself so you will not mind if I write as in a story rather 34

than as in a letter for that is how it seems to me now, I feel remote from those events, as if they had happened a long time ago. Do you feel that, Abby, or are you still caught up in my story? I was eleven years old when I ﬁrst saw Edmund Hadley and decided that I would one day marry him. He was thirteen at the time, a slim, fair youth with a thoughtful expression in his grave grey eyes and he was like nobody I had ever seen before for his eyes when they rested on me were full of pity and gentleness. It almost made me want to cry, a thing I could not remember doing for a long time. I didn’t cry then though I did later, a lot later, and only Edmund could have wrung those tears from me. However the ﬁrst time I saw him I wasn’t crying even though my father had only just managed to get me to Hadley Grange in time to stammer out our story before collapsing. I had been watching Edmund when it happened. He was standing at the curve of the great stair-case looking down on me and the grandeur of the house which had almost taken my breath away was as nothing compared to his look. Then father swayed gently at the knees and his body seemed to crumple very slowly until he lay at my feet on the marble tiles of the great hall. 35

At once all was confusion. Servants were called and despatched immediately to fetch a doctor. All I can recall thinking was that it was a pity the fraying at his cuff showed so badly and then he was carried off and I was enfolded in the ample embrace of the woman I learned later to call Aunt Josephine and hustled upstairs with much fussing and reassurance as to father’s well being. As we passed Edmund he said something in a low voice which I could not hear over the incessant murmurings of Aunt Josephine, but his tone conveyed the message and I was comforted. ‘My poor child,’ Aunt Josephine was saying, ‘you must be quite worn out. Come, my dear,’ and she steered me on up the staircase and around the graceful curve to a wide gallery overlooking the hall. I saw her hesitate and, biting her lip, she cast me a sideways glance before saying almost deﬁantly, ‘Come, child. It is only right.’ I was mystiﬁed as to what she meant but I was not inclined to ask so I allowed myself to be propelled gently but ﬁrmly along the gallery to a door halfway down where she stopped and, with a slight straightening of the shoulders, placed a ﬁrm hand on the knob and opened the door of the prettiest room I had ever seen. It was large and airy and smelled of roses. I stood quite still in the 36

middle of the room as Aunt Josephine went to the bell pull at the side of the ﬁreplace and rang for the maids. The room looked out over the garden at the back of the house and beyond could be seen open country and the glint of sunlight on water. The sea, I thought, and I longed to open one of the two long windows and gulp in great lungfuls of the strong fresh air. The maids had arrived and were busy about their tasks, lighting the ﬁre set ready in the grate and bringing in a hip bath and big brass cans of hot water. I looked around the room in wonder. Never had I dreamt of such a room. The bed was the largest I had ever seen in my life and was hung about with shimmering pink draperies, and the rugs on the polished ﬂoor were thick and soft. I thought I was in heaven. Aunt Josephine turned from her supervision of the maids, ‘Have your bath and get into bed, my dear, and I shall come and tuck you in in a little while. You must try to sleep, for you must be very tired.’ And, giving me a kindly smile, she bustled out of the room. The maids were red cheeked country girls, friendly and sympathetic, but I remained silent and after one or two attempts to include me in their chatter they gave up and their talk was of household things. I 37

was so quiet and docile that although they were engaged in soaping me and scrubbing me clean I think they almost forgot my presence. ‘That Hodges,’ said the one called Kate, ‘he’s a devil all right and thinks too much of himself,’ and she bridled. ‘You be careful, Kate, the master can’t see anything wrong in him,’ said the other girl, ‘And if you tangle with him it’s you as’ll come a cropper, you mark my words.’ Kate, a pretty plump girl of around seventeen, tossed her black curls, ‘Don’t you worry about me, Alice. I can take care of myself.’ ‘Well, you’d not be the ﬁrst who said that and ended up taking care of a baby as well,’ said Alice, then as she saw the expression on Kate’s face and the quick nod she gave in my direction her eyes grew wide in horror and her hand ﬂew to her mouth, ‘It’s you as’ll have to be careful, Alice Gammock, careful of your tongue,’ said Kate with satisfaction, then in an altogether different voice, ‘Come along now, Miss. Out you come,’ and she enveloped me in a huge soft white towel as big as a blanket and drew the warm fragrant folds around me but not before I heard Alice reply tartly, 38

‘Oh, she’s too young to understand anyway and besides she hasn’t said a word nor heard one, I’ll warrant. She’s too upset over her father and who can wonder with him lying dying like as not.’ ‘Alice,’ said Kate in tones of outrage, ‘hold your tongue,’ and the unfortunate Alice was at last silenced. ‘There you are, lovey,’ said Kate as she took a crisp cotton nightdress from where it had been warming by the ﬁre and dropped it over my head, ‘Now you hop into bed and the mistress’ll be up to see you in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,’ and she smiled kindly as she patted the sheets down around me. She was a soft hearted creature so I ventured a timid smile and she looked gratiﬁed, ‘That’s right, lovey. Everything’s going to be all right now,’ and giving the sheets an extra tweak she turned away and began to direct the clearing up operations. Alice did as she was told without a word and in no time they were gone, closing the door very gently behind them. I lay there in my luxurious canopied bed and wondered if what Alice had said was true. Was father dying? Was he in fact dead by now? I shivered in the warm bed. I had to know. The door opened and Aunt Josephine came in but I could read nothing 39

from her expression. She came softly to my side and, bending over me, tucked the sheet that I had disturbed more closely around me, ‘The doctor is with your father now, dear,’ she said. ‘There is nothing for you to worry about. Just sleep.’ I could barely speak. It was a great effort but I whispered, ‘He is not dead then?’ She clucked disapprovingly, ‘Of course he is not dead,’ then she hesitated. ‘He is however very ill. Pneumonia the doctor thinks and in his weakened state . . .’ she left the sentence unﬁnished and smiled at me encouragingly, ‘We must pray for his recovery and not dwell too much on it.’ Her eyes met mine, ‘This was your dear mamma’s room, you know. It has been kept ready for her ever since . . .’ she broke off and patted my hand solicitously, then with a slightly tremulous smile she too was gone and I was alone in a strange bed in a strange house where my father lay ill and possibly dying. All very well for her to say I was not to worry. My mind raced. Was he delirious? Was he alive? The warmth of the room, the softness of the bed and the feel of the crisp clean nightgown against my skin lulled my fears and I must have slept for the next 40

thing I knew I was gasping, the acrid smell of smoke in my nostrils and my throat choking me, the heat of the burning building all around me and panic clutching at my heart, then I found myself sitting bolt upright in that canopied bed, clammy with sweat and shaking with terror and wanting more than anything else the comfort of someone’s arm around me to take away the fear, but that was what I must never allow. That was the ﬁrst time the dream came to me and I dared not sleep. Instead I forced myself into a state of calmness, taking long deep breaths and then I lay there wide awake until they came and told me that father was dead. I slept then for they said I looked ill. ‘Grief for my father’s death,’ Aunt Josephine said. He was buried on the cliff top in the old graveyard. I often used to go there after that. I loved the cliff top and the moor with all its wildness, and the graveyard was peaceful. I would sleep there sometimes when the nightmare had disturbed my rest. I would creep away and curl up in the lee of a tombstone and sleep without fear. And so I grew up at Hadley Grange with Abby who was so kind and Sinclair of whom, I must admit, I was ever so slightly in awe and with Edmund who was my ideal. The dreams became less and less as the years went by, so much so that I became careless 41

and learned from that a lesson I never forgot. I would have been about sixteen at the time and had been out riding hard on my new stallion, Moonﬂeet. I suppose I was what Aunt Josephine would have called over-tired when I went to bed that night. I awoke to ﬁnd myself gasping for breath and trembling with fear, only this time it was different. I relaxed for a moment in the arms that held me before the full implications of the situation struck me. I pulled myself away, ‘There, there, my dear. You have had a nightmare, that is all. Everything is all right now.’ I was so afraid I could not speak as I looked into the kindly face of Miss Pettigrew, our governess. She was stroking my hair gently, her voice a soothing murmur in my ear. My own voice was a strangled whisper as I spoke, ‘What did I say?’ She looked at me, puzzled. I grasped her arm and pulled myself up until my face was only inches from hers, ‘What did I say,’ I repeated, ‘in my dream?’ I must have been hurting her for I could feel my ﬁngers digging into the soft ﬂesh of her arm. She looked at me strangely and her eyes fell. 42

‘Nothing that I could understand,’ she said as she detached my hand from her arm and laid me back down on the pillow. She rose and made to walk away, ‘Try to sleep now, dear, you will feel better in the morning.’ I grasped the hand that was tucking in the coverlet, ‘You must tell me.’ Once again she detached herself and this time walked towards the door. She turned, her hand on the doorknob, ‘You have had this dream before, Perdita.’ Did I imagine it or was her voice quite steady as she said my name. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t know what you mean.’ ‘Only that it is sometimes better to talk about one’s fears. If you should ever need a friend, my dear . . .’ She left the sentence unﬁnished and I heard her return to her room next to mine. I lay there a long time thinking, curiously enough, of Alice and Kate and their gossip some years before. Miss Pettigrew left soon after. I was careful after that not to overtire myself and the nightmares virtually ceased. Indeed by the time Edmund was due to come down from Oxford for good I had almost forgotten I had ever had a nightmare. It had been a year since the last and I rarely thought of them. Only one thought ﬁlled 43

my mind and that was Edmund’s return. The house had been a hive of activity for days. Everything must be perfect for his return, though, as Abby said, it was doubtful whether Edmund would notice the freshly polished ﬂoors and the freshly washed windows. Still, it kept Aunt Josephine happy. Uncle Bart was delighted too of course but such frenzied domestic activity sent him scurrying for his study like a rabbit for its burrow and he only emerged for meals, and that a triﬂe warily. Aunt Josephine had a disconcerting habit of suddenly and for no good reason asking his advice and this of course threw Uncle Bart completely off balance. Catching him as he crept across the hall from study to library, she looked up from the materials she was studying, ‘Oh, Bart, do you think the red plush or the green velvet?’ ‘Humph, ahhhh,’ Uncle Bart looked wildly round and his eye fell on a vase of dahlias, ‘Chrysanthemums look very well, my dear,’ and off he scuttled. Aunt Josephine looked after him despairingly. ‘I think red plush,’ said Abby, coming down the stairs and trying to hide a smile, ‘very festive.’ 44

Aunt Josephine looked relieved, ‘Why thank you, dear,’ she said and went off muttering, ‘so difficult, so trying.’ Abby was carrying a big gardening hat in her hand, ‘Would you like to come and help me cut some flowers for the dinner table?’ ‘No, I don’t think I will,’ I said, ‘I think I’ll go upstairs and read for a while. I’m afraid if I stay down here Aunt Josephine will put me in a vase or polish me.’ Abby laughed, she looked very pretty, ‘Poor Aunt Josephine, she’ll be ﬁne once he arrives.’ I went upstairs to my room and tried to read but I could not concentrate. I had a feeling that something important was about to occur, not just the arrival of Edmund though that was important enough to all of us. It was more than that. It was as if one chapter of my life was ending and another beginning. I felt almost fey and I shook myself. I would have none of that nonsense. If there was one thing I despised it was superstition. Instead I spent the time making sure I would look my best and trying on one gown after another until I lit on the perfect one. It seemed like centuries to me as I counted the minutes until Edmund should arrive and then, when I had almost given up hope, 45

when I had decided that there had been some dreadful accident and he was lying dead in a ditch and I should never see him again, I heard the carriage on the gravel sweep of the drive and ﬂew to the window. This was what I had been waiting for all day. I looked down in time to see it drawing up at the front door and to hear his voice calling to the groom who had come to take the horses’ heads. I did not wait to see him alight but ran to my mirror to check my appearance for the hundredth time that day. Yes, all was as it should be. The deep claret coloured merino was a perfect foil to my radiance. My eyes were larger and more lustrous than usual and my hair, looped up softly behind my ears, shone like silk from the vigorous brushing I had given it that morning. I was not displeased with the picture of demure beauty I presented. I forced myself to walk to the head of the staircase and to stand for a moment in silence, collecting myself. I wanted to run to him at once, to throw my arms around his neck. Instead I took a deep breath and slowly began to descend the curving staircase. He looked up as I stopped halfway down, ‘Why, it’s little Rose Red,’ and as I saw the dawning wonder in his eyes, ‘but how you’ve changed. When I left you were no more than a child and now . . .’ 46

He left the sentence unﬁnished and I felt my heartbeat quicken as I held his gaze and began to descend the rest of the stairs. ‘And now, Edmund,’ I said, as I reached the bottom step and held out my hands to him, ‘what am I now?’ He came swiftly towards me and took both my hands in his. He touched his lips awkwardly to my cheek then stood back. As I looked up at him I thrilled to the look in his eyes. ‘Now,’ he said softly, ‘I think I must begin to call you by your real name. Childish nicknames are hardly ﬁtting for such a beautiful young lady.’ My breath caught in my throat at his words and I would have spoken but there came a cry from the doorway and Edmund whirled round. Abby stood there, the ﬂowers she had been gathering lying in a rainbow heap in the basket she carried with that unconscious grace of hers over one arm. Her grace was framed by a wide-brimmed gardening hat and her pink and white prettiness showed to perfection in the light of the afternoon sun as it streamed through the wide doorway. ‘Edmund,’ she breathed, then she was in his arms, the ﬂowers ﬂying in all directions as he whirled her round and round. 47

‘My dear Abby,’ he said as he set her down amidst the tumbled blooms, ‘you at any rate have not changed a bit, except to get even prettier.’ She blushed prettily then her eyes widened in horror, ‘Good gracious, what will Aunt Josephine say if she sees these ﬂowers. They were for your homecoming dinner tonight and look at them.’ ‘To tell you the truth I don’t much care for ﬂowers, boiled roasted or fried. I prefer beef,’ said Edmund loftily. ‘Idiot,’ said Abby. ‘I promised I’d do the table decorations specially,’ and she bent to pick up the ﬂowers. I helped too and when the hall was once more in its customary immaculate condition, Edmund linked his arms in ours and drew us towards the morning room. ‘I can see that the coming season will indeed be a glittering one and that I shall be hard pressed to keep the young blades of the county at bay once they catch a glimpse of my beautiful cousins,’ said Edmund, stopping and looking at us in turn. ‘Snow White and Rose Red, and I shall be the prince in guise of a bear and Sinclair shall be the convenient brother.’ ‘How is Sinclair,’ said Abby. ‘Still as impossible as ever?’ 48

‘I shall tell him you said that Abby,’ said Edmund. ‘He will be cut to the quick. The trouble with you women is you don’t know how you can wound a fellow.’ He turned to me. ‘One thoughtless word and a man’s life is in ruins about him.’ His eyes held mine for a moment then Abby spoke, ‘You’ve obviously been taking lessons in the dramatic arts from Sinclair,’ she said. ‘Heaven help us, isn’t one enough?’ And so we laughed and chattered as we went in search of Aunt Josephine and Uncle Bart, each of us vying for Edmund’s attention. He seemed totally unaware of the rivalry between Abby and me and was soon entertaining the family with tales of his travels and adventures. Dinner that night was a splendid occasion. Abby and I were in total agreement and Aunt Josephine was so delighted to have her son home again she was no match for us when we insisted on wearing one of our new gowns. ‘Oh, very well,’ she said, ‘since it is such a special evening,’ and her fond gaze rested on Edmund where he sat relating some escapade to his father. Uncle Bart was totally engrossed and Abby assured me she had not heard him say ‘Humph, Eh or What’ since Edmund arrived. Abby and I exchanged a smile as we ran off to change for dinner. 49

When we emerged from our rooms we surveyed each other critically. We had a strange relationship, Abby and I. I do not think we would have chosen to be friends in the normal course of events, but given the particular circumstances of our lives and the fact that we were thrown so much together, we had arrived at a mode of co-existence that was pleasant enough and that passed for friendship to all but the most observant. Our only point of friction was centred on Edmund and since this had been tacitly understood by us both for years, neither of us gave it much thought any more. ‘You were right, it does suit you,’ Abby said. ‘I’m glad you didn’t let Aunt Josephine persuade you out of that colour, not that there was any fear of that,’ she added, and smiled conspiratorially. ‘Thank you, Abby, and you look as pretty as a picture,’ I said, and so she did in her pale blue silk. I was wearing a gown of dull red satin that accentuated the fragility of my ﬁgure and brought out the depths in the black sheen of my hair. Aunt Josephine had thought it rather an unsuitable colour for such a young girl but I had been determined and I have never yet failed to get my own way with her over something I really wanted. As I had said to 50

Abby, ‘If you give way over things that don’t really matter to you you can build up good will for the things you really do want.’ ‘Oh, Perdita,’ Abby said, ‘what a schemer you are. I could never think so far ahead as to waste my time engineering defeats and victories like that.’ But Abby was a placid soul and unlikely to want to go against Aunt Josephine’s wishes in any case. I was surprised as I entered the drawing room to ﬁnd Sinclair Rothwell there. He rose as we approached and bowed over my hand. ‘Good evening, Sinclair,’ I said. ‘I had not expected you to be here tonight.’ ‘No,’ said Abby ungraciously, ‘I should have thought you would have been clasped in the bosom of your family tonight, that is after all what the prodigal son is led to expect.’ He turned to her, and I thought how tall and commanding he had become. ‘Ah, Abby, I see that your customary grace and charm has not totally deserted you,’ he said, taking her hand in his and making an exaggerated bow over it. She turned away petulantly and he turned back to me. His eyes were sparkling with amusement and I was struck by the warmth in them. ‘My family has taken its ‘bosom’ and everything else off to Scotland for the moment 51

and I am condemned to eat my solitary dinner in draughty echoing halls with not a friendly face to cheer me. You would not turn a poor fellow out, would you, Perdita?’ I laughed and drew him towards the ﬁre. ‘Of course I wouldn’t, Sinclair, and neither would Abby, I’m sure.’ We both looked towards Abby as she stood talking to Edmund. Her face was turned up towards his and she was smiling at something he had just said. ‘Ah, dinner,’ said Uncle Bart from his corner by the ﬁre as Bowman made his stately entrance. Sinclair held out his arm to me and I laid my hand on it. Edmund and Abby followed us in to dinner. The talk at the table that night was of the coming season. Abby and I were to be brought out that year but neither of us wanted a London season, much to Uncle Bart’s relief for it would have been torture to his easy going, lazy nature not to mention heavy on his purse. He was so grateful to us, however, that no expense had been spared to ensure that our season in the county would be quite splendid. Aunt Josephine had been rather disappointed not to be able to launch us on London but she accepted it with good grace and was soon reconciled to the prospect of dazzling the county instead. 52

‘I’m so glad you’re home, Edmund dear,’ she said. ‘You will be so useful for escorting the girls around.’ Edmund tried to hide a smile as his mother continued. ‘And, Sinclair, it really is very good of you to offer to act as escort when needed, especially when you have a sister coming out this year. Your Mamma was remarkably tolerant of the idea but then young men never want to squire their own sisters around and, as I told her, I consider myself very fortunate that Edmund has agreed to perform the task for us.’ Edmund choked over his soup and Sinclair’s rather saturnine face split in a wide grin, as he said, ‘It will give me the greatest pleasure to escort two such beautiful and charming ladies around the balls of the county. The only difﬁculty will be in deciding who shall partner whom. What shall we do, throw dice to decide?’ Aunt Josephine had by now engaged Abby in a discussion of the rather complicated seating plan of a dinner she was to hold the next week and did not see the look that Sinclair threw her as he made this remark, but I did and I tucked it away in my mind for future thought. 53

Aunt Josephine turned to Edmund then, ‘Your coming of age ball will be the last of the season, Edmund dear, and I hope the most splendid.’ Abby coughed meaningfully and she went on, ‘The girls have an idea about the ball, but of course it is entirely up to you, dear.’ ‘Oh, Aunt Josephine, he’ll love the idea, won’t you, Edmund,’ cried Abby, leaning forward across the table. Edmund smiled. ‘I’m sure I shall,’ he said, ‘just as soon as I’ve heard what it is.’ ‘Well it was Perdita’s idea really,’ said Abby, ‘so perhaps she ought to tell you.’ And so I told Edmund of my plan to make his coming of age ball a masked ball in the old tradition, with everyone in fancy dress and with masks which would not be removed till midnight. I waited, hardly daring to breathe, as he pretended to consider the proposition, until with a smile he pronounced it a splendid idea. ‘How could I refuse you, Rose Red,’ he said, and I felt my heart turn over. The conversation became general and I had an opportunity to study Edmund and Sinclair. What a contrast they presented, Sinclair broad and tall and dark, with a jaw that was ﬁrm to the point of stubborness, 54

and a mop of unruly dark hair that had a habit of falling over his forehead and shadowing eyes that could be bold or secretive by turn. Abby used to say that he resembled an unkempt bulldog and certainly there was some truth in the description, but he could hardly be called unkempt now and in his beautifully cut evening clothes he was quite over-poweringly handsome, the type I would have thought that few girls could resist if he put his mind to it. Aunt Josephine was still speaking, ‘ . . . what do you say, Bart?’ ‘Capital, my dear, humph, shouldn’t wonder.’ Aunt Josephine looked at him in amazement as he tried to cover the hunted expression on his face with a smile. The effect was ghastly and she obviously concluded the matter was not worth pursuing. As she turned back to Edmund, Uncle Bart let out an audible sigh of relief and sank back into his usual state of good humoured torpor. I turned my attention to a study of Edmund. He had changed little in the time he had been away. He had grown a little broader and there was about him a new air of conﬁdence, but he was still the Edmund I had loved from the ﬁrst moment I saw him, still kind, still gentle, with the touch of humour that prevented him being pompous or stuffy. As 55

I watched him, the candle light ﬂickered around his face, highlighting the sensitivity of mouth and eyes and he seemed to me in that moment like a man from another age. To call him chivalrous would be fanciful but he was, I thought, an honourable man and then there sprang to mind unbidden a description from Chaucer. He was ‘a parfait gentille knighte’. He looked up, aware suddenly of my scrutiny, and I lowered my eyes as they met the honest clarity of his admiration. Yes, he was an honourable man and I wanted him above all else in the world. As we rose from the table to leave the men my eyes caught Sinclair’s and there was an expression in his that I could not read but I thought they looked wary. The following days sped past. We rode and walked and drove into Market Moreton for last minute ﬁttings of the gowns we would wear at our coming out ball. How I revelled in the choosing of fabrics and patterns, in making sure that the sleeve was set in exactly the way I had speciﬁed, in assuring myself that every little detail was perfect. I had never lost the love of dressing up that had been so much a part of my life in the theatre, and the skill that I acquired then in both pattern making and in sewing was with me yet. I had given in to 56

Aunt Josephine over this gown for the usual reason, I wanted complete freedom over the gown I would wear to Edmund’s coming of age ball. So I pouted and protested and sulked a little, but not too much, before accepting Aunt Josephine’s choice of rose pink silk, which looked well enough and conformed to her idea of what was suitable for one’s ﬁrst ball, and as I capitulated I caught Abby’s eye and she whispered, ‘You’ll come to grief one of these days,’ as she stepped out of the pale yellow silk that was her choice. But I merely tossed my head and hugged my success to me. On the morning of our coming out ball we rode out along the cliffs, Edmund, Sinclair, Abby and I, the way we used to do when we were children and the boys were home from school. I loved the freedom of galloping across the open moorland that lay between the house and the sea. The morning was fresh and bright and the tang of the sea was like wine. Moonfleet danced with impatience and I finally gave in and let him have his head. I heard hoofbeats behind me and then Edmund was flying alongside. He was a good horseman and soon we had left Abby and Sinclair far behind. We rode out the wind along the cliff top until even Edmund up-braided me for my 57

recklessness and I reined in my horse and turned to face him, breathless; my face was burning with the salt sea air and I knew my eyes were shining. ‘Are you afraid for me,’ I said, ‘or of me?’ He looked at me intently and I thought he would not speak until he said almost to himself, ‘I wonder if I’ll ever know.’ Then he threw back his head and shouted. ‘All right, if it’s a race you want, let’s go,’ and we galloped together across the top of the world, or so it seemed, until we stopped for the sake of the horses. We dismounted and strolled towards the cliff edge. ‘Do you remember how we used to come here as children,’ I said, ‘and lie down on the top of the cliff to watch the waves crashing against the rocks all those hundreds of feet below? And then your mother found out and made us promise not to come here again because the cliffs were crumbling into the sea.’ ‘Yes,’ said Edmund, laughing, ‘and I spent a whole term trying to work out how long it would be before the Grange eventually fell into the sea. I impressed my mathematics master no end with my thirst for knowledge that term.’ 58

‘I used to come here even after that,’ I said, watching him from beneath lowered lashes. He smiled. ‘That does not surprise me in the least. You always were a wayward creature, Rose Red.’ There it was again, the pet name, Rose Red. ‘I love this place,’ I said. ‘I lie in bed sometimes and listen to the wind and think of the sea pounding on the rocks down there, especially on a stormy night. Do you know why it’s called the ‘Devil’s Cauldron’?’ ‘Well, I remember Sinclair telling some weird and wonderful tale about it but I did’t pay much attention. We were children then and he loved to frighten Abby.’ ‘One of the grooms told me about it,’ I said. ‘The ﬁshermen along the coast say that peculiar things are found here, whitened bones and skeletons, not ordinary drowned bodies at all.’ Edmund laughed. ‘What a gruesome creature you are, Perdita.’ I looked at him stubbornly, ‘Even the sailors are very superstitious about it. They say that the devil takes only his own into his cauldron. Look, you can see how like a cauldron it is if you look down.’ 59

