Czytaj książkę: «Daisychain Summer»

ELIZABETH ELGIN

Daisychain Summer

Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 1995

Copyright © Elizabeth Elgin 1995

Elizabeth Elgin asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins ebooks

HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication

Source ISBN: 9780006478874

Ebook Edition © JUNE 2017 ISBN: 9780008271190

Version: 2018-11-12

Dedication

To my grandsons

James, Simon, Matthew, Martin and Tom

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Peace for Our Time

Keep Reading

About the Author

Other Books By

About the Publisher

1

1920

She should have told him long before this. When she held their firstborn in her arms she had said it would be, yet that baby was four weeks old now, and still he did not know. Nor had he asked. It was as if he had pushed that part of her life behind him; locked it in a small, secret corner of his mind, never to be spoken of again.

‘Whatever it was,’ Tom had said, ‘is in the past. It’s you I want, Alice. Just you.’ And in that moment she had known that one day she would tell him the truth of it, explain how it had been so he might understand – and forgive.

‘Very well, if you choose not to know. But since you are taking me on trust, I’ll make you a promise, Tom. The day I hold our firstborn in my arms, then you shall know – every last word of it …’

Yet was this really the right day on which to tell him? Why not yesterday, or tomorrow? Why today, the first anniversary of their wedding?

She dropped to her knees beside the cot. She spent so much time just gazing at her daughter, trying to believe the wonder of her birth, the ease of it and the joy. And Tom, eyes moist, holding her close, telling her how happy he was.

‘She’s so beautiful, so perfect.’ The tiny fingers had twined around his own and claimed his heart. ‘I thought newborn bairns were – well …’

‘Ordinary?’ she smiled. ‘They are. Every one of them. Pink and puckered, or looking as if they’ve been in a fist fight. But there’s one exception – your own. They are always born beautiful, and perfect.’

‘I love you,’ he’d said, huskily, and she knew that when the midwife came to shoo him from the room he would go to his hut, and weep. Tom was like that. Hard on the outside and given to sudden anger, yet soft and gentle inside.

‘And might a man be told his daughter’s name?’ Alice should choose, he’d always said, if they had a little lass.

‘Daisy Julia Dwerryhouse,’ she announced promptly.

‘Daisy Dwerryhouse.’ He liked the name, truth known. ‘And Julia for –?’

‘For my best friend – her godmother.’

‘You’ve asked her?’

‘No, but she’ll come. She didn’t get to our wedding. I want her here, for the christening.’

That had been when the midwife bustled in, bearing a cup of sweetened gruel, announcing that the new mother needed to sleep and that he could come up, later, and see them again.

Alice lifted the sleeping child, kissing her as she laid her in her pram, raising the hood against the bright August sunlight. She had wanted to buy the magnificent perambulator long before Daisy was born, but no! she had been told. Didn’t she know it was bad luck to have the pram in the house before the babe – the first babe, that was?

So Alice had chosen a model in shiny black, with large wheels and the body suspended on leather straps and paid a deposit on it, explaining that it wasn’t convenient, yet, to have it delivered, and so flushed with excitement had she been that the awfulness of it only struck her on the way home.

Five guineas, the pram would cost, to be paid for with her own money; her private money Tom didn’t know about – money Giles had given to her. Sir Giles Sutton, Julia’s brother, who died not of war wounds, but because of them; a stretcher bearer and the bravest of the brave. Giles, whose name reminded her that today she must tell Tom what she should have told him before they were married, yet had bitten back the words because she hadn’t wanted her secret to lie between them on their wedding night.

She gazed at her child, a small smile lifting the corners of her mouth. Beautiful, her little one, with eyes blue as Tom’s and a newly-grown haze of hair that promised she would be as fair as he was. And did you ever see such a mouth; pink as a rosebud, puckering into little sucking movements as she slept.

Reluctantly, Alice turned away. She had a man to feed and a cake to ice for the christening, Sunday week. It might have been nice, she thought, taking the cake from its tin, sniffing its richness, if the christening could have been tomorrow; the date on which they were married. But she wanted Julia to stand godmother and a christening on a wedding anniversary might seem they were flaunting their happiness in the face of a woman whose husband had not come back from the war.

Julia did not travel south for their wedding. Alice had forbidden it. I love you dearly, she wrote, but my joy would be your sadness. Come instead when our babe is christened – if the good Lord grants us one quickly –

Hastily, she rewrapped the cake, glad that food rationing was over. Eighteen months after the Armistice the very last commodity was de-rationed. Sugar, it had been, and many the housewife who spent the whole day baking cakes the likes of which had not been seen for five years. And with sugar on sale to all again, they could really put the war behind them – or try to, though with some the scars were slow to heal.

She glanced through the window, smiling. The man who stood beside the pram never passed the gamekeeper’s cottage without stopping. Tom’s employer had been besotted by Daisy before she was a week old. ‘She is exquisite,’ he’d said as Daisy Dwerryhouse fixed him with her eyes, and since then Mr Hillier called often to peer into the pram and smile his pleasure. Once, he had held her, then passed her quickly back, shaking his head sadly.

‘Foolish of me not to marry and have children of my own, Mrs Dwerryhouse. Too busy making my way in the world,’ he’d whispered shakily, making for the door.

Ralph Hillier. So rich that folk hereabouts said his pocket was bottomless. Poor, lonely man. Alice welcomed him with a smile.

‘Good morning, sir.’ She bobbed a curtsey. Not being servile, but mindful of her position and Mr Hillier’s position and to put their strange friendship onto its proper footing. To remind herself, too, that he owned the house in which they lived and paid her husband’s weekly wage. ‘She’s asleep – again.’

‘No matter. The vicar tells me she is to be christened next Sunday. Would you think me presumptuous if I gave her a small gift?’

‘Why, not at all! Thank you for your kind thought.’

‘Hmm.’ He liked his gamekeeper’s wife. There was a dignity about her he couldn’t fathom; that, and her way of speaking that lifted her above her class. ‘Daisy Julia, isn’t it to be?’ he asked, seeing in his mind’s eye the name and date inscribed on the silver christening mug he had already ordered from a Bond Street jeweller.

He left, smiling almost shyly, raising his hat, thanking her, and she stood at the door until he reached the garden gate, nodding her head deferentially.

Poor soul. Alone in that great house. Pity he couldn’t marry some war widow with children of her own; heaven only knew there were plenty of them around, Alice frowned.

She looked at the watch pinned to her apron; the one she had looked at so often when nursing, in France. Tom would be home soon for his dinner; would arrive promptly at noon because that had been the time of their wedding. They were given no choice. There was to be a service of thanksgiving in the church at two, followed by sports for the children and a splendid tea for all, the vicar had said. She and Tom had chosen to marry, though they hadn’t known it at the time, on the day the entire British Empire was to celebrate the victory of the Great War – and another reason, she had conceded, for not asking Julia to be there.

Alice raked the fire, then pulled out the damper to redden the coals, placing the vegetables on the hob to simmer. Last year, just about this time, she had been brushing her hair, twisting it into a knot, tilting her rose-trimmed hat this way and that before she was satisfied enough with its angle to secure it with a hatpin. A bride in waiting, ready to walk to the church, yet one year on she was a wife and mother, fervently grateful for something she thought she had lost for ever. Blessings she had in plenty – and a secret, still to be told. It hung over her like a confession unwilling to be made, because the penance might be more than she could accept.

Tom came home one minute before noon, dipping into his gamebag, telling her to close her eyes. She knew what he had brought her, had hoped he would remember.

‘Just to let you know I haven’t forgotten,’ he smiled, giving her the flowers, tilting her chin to lay his lips gently against hers.

He had brought her buttercups, the flower so special between them. He had picked one and held it beneath her chin, so long ago. Seven years, if you counted.

‘You’re my girl, aren’t you, Alice – my buttercup girl,’ he’d whispered, kissing her for the first time.