‘Superstitious nonsense,’ said Edmund. ‘It’s avoided simply because of the tides. Ignorance is responsible for most of these tales.’ But he lay down beside me and we peered over the edge of the cliff. It dropped sheer and dizzying to the sea below, and the rocks made a natural funnel that sucked at the waves and drew them boiling and crashing against the cliff face with a force that was quite terrifying. I found it exhilarating but I felt Edmund shiver beside me. ‘What’s the matter?’ I said. ‘Oh, nothing. I just had a funny feeling all of a sudden, as if someone had walked over my grave. Come on, let’s get back to the others.’ And he sprang up and, reaching down, pulled me to my feet. As I got up I stumbled slightly and some loose rock, dislodged by my foot, went skimming over the edge of the cliff, whirling and crashing against the rock as it fell. We did not hear the splash as it fell into the sea. The roar of the waves was too loud. He caught me to him and his voice was not quite steady. ‘Be careful, Rose Red. If you fell into the Devil’s Cauldron there would be no saving you.’ ‘And would you mind so very much?’ I asked softly. The air seemed to still between us and I felt his arms tighten around my waist. He was about to answer when there 60

came the sound of hoofbeats and Abby and Sinclair arrived on the scene. Abby looked ﬂushed and upset. Sinclair was positively expansive, ‘What a pretty picture,’ he said. ‘Quite touching I call it.’ His voice was mocking, and Edmund released me at once. ‘I have just saved my sweet cousin from the devil and shall claim my reward tonight at the ball,’ he said lightly, and helped me to remount. My eyes came level with Abby’s. She did not look as if she had enjoyed the sight of Edmund and me standing there together, his arms around me protectively, no matter what the reason. As we rode home I could still feel those encircling arms and hear his words. If anyone could save me from the devil it would be Edmund. The afternoon was spent in a fever of preparation. The house looked wonderful. The hall had been decorated with ﬂowers and ferns. There were potted plants in the alcoves and trailing vines had been intertwined amongst the stair rails. The ballroom smelt of beeswax and turpentine and hot house ﬂowers, and the supper tables had been laid ready in the dining room, waiting for the dishes of food to be brought in. The chandeliers sparkled and 61

glittered and the red plush chairs looked rich and festive. Maids ran up and down stairs all afternoon with cans of hot water and Aunt Josephine was in a perfect frenzy of excitement. Uncle Bart was nowhere to be seen and it was understood that Edmund had taken himself off to Moreton to greet Sinclair’s family who had returned from Scotland in time for the ball. Abby and I were glad when it was time for Aunt Josephine to go off to her own room to dress for the great occasion and we sighed as peace descended with her departure. ‘Now don’t spend too much time chattering, girls,’ she said as she swept through my bedroom door, her mind already engaged on yet another imagined domestic crisis. ‘I shall be along to see each of you before the ﬁrst guests arrive.’ I do not know till this day whether Aunt Josephine realised that Abby and I spent very little time ‘chattering’ as she called it. True, we exchanged gossip and generally presented a united front to Aunt Josephine when her old fashioned ideas came into conﬂict with ours, but chattering, the carefree conﬁdences of girlhood, had never been our forte. It was surprising then that instead of following Aunt Josephine out of the room, Abby lingered, picking up a book 62

here, an ornament there, as she strolled too casually around the room. ‘You and Edmund had a good ride this morning,’ she said. Here it was then, jealousy, and why not? ‘So did you and Sinclair, I presume.’ ‘Oh, Sinclair’s a buffoon,’ she said shortly. ‘He takes nothing seriously.’ ‘He’s very good looking,’ I said. She brightened, ‘Do you think so? I hadn’t really noticed. I’ll tell him you said so.’ ‘Edmund thought you made a very handsome couple,’ I said, looking at her covertly. Her shoulders sagged a little, she looked utterly dejected. ‘I must go and bathe,’ she said after a moment. She ﬂushed painfully and bit her lip making no attempt to move. ‘Perdita, do you think . . .’ ‘Yes?’ I said, encouragingly. She looked up and caught my eye. ‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you later,’ and she was gone. I was pirouetting in front of the cheval glass, enjoying the feel of the silk against my skin and admiring myself. The ﬂounces of pink silk reminded me of another gown that I had once coveted, a gown worn by another little girl in the last theatre father and I had 63

worked before coming to Hadley Grange. The ‘pink frills’ I had always called them in my mind, and how they had enchanted me. I realised now that they had been made only of cheap taffeta but to me at that time they had been the very height of elegance and luxury. I could almost feel again the envy that I had felt for that child and I laughed softly at the thought of how far I had come since them. There was a tap at the door. ‘Come in,’ I called. ‘Ah, Perdita, you’re ready. Good.’ said Aunt Josephine as she sailed into the room like a ship in full rig, her mauve satin rustling around her. She looked at me critically. ‘I don’t remember the pattern being quite so low cut in front, dear,’ she said. ‘Would you like a little lace ﬁchu to tuck into your bosom. You’re very young to wear such a decolletage.’ I glanced once again in the mirror. The full, puffed sleeves of the gown gave way to a deep vee-shaped neckline which showed my shoulders and the rise of my breasts to perfection, but I thought of the gown I intended to have made for Edmund’s coming of age ball and decided to give way once more. ‘Perhaps you’re right, Aunt,’ I said. ‘I had not realised from the pattern that it would be quite so low.’ 64

I cast my mind back to the scene at the dressmakers. We were just leaving when I gave an exclamation. ‘Oh, Aunt, I’ve left my reticule behind.’ ‘Do hurry, Perdita, we have a luncheon engagement.’ I hurried into the building again and up the dingy little stairs. A shrunken little woman looked up, pins falling from her mouth. ‘Miss Perdita. Did you forget something?’ ‘Yes, my reticule,’ I said, casually picking it up from under the pile of scraps where I had hidden it, ‘and by the way, Miss Simpkins, I have changed my mind about the pattern for the bodice of the rose pink. I should like this pattern instead, and I drew from my reticule the pattern I had myself prepared. The thin little seamstress looked at it and drew in her breath. ‘I don’t know if your Aunt would quite approve, Miss,’ she said hesitantly. I looked at her sitting there, her hair wispy and thinning, her ﬁngers red and scarred with pinpricks and her face wearing its habitually anxious expression, ‘I understand your brother is ill again,’ I said, as I picked up a length of silk and let it fall like a waterfall through my fingers. 65

Miss Simpkins’ brother had consumption and it was well known that she was saving as hard as she could to send him to a clinic. She coloured, the ﬂush staining her thin little cheeks an ugly red. ‘It’s very kind of you to concern yourself, Miss,’ she said. I smiled at her. ‘Oh, I do concern myself,’ I said, ‘I should hate you to lose any of your commissions just at the beginning of the season. Word gets around so quickly.’ Miss Simpkins was no fool. She had lived a life of unmitigated servitude and knew her place. ‘I’m sure that pattern will look very nice indeed,’ she said and lowered her head to her work. ‘I’m so glad you agree, Miss Simpkins. It’s so nice to have the co-operation of an expert.’ I laid a coin on the edge of the work table as I passed and saw her quick little eyes ﬂicker. ‘Just one more thing,’ I said, as I stood at the door. She looked up, alarm in her eyes. ‘I shall be requiring something a little special in the near future, for a fancy dress ball,’ I said. ‘I should so like it to be a complete surprise for my dear Aunt. You do understand, don’t you, Miss Simpkins?’ 66

She licked her dry lips and her voice was low as she said, ‘Yes, Miss, I understand.’ Aunt Josephine was still talking, ‘ . . . Miss Simpkins should have realised that for such a young girl such a thing was quite unsuitable. I wonder if she is completely reliable.’ I rushed to her defence. I needed little Miss Simpkins at least for the moment. ‘I shouldn’t be too hard on her, Aunt. Her brother is dreadfully ill and she’s so worried about him and besides, look, I have a pretty silk rose that I can wear just here which solves the problem.’ Aunt Josephine smiled at me in approval, ‘What a thoughtful child you are, Perdita. I hope, though, that Miss Simpkins does not let her brother’s illness interfere with her work again,’ then her attention was caught by the rose that I had pinned, not too securely, to the bodice of my gown. ‘That looks very pretty now, dear, and it matches the ﬂowers in your hair beautifully.’ I turned to the mirror once more. The circlet of tiny pink rosebuds made my hair seem darker than ever and the rose at my bosom rose and fell in a most satisfying 67

manner. I looked the perfect picture of burgeoning maidenhood. As I emerged from my room in the wake of Aunt Josephine I caught my breath. The scent of ﬂowers was everywhere and the chandeliers sparkled and shone. The hall seemed more like some enchanted garden with its plants and tubs of ﬂowers and I descended the stair-case with a growing feeling of anticipation. Edmund and Abby were in the ballroom already, deep in conversation. I paused in the doorway for a moment to study them. Abby looked lovely in her yellow silk and Edmund was more handsome than ever in his evening clothes. They were chattering and laughing together. Like brother and sister? Like lovers? I could not tell but I had to calm the tide of jealousy that rose in me at the sight of them so at ease in each other’s company. Edmund was never quite so at ease with me. Abby looked up at that moment and Edmund, following her gaze, stood up and came across to me. He studied me, turned me round and then kissed me lightly on both cheeks. ‘Adorable,’ he said, ‘I am quite dazzled by the beauty of my two cousins,’ and he led me to where Abby was sitting. She raised her eyebrows as she noticed the rose. 68

‘I don’t remember that,’ she said. I smiled. ‘A later addition at the request of Aunt Josephine.’ ‘And very pretty too,’ said Edmund, his eyes lingering on the rose. ‘The guests have begun to arrive,’ said Abby a triﬂe shortly, and I smiled to myself. Abby had a lot to learn. I had of course to dance with various of the more determined young men of the county, politeness demanded it, but I hotly resented all the names on my dance card that was tied to my wrist with pink silk ribbon. If I could I should have written ‘Edmund’ against every dance, or perhaps not quite every dance for I admit I derived a certain enjoyment from my dances with Sinclair. He was easily the handsomest man in the room, handsomer even than Edmund, with his powerful physique and arrogant manner. As I whirled around the ﬂoor looking up into his rather saturnine face I thought I detected a certain bitterness around his mouth. ‘And can you read me like a book, Perdita?’ he said. ‘You always looked to me as if you had gipsy blood in you.’ I laughed up at him, ‘You should talk. You look as if you’ve just come ashore from conquering the Spanish Main.’ 69

He laughed, ‘The gipsy and the pirate, a good combination, don’t you think, or do you too prefer the Knight Errant?’ I must have started for his mouth twisted in a sardonic smile, ‘I see that you do,’ he said. ‘Ah well, what is it they say – faint heart never won fair lady?’ But his eyes did not smile as they said it and the dance ended just then. I was puzzled, but I was to dance the next dance with Edmund and I had made sure that it was the supper dance. As we went in to the supper room together I could still feel his arms around me and it was not merely the exertion of the waltz that caused my breathlessness, nor his either I was sure. I ate some supper and drank the fruit cup that was offered me though I wanted neither. I was anxious to be in Edmund’s arms again, once more to waltz around the room with him. I peeped at my dance card and clicked my tongue in annoyance. It was entirely ﬁlled and Edmund had but one more dance to claim. He turned to me. ‘You look ﬂushed. Are you too hot?’ It was the ﬂush of annoyance, but I said, ‘Yes, Edmund. It is rather hot in here. Perhaps a walk along the terrace might cool me.’ 70

‘If you’re sure you won’t catch a chill then.’ ‘Oh, I never catch chills,’ I said, ‘and it’s a beautiful evening.’ It was. The air was soft and warm and the scents of the garden were fresh and cool after the overheated ballroom. We made our way along the terrace towards the conservatory and my arm found its way into his. He clasped my hand with his and we strolled in silence. The hubbub of the house was an indistinct murmur and the moonlight lay like a silver cloak across the garden, slashed by the golden radiance of the light that poured from the open french windows of the ballroom. I was completely content to be walking like this with him. ‘You’re very silent, Perdita,’ he said. ‘It’s too beautiful a night to spoil with words,’ I said, and as he glanced down at me I felt the blood beat more insistently in my veins. His head was bent, his eyes shadowed, but there was a tension about him that I could almost feel. My hand went to my breast and the rose fell as if by accident. I heard his breath indrawn and felt its warmth on my face as his mouth came down on mine and he drove the breath from my body with his kiss. I felt myself yield to a passion I had not dreamed existed in him until suddenly the arms that held me 71

loosened their hold and I almost fell against him. He put his hand to his head as if to clear his mind and his eyes came up to meet mine. For a moment the ﬂame of passion burned in them once more and then I saw realization dawn, and regret for what he had done ﬂooded through him. ‘Perdita,’ he whispered, ‘Little Rose Red, forgive me. Have I hurt you?’ I wanted to shout aloud, to cry out, ‘How could you hurt me by kissing me, by loving me,’ but of course I did not. He was bewildered, shocked even at what he had done but I cut his apologies short, ‘I seem to have lost my rose,’ I said. At once he was on his knees, searching for it, and I longed to caress that bent head. ‘Here it is,’ he said triumphantly, and then, ‘I’m afraid it isn’t quite as pristine as it was.’ Then he ﬂushed as he looked at me for I was sure that he saw the thought in my eyes. Had we been in the conservatory, so near at hand, I too might have been less pristine than hitherto. We returned by mutual consent to the ballroom and as we entered through the french windows Sinclair caught my eye from across the room and made me a mocking, courtly bow. Abby, who was with him, ﬂushed as she saw me pin the rose back in position and I was not displeased. I made 72

my excuses to Edmund who was still looking rather shaken and assured him that I was merely tired and not upset. I do not think he was completely convinced. I had to pass Sinclair and Abby on my way out of the ballroom. ‘Are you feeling unwell, Perdita?’ Abby said, a little distantly I thought. ‘No, I am merely tired. It’s the excitement I think,’ I said. ‘That’s not like you,’ said Sinclair. ‘You usually thrive on excitement, Perdita, or should I say, Rose Red.’ ‘Even I can have too much excitement sometimes, Sinclair,’ I said. His left eyebrow rose until it disappeared beneath the tumble of dark hair, ‘I am speechless,’ he said. ‘Never, Sinclair,’ I said, and moved on. That night I listened for a long time to the sough of the sea in the distance before I ﬁnally fell asleep secure in my knowledge and in my power. I smiled to myself to think that I had been even momentarily jealous of Abby. I had no need, I knew that now. All I needed was time for Edmund to come to terms with the strength of his desire for me, for him to realise that I was no longer ‘little Rose Red’. I smiled again. All I needed was time. 73

3 Abby I laid the papers down. I did not feel able to go on reading just yet. I needed time to think. Had I really known her for so long and known so little about her, this stranger we called Perdita? I thought of poor Miss Pettigrew and of little Miss Simpkins so afraid for her brother, and what of Edmund? So much was becoming clear to me. There was a light tap at the door and Bowman stood there, his kindly face grave and his arm still held at that awkward angle. He would bear the mark of the past weeks for always now, a constant reminder. For the rest of us the scars went deeper and were hidden. ‘About dinner, Miss Abigail,’ he began. ‘I shall have a tray in my room, Bowman. I take it my Aunt has retired.’ ‘Yes, Miss, some time ago. She did not wish to be disturbed again tonight.’ 74

‘I understand,’ I said, and then, ‘and your master, Bowman, how is he?’ He hesitated, his old face creased in a brief spasm, and then the perfect mask of the butler was there again. ‘He is in the library, Miss. I have taken him the whisky decanter.’ I nodded, ‘I am sure that is the best thing, Bowman. You can send my tray up to my own room.’ ‘I shall bring it myself, Miss Abigail,’ he said ﬁrmly. I looked at his arm doubtfully. ‘I can manage very well, Miss,’ he said. ‘Everything adapts in time.’ ‘Let us hope so, Bowman,’ I said, and we both knew it was not his arm to which I was referring. I lingered a moment before closing the door on the rose room for the last time, then I walked slowly along the corridor to my own room. There was a ﬁre burning in the grate and the room looked cosy and welcoming with the ﬁrelight ﬂickering on the blue and gold hangings and rugs. I put the packet of papers safely away in my bureau and when Bowman arrived with my deliciously prepared dinner I was able to thank him with a smile. I ate it in front of the ﬁre and when I had done I sat back in my armchair and turned my mind once more to the events of the past year. 75

I remembered well Edmund’s homecoming and the excitement which followed it. Those were magical days for me, the four of us together just as before, or perhaps not quite as before for one of us had changed. Sinclair had moments of seriousness that I had never noticed before. I came upon him in the garden one day walking up towards the house. He had been spending much of his time at the Grange for his family was away in Scotland and I knew that he had been concerned in the running of the estate whilst they were away. He was walking with his head down, hands in pockets, kicking at the gravel every so often, and so great was his abstraction that he did not notice me. I stood for a moment watching him as he approached and thought how like a small boy he looked with his mop of unruly black hair. The picture was dispelled almost immediately as my shadow fell across his path and he looked up and at once assumed his habitually quizzical expression. He smiled, ‘ ‘Did you not see my lady out in the garden there Shaming the rose and lily for she is twice as fair?’ ’ I laughed, 76

‘Travel has changed you, Sinclair. You’re in danger of becoming a gentleman. Surely poetry was never in your line?’ His left eyebrow disappeared beneath that disarming lock of hair and his smile was lazily conﬁdent. ‘I suppose I have acquired a certain polish,’ he said airily, ‘or would you still compare me to that unkempt bulldog of your imagination?’ I felt myself ﬂushing. It was exactly the thought that had been in my mind only a moment ago. ‘Really, Sinclair, we were children then but we are grown up now and ought to behave accordingly.’ He advanced on me. He really was extremely handsome and self-possessed. ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ he said wickedly, ‘but I don’t quite see you acceding to my idea of grown up behaviour.’ There was no mistaking his meaning as his glance ﬂitted casually over me and came to rest once more on my ﬂushed face. ‘Sinclair Rothwell,’ I began, but he was laughing at me. It was no use being angry with him. ‘You really are outrageous, you know. I take it all back, you haven’t changed a bit.’ ‘Then, little Abby, you’re perfectly safe with me, so come for a walk and tell me 77

what’s been happening to you whilst I’ve been away.’ So I put my arm in his and we strolled in the gardens and talked of safe topics. ‘How are things at Moreton,’ I said after a while. There was a pause before he said, ‘Interesting.’ I looked at him in puzzlement. His expression was grave. ‘Why, Sinclair. Is anything wrong?’ He shrugged, ‘I’m not sure. At least it’s nothing that should concern you, Abby.’ I was indignant, ‘But of course it would concern me if anything were wrong at Moreton.’ He turned, ‘Would it, Abby? Why?’ I was confused. ‘Why? Well, it just would. How could it not concern me knowing your family so well?’ He smiled, ‘Ah, sweet and gentle Abby. You were always such a kind child.’ ‘Sinclair, will you stop talking in riddles and explain.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘There’s nothing to explain. A little ﬁnancial difﬁculty at present. Nothing 78

serious and too sordid a topic for conversation with you.’ I was relieved. ‘Oh, is that all? I thought someone was ill or something.’ He laughed, ‘Only money, Abby, you are wonderful.’ I smiled, ‘Well Moreton couldn’t be in serious ﬁnancial trouble could it?’ ‘Of course not,’ he said, ‘and now let’s talk of pleasanter things. What do you think of Edmund. Has he changed?’ I smiled up at him, ‘Edmund never changes,’ I said, and as a movement beyond the rose garden caught my eye, ‘There he is now.’ ‘With Perdita,’ said Sinclair, and his eyes followed the pair as they took the path towards the shrubbery. I had the impression that he had seen them before I did. ‘And what of Perdita,’ I said, ‘has she changed? You and she have been spending a lot of time together since you came home.’ ‘Ah now, there is a mystery. Who is Perdita? What is she?’ ‘You’re in a very poetical mood today,’ I teased. 79

‘Result of a good education and the civilising inﬂuence of travel,’ he said with a grin. ‘Is it at all possible to have a serious conversation with you, Sinclair?’ I said, ‘or should I give up now?’ ‘Why should you want to?’ ‘Well,’ I said, irritated, ‘for one thing it would be a novelty.’ ‘But so out of character,’ he replied, and then as he saw my face, ‘All right. What if I said I think Edmund’s in danger?’ ‘In danger?’ I said, turning to him. ‘What kind of danger? From what?’ My hands were clutching his arm. His eyes were on Perdita as she disappeared from view. ‘Not what, whom,’ he said. I was astounded. ‘From Perdita? What can you mean?’ Then, as his expression softened, ‘Sinclair, how dare you joke like that?’ I was really angry. ‘Do you really dislike her so much,’ and then as another thought dawned, ‘or is it jealousy?’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘You may be right,’ he said, meeting my eyes, ‘and what about you? Do you really care for Edmund so much?’ I looked at him coldly. 80

‘Oh, it’s no good even talking to you,’ I said, and I turned on my heel and left him. It was some days before I would even speak to him again. People’s appearance might change, even their manners might improve, but some things never change and Sinclair Rothwell would always arouse in me the most astonishing feelings of irritation. He was quite impossible. Just when you were beginning to feel kindly towards him he would do or say something quite outrageous. I concentrated on Edmund who would never change. Let Perdita cope with Sinclair. She had always been more of a match for him than I. Nevertheless for me those were halcyon days, days that are too painful to relive even in memory, days of peace and tranquillity before the awful storm- tide of events broke that was to change all our lives. There was no hint, no premonition of what was to come that day when Sinclair came to the door of the conservatory where I was potting plants. I was still feeling cross with him as I said coolly, ‘You’ve just missed Edmund.’ I had a trowel in one hand and a very sick looking begonia in the other. There was no smile, no lightness about him today. 81

‘It was you I came to see,’ he said shortly. He was prowling about like a restless tiger. I said nothing and after a while he came and stood over me, looking down on me almost ﬁercely as he said, ‘You’re looking quite radiant today.’ I turned back towards the work bench. ‘Thank you,’ I said shortly, then as he did not speak, ‘Well, here I am. What can I do for you?’ He was still standing over me and I could almost touch the atmosphere between us. For a long moment he was silent until I thought I could bear it no longer. I turned in exasperation and at that moment he said, ‘You could marry me.’ It was so unexpected I dropped the ﬂower pot. ‘It’ll never recover,’ I said, looking at the poor broken begonia, and then as his words sank in my head came up. ‘Sinclair, if this is another of your jokes then it’s in very poor taste.’ My voice faltered to a stop as I saw the look on his face. It frightened me, it was so intense. ‘I don’t understand, Sinclair,’ I stammered. ‘I thought you and Perdita. These last few weeks . . . I mean . . .’ 82

I was becoming incoherent. He gave a muttered oath and then his hands were rough on my shoulders and he shook me till my teeth rattled. ‘No you don’t understand, do you? My God, I’m surprised you even noticed how I was spending my time. Perdita,’ he almost spat out the name, ‘it’s you, Abby. It always has been you but Edmund’s always been the one for you, hasn’t he?’ I could not speak and his mouth curved in an ugly smile. ‘God, I could strike you. I would if I thought it would help. Edmund’s wrong, you know. You’re not Snow White. You, my love are an Ice Maiden and God help you when you wake up and ﬁnd you’ve chosen the wrong man.’ His face was inches from mine, his breath coming in gasps. I felt a shudder go through him and his grip relaxed. I did not struggle. Why had I been afraid of him or of what he would do? After all he was Sinclair. He let me go as abruptly as he had caught me. He walked towards the door and turned, and his eyes compelled me. ‘At any time, Abby. I’ll be there if you need me. Always.’ I tried to speak but no words would come, then he made a strangled sound in his throat. ‘Damned if I will,’ he said. 83

He covered the ground between us in two strides and I was in his arms once more only this time his mouth was on mine and I was not resisting. He was gone and I stood there trembling. His ﬁnal words echoed in my mind, ‘Some day, Ice Maiden, you will be mine.’ It was at that moment that Mary, my maid, came rushing into the conservatory, ‘Oh, Miss, it wasn’t me, truly it wasn’t, and they’re all saying as how it was, and oh, Miss . . .’ That was the beginning of the storm and as I rose from my chair by the ﬁreside and went to my bureau, I think I already knew what I would read there.