‘Alice?’ His voice invaded her thoughts. ‘You were miles away, lass.’

‘No, love – years away.’ She felt her cheeks pinking. ‘I was remembering when you first gave me buttercups. And I know I shouldn’t be thinking back – not today, especially – but there’s something I want to tell you, Tom; something I promised more than a year ago.’

‘To love, honour and obey?’ he teased.

‘No. Something else I promised and I’ve made up my mind to tell you, today.’

‘And what if I don’t want to know?’

‘You must know, Tom. For both our sakes. What I did – it wasn’t what you thought …’

‘How do you – did you – know what I thought?’

‘Because I saw betrayal in your eyes, and it wasn’t like that.’

‘I still don’t want to know, Alice.’

‘And I still want to tell you. When I held our firstborn, I said it would be.’

‘Sweetheart.’ He reached for her, holding her tightly. ‘This has been the best year of my life – don’t spoil it?’

‘But you’ve got to know about the child, Tom – how it really was.’

‘You call him the child, always. He’s Drew, Miss Julia’s son, now. He’s a Sutton.’

‘Yes.’ Oh, he was a Sutton, all right! ‘But Tom, will you let me tell you? Not meaning to hurt you, but won’t you hear me out? I love you so much, you see, that I can’t bear to have this thing hanging over us.’

‘All right, then. We’ll talk about it tonight – there’ll be no pleasing you, until we do. When Daisy is in her cot, we’ll talk about it.’ He nodded towards the mantel clock, smiling. ‘And round about now, a year ago, you were saying, I will – so what have you to say to me?’

‘I love you, Tom Dwerryhouse; so much that it’s like a pain inside me, sometimes. I love you so much that I’ve got to tell you.’

‘And I love you so much, wife darling, that I’ll listen – but later. So does a man get a kiss, and his dinner, then?’

They sat either side of the fire, Tom with a mug of ale, Alice twisting the stem of a wedding present glass, gazing down at the last of the Christmas sherry.

‘Happy anniversary, lass. Thank you for Daisy and for the twelve-month past. It’s been good, but I don’t have to tell you that, do I?’

‘I know it. But will you love me as much when I’ve told you?’

‘Dammit, woman!’ He hit his knee with his hand. ‘Can’t you let sleeping dogs lie?’

‘You said that tonight you’d listen …’

She rose to kneel at his feet, her hand on his knees, remembering the quickness of his temper, the highs and lows of his emotions. ‘It has always bothered me, Tom, that you thought I married so soon after your death – after they told me you’d been killed, I mean.’

‘Aye – and I’ll admit it bothered me, an’ all. When the war ended – when I got back to England – I came to Rowangarth, looking for you. I thought you’d have waited. Even though you thought me dead, I’d never have imagined that so soon after, you’d take another man to your –’

‘To my bed?’ she interrupted, sharply. ‘Make a child with him?’

‘Since you put it that way – yes.’ He winced at the directness of her words. ‘But Alice love, must we rake up the past? It’s you and me, now, and Daisy. That war is over, and best forgotten and all the misery it caused.’

‘I was in France, too, don’t forget. I saw the degradation of men treated no better than animals. But it can’t be forgotten until what it did to you and me is brought into the open, Tom.’

‘You’re set on me knowing, aren’t you? Even if you hurt me?’

‘You won’t be hurt – angry, more like. Reuben knew about it, and Julia. And Nathan Sutton, an’ all. They’ll bear out my story.’

‘Seems the world and his wife knew; everyone but Tom Dwerryhouse. When you walked in on me that day at Reuben’s house – why didn’t you tell me, then?’

‘When I’d just seen a ghost? When you were standing there, back from the dead? And you didn’t help any, Tom. You turned away from me as if I were beneath contempt – tipped your cap to me and called me milady. You knew how to hurt!’

‘I’d come looking for you. I couldn’t go to Rowangarth; I was dead – or so the Army had told my folks.’

‘I understand that, and that you were a deserter. You had to be careful, or they could have had you shot.’

‘Not any more. The war was over, by then. They’d have put me in prison, though – still could …’

‘There’ll be an amnesty for you, soon – for all deserters. The newspapers say so.’

‘Happen. But we are talking about now, and about you and me. I went to Reuben’s house. I thought he’d get word to you that I was back. I couldn’t wait to see you, touch you …’

‘And instead he told you I was married and had a child; that I was Lady Sutton, newly widowed.’

‘Something like that. It was as if he’d slammed a fist into my face. You wedded and bedded and though your being a widow made you your own woman again, I knew you’d never leave your son and come away with me, even if you still loved me – and it seemed you didn’t.’

‘But I did leave my son. I left him with Julia and her ladyship because Rowangarth was where he belonged – his inheritance. And I followed you here, Tom, wanting to tell you the truth of it, even then.

‘You’ve said I never use my son’s name – always call him the child – and you are right. I had little to do with him – I was ill after he was born. I wanted to die. I tried to. I’d been nursing Giles, you see. He died in the ’flu epidemic’

‘Died of it – like my mother did.’

‘Just as she did, Tom.’ She rose to her feet, backing away from him, returning to her chair, standing behind it as if to shelter from the fury she feared would come.

‘I had a difficult confinement, Tom. When my pains started, we couldn’t get the doctor. He was working all the hours God sent – half of Holdenby was down with that ’flu. Julia was with me from start to finish. She’d just delivered the child when Doctor James arrived.

‘There was only time to tell Giles he’d had a son before he died. Her ladyship was sitting beside his bed. She said, afterwards, that he’d gripped her hand, as if he understood.’

She stopped, taking in a shuddering breath, tilting her chin defiantly, wondering, now that she had started the awful business, where it would end.

‘Go on,’ Tom urged.

‘I had a fever. Doctor James said I’d taken influenza from Giles. I was so ill they kept the baby away from me – didn’t want him to get it. Julia was in a bad way. She’d just come back from France. Andrew had been killed only days before the Armistice and it was as if she wasn’t with us; as if she were sleep-walking, all the time. I thought she’d die of a broken heart.

‘But the baby saved her sanity. She had to look after him, you see – find milk for him, make sure he lived. By the time I was well enough to get out of bed he was six weeks old – and Julia’s. They’d bonded, each to the other. The child was the son she would never conceive and I was content to leave it that way.’

‘It didn’t bother you that some other woman had your bairn?’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘It was like giving him away.’

‘Yes, it was. But I didn’t want him – didn’t want to touch him, even. When I was well enough to think for myself, I was even glad there’d been no milk in my breasts for him.’

‘Alice!’ He slammed down his mug, spilling ale over the hearthstone. ‘How could you – your own son? There must have been some affection for Giles Sutton? You must have felt something for him, or how could you have got that child?’

‘I had great affection for Giles – always. I worked at Rowangarth for his mother, remember, and when he was brought to our hospital wounded and more dead than alive, I asked Sister if I could stay with him. He was in another world – on morphine. They used to give them morphine, Tom, to let them die peacefully – those who were lucky enough to be got to a hospital, that was.’

Her eyes filled with tears and she was back again in France with the stench and the horror and the hopelessness of it all. Then she pulled her sleeve across her face, sniffing loudly, facing him defiantly.

‘Yes, I felt affection for Giles Sutton, I’ll not deny it, and pity, too. And I think I could have cared for the child, if it had been gently got. But that bairn wasn’t the result of love or affection, Tom. When Giles was brought to our hospital, I was already four weeks pregnant. And before you pass judgement,’ she hastened, ‘before you say what I can see in your eyes – let me tell you just one thing. The child – Drew Sutton – was got the night I’d been told you were dead. Your sister wrote to tell me. Julia was in Paris, on leave with Andrew. I had no one to turn to, so I ran out of the nurses’ quarters, half out of my mind.’