84

4 Perdita It was uncanny, as if she could read my mind. I began to read. You know now who it was that did that terrible thing to your cream silk gown, don’t you, Abby? You always knew in your heart that it couldn’t have been Mary, dear little Mary who had been with you such a long time. Well, you were right but you will forgive me, I know, if I return to the ‘story’ in my own way. Since our coming out ball Sinclair had been most attentive to me. This surprised me somewhat for we had never been particularly close as children, in fact there had always been a certain reserve in his manner towards me. Oh, he was unfailingly polite but even that was odd for Sinclair. He was however exceedingly handsome and I cannot deny that I found his attention ﬂattering. I was sure of my power over 85

Edmund now for I could not have mistaken the intensity of his response on the night of the ball, but I knew him perhaps better than he knew himself and I realised that he needed time to come to terms with his discovery. What I did not understand was the reason for Sinclair’s attentions, until, that is, the afternoon of the Moreton Hall musical soiree. I was in the music room, playing over some pieces in preparation for the evening ahead when he strode in. He leaned on the piano and smiled down at me. ‘That’s a melody I have not heard before,’ he said, ‘although it reminds me of somewhere.’ I smiled, ‘Somewhere pleasant, I hope.’ ‘Somewhere very foreign and exotic,’ he said. ‘One of the countries Edmund and I visited on our travels, I think. Where did you learn it?’ I was in a half dreaming state, ‘My mother used to sing it to me when I was a little girl,’ I said. There was a pause and I looked up to ﬁnd his eyes on me. ‘Not a very usual lullaby for a young English miss to know,’ he said. I felt myself ﬂushing, 86

‘One meets all kinds of people and learns all kinds of things in the theatre,’ I said. ‘I’m sure one does,’ he said drily. ‘And what do you mean by that,’ I said. I could feel my hands trembling and I stopped playing. ‘Only that the theatrical arts can be learned early and used outside the theatre as well as inside it.’ I rose to my feet. My breathing had become uneven, ‘You mean . . .’ ‘I mean Edmund,’ he said. He had not noticed my distress and it quickly turned to anger. ‘How dare you,’ I said, and then, ‘or is it jealousy that I see before me.’ I made my voice deliberately mocking. He gave me a long appraising look. ‘An interesting thought, Perdita, but not so, if you will forgive me being so ungallant.’ ‘Then what gives you the right to speak to me of Edmund like this?’ ‘Friendship gives me the right,’ he said. ‘Edmund’s friendship.’ ‘And you think that this is the act of a friend, insulting me like this.’ He turned to me and he was smiling his sardonic smile. 87

‘On the contrary I am not insulting you, Perdita. I am complimenting you on your skill. It has been an education watching you, I assure you.’ I was ablaze with fury but he caught my wrist before my hand could reach his face. He pulled me close to him and his grip was like a vice. ‘Leave Edmund alone, Perdita. He doesn’t love you. He never will.’ I looked up at him in triumph, ‘That’s just where you’re wrong,’ I said. ‘He does love me.’ Once again that smile, ‘Don’t you know the difference between love and inexperience, my dear?’ I raised my eyes to his. His face was very close to mine. ‘Do you?’ I said softly. His jaw tensed and then he laughed deep in his throat and pulled me closer still. His mouth came down on mine in a long exploring kiss and then lingeringly he let me go. He walked calmly to the door and turning made me a mocking courtly bow. ‘That is experience, my dear,’ he said, ‘but it is not love.’ His back was towards me but I had the satisfaction of seeing his hand tighten on the door knob as I said, 88

‘Your experience hasn’t done you any good as far as Abby’s concerned.’ His body stiffened and I thought he would turn back as I added, ‘For all his inexperience, Edmund seems to have rather more success than you do, Sinclair. Have you warned her off too?’ He was gone, and I was shaking as I sat down again on the piano stool. I had been right about his feelings for Abby. That last barb had certainly gone home. Had he been right about Edmund? Suddenly it was imperative that I see him at once. Sinclair had done a good job of keeping me away from him. I was furious with myself. How could I have let him manipulate me so easily? I ﬁnally found Edmund in the conservatory but I did not go in. I heard voices as I approached the door and stopped. The words were innocent enough but the tone of Edmund’s voice, the voice whose every cadence and break was known to me, held my attention. I stood rooted to the spot at the scene before me. Edmund was standing over Abby as she snipped and pruned a trailing vine and the expression on his face was one of utter contentment and love. A tide of blackness seemed to wash over me and I felt a hatred of that pretty simpering face, so intense it was almost a physical pain. The wave of hatred 89

passed and I looked at the tangled mass of leaves and petals that lay crushed in my hands. I must have clutched at the shrub to steady myself. I wished that those mangled petals were Abby. I turned, my mind clear and my hatred like a cold thing inside me, and I went straight to Abby’s bedroom and, quite methodically, cut every piece of lace from the gown that was laid out ready for her to wear that evening. In a sense it was a pointless gesture for she would merely wear another gown, but she had been particularly pleased with her appearance in this one and the fact that such a thing had been done would upset her beyond measure. It had the added advantage of giving an outlet to the feelings I might otherwise have betrayed to Edmund and as I looked down at the mass of mutilated cream silk that lay at my feet I felt the tension drain out of me, and my mood lighten. I went to my room, changed into my riding habit and spent the rest of the afternoon chasing the shadows of the clouds across the moors. By the time I got back, exhilarated and at peace with myself, and had handed a sweating Moonﬂeet over to the groom, the house was in chaos. There were servants having hysterics all over the place and I was greeted by my aunt in a state of agitation. 90

‘Oh, Perdita, such a dreadful thing. You can’t believe how awful. Oh, I think I shall have to lie down.’ I led her to a chaise longue. ‘Calm yourself, Aunt Josephine. Tell me slowly what has happened.’ ‘Indeed I wish I could, but it is a mystery and such a beautiful gown, quite the prettiest she has ever had and torn to shreds and the maid denies everything, but then what could you expect, she would hardly be likely to admit such a thing and she always seemed such a dependable girl and I don’t know what to make of it.’ Soothing, I managed to get the whole story from her. Abby, it seemed, had been much upset and was lying down, the maid had been sent packing without a character, protesting her innocence to the last, and I suggested to Aunt Josephine that perhaps a lie down would do her good for it was unthinkable that we should miss the soiree tonight. I rang for her elderly maid who led her away with much fussing and clucking over the unreliability of young servants. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it of that young Mary though, Miss Perdita,’ she said conﬁdentially as she helped Aunt Josephine to her feet, ‘but then Bowman says there weren’t nobody else upstairs at the time except Mary to take the dress 91

up and the tweeny who was late doing the downstairs brass did say she looked kind of queer.’ I watched them go and crossed to the window. It was rather unfair on the miserable little maid but there had to be a scapegoat and I had never liked her anyway. She had a way of doing Abby’s hair that was particularly becoming. I raised my hands to my head to remove my riding hat when I heard a sound on the gravel outside. I looked down and there below me on the driveway was the girl Mary. She was looking at me with what I can only describe as a sort of despairing venom, and I at once knew that somehow she knew that it was I who had been responsible for the destruction of the gown. How she knew I could not tell whether she had seen me go into Abby’s room or whether she had guessed. We had never liked each other and she was a shrewd little thing. Not that it mattered a whit what she thought or suspected. She could never say. The idea of a young lady of the house doing such a thing was just too preposterous. I was reminded of little Miss Pettigrew, the governess who had come so close to discovering my secret and of her bewilderment at being dismissed on my artless evidence of her relations with Hodges. 92

These people were powerless, I had nothing to fear, so after the momentary shock of being confronted with such hatred, I merely withdrew my gaze from the unfortunate creature and turned back into the room. Edmund was standing just inside the door and my heart leapt with joy as I observed the look in his eyes. I had been standing, my hands above my head, in a, for once, unconsciously provocative position for some moments as the maid and I outfaced each other, and he had been standing there observing me. Almost at once he smiled, but not before I had seen the desire ﬂame in his eyes. I was exultant. I had nothing to fear. My power over him was undiminished. All he needed was time to come to terms with his feelings. I smiled warmly at him. ‘Poor Abby,’ I said, as I removed my hat and cast it negligently onto a chair. ‘Is she much upset?’ ‘She is lying down. I doubt if she will be ﬁt to go to Moreton tonight.’ My face must have expressed my surprise and I could only hope that the expression of sympathy I at once assumed masked my pleasure. ‘So upset,’ I murmured. ‘It was not so much the destruction of the gown I think, as the fact that it was her 93

own maid who did it. She cannot believe it and insists it must be a mistake.’ ‘Who else could it have been?’ I asked, my face conveying distress and concern. ‘That’s the thing. She was the only one to enter Abby’s room during the course of the afternoon and who else would even think of such a thing, but you know Abby, it’s not the loss of the gown that distresses her but that she trusted Mary and thought of her almost as a friend.’ I nodded sympathetically. This was an aspect of the matter that I had overlooked. I should have guessed that Abby would feel that way. Indeed it made such sense to me that I wondered I had not thought of it, but I have noticed that I am often surprised by such reactions in people. The important thing was that I would have Edmund all to myself tonight. I composed my features into an expression of disappointment and, advancing towards Edmund, laid my hand on his arm, I looked up into his face, into those dear eyes that regarded me so gravely. ‘Dear Edmund, do not worry so,’ I whispered. ‘I shall go and comfort Abby.’ His face relaxed and he smiled and took my hand in his. 94

‘Such strength of character,’ he said. ‘I fancy had it happened to you, you would have taken it very differently, would you not?’ ‘Indeed I would,’ I laughed. ‘I should have had the maid sew on every little piece of lace again herself before she was dismissed.’ My attention was drawn by a movement at the doorway. ‘What a vengeful creature you are, Perdita,’ the lazy voice sounded amused. ‘Tell me, have you actually seen the dress or are you merely imagining how it must look? Your description seems so realistic.’ Sinclair was walking towards the window as he said this and I felt myself flush. ‘I had a very detailed description from Aunt Josephine,’ I replied. ‘I met young Mary as I was coming over,’ he continued, as if he had not heard me. ‘She seemed very distressed.’ He looked at me closely. ‘Almost incoherent.’ ‘You’d heard already then?’ said Edmund. ‘I should think the whole county has heard by now,’ said Sinclair. ‘That poor young wretch won’t get a place within ﬁfty miles.’ ‘But surely you don’t sympathise with her, Sinclair,’ said Edmund. 95

Sinclair was still looking out of the window. ‘She was born on our estate, you know, both parents dead now and no other relatives.’ ‘Even so, anyone who does a thing like that . . .’ Sinclair turned with a swift movement, ‘Oh, I do so agree. Anyone who does a thing like that deserves no sympathy.’ And then with an abrupt change of tone, ‘How is Abby?’ ‘Come and see,’ I said, stepping forward. ‘I was just going up to see her. I shall be your chaperone.’ There was a bitter twist to his mouth as he turned to Edmund, ‘No need of that, eh Edmund?’ Edmund ﬂushed, ‘Well, such old friends . . .’ ‘Nevertheless,’ I said briskly, ‘Aunt Josephine would be scandalised if you went up alone.’ He did not speak as we made our way to Abby’s room and I was not sorry. He was in a strange mood today. Abby was very pale. I suppose the shock had been great for she had never known anything but kindness in her life. I sat on the edge of her bed whilst Sinclair stood silent in the background. ‘How are you?’ I said. 96

‘Oh, Perdita, I cannot believe that Mary could do such a thing. She was always such an obliging girl, so friendly and cheerful.’ A tear escaped the corner of her eye as the thought of the maid’s actions came back to her. ‘Hush, dear, hush,’ I said. ‘Do not take it so hard. It is better that you know her for what she is than that you should continue to harbour such a person in the house.’ She sighed as she said, ‘I suppose you are right but it is so hard to believe.’ I rose to go. ‘You will feel better after a sleep,’ I said. ‘Remember the soiree tonight.’ She turned immediately to Sinclair. ‘I don’t think I could face it, Sinclair, not with everyone talking about it. You do understand, don’t you?’ Sinclair came forward and took her hand in his. ‘Of course I understand. Perdita is right, you will feel better after you have rested. You will be ﬁt as a ﬁddle tomorrow.’ He spoke very gently and the tears were standing in Abby’s eyes as she held his hand tighter. ‘Sinclair, about Mary.’ ‘I know,’ he stopped her, ‘I told her to go to Moreton and work would be found for her but she refused. She said they would all 97

be against her, all the other servants, so I gave her what money I had on me which was little enough.’ Abby sighed and lay back against the pillows closing her eyes for a moment and then, opening them, she said, ‘But how did you know?’ ‘You forget, I know Mary,’ he said, ‘and I know you. Now don’t worry any more and go to sleep.’ He closed the door gently behind us and I rounded on him. ‘There can be no doubt that it was the girl,’ I said. He looked at me wearily. ‘Whether it was or was not, the important thing is Abby’s peace of mind and she would not have rested until she knew something had been done for the girl. At least she can get to a town now and ﬁnd work of some kind.’ ‘I shall never understand Abby,’ I said. ‘I know, and she will never understand you,’ said Sinclair. ‘And I suppose you understand both of us,’ I said sharply. The eyebrow went up and the eyes became shuttered. ‘Pretty well,’ he said. * * * 98

I hummed aloud as I prepared for the soiree that evening. I would have Edmund all to myself with no need to feel jealous or threatened. I look back on that evening as the last time I was completely happy. My piano pieces were much admired and I managed to avoid Sinclair’s request for ‘that haunting little piece’ I played earlier in the day. Edmund was most attentive and by the time we were driving back in the carriage I was pleasantly tired. The conversation was dominated by Aunt Josephine’s tally of the jewels present and the amount of food eaten. ‘Did you see the ruby Lady Hamiltonffrench was wearing, Bart, big as a pigeon’s egg.’ ‘Wrong time of year, my love,’ replied Uncle Bart from the corner of the carriage. Aunt Josephine carried on with barely a glance in his direction. It was obvious she needed no response, merely an audience. I closed my eyes as her voice washed over us, and must have slept for the next thing I knew Edmund was gently shaking me awake. I opened my eyes and found his only inches from my own. Still in my sleepy state I put my hand up to his face. ‘Darling Edmund,’ I whispered, loud enough for only him to hear. 99

He started violently and laughed, ‘Come along, Rose Red, you’re half asleep,’ and he handed me out of the carriage. I had the dream again that night, the smoke and the ﬂames and me running through the theatre calling, ‘Perdita, Perdita,’ and there she was, in the middle of the ﬂames, laughing and cutting the pink frills to pieces with a tiny pair of golden scissors. Huddled in a blanket on the window seat, I watched the dawn come up and spread until the light touched the sea to gold, and gradually the shivering stopped and I came out of the terror. Abby stayed in bed during the morning and I was glad to be able to avoid her. I saddled Moonﬂeet and rode out across the moors to the sea that I had listened to for so great a part of the night. It was stormy and I dismounted and walked by the cliff edge, conscious of how easily a person could be blown over by a particularly strong gust of wind. I lay down to look into the Devil’s Cauldron and saw at once that the cliff was beginning to crack and crumble badly at the edge. Hastily I moved back. I had no wish to end up in the boiling, teeming fury of the surf that I had seen down there. I arrived home to ﬁnd that the costumes for Edmund’s coming of age ball had arrived. 100

Abby was up and about and looking well again and Aunt Josephine was fairly shivering with esxcitement. ‘Come along, girls, let’s go and try them on right away. Oh, what a good idea to have a fancy dress ball. I feel so excited.’ Abby and I exchanged delighted glances. I knew my eyes were shining with excitement as we hurried upstairs. I could hardly contain myself. This was the gown that I had taken so much trouble over and I itched to try it on. We had made a pact to keep our costumes secret, Abby and I. Aunt Josephine had to see them of course so that she could give her approval, but had promised solemnly not to say a word to anyone else. My ﬁngers trembled as I undid the string securing the cardboard box that lay on my bed. I lifted the lid and there under drifts of soft tissue paper lay my gown, the gown I had planned so carefully. Little Miss Simpkins had done well I thought as I lifted it almost reverently from the box. I held it up, scrutinising it minutely. She had carried out my instru ctions to the letter which was as well for her. I could recall her face as I laid my pattern on the large table she used. I knew she was longing to ask me where I had acquired my skill in pattern making and dared not. ‘Exactly as the pattern is cut, Miss Simpkins,’ I had said. 101

‘Of course, Miss.’ ‘And with the material I have chosen.’ ‘I beg your pardon, Miss, but your Aunt has not seen that particular material. The one she saw was much,’ she hesitated, ‘darker,’ she ﬁnished. ‘You mean drabber, Miss Simpkins,’ I said. ‘My Aunt will agree with my choice when she sees the ﬁnished costume, I assure you.’ I moved towards the door. ‘I hear that your brother is faring better these days. It would be a pity if the little extras you have been able to afford had to be denied him.’ I laid a coin on the table and her eyes ﬂickered as they had done once before. Miss Simpkins was easy to handle. I laid the costume on the bed and swiftly divested myself of my day gown. I slipped the gown over my head and fastened it up before turning to look in the mirror. When I did I gasped aloud. I had been right. I looked absolutely stunning. There was an inch or two of slender ankle showing beneath the hem of the gown and as my eye travelled upwards I gloried in the sight. Flounce after ﬂounce of scarlet satin, not merely red, but bright, ﬂaming scarlet, edged with black lace. The waist was so narrow it seemed as if a man’s hands could span it and I wondered if Edmund’s would. The bodice was as tight as my ﬁgure would allow and 102

out of a great forth of scarlet frills my bare shoulders rose, gleaming like alabaster, the swell of my bosom clearly visible. I piled my hair on top of my head and, securing it with a few pins, lifted from amongst the folds of tissue the Spanish comb and black lace mantilla. Next came the black lace gloves and the fan and I stood back to look at myself, no longer a pretty English miss not long out of the schoolroom but a ravishing Spanish creature, full of ﬁre and pride, haughty and splendid. My eyes shone in the marble whiteness of my face, my skin was luminous against the vibrant ﬁre of the satin which rustled and gleamed as if alive, my hair was ebony and jet with depths that seemed to reﬂect colour from the gown. I was woman triumphant and it was evident in every line of me. It was almost frightening to look in the mirror and see this creature, proud in beauty and with a wild, faintly feline quality that was profoundly sensual. I was exultant. Aunt Josephine would probably have a nerve storm but she would be unable to prevent me wearing it. For one thing it was too late to have another one made and for another she would be too embarrassed to tell me why she thought it unsuitable. It was the kind of thing that ladies hardly admitted existed and certainly never 103

mentioned. I would triumph because I had gone too far. A less sensual gown would have drawn criticism. This was quite simply beyond that. It was in no way indecent in what it left uncovered but it revealed by virtue of the lights and shadows of the material itself. It was as if the very gown were a live thing that covered me. There was a knock at the door and Aunt Josephine’s voice, ‘Can I come in, dear?’ I drew a deep breath before calling out, ‘Come in, Aunt Josephine.’ ‘Well now, dear, what do . . .’ There was a stunned silence as she took in the picture before her. I turned around slowly. ‘I’m a Spanish Lady, Aunt,’ I said. ‘Do you like it?’ She had gone a little pale. ‘Well, you’re certainly Spanish, dear, but a lady?’ ‘Why, what do you mean, Aunt,’ I said, all wide eyed innocence. She opened her mouth to reply, looked at me uncertainly and closed it again ﬁrmly, ‘Nothing, my dear,’ she said. ‘I think you look very pretty and I have a nice little shawl that will go so well with your costume.’ I turned away to hide my delight. I had been right, she could not object to it. Well, 104

I would accept the shawl gracefully but a shawl can be discarded when need be. ‘I came to ask you if you would help me with my costume, Perdita. I cannot seem to fasten it at the back.’ ‘Why certainly, Aunt, and I must say I think you look remarkably handsome. Marie Antoinette, is it not?’ ‘Yes, you don’t think it’s too silly of me, do you dear?’ I looked shocked. ‘Silly? Why I’ve never heard such a thing. You look very regal, and after all it’s the ball of the season and you are the hostess. You shall be the Queen of the County.’ She laughed, flattered by my nonsense. ‘I shall have to dress my hair very high and powder it, you know,’ she said, her enthusiasm restored, ‘for I cannot wear a wig.’ I laughed in my turn, ‘Abby and I shall do your hair as high as you like and powder it all over. You will look splendid.’ ‘Oh, thank you, dear. You’re so understanding.’ She lowered her voice conspiratorially, ‘Your Uncle is going to be Louis XIV. I know it’s the wrong Louis for Marie Antoinette, though I do admit I do get them all mixed up, but somehow Louis XIV seemed more romantic than 105

Louis XVI, was it? They called him the Sun King, you know.’ I suppressed a smile at the thought of Uncle Bart as the Sun King and said, ‘Then you should be going as Madame de Pompadour.’ That was a mistake for I saw her glance again at my costume as she said with a slight blush, ‘Hardly suitable, my dear.’ ‘No, perhaps not,’ I said, hastily changing the subject. ‘I should not have thought that Uncle Bart would have chosen to be Louis XIV,’ I said. ‘Well, he didn’t actually choose the costume himself. In fact he doesn’t yet know what his costume is to be.’ I looked at her in mock outrage. ‘You know your Uncle Bart, dear, he’ll agree to anything to be left in peace and I did ask him if he would mind me choosing the costumes.’ Aunt Josephine looked decidedly defensive. I could imagine the scene, Aunt Josephine’s voice washing gently over him and then, ‘ . . . what do you think, dear?’ ‘Ah, capital, capital,’ from Uncle Bart caught unawares. I looked meaningfully at Aunt Josephine and she smiled. 106

‘When I was a girl and we had masked balls, I always wanted to go as Marie Antoinette, so romantic and so tragic,’ and she sighed heavily, ‘but it wasn’t thought quite the thing, you know.’ She gave me a knowing look. ‘French, you see.’ I thought it was time we got off the subject of foreign costumes although in a strange way the sight of me in my daring guise seemed to have had an effect on Aunt Josephine. I could not remember her speaking to me quite so conﬁdentially before. ‘How does Abby look?’ I said briskly. My Aunt looked at me for a moment and said quite distinctly, ‘Very maidenly.’ I almost choked, so surprised was I by this sudden show of wit and insight. Aunt Josephine obviously had hidden depths.

* * * The rest of the week passed in a ﬂurry of excitement as the house was prepared for the grandest ball it had ever known. I had thought the ﬂowers and decorations for our coming out ball impressive but they were as nothing compared with these for the fancy dress ball. The whole house was aglitter with sparkling crystal, every chandelier had been 107

taken down and washed piece by delicate piece and the conservatory and garden had been almost denuded for the plants and ﬂowers necessary to decorate the house. Wonderful smells came from the kitchens and there seemed to be an unending stream of maids running, laughing and chattering all over the house. I barely saw Edmund at all during this time. He had appeared for breakfast one morning with a wry smile on his lips and announced that there seemed to be some kind of disaster in the servants hall judging from the noise that was issuing from it. Aunt Josephine had immediately rushed from the room to find out what had gone wrong next, for disturbances like this were becoming more frequent as the great event drew nearer. I smiled at him. ‘You ﬁnd this sort of thing very wearing, don’t you, Edmund?’ ‘I regret to say I do,’ he said rather sheepishly. ‘As a matter of fact Sinclair and I thought we might take ourselves off for a few days, out of everyone’s way,’ and he smiled. I smiled back. Even the thought of not seeing him for several days was bearable when he smiled like that. Oh, how I loved him. 108

And so Edmund and Sinclair disappeared to stay with friends in the next county and Uncle Bart took to the library and virtually barricaded himself in, emerging only for meals and with an even more hunted look than usual. Aunt Josephine obviously felt morally required to at least inform him of the progress of the arrangements but I honestly think he would have been a good deal happier to be left in ignorance. ‘Roast duck, do you think, Bart, or capons,’ she would ask. ‘Hmmmph, why not put them in the Chinese Room,’ he would reply, looking attentive. Abby and I were thrown very much together and I found it very pleasant to talk of Edmund and the coming ball now that I need no longer fear her interference. I remember wondering if I had spoiled her pretty dress for nothing. ‘Poor Edmund,’ I said as we draped garlands of ﬂowers around the windows of the ballroom, ‘he seemed quite glad to get away from all this.’ ‘Oh, you know how Edmund hates fuss,’ she said. ‘Well, there’ll be enough fuss made of him tonight,’ I went on, bending down to pick up a pin. As I straightened up I caught a glimpse of Abby’s face. She was blushing 109

and there was a faint smile on her lips. She saw me looking and turned her head away. ‘I don’t expect he’ll mind so very much, not tonight,’ she said. There was a strange note in her voice, something I could not quite place but my mind was too full of the coming evening to ponder over Abby’s moods. I gave myself over to the thought of the festivities so close at hand. ‘I hope they arrive back in time,’ I said. ‘I’m sure they will,’ said Abby. ‘Sinclair’s very reliable underneath that casual exterior even if Edmund is a little vague sometimes.’ ‘Like Uncle Bart,’ I said, and we giggled at the thought. That was it, that was why Abby was blushing. She had ﬁnally fallen for Sinclair. Well, he was certainly handsome enough. It was to be a traditional masked ball and the guests would unmask at midnight which was when Edmund would ofﬁcially come of age. As I gazed at the sleek and gleaming creature in my looking glass that evening and listened for the strains of music as the musicians tuned their instruments in the ballroom, I knew that there would not be a woman in the company to touch me. My eyes gleamed from behind the velvet mask which added just the right note of mystery. I heard a ﬂurry of activity in the hall below and 110

then the sounds of guests being welcomed. I strained my ears, searching amongst the clamour of voices for Edmund’s. Then I heard it, low and vibrant and unmistakable to me. I sighed with relief. He had still not arrived home when we ladies had come up to dress and I had not realised until I heard his voice that I carried an unadmitted fear that he would not be home in time. I picked up the black lace fan and ﬂuttered it a few times to cool my cheeks which had ﬂushed with relief at the sound of his voice and, very quietly opening my bedroom door, I peered down into the hall. More guests were arriving now and Aunt Josephine, Uncle Bart and Edmund were being kept busy greeting them. I drew in my breath as I caught sight of Edmund. There was a lump in my throat as I realised that here was the Edmund of my dreams, of my imagination, the Edmund that had instantly bound me to him all those years ago when I had ﬁrst laid eyes on him and had been overcome by the kindness and gentleness in his face. This was what I had always been searching for when I tried to explain what it was in Edmund that so enthralled me, this was the picture that had eluded me all these years. I felt almost faint with the discovery and found myself unable to tear my eyes from him. I had always thought that he should have 111

belonged to another time, a time altogether more chivalrous, more honourable, and here before my eyes was the essence of Edmund, the Edmund I carried in my heart. He was dressed as a medieval knight. Not the ‘parfait gentille knighte’ of Chaucer as I had thought of him for a brief moment during his homecoming dinner, but a crusading knight with all the passionate commitment to honour and justice that it implied. His tall spare frame carried the clothes well. His head with its close cap of fair hair and the ﬁnely drawn lines of jaw and forehead that had always given him a faintly ascetic air were thrown into relief by the simplicity of his dress. He looked every inch the knight of chivalry and legend. I had to return to my room for a moment. The sight of him, embodying as it were my only half realised dreams, was a shock to me. I sat on the window seat, my refuge, and watched the sky darken over the sea. The faint sough of the distant waves soothed me and at last I felt able to go downstairs. I had always loved Edmund for his kindness and gentleness, for the way he rushed to the defence of the weak, but I had never until now understood how he was to me the living embodiment of those qualities. Was it the man I craved or the things he represented? For the ﬁrst time since I was a child I felt 112

frightened and I shivered violently. I put the thought from my mind. I was being fanciful. When I looked in the mirror before going downstairs I was a little paler perhaps but just as startling looking. I smoothed the satin ﬂounces, ﬂuttered my fan and swirled my skirts a little. The dazzling creature laughed back at me from the looking glass and the strange mood was dispelled. I felt conﬁdent and beautiful again. The guests had almost all arrived and I made my way down without seeing anyone. I had thought it prudent to accept Aunt Josephine’s offer of a shawl and she had given me a beautiful one of black silk embroidered in glowing colours and with a deep fringe. This I draped over my elbows, allowing it to trail slightly at the back, enhancing my costume rather than concealing it. It was not what Aunt Josephine had had in mind but I was making the gesture. As I entered the ballroom I felt every eye turn to me and I heard a faint gasp as I paused in the doorway, savouring the attention I was receiving. I felt much more daring behind the concealing mask. I had not realised just how effective a disguise it is until I looked around the assembled company and found that I could identify no one immediately. The chatter broke out again but I was aware of 113

covert looks following me as I made my way down the ballroom in search of Edmund. I was intercepted by Marie Antoinette and a very out of breath and obviously bored Louis XIV. ‘Perdita, my dear,’ she whispered, ‘I did want you to wear that shawl round your shoulders. You will have to be careful you don’t catch a chill. Don’t you think so, Bart,’ she said, appealing to her husband. ‘Oh, ah, just the thing. Very pretty, m’dear. Glad to make your acquaintance,’ and he shufﬂed off in search of a glass of champagne. His costume was a little hot and tight, I think. ‘Don’t worry, Aunt,’ I said, ‘nobody will recognise me. You only did because you’ve seen the costume.’ ‘What about the unmasking,’ she said doubtfully. ‘Don’t worry about that. Everyone will be having such a good time and half the county will have insulted the other half by then and will be too busy with their own affairs to worry what I’m wearing.’ ‘Really, Perdita, sometimes you are a little outspoken but I expect you’re right. Now, where is your Uncle?’ and she trotted off in search of him. I made my way through the throng, smiling and nodding and allowing my dance card to 114

be not quite ﬁlled and as I was swept out onto the ﬂoor by a young highwayman I caught sight of my goodly knight waltzing with a medieval lady. I frowned a little, for the ﬁgure was vaguely familiar though she was quite unrecognisable with her mask and her hair concealed beneath a rather severe head dress with twin trailing veils. My partner was speaking and I was forced to attend to him but as soon as I could I made my way towards Edmund. As I crossed the room the throng parted for a moment as sometimes happens in crowds and Edmund, turning in my direction at the same time, saw me coming towards him. He stiffened immediately and I saw his eyes glitter behind his mask before he relaxed again. I was delighted. He had recognised me. From a distance, masked and disguised, he had known at once who I was, just as I could not have mistaken him. I approached him, ‘Well, good sir knight. This Spanish Lady has some dances to bestow. Shall I set you an ordeal or shall I gift them to you?’ Smiling he bowed low. ‘If I can guess your true identity then you must gift them to me,’ he said. ‘You look quite beautiful, Rose Red.’ I smiled and held out my card and the little gilt pencil that was attached. He bent his head to write his name against the three 115

dances which remained and I longed to lay my hand once again on that shining head. I looked at the card with concern as he handed it back. ‘Shame on you, Sir, you have not ﬁlled in all three that were left. That is not very chivalrous.’ He smiled ruefully, ‘I regret, Senorita, that I am already engaged for the supper dance,’ and his eyes would not meet mine. I laughed lightly, though I felt extremely cross, and then the music started again and my partner for the Lancers came in search of me. I looked around for Abby but could not see her or if I did I did not recognise her. Nor did I recognise the dashing Sir Francis Drake who claimed me for the next two dances until, his voice caressing, he said, ‘Well, Perdita, you once told me I looked as if I had just returned from conquering the Spanish Main. I wonder are you the prize?’ ‘Sinclair,’ I said, ‘I should have guessed. We certainly are well matched tonight.’ ‘What, only tonight?’ he teased. ‘I understood from you that there was no love lost between us, Sinclair,’ I said softly. ‘Love, perhaps not, but danger and adventure. Those are the things that pirates and Spanish Ladies live for.’ 116

‘But I am a Spanish Lady for only one night,’ I said. ‘And I shall always be a pirate,’ he replied, and his eyes laughed through his mask as he looked down at me and whirled me into the dance. It was true, I thought, he would always court danger for the thrill of it. There was something exciting in the thought and in the strength of his arms around me, but there was no love in him for me. Strange, since we were so well matched in other ways. I went into supper with an exceedingly boring young sultan who became unaccountably tongue-tied every time I looked directly at him. It was amusing in its way but I was impatient for the two dances I still had to dance with Edmund, and my mood was not improved by the sight of him taking supper with the medieval lady. I felt almost shy when the time came. He bowed very low and requested the honour in an exaggeratedly formal manner, as if he too were shy, and as we moved into the dance and his arm slipped around my waist, I knew that he was as much affected by my nearness as I was by his. We did not speak much during our dances. I at any rate was happy just to be in his arms and I knew that we made a striking pair as we drifted around the ﬂoor to the strains of the romantic waltz, 117

he so simply yet dramatically clad and I so vivid and exotic. There were many eyes that followed us as we whirled in time to the music but I cared nothing for those admiring looks. I was dancing with Edmund and that was all I wished. Too soon those precious moments were past and I was once again obliged to dance with the young men who pleaded with me to reveal my identity, for none save Edmund and Sinclair had guessed it. Then it was midnight and time for the unmasking, but ﬁrst a speech from Uncle Bart. I was hot from the last dance which had been a polka and was standing near the open french windows as Uncle Bart signalled for the musicians to play a fanfare and took his place beside them on the raised dais at the end of the room. All eyes were upon him. He spoke for some minutes of Edmund in a halting and disjointed fashion, turning frequently to Aunt Josephine for encouragement, and then, as his voice went on, I could feel the blood draining from my face and my body becoming rigid. ‘ . . . gives me great pleasure,’ he was saying, ‘on this auspicious occasion to announce the betrothal of my son, Edmund,’ And the medieval lady was stepping up beside Edmund and removing the mask and 118

head dress that had hidden her identity, and as the silver gilt hair fell about her shoulders and cascaded like a golden waterfall to her waist, I thought for a brief moment how utterly lovely Abby looked in her ﬂowing gown with its girdle of heavy silk and how ﬁtting they looked together, he the perfect gentle knight and she the maiden of legend, and then I felt within myself the beginnings of the cold black anger that had led me to destroy Abby’s gown and I marvelled at my coolness as I joined in the polite applause that greeted the announcement, when all the time a silent scream rang in my brain and the anger rose like a dark tide and threatened to engulf me. I slipped from the room out onto the terrace and ran, heedless of where I was going, until I stumbled into the conservatory. As I entered the cool, dark place, so shorn of all its plants and ﬂowers, so desolate, the tide broke and I sank to my knees, so violent was the rage that overtook me. I had been deceived. How could they have kept this from me. I had been so sure of myself and I had lost him to a missish chit who would never feel a tenth of what I felt for him. How could he? He was not indifferent to me. Even this evening he had betrayed his feelings for me. And then the 119

truth dawned and I knew what I was going to do. Edmund was attracted to me, attracted against his will. Sinclair had been right. He desired me, he could not help himself, but he did not love me. In a man such as Edmund the two could be very different things. I sat for some time before I ﬁnally and quite coldly decided on my course of action. One thing was certain. I had to stop him marrying Abby and I had one weapon, the weapon I had discovered almost by accident, not far from this very spot, his desire for me. I rose and smoothed my rufﬂed skirts and cautiously opened the door of the conservatory. There was no sound, no sound at all. There were no lights to be seen and I realised that I was dreadfully cold. How long I had sat there I could not tell but it must have been a long time. The house was abed. Well, so much the better for my plan, for I knew I must not hesitate. I mounted the stairs to my own room and calmly removed my long gloves and the mantilla. I shook out my hair until it lay like a dark heavy cloud about my bare shoulders and as I surveyed myself critically in my looking glass I felt my pride and conﬁdence return. Silently I opened my door and walked along the corridor to the far end where Edmund’s 120

room was. I opened his door as silently, but I need not have worried about disturbing him for he was not asleep. He was standing by his window in the moonlight and as he turned and saw me I saw the look on his face and knew that I had been right. It was one of mingled fear and resignation and desire, and desire was the strongest. I closed the door softly on the sleeping house.

121

5 Abby My heart was hammering painfully against my ribs. At last I knew what had happened that night. She had gone to him, he had not gone to her as I thought, as she had led me to think. Somehow the pain and humiliation I had carried with me since that day seemed to melt away. How could any man have resisted her. She was so beautiful, so compelling. I felt almost light-headed with relief and found that I could at last contemplate the events of those weeks after the ball. It had been too painful before but now . . . well, she had gone to him and he was a man. I came down to breakfast that next morning feeling happy and excited. It had been such a wonderful ball and the congratulations of our guests still rang in my ears. I was only sorry that Edmund had had to go away early on estate business. It could not be helped. He was of age now and must concern himself 122

with such things but I would have liked to see him before he left. Aunt Josephine was even more excited than I was, making plans already for the wedding, ‘Now, Abby, there is much to be decided. Your attendants, your wedding gown and, of course, your trousseau.’ ‘There is plenty of time, Aunt,’ I said. ‘We had thought to wait a few months until Edmund has accustomed himself to the running of the estate.’ ‘Nonsense, Abby,’ she said briskly, ‘we shall set a date as soon as Edmund gets back, and not too far in the future. I do not believe in long engagements. What do you think, Bart?’ and she turned to my uncle and attempted to engage him in conversation about the wedding. I heard him say, ‘What was that, my love. I don’t think I quite heard . . .’ before a movement at the door caught my eye. Perdita was standing there. She looked pale. ‘What do you mean ‘gets back’? Has Edmund gone away?’ ‘Yes, on estate business,’ I said. ‘He’ll only be gone a few weeks. I don’t really know what it’s about but I suppose it’s something I’ll have to get used to now. Why, Perdita, What’s the matter. Are you ill?’ 123

She was standing behind a chair using it as if to support herself and the kunckles of the hand that gripped it were white. ‘He never said he was going away,’ ‘It’s just boring business. I expect he forgot to mention it to you. Perdita, do sit down. You don’t look at all well.’ I poured some tea for her and fetched a plate of scrambled eggs from the sideboard and sat down opposite me. ‘Well, Perdita, what do you think of the betrothal?’ said Aunt Josephine with a jaundiced look at Uncle Bart’s back as he made his escape. ‘They didn’t let us in on the secret until last night and of course we were only too pleased to give our blessings. And you of course must be Abby’s chief attendant.’ She leaned over and patted Perdita’s hand and the fork with which she had been pushing the eggs around her plate clattered on the china. She put her hand to her forehead and I noticed that her tea was untouched. At last Aunt Josephine noticed. ‘Perdita, are you ill?’ ‘No, Aunt,’ she said softly, ‘not ill, but I didn’t sleep very well. I think it must have been the excitement of the ball. I think I shall lie down for a while. I do have rather a bad headache.’ 124

‘You do that, my dear, and you’ll feel much better by this afternoon,’ said Aunt Josephine. ‘I’ll just come up and see that you’re settled comfortably. I can’t say I’m surprised. So much excitement. Well, come along, my dear.’ I smiled at Perdita over Aunt Josephine’s head but she did not respond as she usually did on these occasions, but I had other things to think of and I sat there at the breakfast table dreaming dreams of the future until Bowman’s discreet cough brought me to myself. ‘I’m sorry, Bowman, I was wool gathering.’ I got up from the table and as I passed him he coughed again. There was obviously something he wanted to say, ‘Yes, Bowman?’ ‘On behalf of the staff, Miss Abby, I would like to say that we are all very pleased. Very pleased indeed and I’m sure we wish you and Mister Edmund well, Miss,’ and he patted my hand. I almost giggled. The digniﬁed Bowman patting my hand. But I looked at him solemnly and asked him to convey my thanks to the staff, before I left the room in what I hoped was a manner ﬁtting to the future mistress of Hadley Grange. Sinclair called to see me a few days later. I had not seen him since the night of the ball. 125

I found him in the drawing room studying the portrait of Elizabeth, Perdita’s mother, that hung there. ‘You seem very interested in that portrait, Sinclair,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen you studying it before.’ He turned and a ﬂame leapt somewhere behind his eyes and was gone. ‘It’s the eyes that fascinate me,’ he said. ‘They are a curiously deep blue. Is that artistic licence, do you think, or were they really that colour?’ I came and stood beside him before the portrait. ‘No, they’re exactly that colour in the miniature in Perdita’s locket, so they must have been that colour. She was very beautiful, wasn’t she?’ ‘Beautiful,’ he echoed, but he was no longer looking at the painting. I moved away. ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘you don’t have to run away. I only came to say goodbye and to apologise for my behaviour the other day.’ I could feel the blood rising to my face. ‘You’re going away then?’ ‘I think that’s best, don’t you, at least for a while, and besides I too have business matters to attend to.’ I must have looked my surprise for he said rather bitterly, 126

‘Oh I’m doing a lot of things that are rather out of character for me these days.’ And then, ‘You haven’t accepted my humble apology yet and I do think that since such a thing is so rarely offered you might encourage me in my mended ways with a gracious acceptance. After all you might put me off the habit for life.’ He held out his hand and I laughed and put mine in his. ‘Of course I accept your apology, Sinclair. I wouldn’t dare do otherwise.’ ‘One thing more,’ he said. ‘That afternoon when I found you in the conservatory. Were you already engaged to Edmund?’ I looked down at my shoes. I could not meet his eyes. ‘Yes, that very afternoon, just before you came.’ ‘Two suitors in as many hours, you were doing well, Abby,’ and he laughed. I tried to look at him but couldn’t, nor could I move away for he still held my hand. ‘So I was already too late.’ His voice was soft, I could not speak. ‘But I wonder, Abby, would it have made any difference if I had come an hour earlier, before Edmund did?’ I remembered his kiss and that I had not resisted and I blushed. 127

‘Sweet Abby,’ he said gently, ‘I wish you happiness. Forget all that passed between us that day, all except one thing.’ He tilted my chin so that I had to meet his eyes, and his voice was oddly serious, ‘If you should ever need a friend,’ he raised my hand to his lips and that old self mocking smile of his was back, ‘I am yours to command. There you are, spoken like a true gentleman, don’t you think? There’s hope for me yet, surely.’ I kept my voice as light as his. ‘Every hope, Sinclair,’ I said. ‘All you need is the love of a good woman.’ I could have bitten my tongue out. His face was rather pale as he said. ‘Some of us have to get along without that.’ Then he bowed stifﬂy and was gone. I was so angry with myself I stamped my foot. Why had I said that, such a clumsy thing to say, then I thought of the things Sinclair had said, his curious insistence that I might need a friend, need him. Why should I ever have to call on him. I had Edmund, and yet it was not the ﬁrst time Sinclair had said such a thing to me. I frowned as I thought of Edmund. I had had only one letter from him and that had been rather restrained, full of the business he was engaged in. I supposed that was what was upper-most in his mind at the moment but I would rather have 128

had the letters of a lover. I shook myself. What nonsense, of course he was concerned with business. It was his duty, and besides perhaps his next letter would be more satisfactory. It wasn’t, and neither were the others that came. Each seemed, if anything, more distant, colder than the last, though concern for my welfare was apparent throughout. But it was not concern for my well-being I wanted. It was words of love, of assurance that all was well between us. I wanted to write to him asking why his letters seemed so restrained, to pour out my love for him, but I found I couldn’t, not in the face of those careful letters I was receiving from him, so my letters to him became just as cautious, full of everything but the love and pain I was feeling. During that time one letter came that I had not expected. For some years I had known that my grandfather, my father’s father that is, had from time to time written to Aunt Josephine to inquire after my progress. I had always received a gift from him on my birthday and Aunt Josephine would sometimes read me passages from the letters, but he had never before written directly to me. I knew from Aunt Josephine that the setback occasioned by my father’s scheme had been overcome and that the 129

family fortunes were now largely restored and that my grandfather lived in London. It was Bowman that brought me the letter. I almost snatched it from him, thinking it was from Edmund and tore it open eagerly. I was disappointed therefore to ﬁnd it was from my grandfather. At any other time I would have been thrilled. He wrote, ‘My dear child, I wrote to your Aunt some weeks ago requesting permission to write to you directly and that dear lady was kind enough to allow me to do so. Unfortunately I have been ill and was not well enough to write before now. If your Aunt has told you of my intention then you will understand now that it was not through lack of inclination that I have not written but because of the limitations that my ageing body imposes upon me. It is many years since your father was lost so tragically at sea and I confess that at the time I had little wish to see the daughter he left behind. I was younger then. I railed against the fate that had robbed me of both my son and my fortune, I had no wish to be reminded of him. This will seem cruel to you as it now does to me, and now that I am growing old and frail I ﬁnd in 130

myself a great desire to see the child he left behind. I would like to speak to you of him as a child, as a young man and of your mother, the sweetest of creatures. I would like to see their child and my granddaughter. You will have every justiﬁcation for tearing this up, for saying I have no right to ask this of you. I have earned no such right, but if you could ﬁnd it in your heart to be generous, to please an old man who has been foolish in the past and who ﬁnds himself, at the end of his life, alone, I should like to see you before I die. There is no greater pleasure I could have, no greater service you could do me than to come to London to see me. Feel no obligation, Abby. I deserve no duty but please, come, Your Loving Grandfather. Silas Hammond.’ I was touched. I felt no resentment towards him, only pity. I went at once to Aunt Josephine and showed her the letter. She read it through. ‘You didn’t tell me he had written asking this,’ I said. She looked at me tenderly. ‘Sit down, Abby.’ We sat and she took my hand. 131

‘My dear, I was very fond of your mother and of your father too though I knew him such a short time. At the same time I have always understood your Grandfather’s feelings. Your father was his only child. If I were to lose Edmund . . .’ she left the sentence Unﬁnished. I nodded, ‘Go on, Aunt.’ ‘We were glad to care for you, your Uncle Bart and I, but I have always known that no matter how much we loved you and cared for you, there would always be a lack in your life that only your true family could ﬁll.’ I bowed my head. I had not known she had understood so well. ‘When the letter came from your Grandfather I was glad of course, but also a little afraid. It is a subject we have not talked much about.’ She hesitated. ‘Can you understand, Abby. I wanted you to make up your own mind, to read his words and not to be inﬂuenced by me in this matter.’ ‘I think you have made up your mind, have you not, my dear.’ I nodded again. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I shall go and see him with Edmund when he comes home, but, Aunt, he does not mention our marriage.’ ‘No,’ she said. ‘His letter came before your engagement so he knows nothing of it yet. 132

I was waiting until he wrote to you before writing to him again.’ ‘Then I shall have good news for him,’ I said. She smiled, ‘I am so glad you’re going to see him, Abby. He is old now and lonely. You are a kind girl.’ I made a face, ‘Where is Perdita? I must tell her about this.’ Aunt Josephine frowned. ‘She is in the garden. I am rather concerned about her at the moment, Abby. These headaches do not seem to be any better. I think perhaps Dr Jarrow should see her.’ I felt guilty. I had been so concerned with my own affairs, with the unsatisfactory nature of Edmund’s letters, I had hardly noticed Perdita. She had been resting every afternoon so I had not seen much of her although when I did I had been aware that she had been unusually pale. ‘I’ll go to her at once,’ I said, jumping up. I kissed the top of Aunt Josephine’s head. ‘Thank you, Aunt Josephine, for everything.’ I found Perdita down by the box hedge, sitting on a bench. 133

‘Perdita.’ She looked up. She was indeed pale and there were shadows under her eyes. ‘You are not resting this afternoon. Are the headaches any better?’ She shook her head. ‘No, no better.’ I sat down beside her, ‘Aunt Josephine is very worried. She thinks you should see a doctor.’ She looked up, a look of horror on her face. ‘No, not that,’ she cried and then, with a convulsive sob, she collapsed on my shoulder. ‘Oh, Abby, I don’t know what to do, who to tell.’ She sobbed uncontrollably and indeed was so distraught that I made to rise, murmuring to her that I would fetch Aunt Josephine. She clung to me. ‘No, Abby, not Aunt Josephine. It would break her heart.’ I soothed her, ‘What would break her heart? Calm yourself, Perdita. Come, tell me what is wrong.’ She looked at me piteously. ‘How can I tell you? You of all people.’ ‘You must, Perdita. This cannot be good for you.’ 134

And so she told me, stammering out her tale, haltingly, stumbling over her words. I felt the blood drain from my face as she spoke and still she clung to me. At last she stopped. ‘And that is the reason you have felt unwell these last weeks,’ I said, in a voice I did not recognise. ‘I very much fear so,’ she said miserably. ‘I would not have said anything to spoil your happiness, Abby, were it not for the fact that soon everyone will know. Oh, what am I to do? How can I tell Aunt Josephine?’ I detached her hands from my shoulders, ‘I shall do what is necessary, Perdita. You must not worry any more.’ It was the strangest feeling, as if someone else were speaking through me. ‘But, Abby, he is to marry you. It is what Aunt Josephine and Uncle Bart wanted. He told me so . . .’ She stopped, as if she had said too much. My voice was a whisper, ‘He said that? He said he was marrying me because it was what Aunt Josephine and Uncle Bart wanted.’ She looked away. ‘You know Edmund always does the correct thing. It has always been hoped 135

that you two would make a match of it. I have tried, Abby, really I have. I knew it could not be but he would not listen. He is so impetuous under that cool exterior and I own I am very much in love with him. When he came to me I was so sorry for him. It was the night of your betrothal.’ I heard my breath indrawn. ‘The night of our betrothal,’ I echoed. I felt very cold. Now I understood the coolness of Edmund’s letters. I looked at her. Her face was as white as the handkerchief she twisted in her hands. I felt a wave of pity for her. ‘Oh, Perdita. What you have suffered. You shall not suffer any more. I cannot cease to love Edmund, for you cannot cease to love someone who is so much a part of you, so you see I can understand how terrible it must have been for you both, loving each other as you do. You shall not be unhappy, you and Edmund.’ I could say no more. As I stumbled away I could barely see for the tears that rained down my face. I went to my room by the back stairs and met no one. There was no one I wished to meet. The interview with Aunt Josephine was not easy. I did not tell her the whole truth, merely that Edmund and I had made a dreadful 136

mistake, that it had been my fault. He had been doing only what he considered his duty and he and Perdita were deeply in love. She was bewildered of course and upset. ‘But, Abby, you and Edmund seemed so happy together. I don’t understand.’ I felt like shouting, ‘Neither do I,’ but I repeated, ‘It was a mistake, Aunt Josephine. It is better that it is rectiﬁed now than that I should ﬁnd out later.’ I paused, this was going to be difﬁcult. ‘I am going away, Aunt. Before Edmund gets back. ‘Away? But, Abby, this is your home and surely you must at least see Edmund, speak to him.’ ‘I cannot,’ I said. ‘Don’t you see how impossible it would be, the three of us together.’ ‘At least see him, Abby.’ I was insistent, ‘No, Aunt. I cannot.’ ‘Then write to him. Surely you will write to him. I shall write. I’ll call him back at once.’ ‘No,’ again I was adamant, ‘you must not do that. I shall write to him.’ She looked at me, her face grey. ‘Where will you go?’ 137

I put my hand to my pocket where the letter lay. ‘To London, to my Grandfather. He knows nothing of what has happened here. He does not know that Edmund and I were to be married.’ There it was . . . ‘were to be married’ . . . somehow until that moment I had not really believed that it would no longer be. She nodded, defeated, too upset to question me more. As I left the room she said, ‘How will I tell your Uncle?’ I did write to Edmund telling him that I understood, that Perdita had told me everything and releasing him from our engagement. It was not a long letter and I wished them happiness. I left Hadley Grange two days before he was due back and remembered nothing afterwards of what in other circumstances would have been an exciting journey.

* * * London was a different world, the streets full of cabs and even some of those horseless carriages I had heard of and which I expected to explode at any moment, the shops lit with a thousand gas lamps, the theatres, the 138

omnibuses and Grandfather. I don’t know what I had expected but as the carriage that had been sent to meet me drew up in front of the elegant town house in Eaton Square, the door swung open and there, in the doorway, stood a very old man, white haired and leaning heavily on a stick. Whatever I had expected it had not been this, the kindness on his face, the faded blue eyes peering down at me. A large woman in black, the housekeeper I supposed, ﬂuttered nervously round him but he waved her away impatiently and for a moment I caught a glimpse of the man he had been, imperious, opinionated. He made to descend the steps and the housekeeper’s hands ﬂew to her mouth in horror but I was quicker than her and was up the steps and beside him before he could do more than shufﬂe towards the top step. ‘I’ve come to see you, Grandfather,’ I said. He looked at me searchingly for a long time and then, his voice gruff, he said, ‘Just like your mother. You’ll do.’ It was the nicest thing he could have said. I took his arm and together we entered the house in Eaton Square. It was wonderful to be with him. I felt no strangeness. It was as if we had always known each other, but better, for there was 139

so much to talk about, to tell each other. We talked incessantly during those ﬁrst days and Mrs Blackstone, the housekeeper, virtually had to force me out of the room when it was time for Grandfather to rest. She was a brisk, capable woman and clearly adored Grandfather. ‘Such nonsense,’ she would say, ‘All this talk. You mark my words, it’ll knock him up good and proper. He needs his rest. Excitement’s not good for him.’ ‘Rubbish,’ Grandfather would roar. ‘What’s life without excitement, eh, Abby,’ and his eyes would twinkle but Mrs. Blackstone was right, he was very frail. I loved our conversations. I knew all about my mother from Aunt Josephine, of course, but almost nothing except the bare facts about my father. All that changed now. Grandfather told me about him as a little boy. ‘A scapegrace, always up to mischief, always full of wild schemes, like that one that lost me all my money. Oh, but it was daring all right and if it had come off we’d have been rich as Creosus.’ A shadow passed over his face. ‘A lively boy and what’s money. I don’t mind. I could always make money but I couldn’t have him back.’ His head dropped and I was silent. He was lost in memories and I 140

thought he had fallen asleep as he often did but as I tiptoed from the room his head came up, ‘Best son any man could have, Abby, and don’t you forget it.’ I smiled and would have spoken but he waved me away, and so each day I learned a little more about Augustus Hammond. I had been surprised at the interest Grandfather took in my clothes. What he in fact said was, ‘Dresses just hang on you, Abby. What’s the matter? Can’t have a pretty girl like you going about in dresses that hang on you like a sack of ﬂour. Go and get some new ones.’ I had to agree. I had lost weight in the last weeks and my gowns had become rather shapeless as a result, and besides, I had noticed on my visits to the great shopping arcades and emporiums that though Market Moreton could quite easily dress me for life at Hadley Grange, it did lag a little behind London fashions, and so I spent several happy hours going through silks and satins and gaberdines and cottons at a very elegant dressmaker’s salon. Grandfather insisted on Mrs Blackstone coming with me to make sure I was fully outﬁtted and, as she said, 141

‘Might as well do as you’re told, Miss Abby, or there’ll be no living with him. He always did have an eye for a pretty girl, your Grandfather.’ I laughed. I could believe it. ‘How long have you been with him, Mrs Blackstone,’ I said, turning this way and that, a topaz coloured silk draped about me. ‘More years than I care to remember, Miss Abby. Since your father was just a little boy. Blackstone he was butler, God rest his soul, and I was cook, and the times I’ve chased your pa from my kitchen. Come sneaking in, he would . . . ‘What a lovely smell, Mrs B.’ he’d say, ‘have you got an extra one,’ and if I didn’t he’d only snitch it. Oh, he was a real charmer. And then when . . .’ she stopped. ‘Go on, Mrs Blackstone,’ I said, ‘I don’t mind you talking about it.’ ‘Well, when it happened, you know, your pa, well Blackstone was dead by then and your Grandfather said there was no need of a butler and lots of servants and I would do for housekeeper with a little maid to help.’ She sighed, ‘It’s been a long road back, Miss Abby, and it’s my belief it wasn’t the money he worked for but to forget about your pa and all. He was that cut up I thought he’d go 142

mad till he started working again. Financial wizard, that’s what they say he is,’ and she nodded proudly. ‘Did you ever know my Grandmother, Mrs Blackstone?’ I said. ‘That I did not, Miss. That were before my time but there’s a picture of her, just a little one. Your Grandfather’ll maybe show you. Not that she was that pretty mind you, not in the picture anyway, but she had an uncommon kind face. Now if you don’t hurry up and choose we’re going to be late home and no dinner and won’t I get my blessings.’ I laughed. I found I was laughing more and more these days. ‘I’ll have the topaz,’ I said. ‘And very pretty too,’ said Mrs Blackstone, ‘just the colour of a honey baked ham, proper done.’ I had been some weeks in London when Grandfather said, ‘Put on your party dress tonight. Got someone coming to dinner. Time you started to see a bit of London life, enjoy yourself, young girl like you.’ I laughed, ‘I’m quite content in your company, Grandfather.’ ‘Bah, stuff!’ he said, but he was pleased just the same. 143