‘And someone …?’ His face was chalk white, his lips so tight with distaste he had difficulty speaking.

‘Yes. Someone. He smelled of drink; his eyes were wild. He didn’t know what he was doing – I’ll swear it.’

‘He must have!’

‘Don’t, Tom? Let me tell it the way it was?’ she whispered dry-mouthed. ‘We nurses were quartered in what had been the schoolhouse of a convent. There was a shed at the back where the nuns once kept their cows. He dragged me in there. I didn’t have a chance and anyway, I think I wanted him to kill me. You were dead, and I wanted to be dead, too.’

She walked across the room to stare out of the window, taking in gulps of air, holding them, letting them go in little steadying puffs. Then, hugging herself, she turned to face him again.

‘I fainted. I must have done, because when I could think clearly again, he’d gone. But it had happened – there was no telling myself it hadn’t – and I got myself back to the schoolhouse. It was dark, by then, and when I got upstairs, Julia was back.

‘She was waiting there, with Nurse Love. I’d thrown your sister’s letter down, and they’d read it. They were kind to me. Julia held me – then it all came out. Not just about you being reported killed, but about him, and what he’d done to me. Julia took my uniform off – it was all dirty and torn – and got me into a bath. Nurse Love wanted to tell Sister, have the Military Police arrest him, but Julia said not to.

‘She was livid, though. You know what she could be like, when she had a temper on her? She said to wait a bit – that with luck no harm had been done. She was only thinking of me. She knew I’d been through it before, you see.’

‘But she was wrong. Harm was done, it seems, and you passed that child off as Giles Sutton’s. How could you, Alice?’

‘Because Giles didn’t die, did he, though it might have been better if he had – with hindsight, that is. He survived to become only half a man. He told Julia one night that he would never father a child, though I think I’d known it, all along. I’d helped dress his wounds, you see. There were no niceties in those wards, in France. And she told him that life was cruel, because I was carrying a child I didn’t want.’

She looked into his eyes, hoping to find understanding there, or pity, even, but there was none.

‘Anyway, Nathan had been coming in every day, to see Giles,’ she rushed on. ‘He was stationed only a couple of miles away – an army chaplain, you’ll remember – and Giles told him about me and the terrible mess I was in; said it was on his mind to ask me to marry him – say the child was his. The baby would be the one her ladyship had always wanted, and if it was a son, so much the better.’

‘So you were glad to wed him, Alice – let him claim the child as his?’

‘Not glad. Grateful, more like. And I didn’t say yes, right away. I had this feeling inside me that I was going to hear from you or about you. I couldn’t accept you were dead, you see. I thought that one day you’d come back.

‘Julia stood by me. She’d wanted me to go to Aunt Sutton to have the baby and maybe get it adopted into a good home. Then Giles came up with a better idea – to marry me.’

‘And the rest we know, Alice. I suppose it was Nathan who married you and him?’

‘In the convent chapel,’ she nodded, eyes on her hands. ‘Just Julia and Nurse Love as witnesses. I’d not have done it, but Geordie Marshall came to see me. He was passing through Celverte – where we were nursing – and he brought me your Testament, and letters I’d written to you. Said that you’d been sent on special duties and that he’d heard that twelve of you in an army transport had all been killed by a shell. No chance you were alive, he said, but at least it had been quick and clean. I was grateful for that. I’d not have wanted you to die like some I’d nursed …’

‘And you got away with it? Didn’t you feel one bit of shame, lying to her ladyship – deceiving her?’

‘No.’ She shook her head vehemently. ‘It wasn’t me told the lies. I just went along with them. And they were white lies. Sir Robert had been killed – you knew that already – and with Giles not being able to have children, the title would have been lost to Rowangarth – passed to the Pendenys Suttons and you know how that would have grieved her ladyship.’

‘So what did you all cook up, between you?’ He looked at her as if she were a stranger; a lying, deceiving woman and not the girl he married a twelve-month ago; not the mother of his Daisy.