And so that evening I put on a gown the colour of a honey baked ham, ‘proper done’, and I was not displeased with the result. I wondered who the guest would be. Some old friend of Grandfather’s I thought. Grandfather was waiting for me. His eyes lit up us I came in and he thumped his stick on the ﬂoor, ‘Well, now. That’s better. That’s what I call a party dress. Turn round now, let’s see you.’ I did as I was told and as I did so caught sight of myself in the mirror above the mantelpiece. The ﬁre cast ever changing shadows and light about the room, for the lamps had not yet been lit, and the deep gold of the gown reﬂected the ﬂames and echoed in deeper tones the colour of my hair. My face too was different, thinner, more mature, with a certain gravity of expression that had not been there before. ‘You’re not a pretty girl after all, Abby,’ said Grandfather. ‘You’re a beautiful woman. What do you think Rothwell?’ My heart skipped a beat as I looked from him to the deeper shadows at the other end of the room. The voice was low and slightly mocking, ‘I’ve always thought that, haven’t I Abby.’ And he came towards me, his hands outstretched. I went to him, delighted. 144

‘Sinclair, you’re just like the bad penny that always turns up.’ ‘You always say the sweetest things, Abby.’ ‘Oh . . . stuff, as Grandfather would say,’ I said, blushing. ‘But how do you come to be here? A suspicion rose in my mind and my hand went to my heart, ‘Is everything all right at the Grange?’ He made a quick movement with his hand, ‘Of course. It’s nothing like that. Your Grandfather and I are . . . what would you say, Sir, business acquaintances?’ ‘Friends, Rothwell.’ ‘Friends then,’ said Sinclair. ‘But how long have you known each other?’ ‘What a suspicious creature you are, Abby,’ he said teasingly. ‘Your Grandfather and I have not been secret friends for years.’ I bit my lip, ‘Well, what am I to think, ﬁnding you here. Sinclair, you really are too much.’ He ignored my interruption. ‘My acquaintance with your Grandfather is of quite recent origin, is that not so, Sir?’ ‘That is so,’ said Grandfather, ‘but you don’t have to know a man long to become his friend.’ 145

Sinclair smiled, ‘I have become a sober suited business man, Abby.’ I snorted, most unladylike. ‘I don’t believe it. You’ve never had a serious thought in your life.’ ‘Now, Abby, that’s not true. Don’t speak of things you know nothing about.’ This from Grandfather, said mildly enough but with a degree of authority he had not used to me before. I was momentarily bereft of words and it did not help that when I looked at Sinclair he was grinning broadly. ‘Your Grandfather has given me a useful lesson for the future,’ he said wickedly as we went in to dinner. I gave him back what I hoped was an icy stare. ‘Touch of dyspepsia, Abby,’ said Grandfather as he hobbled past. ‘Shouldn’t touch the prunes if I were you.’ I gave up then and linked my arm With Sinclair’s. ‘One I can perhaps deal with, but two of you is too much for any woman.’ It was a lovely dinner, full of light hearted chatter and laughter and there was no prunes, but by the time we had ﬁnished, Grandfather was visibly tired. ‘Ring for that woman, will you Abby,’ he said. ‘Think I’ll go to bed.’ 146

I dutifully rang. I had long ago given up trying to make him refer to Mrs Blackstone as anything other than ‘that woman’ and as she habitually referred to him as ‘that man’ now that she knew me better, I could see nothing wrong with it. They were, underneath it all, very fond of each other. Sinclair rose to go but Grandfather waved him down. ‘You stay, talk to Abby. Must have a lot to say to each other, young things like you. Can’t see me giving up the chance of an evening with a pretty girl or rather a beautiful woman,’ a bow to me, ‘when I was your age,’ and he chuckled. ‘You’re a wicked old man, Grandfather,’ I said. ‘No fun being good, is there Rothwell?’ he replied. ‘Where is that woman,’ and he shufﬂed off. We heard their voices grow fainter, ‘Where’ve you been?’ ‘I’m not as young as I was.’ ‘Getting old, that’s your trouble.’ ‘Huh, look who’s talking.’ I smiled at Sinclair as we moved through to the drawing room. ‘You didn’t answer his question,’ I said. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I did.’ 147

‘That’s true,’ I said as I bent to the lamp, ‘and besides, you’d have to have been good to know whether it was any fun or not and goodness has never been one of your more obvious virtues, has it, Sinclair?’ He put his hand on mine. ‘Don’t light the lamp, Abby. The ﬁrelight’s light enough. I looked at him. He was serious now and I nodded, ‘Perhaps you’re right.’ And so we sat by the light of the ﬁre while the shadows loomed and danced in the long room and he told me of the Grange. ‘You must be honest with me, Sinclair.’ ‘I know,’ he said, and I believed him. ‘And you with me.’ I nodded. ‘There was talk?’ I said. ‘Gossip was rife. Some said you had run off with another man, some that Edmund had changed his mind, some that your Uncle had been so fuddled with drink on the night of the ball that he’d announced Edmund’s betrothal to the wrong cousin.’ ‘Poor Uncle Bart,’ I said. ‘Some even said that Perdita was carrying Edmund’s child.’ He looked at me questioningly. I looked away. ‘I see.’ His eyes were hard. ‘And you blame Edmund.’ 148

‘No,’ I protested, ‘I blame no one. There is no blame. They are in love. Edmund and I . . . it was a mistake.’ He leaned forward. ‘Abby.’ ‘Yes.’ He hesitated, smiled. ‘Nothing . . . you are right to blame no one. Blame only hurts those who blame. I’m sorry. Forgive me.’ ‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ I said. I looked into the ﬁre, at the dancing, leaping ﬂames. I could not look at him. ‘They are married now?’ ‘Yes.’ No more, just that one ﬁnal word, ‘yes’. He was right of course. I turned to him. ‘And now, how long are you to be in London.’ He spread his hands. ‘I am my own master. I’m living in a corner of our London house with two rather elderly servants so I can stay as long as I choose and I choose to be here for a while yet, long enough to show you the sights and let you sample some of this London life your Grandfather seems to think you’re missing.’ I felt a faint stab of disappointment. ‘So you’re doing Grandfather the favour of showing his country bumpkin of a grand daughter the big city?’ 149

‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Merely doing my duty and I can’t tell you how bored I shall be.’ But his eyes were laughing at me and I could not help laughing back. Sinclair would be good for me.

* * * I spoke to Grandfather next day about Hadley Grange. It was a subject I had avoided before. ‘Fine woman, your Aunt Josephine,’ he said. ‘Pity she saddled herself with such an ineffectual husband.’ I was shocked. ‘Now really, Grandfather, I can’t let you say that. Uncle Bart’s wonderful even if he is a little vague, and we all adore him.’ ‘Now, now, don’t ﬂy at me, Abby. Did I say he wasn’t wonderful or loveable? Seems a very pleasant chap as far as I can see. All I said was it was a pity such a level headed woman should choose such a weak husband but then love is blind, don’t they say. Still, it’s lucky he had plenty of money.’ ‘Oh, Grandfather, money isn’t everything, you know.’ He smiled, ‘Maybe not, but it helps. You ask anyone over the age of thirty.’ I laughed, ‘You’re incorrigible.’ 150

‘Very likely,’ he said, and then, ‘how’s the boy turned out, what’s his name?’ I swallowed, ‘Edmund. He’s turned out very well.’ ‘Not weak like his father. I thought Josephine might have spoiled him.’ My voice was even and a little cool, ‘No, he’s not spoiled or weak.’ He looked at me critically. ‘So that’s how the wind sits, is it.’ I coloured. Grandfather saw too much. ‘Still I hear he’s married now. Be good for him. Nothing like marriage to settle a man. Take young Rothwell, now there’s a man for you. Reminds me of your father. Headstrong, reckless, but he’s got more of a head on his shoulders than your father ever had. Did I tell you how I came to meet him?’ I was interested. ‘No, tell me.’ ‘Came here, bold as brass. Left his card saying when could he come and see me, I gave him a time and in he comes. Straight to the point. ‘Mr Hammond,’ he says, ‘My family’s in trouble, deep ﬁnancial trouble and all because we none of us know a thing about business.’ Well, they’d been cheated for years, nearly ruined, and he says, ‘I asked in the City who was the best man to go to, not to handle my affairs, but to teach me how to handle them myself.’ And he 151

says, ‘Yours was the name that kept coming up. You’re the best, Mr Hammond and I want to learn.’ I nodded. That sounded like Sinclair all right, straight, direct, almost rude. ‘Well, I was impressed,’ Grandfather was saying. ‘It’s not often you get a youngster coming, cap in hand, wanting to learn. Not wanting me to sort it out for him, you understand, but wanting me to teach him how, and I did. He was a quick learner, picked up the points nicely and in no time I was beginning to hear of him as a coming man in the City. Sold here, bought there,’ he chuckled wickedly, ‘even made me a very nice little killing. Nothing I can teach him now. He’s got his own way to make.’ I was concerned. ‘I had heard rumours of course, but I hadn’t realised things were as bad as that at Moreton.’ ‘Well, they’re on the mend now. Not out of the woods by any means but I’d stake my reputation on that young man any day and that’s saying something.’ He stroked his chin. ‘Only one thing wrong with him.’ ‘What’s that?’ I said, wondering what could possibly be wrong with this paragon of virtue. Perhaps we were talking about different people.’ 152

‘Needs a wife.’ I laughed out loud, but he was perfectly serious. ‘You might laugh, but if you ask me he’s sweet on you.’ I protested. ‘All right. I know I’m an interfering old man but I’ll say this . . . you couldn’t do better. Fine business head and from what I hear, doesn’t play around, or at least not too much,’ and he gave me a broad wink. I pretended I hadn’t noticed. ‘You hear a lot for someone who doesn’t get out much,’ I said. He tapped his nose. ‘Force of habit, keeping in touch. Some say it’s nosiness,’ and he looked at me meaningly. ‘But I prefer to think of it as an interest in human nature.’ I tried to head him off but he was determined to have his say and if there was one thing I had learned about my recently discovered Grandfather, it was that when he was set on having his way, have it he would. ‘Many a girl ready to snap him up, so I hear,’ he said heavily. ‘Old Dewsbury’s daughter, now she’s set her cap at him and she’s a taking young thing. Yes, marriage, that’s what he needs now.’ 153

‘You seem very keen on marriage, Grandfather,’ I said. He was silent for a moment. ‘Marriage was good to me, even though I came to it late. Best thing I ever did marrying your Grandmother, though I admit she wasn’t too anxious to have me at the beginning.’ He looked at me solemnly. ‘But these things take time. Doesn’t do to rush and if a thing’s worth having it’s worth waiting for, eh Abby?’ I was thinking of the Grandmother I would never know, ‘You’ve never spoken of her, Grandfather. What was she like?’ ‘Well, she wasn’t pretty, not in the ordinary way of things, and I know I talk a lot of nonsense about having a liking for a pretty girl but I never looked at another woman after your Grandmother, never thought of one either and you mark my words, young Rothwell’s the same type. That’s not to say I didn’t dabble a bit before your Grandmother but that’s only natural for a man, isn’t it?’ I didn’t feel qualified to answer that one but he had put his hand inside his jacket. ‘Here she is,’ he said, drawing out a miniature. It was faded and rubbed as if by much handling and the face, though not pretty, 154

it was too strong a face for prettiness, too full of character, wore an expression of compassion and gentleness that was more moving than mere beauty. ‘No beauty, eh,’ he was saying, ‘but beauty isn’t everything and she had more than beauty of face, did Ellen.’ His eyes were misted and I judged it time to leave him with his Ellen, and as I closed the door behind me I saw him raise the little portrait to his lips and kiss the face before putting it back next his heart. I knew now why it was so worn and faded.

* * * I had a lot to think about over the following weeks as Sinclair escorted me round London to see the sights and to the various theatre parties, concerts and suppers where we became part of a group of people of our own age. I enjoyed it all amazingly but I was surprised to see how differently Sinclair appeared in London. At home he had always been Sinclair, the buffoon, the clown, the dare-devil, living for me in the shadow of Edmund. It was with something of a shock that I realised that not only had he become a respected man of business but was regarded as cultured and rather dashing and was 155

much admired by the young ladies of our circle, especially, I was amused to notice, by Miss Dewsbury. Grandfather certainly didn’t miss much, and it appeared to me that Sinclair himself had made a remarkable recovery from his disappointment at my rejection. He had certainly never broached the subject again. Sinclair himself seemed to take a perverse delight in ﬂaunting his success but I did not mind, and I was only mildly irritated by his habit of turning down invitations he did not particularly want to accept on the pretext of having promised my Grandfather that he would escort me on that evening or afternoon or whatever. ‘A childhood friend of the family,’ he would say, ‘and unused to London.’ I was quite sure he was enjoying our outings as much as I was, at least until the evening of a supper party given by Miss Dewsbury’s parents. Arrangements were being made for a visit to the opera. Miss Dewsbury’s china blue eyes were upturned to Sinclair’s her rosebud mouth verging on a pout. ‘Do say you’ll come, Mr Rothwell.’ ‘I’m most dreadfully sorry, Miss Dewsbury, but I fear I am already promised to Miss Hammond on that evening. Her Grandfather you know has particularly 156

asked me to look after her while she is in London.’ I sighed to myself as I listened to the by now familiar story. Sinclair really was dreadful. Why could he not simply say that he did not care for opera, and then I caught sight of the expression on his face. It was one of extreme tenderness and his glance lingered on Miss Dewsbury’s pretty mouth as if he desired nothing more in the world than to be rid of me so that he might spend an entire evening listening to opera in her company. My irritation turned to annoyance. ‘Really, Sinclair,’ I said, ‘I am quite capable of attending a theatre on my own. There is no need for you to accompany me.’ ‘My dear Abby,’ he said, turning to me in shocked surprise, his left eyebrow disappearing beneath that lock of hair, ‘you must not even think of such a thing. Why it would be a scandal. Really you must get used to London ways. Unless a chaperone could be found, of course,’ and he looked thoughtful. This was going too far. Annoyance gave way to anger, ‘Sinclair, this is nonsense. You are free to do as you choose.’ ‘True, Abby,’ he said piously, ‘and I choose to do my duty.’ 157

I was about to reply when Miss Dewsbury, a sweetly pretty girl with a gentle nature, laid a hand on my arm. ‘Do not distress yourself, Miss Hammond. We all understand perfectly. Sinclair has given his word to your Grandfather and he is such a gentleman he would always do the correct thing.’ I was staring at her but as she spoke it was not her face I saw but Perdita’s and Perdita’s voice I heard . . . ‘You know Edmund always does the correct thing’ . . . was I to be the object of everyone’s duty. When I had heard those words from Perdita I had felt shame and grief; now I felt anger such as I had never felt before, hot and stinging. Sinclair had no right to subject me to this, to remind me . . . I turned on my heel and swept from the room, offending my hostess I’m sure for ever. He was at my heels, his face bearing no expression but polite concern. I was so angry I could have slapped him. All the way home in the carriage I said nothing, nothing as we dismounted and went to the drawing room where it had become his custom to drink a glass of brandy and talk over the evening before he went home. He poured his brandy and I stood tapping my foot impatiently until he should be gone. I would not sit down. 158

‘Well, Abby, and did you have a pleasant evening?’ I turned on him and at the sight of that coolly amused glance the ﬂood gates opened. ‘Pleasant,’ I said, on a rising note. ‘If you think it’s pleasant for me to stand by while you ﬂirt outrageously and then speak of me as if I were some poor country mouse that you’re duty bound to look after, if you think that’s pleasant then yes, I had a very pleasant evening.’ My voice was heavy with sarcasm but he was as cool as ever. ‘At least I have inspired you to something more than mere friendship.’ My jaw dropped as I took in the full import of what he had said, ‘You mean you did that deliberately. You quite cold bloodedly set out to humiliate me tonight.’ He put the glass down carefully on a side table. ‘You must admit, Abby, this outburst is due to nothing more than jealously.’ I was speechless. He was perfectly serious. Jealousy . . . what nonsense. I was angry because he had made a fool of me, had reminded me of Edmund and the pain I still felt. I looked at him, denial on my lips. His eyes were dark and compelling 159

and as I looked, my mind a jumble of conflicting emotions, I felt unsure. Could he be right? I felt faint. At once he was beside me, his arms about me, his voice insistent. ‘Admit it, Abby. It’s true. You were jealous because you love me and I love you – to distraction.’ I opened my mouth to speak but his came down on mine. I could taste the brandy on his lips, feel the strength of his arms, my senses swam. He lifted his head, ‘Marry me, Abby. I cannot live without you, only you. There will never be anyone else for me.’ I felt a great wave of tenderness for him at that moment. I put my hand to his cheek. What would I have said if there had not at that minute been a knock at the door. Mrs Blackstone appeared, took one look and visibly turned a blind eye as she said, ‘Gentleman to see you, Miss Abby, name of Mr Edmund Hadley. I’ve put him in the morning room,’ and swiftly disappeared. I was turned towards the door. Edmund here, at this hour. I made to move but I was still imprisoned in Sinclair’s arms. I turned to him impatiently. ‘It’s Edmund,’ I breathed in explanation. His grip tightened, his ﬁngers biting through the thin silk of my gown, then his 160

mouth twisted bitterly and he ﬂung me away from him so violently that I fell to the ﬂoor in a sea of topaz silk. He strode to the door. ‘Still Edmund is it, Abby?’ He stood there in the doorway, commanding, imposing and I felt a shiver of fear. ‘That’s it, is it? You can’t have Edmund, you don’t want me but you don’t want anyone else to have me either. Well there’s a name for women like that and it’s not a very nice name. You’re a woman now, Abby, not a pretty little girl.’ His voice was like ice. He spoke very deliberately. ‘I promise you, I’ll never ask you again. One rejection should be enough for any man, two is too much. I swear, Abby, some day you’ll come to me, and until then what I do and who I spend my time with is my affair. You’ve had the chance to make it yours.’ He looked at me lying there on the ﬂoor, dishevelled, my breath coming in gasps, and he laughed. ‘So much for the Ice Maiden,’ he said, then he slammed out of the room and I lay there shaking in every limb with the violence of his words. How dare he? How dare he speak to me like that? I felt anger swell in me. Come to him . . . not if I lived to be a hundred, not if he were the last man on earth. Not if he asked me 161

a hundred times, and he wouldn’t do that, not now. I felt so frustrated, I drummed my ﬁsts on the Turkey carpet. I could have screamed. What a maddening man he was. Just when I was beginning to feel a certain tenderness for him and to say those terrible things to me. No one had ever spoken to me like that. Edmund would never speak to a lady in such coarse terms. Edmund. He was waiting in the morning room. Something must be very wrong to bring him here at this time of night. I calmed myself, taking deep breaths. I got up, smoothed my skirt and patted my hair into place in front of the mirror. I was rather ﬂushed but outwardly the old Abby, calm and serene. I left the room to go to Edmund. * * * A log shifted in the grate and I was glad to turn my mind from the memory of the hope that had been in my heart as I went to meet Edmund and the grief that his news had brought me. I bent my head once more to read.

162

6 Perdita Poor Abby, you were gone by the time Edmund and I were married, weren’t you? Well, I will not dwell on it for I would cause you no further pain but a curious thing happened as I entered the little church. As Edmund turned to greet me I stumbled and had to lean heavily on Uncle Bart’s arm for a shaft of sunlight shining through the stained glass windows cast its beam across the aisle and lay like a jewelled sword at Edmund’s feet and around him was a nimbus of light in which the motes of dust drifted silently. I felt once again the sense of shock that I had experienced when I first saw him in his medieval knight’s garb. He was my good and gentle knight and I had deceived him but then a cloud must have passed across the sun and the shaft of light disappeared and the nimbus was gone and there was Edmund clad in sober dark clothes, waiting for me. 163

Our honeymoon was brief and Edmund seemed pleased to be returning home. He was concerned for Aunt Josephine and Uncle Bart. As we left the town and took the moor road for the Grange we passed an encampment of what appeared to be gipsies and circus folk and as I turned my head to look at them I heard Edmund give a gasp, ‘Surely that was Mary, Abby’s maid,’ he said, turning to look back, but I was hardly heeding him for I had caught sight of a face that I had thought never to see again. I was a child again, alone in a dingy dressing room in a backstreet theatre, alone that is with a drunken hulk of a man whose breath was fetid in my face and who chucked me under the chin in a grotesquely playful manner, ‘What a pretty child it is, then,’ he was saying, ‘come and sit on Horton’s knee then. He won’t harm you.’ And his great hands like hams reached out for me. They say that children grow up quickly in the theatre but I was still terriﬁed. God knows where father was, in some corner somewhere drinking beer and losing the little money we had in a card game, but he had taught me how to deal with a situation like this, I’ll say that for him. I raised my foot and kicked him in the tenderest of places. He grunted in pain and 164

his eyes took on a glassy look. He lurched forward and I screamed. I do not know what he would have done had not a burly stage hand arrived at that moment and knocked him out. I was cowering where I sat and the stage hand looked across the crumpled body of the man Horton at me, ‘Are you all right, lovey? No harm done?’ I managed to stutter out my thanks and he looked at me kindly. ‘There’s no harm in him really, miss,’ he said, ‘just had too much to drink. Best not mention it to your pa, eh?’ But I did mention it and Horton was turned off. Horrid creature, daring to lay hands on me. ‘I’m sure that was Mary,’ Edmund was saying as he turned back to me. ‘How could it be,’ I said, ‘she left the district months ago.’ ‘Well, if it wasn’t it was very like her,’ said Edmund and then, ‘are you quite well, Perdita. You look pale.’ I smiled at him reassuringly. ‘Only a little tense at the thought of being home again and facing Aunt Josephine and Uncle Bart.’ His expression grew serious and he took my hand in his and kissed it. ‘I’m here to take care of you,’ he said. ‘You must not worry.’ 165

Nevertheless I did worry. There were changes at the Grange. Aunt Josephine was thinner and Uncle Bart had become even vaguer though one would hardly have thought that possible. He would sit for long periods of time, gazing at nothing and letting Aunt Josephine fuss over him in a way that would have sent him scurrying for his library in search of peace and quiet a few months before. He did not speak a great deal and at dinner that night was remote and withdrawn. Sometimes when he looked at Edmund there was such sadness in his eyes but he was unfailingly courteous to me, and Aunt Josephine, for all the strain she was under, was kindness itself. As the days passed I began to realise what was wrong. There seemed to be another person present at the Grange, a little ghost. Abby was absent only in body and as long as we remained here at the Grange I would never be free of her presence and Edmund would never be free of the silent reproach, the guilt at having wronged her. I determined to speak to him. I did not wish to live at Hadley Grange with him forever accompanied by Abby’s ghost. I broached the subject as we were preparing to retire one evening; as I loosed my hair and let it fall tumbling about my shoulders, I began, 166

‘Edmund, will you brush my hair?’ I loved him to brush my hair as much as he loved to do it. He would bury his face in it and murmur endearments and at such times would grant me anything I wanted. He smiled and kissed the top of my head before taking the brush and beginning to brush in long sweeps. I closed my eyes for a moment the more to enjoy the pleasurable sensation. I opened them to see him smiling at me in the looking glass. I smiled back and his eyes grew darker. I turned and his arms were about me, his lips on my eyes, my cheek, my neck, my mouth. I struggled gently and at last he lifted his head, his eyes still unfocussed. ‘Edmund, I want to speak to you.’ ‘Later,’ he said, tightening his arms about me once more. ‘No, now,’ I said determinedly, and unclasped his hands from my waist. I rose and moved towards the window. We had been given rooms more ﬁtting to our married state on our return and though I could not see the sea from where I stood, I could make out the dim shape of the gipsy encampment up on the moor. I frowned brieﬂy at the irritating coincidence that should have brought the past so close to me in the shape of that creature Horton. Well, they would be gone soon. I composed myself, 167

‘Edmund, I want to leave Hadley Grange.’ There was a moment’s silence and then, ‘Leave Hadley Grange? But, darling, you cannot be serious. It is our home. It will be mine in time. I am needed here, you know that. Father is not ﬁt to run the place.’ He came towards me, ‘Think, Perdita, what would they do without us? You have seen the change in them,’ and his voice tailed off. My head drooped and he was at once all concern. He laid his hands on my shoulders. ‘Why do you want to leave? You have always loved the Grange as much as any of us.’ I turned away and there was a break in my voice as I said, ‘I cannot bear to see Uncle Bart and Aunt Josephine so unhappy and know that I have been the cause of it.’ His arms were round me once again and his voice was rough as he said, ‘It was I who was the cause of their unhappiness, and of yours, and of Abby’s, and I alone; you have nothing to reproach yourself with.’ This was not what I had planned. Talk of Abby at all costs must be avoided, and the matter settled quickly. I drew breath, ‘Oh, Edmund, it is not that alone. I am constantly reminded of . . . of the night 168

when we . . .’ my voice which was already a whisper trembled and failed and I looked tremulously at him. His face was a mask and for a moment I wondered if I had gone too far but he kissed me very gently and said, ‘I will start looking for a suitable house tomorrow. And now you must be so tired after the long journey and I am a thoughtless brute. I shall sleep in my dressing room tonight. Goodnight my dear.’ As the door closed behind him my triumph was tinged with annoyance but my mind was soon engaged on my other problem and that was becoming daily more pressing. How was I going to tell Edmund that there was no baby. I had seen the enquiring look in Aunt Josephine’s eyes and had noticed how solicitously she had asked after my health but I had so far managed to avoid a tête-à-tête with her. Something would have to be done quickly. I could not afford to wait another month. The opportunity came sooner than I expected and for reasons of my own I was glad that Edmund had spent the previous night in his dressing room. I did not go down to breakfast the next morning and when I did go down Edmund had already gone out. Aunt Josephine met me in the hall. ‘He’s gone to town, my dear. He said something about enquiring after properties 169

in the area.’ She paused, ‘I had hoped you would make your home with us, Perdita. I know your Uncle would be heartbroken at the thought of you not living here.’ I looked at Aunt Josephine for the ﬁrst time as a woman rather than as just Aunt Josephine and it was with something of a shock that I realised that she did not particularly like me. Whether this had always been so or was simply the result of my marriage I could not tell, and indeed I could not pretend that I had ever cared over much for her opinion on any subject, but all the same I did feel taken aback.’ ‘It’s quite natural to want our own home now that we are married, Aunt Josephine,’ I said, ‘and I don’t imagine we shall be too far away.’ I had not liked the sound of that ‘in the area’. ‘Nevertheless, my dear, it has always been understood that Edmund would upon coming of age take over the running of Hadley Grange.’ I made some soothing noises but she was not to be deﬂected from her purpose. ‘I would ask you to reconsider, Perdita, and until then not to mention this to your Uncle. He has become very frail recently and Dr Jarrow is increasingly worried about his heart. 170

‘Dr Jarrow,’ I said, ‘I have not seen him in years. I thought he must surely have given up doctoring by now. Why he must be over seventy. Isn’t there a younger doctor in Market Moreton?’ ‘Unfortunately not at the moment. Young Dr Thorpe got married and moved away,’ she said wryly, ‘and besides it would make no difference. Your Uncle will have no one but Dr Jarrow and I cannot persuade him out of it even though the old man is almost blind and quite deaf, though he won’t admit it.’ Her attention was caught by Bowman crossing the hall and she went off with him to discuss some domestic matter whilst I made a leisurely breakfast and turned over in my mind all she had told me and pondered on the possibilities. By the time I had ﬁnished breakfast I had my plan all worked out. I met Aunt Josephine once more on my way upstairs, ‘I think I shall go for a ride this morning, Aunt,’ I said. ‘It is such a beautiful morning and Moonﬂeet has not been properly exercised whilst I have been away.’ She looked profoundly shocked. ‘Oh, my dear, you must do no such thing, not in your delicate condition,’ and she blushed at the mention of it. I was prepared for such a reaction, however, and brushed her objections aside. 171

‘You sound just like old Dr Jarrow yourself, Aunt,’ I said. ‘It is a well known fact that in the early months a little gentle exercise is purely beneﬁcial and I promise not to go above a trot.’ I ran lightly up the stairs, her protests following me as I went and blew her a kiss from where I stood at the turn of the stairs. I was quite relieved as I looked down the long curving length of them that I would not have to put them to the use that I had intended for them after all, for I might really have hurt myself. Moonﬂeet was quickly saddled and we were off though I had some difﬁculty in persuading James, the under groom, that I would be quite all right on my own. I rode at a demure trot until I came within sound of the sea and then I could resist it no longer and rode for the cliff top with the wind in my hair and the tang of salt on my lips. I had one ﬁnal ride along the top of the cliffs, glorying in the freedom of it for I knew that it would be some time before I would be allowed to do so again, and then I found a likely tussock of grass with a rabbit hole at its base and a gorse bush nearby. The moor could be a dangerous place for an unwary rider. I threw my hat to the ground and took some of the pins out of my hair so that it fell untidily about my face, 172

then I stuck some bits of grass and gorse in it and on my riding habit. I gave Moonﬂeet a sharp slap on the rump and sent him off in the direction of home and ﬁnally I lay down on the short dusty grass and rolled around a little. I felt a fool as I did so and could not resist a smile as I disposed myself artistically on the tussock to await my rescue. I did not imagine I would have to wait long for my rescuers. Even if Moonﬂeet did not go home, Aunt Josephine would be counting the minutes until I was back from such a foolish ride. It was very peaceful and really quite pleasant lying there watching the clouds scudding across the sky. I was so comfortable on the short springy grass and the day was unusually warm, sheltered as I was from the wind, so I suppose it is not entirely surprising that I fell asleep for I had also been awake for a good part of the night fretting and worrying. However it does seem surprising that my faith in the plan should have been so complete that I was sufﬁciently relaxed to do so. When I awoke it was to a terror I had not known for months and certainly not since my marriage. At ﬁrst I thought I was caught up in a nightmare but this time it was a different nightmare. Where the blue sky and the ﬂying clouds had been there was a face that knocked the breath from my body so 173

that I could not utter and I was back again in that sordid little dressing room in that sordid little theatre, a child alone with a man whose face was suffused with rage at what I had done to him. I turned in terror and there on the other side of me was the face of Mary, the maid, sly and cunning and full of a gloating satisfaction. It was then that I screamed and went on screaming until I felt a bitter liquid being forced between my lips and then blessed oblivion. I awoke to bright daylight and the sun as it shone onto the counterpane was like a welcome friend. I looked around the room, my old room. The windows were open a little to let in a soft breeze, the rose velvet curtains stirred almost imperceptibly and the fringe of the canopy above my head rustled softly from time to time. The sound of birdsong was sweet to my ears and I lay back on the soft pillows and closed my eyes. At once the faces were before me again and I had to stiﬂe a scream. I opened my eyes and, shaking violently, reached for the bell rope beside my bed. Almost at once there was the sound of swift movement outside my door and a whispered conversation followed by the entry of Aunt Josephine. She came straight to my side and took my shaking hand in hers. 174

‘There, there, calm yourself, my dear. You have had a great shock but it is all over now. Lie back, there’s a good girl. Dr Jarrow will be back this evening but he says you must rest.’ My head was in a whirl, ‘The faces,’ I said. ‘Those horrible faces. That man, the girl Mary . . .’ I was almost incoherent but Aunt Josephine understood at once. ‘Did they frighten you, Perdita? They were the ﬁrst to ﬁnd you and they helped to carry you back to the house. I did not see them myself but I understand that Mary has joined up with these people over at the encampment. She could not of course get a position without a character. Cook says she was looking very much the worse for wear,’ and she sighed and shook her head. My mind was beginning to clear and I asked the important question, ‘The baby, Aunt Josephine?’ ‘Hush, hush. You are not to worry about that, Perdita. There will be other babies. Dr Jarrow says you have come through it remarkably well, really remarkably well,’ she repeated and as I glanced at her through my lashes I thanked my stars that old Dr Jarrow was not only ancient and half blind but also most opinionated. I relaxed on my pillows and put my hand to my eyes, 175

‘Can I see Edmund?’ ‘He’s outside, I’ll send him right in, but he mustn’t stay long. You need to rest.’ And she left me, automatically straightening the counterpane as she went. She paused at the door, ‘He is very distressed, Perdita,’ she said. When he came in I hardly knew him, so pale and drawn, so grief stricken. He knelt by my bed and bowed his head, taking my hand in his and raising it to his lips. I smoothed his hair with my other hand and my heart ached for him. ‘Edmund,’ I said softly. He looked up, his eyes drowned in sorrow. ‘Oh, my dear, what trouble I have brought on you,’ he said, and at the words and the sight of his so dearly loved face my heart was wrung and I could ﬁnd no words for the sadness that engulfed me, for what I had done to him, for how I had deceived him, for how I loved him and must go on doing all in my power to keep him and I wept, great racking sobs that ﬁlled my body with pain and he took me in his arms and crooned and murmured until my tears were stilled and my sobbing shook my body silently in his beloved embrace. I was conﬁned to bed and as the days passed I grew paler and thinner and the shadows under my eyes grew darker until 176

even Doctor Jarrow became alarmed by the deterioration in my health. It was assumed that I was grieving for the lost child and Edmund was a constant shadow at my bed. I could not tell him the real reason for my illness. The nightmares had returned but now redoubled in force for where once only a child had screamed and begged for help there now also loomed the faces of those two who so loathed and terriﬁed me. I was afraid to sleep lest I should cry out in the night and bring someone to my side for I had never been sure just how coherent I was when I talked in my sleep though since that time so long ago now when I had found Miss Pettigrew by my side, I had suspected that I could be only too coherent. Finally Edmund could stand it no longer and begged me to allow Dr Jarrow to give me the sleeping draughts I had been refusing to take. I was so weak and the sight of his distress moved me so much that I gave in and allowed myself to be dosed with laudanum. I was so tired and weak that I think I cared little whether I lived or died. That night I slept dreamlessly and for several nights afterwards I drew grateful ease from the little bottle that Dr Jarrow had left by my bed. So well did sleep produce its beneﬁcial effect that by the end of the week I was 177

allowed out of the house to sit in a sunny corner of the garden. Edmund came to carry me down. ‘This is ridiculous, Edmund,’ I said as he picked me up in his arms. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ he said, ‘you’re as weak as a kitten still. Why I doubt if you could walk unaided.’ He was right, I was still very weak, ‘Oh, all right then,’ I said and put my arms around his neck. His eyes were level with mine and I kissed them in turn and nestled close to him. We made a strange procession. Edmund was in the lead carrying me as if I were made of feathers, then came a footman carrying a wicker chair, then the tweeny half hidden by a pile of blankets, then Bowman with a footstool and ﬁnally Aunt Josephine festooned with shawls and wrappers and constantly dropping the books she was carrying. ‘Down by the box hedge, Edmund,’ she ordered. ‘It is easily the most sheltered spot and catches all the sun. And Edmund will sit with you, my dear, for it is quite far from the house. Would you like Bowman to stay too, Edmund? One cannot be too careful at the moment you know. Only yesterday I was hearing of another theft. Lady Hamiltonffrench’s jewel box,’ and she nodded. ‘It is 178

my opinion that those gipsies or whoever they are should be moved on.’ ‘Come, mama,’ said Edmund, ‘You cannot know that they are responsible. There is a camp there every year and we have never had trouble of this sort before.’ ‘Nevertheless, Edmund, I intend to take particular precautions whilst they are here. There is altogether too much of this kind of thing going on.’ ‘Well, I hardly see any thief being interested in a collection of rugs and scarves, do you?’ said Edmund. ‘Levity is all very well, Edmund,’ said his mother severely, ‘but Lady Hamilton-ffrench was saying that they are most daring, most daring indeed. Why she was saying . . .’ and on went Aunt Josephine with tales of the dreadful deeds done by the thieves. The rest of the walk was accompanied by the most detailed descriptions of items taken and a condemnation of the authorities that allowed such things to happen. I snuggled closer to Edmund and let the tide of her chatter wash over me. He looked so much more relaxed today, quite like his old self again, and I was happy. The spot chosen was some way from the house, being the boundary of the garden and the home farm, but it was an ideal place 179

since the boundary was marked by a small copse which acted as a very effective screen and the spot they had chosen was itself sheltered from any stray breeze on three sides by a box hedge with little pathways through it turning between the hedges almost like a maze and leading off into the wood. I was completely encased in rugs and shawls and Edmund put the footstool at my feet. Aunt Josephine was ﬂuttering around. ‘Are you quite sure you will be warm enough, Perdita?’ she asked, tucking yet another shawl round my shoulders. ‘Aunt Josephine, I shall be perfectly all right so long as I don’t actually die of heat. Don’t you think I have enough shawls now.’ ‘Well, if you think so,’ she said doubtfully, ‘and Edmund can always run up to the house for more if you should get cold.’ Edmund and I sighed with relief as she left with many warnings against trying to get up and we listened to the sound of their voices receding on the still autumn air, Aunt Josephine’s querulous, Bowman’s deferential and the tweeny’s giggly at some gruff remark from the footman. At last they were out of earshot and only the sounds of the garden and the woods remained. We did not speak much, Edmund and I. We were content to sit in silence, 180

happy in each other’s company. It was as if some enchantment had been laid on the garden and on us. But enchantments do not last and ours was broken by Hodges, the groom, ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he said, ‘but it’s the new hunter just arrived.’ ‘Very well, Hodges, I’ll come and see it this afternoon,’ said Edmund. Hodges shufﬂed from foot to foot, ‘Well, sir, it’s his fetlock, see, don’t seem right and I thought before I get him set up in the stable like . . . ’ ‘Oh, all right, I’ll come,’ said Edmund irritably. Hodges backed off and Edmund turned to me, ‘Will you be all right on your own, Perdita? I won’t be long.’ I laughed at him. ‘Of course I’ll be all right. What on earth could happen to me here? Off you go and look at your hunter. You know you’re longing to anyway.’ He kissed me lightly and was gone. I lay back in my chair. The sun shone steadily and still warmly though there was that elusive and distinctive smell in the air that means summer is over and winter is just round the corner. Small sounds came to my ears as I sat there unmoving, content in the peace of the day. The whirr of a wood pigeon’s 181

wings, the rustle of a leaf golden in the sun as it drifted earthwards, the scurry of some small creature through the undergrowth and, once, the cry of a small animal fallen victim to the laws of the wild, the prey of some larger and stronger creature. I must have dozed for when I opened my eyes it was with the knowledge that some sound had disturbed me. I smiled, thinking it was Edmund returning and then the hairs rose on the back of my neck as the sound came again, a low throaty laugh. As if by magic a man appeared with incredible swiftness and silence from behind the hedge on my right. My breath caught in my throat as I recalled Aunt Josephine’s warnings and then I recognised him. My old fear threatened to overcome me but I suppressed it and regarded Horton levelly. ‘What are you doing here?’, I said coldly. ‘This is private property and you are trespassing.’ He laughed again in that threatening manner. ‘What should I be doing here. I’ve come to pay my respects to an old friend,’ and he advanced on me, his ugly face twisted in a grotesque parody of a smile. I shrank back in my chair, my conﬁdence faltering, but my voice was steady as I said, 182

‘How dare you speak to me like that. Be off or I shall have no alternative but to call the servants and have you thrown off this land or worse.’ The horrible face was pressed close to mine and I could smell the stink of beer on his breath. ‘I don’t think that’s very wise, do you?’ he said, leering at me, and he used a name that I had not heard in years, not since the night of the ﬁre. I gasped and as he withdrew his face from mine I saw the triumph in his eyes and knew that until he saw my reaction he had been unsure. I cursed myself for my stupidity. If I had not been in such a weakened state I would never have betrayed my fear. He laughed again deep in his throat and the anger that I felt towards myself was turned on him and I felt my mind grow cold and sharp in its fury. ‘How did you know?’ I asked. He relaxed and I knew that half my work was done. He was almost preening himself. ‘At ﬁrst I didn’t, though I did know your face was familiar to me. It was not until Mary and I began to discuss it that we began to put two and two together.’ I maintained an expression of cold interest as he continued. 183

‘We talked about it later,’ he said, regarding me closely, ‘after we had found you up on the moor, that is, Mary told me all about her young mistress’s pretty ball gown and about how you had come to be living at the Grange. Why it almost brought tears to my eyes, that story of a little orphan girl coming home to the bosom of her family after all those years spent in the theatre. Nasty rough place, the theatre,’ he went on as I made to protest. ‘Yes, you always were a quick little thing. You’re quite right, I didn’t think twice about it, just accepted that you’d had a stroke of luck getting back to your people before your old dad pegged out.’ I could not be silent, ‘Then how . . . ’ I began but he was still talking. ‘Mary talked,’ he said and his voice was ugly. ‘She doesn’t like you, lady of the manor, no she doesn’t like you at all.’ There was real venom in his voice and I began to wonder how long I had been dozing and when Edmund would return. ‘I began to realise that some things just didn’t add up,’ he was saying. ‘I had good cause to remember you,’ again the venom in the voice, ‘and your act, so I began to ask questions and nothing seemed to make sense until that is,’ and as he paused I felt 184

my eyelids ﬂicker with apprehension, ‘until I bumped into an old friend and he told me about the ﬁre and how the Great Zardini and his little daughter had perished in it, and I was interested so we got drunk this friend and I and he remembered much more about that night, oh, much more.’ He looked at me and he was grinning. ‘I may be slow but I got there in the end.’ My lips were dry and I licked them, ‘What you say is quite incomprehensible to me and unless you go at once I shall have no hesitation in calling for help.’ All the time I spoke my mind was racing. He could not hurt me. No one would attach the slightest importance to the wild tales of a dismissed maid and a run down theatrical. I felt my conﬁdence returning but once again my heart contracted in fear as I looked at him. ‘I’m ahead of you again,’ he said, smiling almost good humouredly, ‘but there is one thing you don’t know yet.’ He licked his lips and leaned over me once again, his breath warm and sickly in my face. ‘Let me tell you a little story,’ he said conversationally. ‘One day last week I was out on the moors on business of my own but we needn’t go into that,’ he said, and he actually 185

winked at me. I felt cold with the premonition of what he was about to tell me. ‘Ah, yes, I see that you get my drift,’ he said. ‘Well, I was witness to a very strange little scene and when I recalled what Mary had told me about the, circumstances shall we say, of your marriage, well it wasn’t hard to put two and two together and come up with a very proﬁtable answer. Proﬁtable for us that is.’ My nails were digging into my palms as I remembered how lightheartedly I had undertaken my little deception and all the time this creature had been watching me, spying on me. ‘So we raised the alarm, Mary and I, and brought you home and I must say your husband was very generous, very generous indeed so I wouldn’t want to upset him, would I, not when he has been so generous?’ The thoughts passed like lightning through my brain. This was different. Had I not seen a little scepticism in Aunt Josephine’s attitude towards my ‘miscarriage’, the merest doubt but enough to make his story dangerous and besides I could not bear the thought of what such a story would do to Edmund. I needed time to think but I could see that he was about to turn really nasty. ‘How much?’ I said and he smiled and rubbed his hands. 186

‘Well, I’m not an unreasonable man. Would you say I was an unreasonable man? After all a man who can keep quiet about the things I know cannot be called unreasonable and such consideration for the feelings of an old friend surely merits some recognition.’ I felt sick with disgust as he laid his hand on my knee. ‘How much?’ I said again and my voice was harsh with loathing. He withdrew his hand. ‘In that case, I think a hundred would not be unreasonable,’ he said, and I could feel the blood draining from my face. Where was I to get that kind of sum? I turned to him and once again he smiled that leering smile. ‘To be going on with,’ he said. I closed my eyes. I would never be rid of him. He would bleed me for ever if I let him. There was a rustle of leaves and from behind the hedge a ﬁgure appeared. It was Mary. I relaxed. For a moment I thought it was Edmund returning. The thought that any of this sordid business should touch him was too much to be borne. She did not even look at me but only at him. ‘Quick, there’s someone coming. Have you told her?’ ‘Her.’ How dare she refer to me in that tone. Once again I felt the anger growing 187

in me and once again my mind grew sharp and clear. Stupid of me not to realise he would have a lookout like any common thief. I heard him say, ‘When will you have the money. Hurry up, you haven’t much time.’ My mind was already racing on ahead. Common thief. The thought reverberated in my mind. My voice was steady and calm as I said, ‘I must have a few days. I do not have access to such a sum of money immediately. You surely realise that.’ The girl Mary was becoming agitated, plucking at his sleeve, urging him to hurry. He threw her off roughly and advanced on me, his fists clenched, his expression rigid with menace. ‘No tricks, mind. Any tricks and your precious husband might not be quite so handsome any more.’ ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ I breathed. ‘You don’t want to take that risk,’ he said and smiled again. ‘Oh no, you don’t want to take that risk.’ ‘Come to the conservatory at midnight a week from today,’ I said, my breath still catching in my throat. ‘I will make sure the door is left unlocked.’ He grabbed my chin and forced my face up. He almost spat into it as he said, 188

‘No tricks, remember, or your husband suffers.’ ‘Oh, come quickly, please,’ called Mary, almost weeping in her agitation and pulling at him. He gave me one last venomous look and was gone as silently as he had come, with Mary stumbling into the copse behind him and making enough noise for both. She was a weak creature, I thought, hardly a problem at all, but I had the beginnings of an idea how to deal with her partner. All at once the reaction overcame me and I felt my body slump in the chair. I could not move my limbs and I knew that there was no vestige of colour in my face. That was how Edmund found me a few moments later and I was carried back to the house and not allowed up for three days, but by that time I had formulated my plan.

* * * I concentrated on getting well. Nothing must be allowed to interfere with my plan so I did as I was told, ate what I was told and was generally a model patient. I let it be known that I had a little difﬁculty sleeping but refused to take any more of Dr Jarrow’s laudanum, saying that it was merely lack of 189

exercise and that once I was fully recovered I should ﬁnd no difﬁculty sleeping. This gave me the excuse I needed for staying in my old room for I said I would often read late into the night and did not want to disturb Edmund. So it was that one week later I was ready to put my plan into action. I waited till I was sure that the house was abed and asleep before creeping downstairs and into the dining room. Once there I opened the sack that I had purloined earlier in the day from the stables when I had paid a visit to Moonﬂeet and as quietly as possible I loaded a few of the less cumbersome pieces of silver from the sideboard into it and pushed it gently under the table, taking immense care for I did not want it to rattle. I then sped out to the conservatory as the silvery chimes of the hall clock marked the hour and stopped for a moment to prepare myself for the ordeal. If this did not work out as I had planned then I was ruined and my life with Edmund over. I must succeed. I thought again of his dear face and of the vile threats of that man and I shuddered. The conservatory was ﬂooded with moonlight from a full yellow moon and as I stood there I recalled that other plan that I had made here on the night of Edmund’s betrothal to Abby. My head came up. That had worked. Why should not this? 190

My heart ﬂuttered a little as a dark shadow loomed at the door onto the terrace, giant and grotesque in the moonlight, and I took a deep breath before hurrying to unlatch the door. His voice was rough with nerves and anger. ‘I thought you said you’d leave the door open.’ ‘Be silent,’ I hissed. ‘Do you want to wake the whole house?’ He scowled at me but did as he was told. ‘Follow me,’ I said. ‘It’s too dangerous for you to wait here. You can wait in the dining room while I get the money.’ I turned to go, expecting him to follow, but he seized my arm and I almost cried out in pain at the wrench he gave it. ‘What do you mean, get the money,’ he growled. ‘I told you to have it ready for me.’ I turned back to him, forcing the words from between teeth gritted against the pain in my arm, ‘I told you I don’t have that kind of money. I had to wait until my husband was asleep to get the key to his desk. You must see that if I had taken the money before tonight it would have been put down to thieves and the house put on the alert. Now let me go and stop taking stupid risks.’ 191

I waited, scarcely breathing, whilst he absorbed the explanation. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘but remember, no tricks,’ and he gave my arm an extra twist before he let me go. I led him into the dining room and in the glimmer of moonlight I saw his eyes glitter as he looked at the silver. Oh, he was greedy, this fool, and that would be his downfall. allowed him to look his ﬁll before saying, ‘Under the table there is a sack with some pieces of silver ware in it.’ His face registered surprise but I pretended to ignore it and continued, ‘You must on no account touch it. It must look as if a thief has got into the house, picked the lock of the desk in the library, stolen the money and tried to make off with the silver before hearing some noise which disturbed him and caused him to take to his heels leaving the silver behind him.’ His eyes were still glittering with avarice. ‘Do you understand,’ I hissed. ‘The silver must be left where it is. It must not be touched.’ He brought his head round and his eyes regarded me insolently as he said, ‘You’re a real little schemer, aren’t you? Just get the money and be quick about it.’ And 192

he gave me a push which sent me stumbling towards the door. I closed the dining room door gently behind me, satisﬁed with my assessment of his character and hoping against hope that my little scheme as he called it would work. There was no time to be lost. With extreme caution I slid open the drawer in the little table that stood at the foot of the stairs and extracted the pistol. It lay heavy in my hand and I slipped it into the pocket of my robe. As I sped upstairs on bare silent feet I reﬂected on how little trouble I had had persuading Aunt Josephine to keep a pistol there, ready primed, whilst the burglaries continued in the neighbourhood. I was taking no risks with Edmund’s safety. I went straight to our room. He lay peacefully asleep, a shaft of moonlight lending an unearthly beauty to his features. Even in my haste I could not resist pausing for a moment just to look at him. ‘This is all for you,’ I whispered, then, ‘Edmund, Edmund,’ I called softly, shaking him. He woke at once and I put my ﬁngers to my lips. ‘Hush,’ I said, ‘I think there is a burglar in the house. I was reading late for I could not sleep and I heard a noise. I think it was coming from the dining room.’ My voice was urgent with fear and not all of it was assumed for I was conscious that with 193

every passing minute the danger to us both increased. Edmund was quick to understand. At once he was out of bed and, kissing me, told me to stay where I was and then he was gone down the back stairs to fetch Bowman and the footman. I could hardly contain myself. The next few minutes were like hours and at ever turn I expected disaster. I paced up and down, my hands twisting restlessly until I heard the faintest of sounds in the hall below, and hurried silently to the top of the stairs to see the three, armed with what looked like pokers, advancing stealthily towards the dining room. It looked so funny to me in my near hysterical condition that I almost giggled at the sight and then suddenly it was no longer funny at all. What would Edmund want with a poker if he had a gun? I put my hand to my side and felt the heavy weight of the pistol still in my pocket. How could I have forgotten to give it to him? I could hardly believe my stupidity and my mouth was dry with fear when suddenly there erupted the most appalling commotion and it seemed that the house was at once alive with noise and shouts and running feet. I wondered if Horton had come armed. I was down the stairs before I knew I had moved and out of the corner of my 194

eye I caught sight of Aunt Josephine come to her bedroom door. As I approached the dining room my eyes were assailed by a confusion incredible to behold. Chairs were overturned, side tables knocked askew and everywhere was the glimmer of moonlight on silver. He had put up a strong fight. My gaze came to rest on the protagonists and they were a sorry sight. Edmund was sporting bleeding knuckles and an eye that was rapidly swelling up. Bowman was sitting in a corner, his arm hanging at an odd angle. The footman was looking scared out of his mind and was hanging on for all he was worth to the burly ﬁgure of Horton, though he did not seem to be hurt. As for Horton himself, when I looked at him it was as if a vision of hell had opened in front of me. He was standing, his arms pinioned on one side by Edmund and on the other by the footman. His face was bruised and blood was running from a cut on his mouth but it was not that which made me turn away in disgust but the foul obscenities that were pouring from it. Aunt Josephine’s arms were at once around me and Edmund made to gag him with his hand but yelped in pain as he was bitten. The words that came tumbling out were almost incoherent, so interspersed with curses and foul language. 195

His voice rose to a crescendo as he shouted, ‘Whore, whore and trickster. You tricked your way into his house, into his bed and now you think you’ve tricked me. But you haven’t. This time you’ve gone too far.’ Once again Edmund tried to stop his mouth with his hand and then quite suddenly Horton became very still. I had taken the pistol from my pocket and was holding it out in front of me. It was directed at Horton. I had intended giving it to Edmund but somehow as all those foul things he was saying cascaded from the slack ugly mouth I found myself pointing it at him. ‘Perdita,’ Edmund’s voice was soft and I turned to see him detach himself from Horton and hold out his hand for the gun. My hand shook as I made to give it to him, there was a scufﬂe and Horton broke free. We all froze for there winking evilly at us from his cut and bleeding ﬁst was the pistol, and this time it was pointing straight at me. ‘If anyone moves, she’s dead,’ he said and there was conviction in every syllable. There was utter silence in the room. He licked his lips slowly, regarding us almost nonchalantly and with satisfaction. 196