‘We cooked nothing up. So Nathan Sutton and Julia knew about it – that didn’t make them criminals. And the child would be born in wedlock, which made him the rightful Rowangarth heir – what harm did we do? Her ladyship was overjoyed, looking forward to it being born …’

‘And you? Did you feel grand, being a lady of title in the house where once you’d started off a housemaid?’

‘No, Tom. That part of it took a lot of getting used to. And I’ll admit I was always aware of the deceit. But it was Giles told his mother the child was his. He didn’t mention about it being a rape child. Said he’d come across me all distressed, because I’d just heard that you’d been killed – told her he’d held me and soothed me and well – it had happened between us, just the once. An act of comfort.’

She drew a deep, shuddering breath, covering her face with her hands as if she were afraid to look at him; see the hurt and disbelief in his eyes.

‘Tom, love – don’t you think it was better for the poor, dear woman to think her grandchild had been conceived that way? And it explained away the fact that he was born eight months after we were married. When a boy was born, that night Giles died, it helped her, a little, to accept it.

‘I had the child named Andrew Robert Giles for all the Rowangarth men the war had taken. Julia was pleased about it because he’s Sir Andrew, now – he’s got her husband’s name. Little Drew – there, I’ve said it again. It’s as if telling you has driven all the hurt out of me and I can really think of him as Giles’s son. Do you forgive me, Tom?’

‘For what?’ Still he sat there, making no move to take her in his arms, kiss her, tell her he understood. ‘It wasn’t your fault some drunken soldier got you pregnant, though that nurse was right – he should have been found, and arrested. But what worries me is that yon little Drew has already inherited a title and stands to gain a whole lot more, when he comes of age. Can that be right? If Giles Sutton had died childless – and in all honesty, he did – then the title should have passed to the Pendenys Suttons – to Mr Edward, Giles’s uncle. That’s how it should have been.’

‘You mean that some drunken soldier’s hedge child has landed on his feet, did he but know it?’

‘Don’t, Alice? Don’t use such talk. It isn’t like my lass.’

‘But am I your lass, now?’ she demanded, head defiantly high. ‘Oh, I wish you could see your face, Tom Dwerryhouse. You look all holier-than-thou, even though an army chaplain – a priest – connived at the deception, as you want to call it. Don’t you think we did it for a reason – or do you think we set out to cheat the other Suttons – those at Pendenys Place – out of what is rightly theirs?’

‘To my way of thinking,’ he said deliberately and quietly, ‘that’s exactly what you all did.’

‘Passing off a bastard as a Sutton, you mean?’ she flung, face white with outrage.

‘Alice – what’s got into you?’ He took a step towards her as if he knew he had pushed her too far and was willing, now it was too late, to make amends. ‘I told you before we were wed I didn’t want to know about that little Drew at Rowangarth, nor why you could bring yourself to leave him there, and come to me. You know I was willing to put it all behind us and start afresh, here.

‘And we’ve been happy, Alice, till now. Why must you rake over what’s past? What’s done is done, and if Giles Sutton died happy, and the son of his marriage –’

‘My son, Tom!’

‘All right – your son! If the bairn is acceptable as a Sutton, then who am I to gainsay it, wrong though it might be in law.’

‘Dear, sweet heaven, you can be so stubborn!’ She stood, hands on hips, cheeks blazing red. ‘I wanted to tell you. I thought you’d understand, aye, and happen sympathize, an’ all. But everything is either black or white to you, isn’t it? You don’t allow for the shades of grey, in between.

‘And I wasn’t going to tell you all, because I thought there’d be no need to. There was one thing I didn’t want you to know; but since you see fit to set yourself up as judge and jury and find us all guilty, then best you should know that young Drew is a Sutton! He’s taking what would, in the course of time, have passed to his father – to Elliot Sutton!

‘There, Tom! You have it all, now – every last sordid bit of it. The drunk who tumbled me on the floor of a cowshed was the man you so hate, so think on before you pass judgement on me!’