‘Now you can listen to me, all you gentlefolk,’ he said, and he cast a sneering, gloating look at me. This was it then. I had ﬁnally overplayed my hand. It had been an enormous risk to take and it had come so close to succeeding. If only he had not contrived to wrest the pistol from me. I braced myself for what was to come, and that was the moment that Uncle Bart chose to appear in the doorway, a ludicrously comic ﬁgure in nightshirt and cap, his muddled eyes gazing at the scene before him. ‘I thought I heard something,’ he said. The hysteria that had threatened to engulf me earlier rose to the surface again and I felt myself begin to shake with uncontrollable sobs of laughter. Everything seemed to explode in a nightmare of sound. I saw Edmund leap for Horton, I saw Uncle Bart’s eyes focus unbelievingly on the pistol that was now pointing at him, for we had all, including Horton, turned towards him as he entered the room. I saw his face twist in pain and, as Edmund knocked the gun from Horton’s hand, there was the deafening roar of a pistol shot. The last thing I saw before I fell was Uncle Bart as he sank impossibly slowly to the ﬂoor. I regained consciousness with the smell of burning feathers acrid in my nostrils and 197

pushed away the hand of the little maid who was holding them under my nose. Her eyes were huge with wonder and terror mixed. I had been carried into the drawing room and lay propped up on pillows on the sofa. ‘Oh, madam, I’m so glad you’re all right. I wondered if you were dead, I did truly, and you so still and not even your eyelids moving and so pale after all your troubles and illness . . .’ and here she stopped in confusion. ‘What has happened, Lucy?’ I asked. ‘Oh, madam, I don’t rightly know if I should tell you what with you being so upset and fainting and all. I don’t rightly know if the mistress would like me to go exciting you after all you’ve been through.’ I sighed patiently. I was remarkably clear headed and calm. ‘Lucy, I am far more likely to get excited imagining what has happened than I am if you tell me calmly and clearly just what has occurred.’ She bit her lip in an agony of indecision before her excitement overcame her fear of Aunt Josephine’s disapproval and she settled more comfortably on the ﬂoor by the sofa. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘such a to do, I’ve never seen anything like it and when we’ll ever get the dining room set to rights again I’m sure I don’t know and how can Mr Bowman carry 198

on with a broken arm, at least we think it’s broken for it does seem to hurt a lot and it looks very queer all bent back like that.’ She gave a shudder and catching my eye began again, ‘Anyway young Tom’s gone for Dr Jarrow so we’ll soon ﬁnd out and there’s cook swelling up ﬁt to burst, ‘ ‘A thief,’ she says, ‘a common thief in my kitchen. I’ve never heard the like. Why we’ll all be murdered in our beds and I just hope that door’s strong enough for he looks a nasty brute and strong as an ox,’ though he didn’t look all that dangerous to me, madam, more sort of broken down and sad like though I know he’s a wicked, wicked man,’ she added, ﬂushing. ‘And it’s not as if he’s in the kitchen really, you wouldn’t call the still room the kitchen really and where else would you keep a thief, after all there’s a good lock on the door and it’s only till Mr Edmund comes back with the police.’ Here she stopped to draw breath and I took advantage of the opportunity, ‘Mr Edmund is quite safe, then?’ I asked, relief ﬂooding through me. ‘Safe as houses, madam,’ and her hand ﬂew to her mouth as she realised what she had said. ‘Lucy,’ I said, ‘before I fainted there was a shot. Is anyone injured?’ 199

Her lips began to quiver and the excitement died out of her expression as she said, ‘Oh, madam, it’s the Master. I don’t rightly know if I should say but he’s very poorly and I only hope Dr Jarrow can get here soon. I don’t rightly know exactly but I think he’s bad.’ The tears ran down her pleasant little face, all her pleasure in the excitement of the night gone. I turned my head as the drawing room door opened. Aunt Josephine was standing there as still as a statue and as grey as stone. Lucy scrambled to her feet and stood at a respectful distance while Aunt Josephine came and sat on the sofa beside me. She took my hand in hers and her voice was low but steady when she spoke. ‘We have been through a terrible ordeal, a terrible ordeal,’ she repeated, shaking her head. ‘That strange man and the dreadful things he said to you. So vindictive. What can it mean, Perdita?’ I put a hand to my head, ‘I can only think that his mind is unhinged, Aunt. What other explanation can there be?’ ‘Indeed, you must be right,’ she said but she was too distracted to pursue the subject. ‘And you, are you quite recovered now?’ 200

‘Oh, quite, Aunt. It was the shock, that’s all. But how is Uncle Bart?’ Once again she shook her head. ‘It is too early to say. He too had a shock and his heart as you know is not strong. I fear he thought he was about to be murdered and his heart gave way.’ ‘Then he was not shot? I heard a pistol shot.’ ‘Lodged in the door jamb,’ she said shortly. ‘Quite spoils the look of the door. Oh, dear. I am rambling. Dr Jarrow is with your Uncle now. We should know quite soon what his prospects are. I am so worried, Perdita.’ A tear rolled down her cheek to lodge in the furrow between nose and mouth that seemed suddenly so deeply etched. We sat for a while in silence, she lost in contemplation and me at my wits end to know what was happening downstairs in the still room. What was the wretched man saying? Would anyone believe his wild accusations? There was a sound at the door and Dr Jarrow’s face appeared, round and yellow like the harvest moon. Aunt Josephine rose at once and they conversed in a low murmur for a moment or two before she left the room to go to Uncle Bart’s bedside. He advanced jovially towards me. 201

‘Well, young lady,’ he said in his best bedside manner, ‘how are you feeling. I’m afraid you really must try to lead a quieter life for a while.’ And he laughed encouragingly. I assured him that I was feeling quite well now and would take some laudanum before retiring again to ensure a good night’s sleep. ‘And how is my Uncle,’ I asked. His face became grave and he stroked his chin. ‘That I am not prepared to say just yet. At the moment he is still unconscious and I cannot with any certainty predict what is likely to happen. I very much fear that you will have to prepare yourselves for the worst, though I have not as yet said this to your Aunt.’ His little eyes regarded me intently. ‘I’m sure you understand that she should be allowed to hope a little yet and must not be distressed further. I rely on you to be a comfort and a solace to her.’ He patted my hand in an avuncular manner and rose stifﬂy to his feet. ‘What a night,’ he said, rubbing his hand through his hair till it stood comically on end. ‘I have as many patients tonight as I normally see in a week. Goodnight, my dear, and do not forget to take your sleeping draught. A good night’s rest. That’s the thing. I must 202

now go and attend to Bowman’s arm. They tell me it’s broken. Fine thing for a butler, eh?’ And he went away still muttering to himself. I was determined not to retire until Edmund should return and until I heard what was to happen to Horton. I rang for Lucy and told her that she was to wait up until Edmund came home and gave her a message for him, then I mounted the stairs of the now quiet house to the room I had been used to sleep in for so many years. I should certainly not sleep until I had seen Edmund so I curled up on the window seat, a shawl thrown round my shoulders, and I thought of the many hours I had spent in this spot listening to the sough of the sea and drinking in the tang of it. The ﬁrst birds were beginning to greet the day and the ﬁrst ﬁngers of dawn’s light to sear the grey sky when I heard the door open softly and Edmund was standing there, his hand bandaged and his eye beginning to turn all the colours of the rainbow. I ran to him and his arms went round me. ‘Edmund, are you all right. Are you badly hurt?’ He laughed softly and pushed me away from him so that he could look at me. ‘No, you goose, of course I’m not badly hurt.’ 203

He looked at me critically. ‘Poor sweet, you look quite done up.’ I shrugged and turned away restlessly. ‘I’m all right. I couldn’t sleep until I’d seen you.’ I was aware of my ﬁngers pucking nervously at my shawl as I said, ‘What have they done with . . . with him?’ He was at my side, his hands on my hair, smoothing it, cradling my head in his arms. ‘Hush, hush, my dear. You have nothing more to worry about. He has gone. He will trouble us no more.’ ‘Did . . . did he say anything before they took him.’ ‘Not a thing,’ said Edmund briskly. ‘In fact he seemed completely played out. Hadn’t a word to say for himself, never seen anyone so hangdog in all my life. If I hadn’t witnessed for myself what a brute he was I’d never have believed it, all the stufﬁng knocked out of him. Of course he thought he’d shot Father, went as white as a sheet and dropped the gun. I had the impression he had never intended to use it at all, just wanted to frighten us. He went to pieces then, went like a lamb, no trouble at all. Strange fellow.’ His expression hardened then as he said, 204

‘Nevertheless, even if he did not actually shoot Father, he still might have done for him. He’s clinging to life with all he’s got but Jarrow is not at all hopeful.’ ‘I know,’ I said softly, ‘I spoke to him earlier.’ Edmund brought his gaze back to me and smiled gently. ‘Of course, forgive me, I know that you are as worried as I.’ He looked at the rapidly lightening sky. ‘And now I must be off,’ and he squeezed my hand. ‘But where are you going?’ I said. The pressure on my hand increased and his look was tender. ‘I must go to London to fetch Abby.’ ‘Abby,’ I repeated stupidly. ‘But why? And why must you be the one to go? You have had no sleep, you are injured,’ I ended on a rising note. ‘She must come home, Perdita. Don’t you see? Father may not live above a few days, a few hours even. She would wish to see him and mother wants her here.’ He tilted my face to look at him. ‘Who else would bring her home on such an occasion as this? She will be greatly grieved and will need comforting.’ He raised my hands to his lips. ‘Go to bed now and sleep well. I shall be back as soon as I can, with Abby.’ 205

He was gone and I was pacing up and down, the words echoing in my mind. ‘With Abby . . . to comfort her’. I threw myself on the bed and stared angrily at the shifting pattern of light as the sun strengthened in the sky, and I ﬁnally fell asleep from sheer exhaustion. And so Abby came home to Hadley Grange, and three days later Uncle Bart died and Edmund became master of Hadley Grange and I its mistress and bound to stay there. Only now it was not Abby’s ghost I had to fear but Abby herself. * * * The autumn storms were bad. They matched my mood. Mourning did not become me. My skin became sallow against black. I needed the vibrancy of colour to bring it to life. Even my hair had lost much of its lustre in those last few weeks and I was determined to come out of mourning after six months. I could not bear it. Also there had been a great change in Abby since she had been away. No longer was she the pretty smiling miss we had all been accustomed to. Now she had an air of maturity that lent her dignity and grace. Her complexion was less rosy than it had once been, her figure more 206

slender and the silver gilt of her hair made a startling contrast against the unrelieved black she wore. She had also learned to dress well and the fragile and graceful figure haunted me more by its physical presence than the little ghost she had left behind when she went to London had ever done. And still the storms raged. All along the coast people said they had not seen their like in years and the winds that blew across the moors from the sea threatened to blow the chimney pots from the roof, so great was the force of them. There were many days when none dared put to sea and stories of hardship were heard from the small ﬁshing villages which depended so much on the sea for their livelihood. But the strangest happening of all was on our own doorstep. It happened in the graveyard where I had liked to wander as a girl, and where Uncle Bart was now buried. It was right on the edge of the cliffs, in the oldest part of the graveyard, that this had occurred, near the Devil’s Cauldron, and macabre though it was I found it fascinating. The news came to me via Lucy who had been down to the village on some errand for cook. She came in at the side door as I was arranging some late chrysanthemums in the garden room, her face ablaze with excitement. 207

‘Oh, madam, you’ll never guess what’s happened. A judgement some say and old Mother Jacks says some great evil is going to befall us.’ Here Lucy rolled her eyes with dramatic effect. ‘Well, if I’ll never guess, you’ll have to tell me, Lucy,’ I said. ‘Oh, madam, I don’t rightly know if its something a young lady should hear.’ I sighed, ‘I am no longer a young lady but mistress of the house, Lucy, and I assure you my nerves are strong.’ I was becoming more and more interested. Lucy took a deep breath, her eyes aglitter with excitement. She needed to tell someone or burst. ‘Well, madam, young Toby Jenner was walking up in the graveyard early this morning, just after dawn it were, and what he was doing there I wouldn’t like to say and up to no good as like as not for he’s a young limb and he’ll be the breaking of his mother’s heart and her a widow.’ ‘Lucy.’ ‘Oh, yes, well all of a sudden, as he was walking along the cliff edge he saw a skeleton rise up out of the ground at him and turn and grin at him. Oh, it scared him half to death. Horrible he said it was and the bones all white and the earth dripping from it like 208

it was blood. Oh, madam, I don’t know as I should have told you.’ I looked at her severely, annoyed with myself for inviting servant’s gossip. ‘Are you sure Toby has not been telling you a tale, Lucy?’ She drew herself up. ‘If he did, madam, he’s been telling the whole village and the vicar’s up there now along with the rest and what with that poor girl Mary being found washed up on the rocks all battered I don’t know when there’s been a day like it. They do say it was suicide, madam . . . ’ Here she came to a stop as she saw my face. ‘Mary?’ I said, and I could hear the sharpness in my tone. ‘The maid Mary, do you mean?’ ‘Oh, madam, I’m sorry and the master said most particular it weren’t to be mentioned and I just don’t know how it slipped out. Oh, madam . . . ’ ‘That will do, Lucy,’ I said. ‘Get back to your work now and no more gossip, do you understand?’ ‘Yes, madam, begging your pardon, madam,’ and she scurried off. As I carried the bowl of chrysanthemums into the hall Bowman came rushing forward 209

to relieve me of my burden, then stopped, embarrassed as he realised that his broken arm would prevent him. ‘Never mind, Bowman,’ I said. ‘You’ll soon be as good as new again.’ ‘Very good of you to say so, madam, and I do hope so.’ ‘Bowman, have you seen your master?’ I put the bowl down on the hall table and tweaked a bloom here and there. ‘Yes, madam, he is in the library with Mr Venables, the solicitor, madam.’ My ﬁngers tensed. ‘Will you tell me when Mr Venables has gone. I shall be in the morning room. I should like to speak to the master as soon as possible.’ ‘Certainly, madam,’ said Bowman, withdrawing silently. I looked once again at the bowl of ﬂowers and removed the one that I had inadvertently crushed. The morning room was ﬂooded with sunlight and I did not have long to wait before the door was ﬂung open and Edmund came striding in. He kissed me on the cheek. ‘Bowman said you wanted to speak to me.’ ‘Yes, Edmund. Is it true about Mary?’ His lips hardened. 210

‘Who told you? I warned the servants that it was not to be mentioned on any account.’ ‘That is of no matter. Is it true?’ ‘Yes, it is.’ He passed a hand over his hair. ‘She was found washed up on the rocks. It was clearly suicide.’ ‘But why did you wish to keep it from me?’ I persisted. He took my hands in his. ‘Because I did not want you to be reminded of your accident. Your nerves are still not strong.’ I was exasperated. ‘My nerves are perfectly strong, Edmund. I am not a child that things should be kept from me like this.’ His voice was soothing. ‘I only did what I thought was best,’ he said. ‘So much has happened lately to upset you.’ I was disarmed by his concern for me. ‘What did Venables want?’ I said, and I saw a wary look in his eyes. ‘Or is that to be kept from me also?’ I broke away from him. ‘It was about Horton. Now don’t distress yourself,’ he said as I turned towards him again. ‘I admit I was not going to tell you. I thought it would only remind you.’ ‘What did he say, Edmund.’ 211

‘Only that Horton has been to the Assizes and is sentenced to life on a penal colony.’ I felt relief ﬂood through me. ‘Then we have nothing more to fear from him?’ ‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘and now tell me what you have been doing today. Have you heard of the supernatural happenings up on the moor?’ I looked at him in surprise. ‘Lucy was telling me some nonsense about skeletons grinning at Toby Jenner but I thought she had been guyed.’ ‘Not at all,’ said Edmund in a sepulchral tone. ‘Corpses have risen from their graves and come to haunt the unworthy.’ I shivered violently. ‘You see,’ he said teasingly, ‘your nerves are not so strong as you thought but there is a simple explanation. Do you remember the Devil’s Cauldron and the stories you told me of the strange ﬂeshless corpses that were washed up there and we laughed and were a little afraid just the same?’ I nodded. ‘Well, young Toby it seems has discovered the truth of it. The force of the storms has crumbled some more of the cliff up there and the graveyard extends far beyond what anyone had realised. It would seem that 212

every time we have a really bad spate of storms some other ancient skeleton is precipitated from its grave into the sea and what Toby in fact saw was the collapse of a grave.’ ‘I think the truth is even more horrible than the ﬁction,’ I said in distaste, ‘but it certainly is an interesting explanation of the Devil’s Cauldron. I would like to go and see it.’ At once he was serious. ‘You must not. It is extremely dangerous. Why they cannot even move the skeleton for fear of the whole thing tipping into the sea and both living and dead with it.’ ‘Oh, I would be careful and I would be safe enough if you came with me.’ His eyes slid away from mine. ‘I’m afraid that is impossible. I have to go into Melbury.’ ‘What for, Edmund. Can’t it wait?’ ‘I’m afraid not.’ ‘Then I’ll come with you,’ I said. ‘It’s ages since I was in Melbury.’ ‘It would be very boring for you, my love. There’s some legal business Venables wants me to attend to.’ My curiosity was aroused, ‘Edmund, is there something you’re keeping from me?’ 213

He laughed, but I thought he looked uneasy. ‘Yes, lots of tedious dusty documents that would not interest you.’ He kissed me lightly. ‘I shall be back as soon as I can and meanwhile I beg of you, do not go near the cliffs today. I know you will be sensible.’ I was far from satisﬁed but at that moment the door opened and Abby came into the room. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I did not know . . .’ she was covered in confusion but Edmund was as charming as ever. ‘Not at all, Abby. I was just going.’ He squeezed my hand and moved towards the door. ‘Take care of her, Abby. She is not as strong as she thinks she is.’ Bowman appeared behind them. ‘I beg your pardon, madam, might I have a word.’ ‘Certainly, Bowman’ I said, but whilst he talked of some minor domestic crisis I could not keep my attention from straying towards the doorway where Edmund and Abby were conversing in low tones. I saw a quick bright flush of blood mount in her cheeks and she glanced briefly in my direction and then Edmund was gone. 214

I dismissed Bowman and she and I stood looking at each other. I knew that I could not be happy until she was gone. ‘I am going up on the moor this afternoon,’ I said almost defiantly. ‘You needn’t come if you do not wish to.’ ‘Oh, but I shall,’ said Abby. ‘I promised Edmund, and besides I should like a ride today.’ It was intolerable. Was I to be guarded and spied on as well as kept in ignorance of what was happening? I laughed. ‘Then let us go and see the secret of the legend of the Devil’s Cauldron. Let what will dare haunt us.’ She looked puzzled and I realised with a small shock that she knew nothing of the ﬁnd up on the cliff. It was a dull afternoon as Abby and I made our way to the stables to fetch the horses, and James the young groom was doubtful of our going. He cast a dubious eye at the low threatening cloud that was gathering far out to sea. ‘I shouldn’t go far, madam, begging your pardon. The weather don’t look too heartening and after all the storms we’ve been having, more than just ordinary storms if you ask me what with all the funny things that are coming to light up by,’ and he jerked his head in the direction 215

of the cliffs. ‘So if you don’t have any objection, madam, I’ll just saddle up old Duke and come along with you if you’re set on going.’ I looked at him coldly. ‘You will do no such thing. Miss Abby and I have been riding this country all our lives and in all kinds of weather and we certainly do not need a groom in attendance.’ The man ducked his head but continued doggedly. ‘Well, madam, Master says if you’re going out today would I keep an eye, see, make sure you’re all right.’ I was outraged. Edmund seemed extraordinarily anxious that I should stay at home. ‘Nonsense,’ I said, ‘and if I so much as suspect that you are following us you will be dismissed instantly, is that clear?’ He nodded miserably. ‘I don’t know as the Master’ll be pleased, madam.’ ‘I am Mistress of Hadley Grange and I shall be obeyed without question,’ I said, furious at his persistence. He looked at me and then at Abby, his face mulish. ‘I shall be with your Mistress, James,’ Abby said. ‘I’m sure the Master will not 216

blame you for following your Mistress’s instructions.’ His face cleared. ‘Well, if you say so, Miss.’ As we rode off I was livid. ‘In future, Abby, I would be grateful if you would allow me to deal with my own servants in my own way.’ She ﬂushed and bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry, Perdita, but the poor man was torn between his duty to Edmund and his obedience to your orders.’ ‘Edmund seems very anxious that I do not go out today,’ I said. ‘Do you know why?’ Once again she ﬂushed. ‘He is concerned for your health and thinks you may still be a little over tired. By the way, what did he mean by ‘funny things coming to light’?’ ‘Who can tell?’ I said. ‘These people are almost incomprehensible.’ She was silent and I gave myself up to the enjoyment of the ride. Soon my mood passed and I felt exhilarated by the sharpness of the air. We tethered our horses at the near end of the graveyard and I stood silent while Abby placed the little posy of ﬂowers she had brought with her on Uncle Bart’s grave. ‘Come along,’ I said when she had done. ‘Let us go and look at the Devil’s Cauldron. It 217

should be beginning to seethe.’ And indeed the clouds were beginning to mass and the waves were white-capped. Abby shivered. ‘I have never liked that place, Perdita, let’s not bother about it today. The wind is getting up and it’s quite dangerous near the edge of the cliff.’ ‘Don’t be governessy, Abby,’ I said. ‘Come along,’ and I strode off towards the edge. The idea had been so vague, so dependent on the events of the moment that I hardly admitted its existence even to myself but ever since Abby had come home I had known that something would have to be done. I wanted her out of the way and I would have no scruples over how it was done and besides I would not actually do anything. If Abby should be the victim of a tragic accident then that would be regrettable but no fault of mine. Abby and I would merely look at the latest candidate for the Devil’s Cauldron. If she stepped on an unsafe piece of ground then that would be a terrible thing but surely no fault of mine. I looked at the cliff edge before me. There was a curious uneveness about it and sticking out of the earth a few yards away was something white and gleaming. The storms had washed away the earth on either side 218

of what was presumably the grave and had made a little promontory of it. I walked on down away from it to get a better view and saw that the whole of that part of the cliff was undermined and that only the bones of the skeleton itself were supporting the earth. It looked solid enough from the other side but it was obvious from this side that it would bear no weight. It was a gruesome sight. Abby was still standing over Uncle Bart’s grave and I surveyed the scene critically. The graveyard was on the other side of the crumbling clifftop from where I was standing and if Abby came out by the tumbled down wall it would be natural for her to approach me along the cliff path which was now running directly over the undermined cliff. I cupped my hands around my mouth and gave a loud halloo, ‘Abby, come quickly, come and see this.’ She turned at once and looked puzzled at the slight note of urgency in my voice but she began to walk towards me. I held my breath as she looked from the gate to the breach in the wall then turned towards the wall, the route that brought her directly to me on the cliff path. In a way she had chosen her own destiny. Her movements were unhurried as she came, calm and smiling slightly. 219

‘You sound as if you’ve made a wonderful discovery. What have you found?’ she called, her voice blowing on the wind. ‘Come and see,’ I called again. ‘You’ll never see anything like it again,’ and that was true enough I thought grimly. I could hardly bear the suspense. She was picking her way delicately along the path avoiding a gorse bush here, a stone there, nearer and nearer with every step until she was almost upon the overhanging path. Three more steps, two . . . she stumbled and my breath stopped in my throat but she looked up and smiled and then her face froze in horror. For a wild moment I thought she had seen the danger but that was impossible. It was invisible from the other side. What was wrong. Two more steps, one even, and then I saw that her gaze was not on me but on something behind me and the hair stood on the back of my neck as I heard that terrible sound. I turned to see Horton, his face a twisted mask of hate, the low rumble of his laughter sending a chill through me. Never had I seen such hatred on anyone’s face. His mouth was twisted with it, his eyes red with it, his very skin seemed to ooze it. When he spoke his voice was a snarl. ‘You thought you’d got away with it this time, didn’t you. Thought I was safe 220

bound up on a convict ship by now, out of your way, out of your life, and I would have been but for one thing. You won’t understand, but I’ll tell you anyway, before I kill you,’ and he licked his lips in horrible anticipation. Somewhere away to my right I heard hoofbeats and I turned in wild hopes of rescue. It was with the strangest sense of despair and hurt that I saw Abby riding away. Even she has deserted me, I thought. He was speaking again. ‘I was a broken man when you had ﬁnished with me, no ﬁght left in me. I didn’t care what happened to me. You were too strong, I could see that, but you made one mistake, a mistake that strong and cruel people often make. You left me with nothing to hope for, nothing to live for and then you went too far. You killed Mary.’ I opened my mouth to protest but no sound came. ‘You may not have pushed her head under the waves. You may not have held it there till the life was gone from her poor body but you killed her just the same for you did to her what you did to me, you left her with no hope. I loved Mary, yes loved her, not that you would ever begin to understand that.’ 221

He came a step nearer and my ﬂesh crept at the thought of his touch. ‘She was with child. No family, no character. All she had was me and you put me away. What else was left for her to do. They call it suicide but it was you, you murderer. You killed her.’ His face dropped into his hands and for a moment I thought of escape but my limbs seemed to be made of lead. His head came up. ‘I’ve got nothing to lose. I’ve got nothing to live for. You should never take everything away from a person. It’s dangerous,’ and he leered horribly at me. ‘I’ll dance to the gallows for you, my dear,’ his voice was almost loving, ‘and I’ll laugh every step of the way.’ I recoiled and as I turned my head I caught a glimpse of movement over in the graveyard amongst the gravestones. Abby must have gone for help. At once I was in command of this shambling wreck of humanity but he also had seen the movement. He made a lunge at me and I stepped back sharply. He fell sprawling to the ground and there was Edmund, standing where Abby had stood such a short time ago. Where Abby had stood. Suddenly my mind was ﬁlled with terror. I heard his voice, saw his sweet face. 222

‘My love, are you all right?’ And he stepped towards me. My voice was a scream in my ears as I rushed upon him, my arms outstretched. ‘No, Edmund, no.’ My feet scarcely seemed to touch the ground as I pushed him full in the chest and he staggered back, his hands clutching wildly for mine. Our fingers touched briefly before I felt a hand grasp my ankle and the earth gave way beneath me. I was still screaming as the hideous skull pressed against my face, as the bones touched and seemed to caress me and my mind was filled with horror. Down we went, seemingly for ever, the skeleton, Horton and I, a macabre tangle of limbs and bones, down into the Devil’s Cauldron. It was an outcrop of rock that saved me from instant death. The bones were lodged in crevices and cracks around me, pounded by the waves against the rocks, powdering and splintering, a grisly companion. I watched Horton as his grasp slipped from my ankle and he was sucked beneath the waves, his mouth a bloodied, silent scream, his eyes open and staring, still even in death full of hate, and I lay there while the world went mad above me. 223

7 Abby The room had grown cold whilst I had been reading and I rose, my limbs stiff, to huddle a shawl around me and coax the dying fire to new life. I was glad of the respite, of the small ordinary actions so far removed from the drama we had lived through. Soon I had the fire bright again and blazing and I could no longer keep my mind from that diminishing bundle of papers. I could not go to bed and leave them unread. Somehow it seemed to me that my solitary journey through the night with Perdita’s papers was as important to her as it was to me. I curled up in my armchair and let the heat from the flames soothe me, comfort me. I allowed my mind to drift. * * * 224

I was back again on the moor with the picture frozen for all time before my eyes. Perdita and Horton facing each other on the cliff top, fear and hatred and danger, and Edmund’s words ringing in my ears, ‘Horton’s escaped. I must go to Melbury. Take care of her, Abby, she is in great danger.’ I had to get help. There was nothing I alone could do. Swiftly I mounted Princess and with a brief hope that Perdita would not think I was abandoning her I was off. I needed help, I repeated the words over and over to myself like an incantation. I could not allow myself to dwell on what was happening behind me. I was half way to Moreton before I realised what I was doing. I was riding to Sinclair, not to the Grange. No time to ask why and nor did I want to know, not now. I had not seen him since Uncle Bart’s funeral and then only brieﬂy and there had been a distance in his manner, a reserve that had never been there before. I crouched over Princess’s neck, urging her on and at last there before me was the tower of Moreton’s stable block. By great good fortune Sinclair was in the stable yard, his horse ready saddled. I ﬂung myself out of the saddle and into his arms. I felt a ﬂeeting spasm of what . . . guilt . . . 225

pleasure . . . as I saw hope ﬂare in his eyes and die as my garbled story came tumbling from my lips. At once he was mounted, giving me into the care of the groom. I struggled, ‘I’m coming with you.’ His eyes were hard, ‘Then you’ll have to keep up. There’s no time to be lost,’ and he was off like the wind with me behind on poor Princess. He rode like the devil, his horse’s hooves striking sparks from the cobbles of the stable yard, then out of Moreton, off across the moor, leaping hedge and drystone walls. I was far behind but my heart stopped each time that ﬂying ﬁgure leapt. Dusk was gathering and in the fading light I could hardly tell man from horse, so low was he crouched over the animal’s neck. I spurred my valiant Princess on and the breath sobbed in my throat as I saw him approach a particularly high wall head on. I willed him to clear it, the horse stumbled, surely at that speed he must be thrown. I closed my eyes and when I opened them he was off again, a tiny ﬁgure in the distance pounding over the turf, headlong, heedless of danger. By the time I got there the cliff was alive with people with lamps and ropes. The light was fading fast now. I saw Edmund, white faced and trembling. He clutched my hand, 226

‘She’s fallen, Abby. She’s gone over the cliff, she and Horton together.’ ‘Into the Devil’s Cauldron?’ I said, horriﬁed. His hand convulsed wildly in mine. ‘No, Horton did but Perdita was saved by an outcrop of rock. She’s on a sort of ledge down there.’ I breathed again. ‘Not dead then?’ ‘No, but hurt we think, and we can’t get to her. You know the Devil’s Cauldron. There’s no way in from the sea and on a night like this . . . ’ He was right, the wind was gusting and great drops of rain were beginning to fall. ‘What about the cliff face?’ I said, but even as I spoke I knew it was useless. Only a madman would attempt the cliff face at the Devil’s Cauldron. ‘It’s impossible, Abby.’ I nodded. He could speak no more. I comforted him as my eyes raked the crowd. ‘Where is Sinclair?’ I said sharply. It was Hodges, passing with lanterns who answered. ‘Gone over the cliff, Miss.’ I swayed. For a moment I thought he too had fallen. ‘To rescue her,’ he continued. 227

‘It’s impossible,’ I breathed as I looked at the wind-lashed ﬁgures near the edge of the cliff, at the whitecaps barely visible in the deepening gloom. ‘That’s what we said, Miss, but Mr Sinclair, well he’s headstrong and no mistake. Wouldn’t take no rope neither, said it’d get snarled up on the cliff face.’ The wind threw stinging spears of rain in my face. ‘No rope?’ I said. I thought of that cliff face, of the wind that surged into the Devil’s Cauldron, twisting and moaning, plucking at the few plants that grew in the crevices, tearing at the coarse grasses that clung there, and Sinclair had gone down without a rope. I turned to Edmund and pushed him down on some tumbled stones. ‘I’ll be back, my dear,’ I said. I don’t know if he heard me and as I turned away I saw him bury his face in his hands. I hurried towards the cliff edge, Hodges still by my side. The nearer we got the louder the crash of waves against rock, the stronger the wind, and it snatched at my skirts making them crack like sails and buffeting me ﬁrst from one side and then the other. What would that same wind be doing to Sinclair. It would pluck him from the cliff face like a child plucks a berry and ﬂing him to the rocks below. I was suddenly quite calm. 228

‘What instructions did he give you?’ ‘Well, Miss, he said we’re to listen for a shout and then throw out a rope as far as it’ll go. Put a weight on it he says and it’ll go farther,’ and he held up a horse’s shoe as he spoke. It looked heavy enough. ‘Reckon this’ll do,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope it brings him luck,’ and he grinned. I started towards the cliff edge. Hodges tried to restrain me but I shook him off. Cautiously I moved towards the edge and lay as we had done so often when we were children, with my head out over the void. What stories Sinclair used to tell about this place. I could hear his voice now, ‘It’s where they boil bones for the Devil’s soup.’ And mine to Edmund, ‘The Devil takes care of his own.’ How could anyone be heard on a night like this? The sea thundered over the rocks, the hiss of spray, the sucking of the waves and then I heard it, a thin cry carried away almost immediately on the wind. I turned and shouted to the knot of men behind me and they came forward with the rope they had been preparing. There were ﬁve of them. I directed operations from where I lay and a comic enough ﬁgure I must have made. The rain streamed down 229

my neck and ﬂ attened my hair close against my head and the sea spray stung and numbed my lips. The largest and strongest of the men undertook to throw the rope but he had to stand back from the edge to do so or he would have been blown over and of course Sinclair was right, it could not simply be lowered, the cliff face was too uneven. He whirled the rope with the horse shoe on the end round his head three, four times and then cast it out over the edge paying out the rope as it went. I closed my eyes and prayed but too soon I head it strike rock. I called for a lantern. I had to draw the rope up so carefully for it must not be allowed to snarl on any outcrops of rock and even with the lantern I could see no more than a few yards down the cliff face, but I could hear and amidst the thunder and crash of water I heard again that faint unmistakable cry. I seized the rope and jerked with such savagery that it caught and stuck fast, the horse shoe around some projecting rock. I cursed myself for a fool and tears of frustration stood in my eyes as slowly I let out the rope again gradually, jiggling it around till the shoe came loose. It took three tries before the horse shoe went clean and sweet through the air and over the cliff in a momentary cessation of 230

wind, and in the lull that was even eerier than the howl of the wind came a shout of triumph. I sagged where I lay and heard the men behind congratulating each other, then I came to. From my position I directed them, the strongest at the front on the rope and the end of it anchored to as big a boulder as they could drag across. I made them stand there at the ready, their heels dug into the soft turf, their hands tight on the rope for we could not know how suddenly they would have to take the strain. There were two sharp tugs on the rope and the men braced themselves. I watched in fascination as the rope, only inches from my face, went taut and then began to vibrate. Sinclair was on the other end of that rope. It was his life line. I peered over the edge, holding out the lantern as a beacon to guide him. He could not even know how far he had to go. It would be darker down there than up on the cliff. I could see little beyond the lamp but I could hear odd sounds, the rattle of loose stones once and then in the gloom a dim shape, grotesque until I realised that he had roped Perdita to his back. Slowly, painfully, he was climbing hand over hand, his feet braced against the cliff face. Once he slipped and swung for a moment over that terrible place and the rope beside me 231

lurched forward. I gasped and shouted at the men to hold their stance. He got a foothold and again began that pitifully slow ascent. After what seemed an eternity his head was level with mine. I looked into his eyes. They were almost blind with exhaustion, his skin grey. I could not move and he smiled a parody of his mocking smile. ‘Ah, the lady with the lamp,’ he said and with one mighty last effort he heaved himself over the edge of the cliff and collapsed on the grass. I scrambled back from the edge and together with the men we dragged them to safety. Perdita was unconscious, Sinclair barely so as we unroped them. Rugs were at hand and Perdita was lifted gently onto a stretcher and wrapped up. For a moment I was alone with Sinclair. His eyes were closed, his face deathly pale. I threw a blanket over him, tucking it in as best I could. In the lamplight his skin seemed almost transparent, no movement of lips or eyelids. I sobbed and laid my ear to his breast. I could detect nothing. The tears coursed down my cheeks and I heard myself whisper his name. There was a movement. ‘Tears, Abby? For me?’ I lifted my head. ‘I could not hear your heart.’ He chuckled and then grimaced in pain. 232

‘Well, my little Florence Nightingale, that is because you had your ear ﬁrmly pressed to my brandy ﬂask and I must say that a little brandy would not go amiss. Could you, Abby, I ﬁnd my right arm rather ineffective at the moment,’ and another spasm of pain twisted his mouth. I was about to chide him for duping me when I noticed the blood soaking through the sleeve of his jacket. I gasped and my hands ﬂew to his breast pocket and found the little silver ﬂask. I put my hand under his head and raised it up. I took the ﬂask and raised it to his lips. He drank deeply and a shudder passed through him. He drank again then looked up at me. His eyes were dark and there was a gleam of amusement somewhere in their depths. There was a shout from Hodges and with a swift movement he was up on his feet muttering an oath as he clutched his injured arm to his side. I looked at him in astonishment. ‘You let me wrap you up, support your head, feed you brandy and all the time you were perfectly all right, except for your arm,’ I said, making a concession. I was furious. ‘Maddening, isn’t it?’ ‘Why?’ I said. He looked at me with that mocking, laughing look. 233

‘I was enjoying it, Abby. It’s not often you’re so concerned for my welfare.’ I was about to make some waspish retort as he stood there, his head thrown back, his eyes glinting and only the arm limp by his side to show what he had been through. ‘Abby!’ It was Edmund. I turned, ‘Over here, Edmund.’ He came towards me. He was not quite so pale but he still looked badly shaken. ‘Abby, please come home now. Perdita needs you. I need you.’ I put my hand out to him. ‘Of course I shall come Edmund.’ I turned back to Sinclair but he had gone. I heard hoofbeats and watched as he cantered off into the darkness.

* * * We brought Perdita home and put her to bed in the rose room and once again Dr Jarrow was summoned to Hadley Grange. He shook his head. There was no obvious damage, no break though she was sadly cut and bruised, but a nerve must have been twisted or perhaps severed in her back for she had no power in her legs. She would be 234

crippled for life. Edmund was distraught. Perdita would see no one, not even him. Only Aunt Josephine was allowed into her room. She had asked for writing materials and paper and these Aunt Josephine had brought her but Perdita would say no more. Aunt Josephine said she barely spoke and spent all her time writing. She was growing thinner by the day and Aunt Josephine’s face was grim each time she came down from seeing her. It was exactly a week later that Aunt Josephine found her. The storm had lashed the house all night, spending itself ﬁnally in the early hours of the morning. The sky was a pellucid blue, the moors vibrant after the rain, and the day as calm as midsummer. She was lying half across the window seat, her refuge she used to call it, the windows open to the moor. Her hair streamed down her back, still wet from the rain that had scourged the house, her nightgown was soaked and clung to her poor cold body. God knows how she managed to drag herself to the window. It must have been a superhuman effort and her nails were ragged and broken where she had clutched for handholds. Aunt Josephine insisted that the window had blown open by accident and that Perdita had crawled across the ﬂoor to close it but we all knew in our hearts that 235

had not been the case. Still, no word passed between even ourselves and we buried her in the graveyard on the moor alongside her father and Uncle Bart, and no one spoke. There was no funeral meal, no gathering of friends and neighbours to mourn her, only Aunt Josephine and me, and Edmund like a grey shadow, and Sinclair a dark presence in the background. We did not speak, and as I walked away with Edmund leaning heavily on my arm I was conscious of his eyes following me, then he turned away sharply across the moor. That was this morning, only this morning. I seemed to have lived a lifetime since then. The sky was grey now. There was no point in going to bed and besides there was one ﬁnal bundle of papers, a slender bundle and sealed with red wax. I knew even as I broke the seal that here I should ﬁnd the ﬁnal answer to the enigma that was Perdita. I turned once again to the papers before me.

236

8 Perdita The writing was shaky, as if the hand that wrote it had suddenly become weaker. Have you guessed, Abby. Do you know that I am not Perdita? Sinclair knows. He has known for a long time. I don’t know exactly when or how he came to know but I rather think it may be something to do with the colour of my eyes. They are a rather unusual green, like my mother’s. I hardly remember my mother, just a laugh and a ﬂashing smile and the scent of roses that seemed always to surround her. She told fortunes and helped father with his magic act but he was a fraud and she, well she was not. Sinclair was quite right to call me a gipsy, a Spanish lady, or if not quite right, near enough the truth. My mother was of an old Romany family and ran away to marry father but it was doomed from the start. How could 237

such a free spirit lead that kind of life, and so she left when I was six or so and what fame father had as a magician went with her. From then on our lives changed. Father sank from being a celebrated magician to a small time conjurer and as soon as it was possible I became his assistant. I was a quick learner and we were soon getting work, but father had changed. He had started drinking when my mother left and I remember being often puzzled when he came home, if you can call a backstreet lodging house home, so happy, and took me on his knee and gazed at me while the tears would mist his eyes and he would cry quietly and hug me. I began to hate him coming home and would pretend to be fast asleep and I much preferred it when he stayed out all night as he sometimes did. It was not too long before I discovered what brought on these changes of mood, but I could do nothing about it and we continued going from town to town playing one mean little theatre after another with him drinking himself into oblivion every night, and I have no doubt we would have gone on doing it if we had not met Perdita and her father. The oddest thing about it was that we had not come across them before. We had been playing more or less the same circuit of theatres for 238

about ﬁve years without running into them but when we did it was at exactly the right moment. Our timing for once was perfect. They were a song and dance act and it was remarkable how they could bring the house down with their sentimental little songs, she all sweet little girl in a frilly dress and pink parasol and he looking like a guards ofﬁcer at least, so tall and handsome. I didn’t dislike them but I hated all they stood for. They had come down in the world whereas we, well, until then I thought we were doing all right, but somehow beside Perdita and her father it all looked rather cheap and tawdry. It wasn’t difﬁcult to imagine their story and once we got to know them as of course we did, our circumstances being so similar, we got the lot, a blow by blow account of the family history. It bored me at the time but I had to listen since Perdita’s father was buying the drink and mine would listen to anybody so long as they went on buying, and it stood me in good stead later when I had to go all dewy eyed over ‘dear mamma’. Perdita thought the whole thing just too romantic for words but I found myself unable to agree. I had learned at a very early age that romance is no substitute for money. I cannot recall exactly how much of the story I got from Perdita and her father who 239

tended to be maudlin in drink, and what part of it I heard later. What I do know is that as a story it lacked originality and that as a morality tale it fell on the ears of the converted. Poor Aunt Josephine. ‘You are only the innocent result of your dear mamma’s foolish actions,’ she would say, ‘and no one loved your dear mamma more than your Uncle and I did but, only think, child, what would have become of you if your papa had not managed to get you here before he died?’ I did think and the shudder I gave and that she misinterpreted, as she misinterpreted many of my reactions, was one of horror. So many ‘ifs’. If Perdita and I had not borne such a resemblance to each other in age, colouring and height. If her papa had not rushed into the inferno, mad with grief and bound to fail. If father had not been sober, and surely that was the greatest ‘if’ of all. That he should have a mind free of drink, clear enough to function so quickly to our advantage at precisely the right moment was nothing short of a miracle. We had just ﬁnished a season and had heard that there were replacement acts needed at a theatre some distance away. The four of us decided to travel together since we were all chums by now and besides father and ‘dear papa’ were talking about 240

a double act for Perdita and me. Dear Papa was grimly hanging on to the remnants of his youthful good looks but he knew he couldn’t go on singing sentimental ballads all his life. Nobody would book an elderly tenor, not for anything but a ﬁller at any rate, and father had been mufﬁng tricks rather badly recently. His tricks were so old he could have done them blindfold and standing on his head, and whenever he did fumble he was adept at turning it into a bit of business and raising a laugh. However the result was that some nights the act was more of a comedy one than a magic act. Both dear papa and father then had an interest in setting Perdita and me up as a double act. We were remarkably alike, at least superﬁcially, with dark hair and slender bodies. Our eyes too were dark, though hers were a dark blue whilst mine were green, and we both had considerable charm but where hers was natural, mine was calculated and learned. The theatre makes a child grow up quickly and I had long been accustomed to fend for myself after the show when father would disappear, sometimes not returning till the next day. I cut the teeth of my charm on the hardbitten hearts of theatrical landladies and there is no more demanding school. Perdita, on the other hand, though 241

in the business all her life, had always been protected from all this by dear papa and it was only a year or so since dear mamma had died, so in many ways, though we had our experience in common to some extent, we had lived in different worlds. These then were the two sweet ‘sisters’ who were to take the stage by storm. Our train was late arriving and we had agreed to do a matinee that day so we had to go straight to the theatre, baggage and all, and that was another stroke of luck for we did not have time to look for lodgings before the show and if there’s one thing a landlady can spot a mile away it’s a drunk, so father was staying sober for two reasons, so that he would not ﬂuff his ﬁrst performance and until we could ﬁnd digs. We had the briefest of meetings with the theatre manager who was in a rush to get to some meeting or other and who hardly seemed to know who we were, and then it was straight to work. We were just ﬁnishing the matinee and Perdita and I were in the dressing room trying on each other’s costumes to see what kind of thing we could come up with for our act together. It was all very girlish and was strange to me for I had never had any friends of my own age and I was enchanted by her clothes. Dear mamma had made her costumes and they were completely 242

different to anything I had worn on or off the stage. They made my spangles and glitter look cheap and common. I felt a great well of resentment spring up in me. I wanted to tear the costume from my body and rip it to shreds but I couldn’t for I found I loved the feel of the fabric and the swish of the pink frills as they swung around my feet when I moved. I hated her then for having the things I didn’t have, pretty clothes that I never had any money for because father drank it all. I was eyeing her with envy and a degree of dislike that surprised even me as she opened the locket that she wore constantly round her neck to show me her clever mamma, when the cry went up. Her papa was ﬁnishing the show with one of his more popular ballads that had the more short sighted of the ladies in the audience throwing ﬂowers onto the stage; I was holding the locket in my hands, the ﬁne gold chain still around Perdita’s neck, and pretending to admire the picture of her mother. It was awful. Even now I hate to think of it, the cry that every performer dreads, especially if you are back stage at the time, ‘Fire, Fire,’ and the sudden stampede of rushing feet, confusion everywhere. We stood stock still for a moment, Perdita and I, 243

and I can still remember the dawning horror in her eyes as she whispered, ‘Papa,’ and whirled round with a jerk that tore the locket from her neck and left it in my hands. I too stood for a moment unable to move and then the smoke was acrid in my nostrils and I was running, fumbling through the rabbit warren of corridors, trying to ﬁnd a way out. I still remember the panic rising like a tide and the horror of being burnt alive, and then the blessed coolness of the open air and father stumbling to meet me, his face black, his clothes torn, and me in Perdita’s pink frills. I could have laughed for the relief of it and at the sight of us, we looked such guys, but then I saw the theatre and the ﬂames leaping high in the air and bells started to ring somewhere and all was noise and confusion again before the world exploded in pain and everything went black. The next thing I knew was father bending over me and saying, ‘Don’t say a word. Just do as I say.’ And I couldn’t say a word for my head was ringing with pain or maybe it was still the bells, and lights ﬂashed continuously across my eyes when I tried to open them so I gave up and closed them again. Then I was being lifted and carried into some cool and quiet place and I heard father say, 244

‘I’ll take care of her now,’ and to me, ‘Perdita, Perdita, can you hear me?’ At that I did open my eyes but the pain ﬂashed across them again and I had to close them and as I did so I felt father’s hand on mine, the pressure gentle but unmistakably warning as he said, ‘Just listen quietly to me.’ And he proceeded to tell me how Perdita had been pinned under a falling beam as she rushed onto the stage to ﬁnd her papa and how he had run, demented, back into the blazing theatre to save her. They were both dead, burned beyond recognition, and it was only when the theatre manager who had spoken to us all too brieﬂy that morning had said to father something about the poor magician and his daughter, that he realised that Perdita had been mistaken for me. Our change of costumes and father’s unrecognisable appearance, what with smoke blackened face and torn clothes, added to the confusion in the manager’s mind. He had not seen the show. He had in fact no idea which couple we were. The plan began to shape itself in father’s mind. Why need anyone ever suspect? The theatre was burnt to the ground and all our luggage and any identity papers with it. We knew none of the others acts. Why need anyone ever question us. We had already been confused 245

by the manager. It was a simple matter to offer no explanation and he had the locket safe in his pocket, proof as we had been told often enough of Perdita’s story for it had been given to dear mamma on her coming of age and Perdita’s dearest wish had been to see it around her mother’s neck in the portrait that hung, so dear mamma had said, in the drawing room at Hadley Grange. Perdita’s papa had been adamant that no matter how badly he needed the money he would never ask his wife’s family, but we need be troubled by no such scruples. I cottoned on surprisingly quickly despite my aching head, especially when I remembered those pink frills, so after a night during which father stayed dutifully by my hospital bed despite all regulations, both impressing the nurses with his devotion and preventing me from saying anything awkward, we started out for Hadley Grange. The piece of falling masonry that had struck me a glancing blow and rendered me unconscious had been useful in that it gave father time to conceive his plan without me spoiling things, but it was with difﬁculty that we persuaded the hospital that I was ﬁt to go next day. We could not risk any of the other performers recognising us no matter how remote that possibility. 246

If things worked out as planned we would never see any of them again, if they didn’t we could always go back to the theatre under different names; it happened often enough. And so I was provided with a cast-off dress from the charity box and we left Perdita to be buried as me, and dear papa lying so close to her in his futile attempt to save her went to his grave with father’s name, and a pauper’s grave at that, which was a pity considering the rich relatives they had, and after a trying journey which I would rather not think about for I have never liked the idea of begging and eating scraps and we could not risk earning our money in the usual way, we presented ourselves at Hadley Grange and father conveniently died which was fortunate for me for he was unreliable when drunk and would seldom have been anything else if left to sponge on the too innocent Hadleys. Does that sound cruel, Abby? Maybe it is. Maybe I am cruel then. I don’t know. All I do know is that once I saw Hadley Grange and Edmund I knew what I wanted. Father used to say when I had a tantrum that my heart had been forged in hell and certainly the passions that heart bred raged until they were satisﬁed. Can you understand, Abby? Can you know what I felt? I had to have Edmund. That’s why poor Miss Pettigrew 247

had to go. She was a danger to me. Those nightmares were my only weakness, you know. It was curious, I always saw her in them, Perdita I mean, and yet on the afternoon of the ﬁre I did not see her again after she rushed from the dressing room leaving her locket in my hands. Do you think I should have gone after her, tried to stop her? But that would have been foolish. So Miss Pettigrew had to go in case she had heard anything I said in my sleep, and Horton had to go and Mary and even you had to go, Abby, when you came between me and Edmund. Did you know that I was trying to kill you up on the cliff? I don’t suppose you did. Sinclair knew you were in danger even before I did, though I think when Edmund and I got married he thought you would be safe. I wonder why he never denounced me. He could have. In fact he was the only one who could have, the only one stronger than me. So I have stayed alive long enough to write this. It would be a pity if his brave rescue were wasted. I was conscious when he got to me. He said, ‘The Devil shall not have you, Rose Red, not yet,’ and I laughed. He understood. Shall the Devil have me, Abby? What do you think, for you know I cannot go on living, a cripple for life and Sinclair would not stand 248

by while you were in danger and you are still in danger, Abby, for you still stand between me and Edmund. Will you comfort him now, marry him? Poor Sinclair. You are a fool, Abby. Edmund is not for you and never has been. You think because I love him I am blind to his faults. I am not. He is weak but I was strong enough for both of us, just as he was good enough for both of us, or so I thought. I am tired, Abby, tired of life, tired of the pretence I have kept up for so long. I shall not tell you my name. It cannot matter to you and it is all I have or have ever had that is truly my own. Was it Shakespeare who said, ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet’? Perdita will do just as well, after all it means ‘the lost one’, and what could be more ﬁtting? Goodbye, Abby. Forgive me if you can.

249

9 Abby I put the papers in the still smouldering fire and watched them blacken and burn. Had I known long ago she was not who she claimed to be? It was easy to think so now. Certainly she had always seemed different, a stranger, a changeling as I once described her. The fire licked hungrily at the papers as I fed the flames. I put the last, the final bundle, onto the fire and stood up. No one need ever know. Aunt Josephine was concerned enough about Edmund and as for Edmund himself, I could not bear to think of him knowing how he had been deceived. Dear Edmund, so trusting, so innocent. She had not even asked me not to tell him. She had simply known I would not. I was glad she had told me all those things, so much about her became clearer, more understandable. I sighed as I watched the last paper curl and blacken. As the 250

ﬁre ﬂared round it the last words she had written seemed to leap in the ﬂames . . . ‘forgive me’, and then they were consumed and turned to dust. I sighed as I watched them. I did forgive her. I loosed my hair from its restraining pins and sat down at my dressing table. I began to brush with long ﬁerce strokes and then, as I looked at my face in the mirror, pale and drawn, I seemed to see Perdita’s there for a moment. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed out my sorrow, the tears that had not fallen when she died falling now. At last I was calm. I dashed cold water on my face and it seemed to me that I was cleansed of all the terrible events of the last months, just as the burning of Perdita’s confessions had seemed to cleanse her memory. The light was growing stronger now as I stood at the window gazing out on the moor. There was a movement on the skyline. A solitary ﬁgure moved against the horizon and was outlined against the ﬂooding pink of the dawn. Near it a bulkier shape cropped the grass. He had been out there all night, keeping vigil as I kept faith. I moved towards the door and as I descended the curve of the great staircase images ﬂashed across my mind, of Perdita standing there in the hall graceful even in her misshapen clothes, of Edmund when he arrived home only that 251

summer, of Uncle Bart collapsed on the ﬂoor just yards from where Perdita’s father had fallen. I shook my head to dispel the images that pervaded the silent house and as I rounded the curve I saw the pathway of light from the open library door. I approached, my steps uncertain, and stood for a moment in the doorway. Edmund was asleep, slumped in Uncle Bart’s armchair, the whisky decanter empty beside him. He looked young and innocent once more, all the lines of pain and grief wiped from his face in sleep, but I noticed for the ﬁrst time and with wonder the weakness of his mouth and marvelled that I had not seen it before. ‘Goodbye, Edmund,’ I whispered. As I left the house I was ﬁlled with an overwhelming sense of release. There was a slight breeze and as I turned my face towards the ripening sun I prayed that he would still want me. I began to run, as a traveller at the end of a long and weary journey runs for home, all weariness forgotten. As I breasted the rise I stopped for a moment, my breath coming in gasps, my hair tumbled about me. As if I had called him he raised his head and my arms went out to him as once more I began to run. Then Sinclair was on his feet and running too, to meet me, and behind him the sun spread its glory on the sea. 252