She stood, tears streaking her cheeks, shaking with anger and dismay at what she had said. And she looked into the face of the man she loved and saw hatred in his eyes.

‘Elliot Sutton!’ he spat through clamped jaws. ‘So he had his way with you, in the end?’

‘Aye. He tried it in Brattocks Wood, didn’t he, when I was a bit of a lass. But I had Morgan with me then, and Reuben within calling distance. And I had a young man who thrashed him for what he’d tried to do. But no one was there to help me that night in Celverte, Tom; neither the dog nor Reuben, nor you! You were dead, remember?’

‘Thrashed him? I should have killed him!’ He drove his fist hard into the palm of his hand. ‘That first time he tried, I should have beaten the life out of him. And I would, if I’d thought I could’ve got away with it.’

His face slablike, he rose to his feet, walking across the room and out of the house and she knew better than to try to stop him. To leave in a rage with a flinging open and a banging shut of doors would have seemed more normal. Things done in temper, in the shock of the moment, she could understand, and forgive. But to walk calmly out with never a word, closing doors gently and quietly behind him, sent apprehension coursing through her.

It was then she was grateful for the discipline of her nursing years and she closed her eyes, breathing deeply, resisting the urge to take his beer mug and hurl it against the wall.

She straightened her shoulders and tilted her chin. She would not weep on her wedding anniversary; not for anything would she!

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered to the empty room. ‘So sorry, Tom …’

He did not return until it was dark; long after she had lit the lamps and given Daisy her evening feed.

She sat beside the hearth, rocking the chair back and forth, worrying, waiting, and he came as quietly and suddenly as he left, his face pale, still, yet with contrition in his eyes.

‘I’m sorry, lass,’ he said, his voice rough with remorse. ‘It was none of it your fault. You did what you had to do – what was best for all concerned. It was just that it was too much to take – him, having touched you.’

‘Where have you been?’ She rose slowly to her feet, wanting him to take her in his arms and not stand in the doorway, putting the length of the room between them.

‘Walking. Just walking. I must have covered the entire boundary of the estate. And I was thinking, Alice; thinking how much I hate that man. I was even hoping to meet him around the next corner, because I wanted to kill him; beat the life out of him …’

‘It was all my fault.’ Tears trembled on Alice’s whispered words. ‘I could think of nothing else but to tell you. I didn’t want you to think wrong of me for seeming to forget you so soon after I’d heard you’d been killed; didn’t want you to think I could love any man but you, much less get a child with him. And I didn’t want you to think I was so unfeeling that I could desert a child to come to you. I knew all the time I ought to have loved him, but I couldn’t, even though he was born Sutton fair, and not dark, like – like him. I couldn’t have borne it if Drew had fathered himself.’

‘So the little lad is fair?’

‘He is, thanks be. To my way of thinking, he looked like his grandfather – his real grandfather, Mr Edward Sutton – but Julia could only see Andrew in him, because that was what she wanted to see, and Lady Helen swore he’d come in Sir John’s likeness. But no one could say, or even think, that he looked like Elliot Sutton. It was the one good thing in all the sad and sorry mess.’

‘Then I’m glad about that. No child deserves to be saddled with such a father.’

‘His father was Giles Sutton and never for a minute forget it, Tom. Am I forgiven?’

He smiled, unspeaking, and opened wide his arms as he’d done when they were courting, and she ran to him as though she were seventeen again, clasping her arms around his waist, resting her head on his chest.

‘I love you, Tom – let’s never speak of it again?’

‘Not ever, bonny lass. But I’ll never forgive that man for what he did. I swore, out there, that if I could ever do him harm, I would – will – if ever I get the chance. I killed finer Germans than him …’

‘Then it’s a good thing you’re never likely to set eyes on him again. Y’know, Tom, I used, in my dreamings, to think of you and me living in Brattocks Wood in Keeper’s Cottage, and Julia and Andrew not far away and Reuben nicely settled in his almshouse. I’d think of it when things got bad, in France.

‘But Julia’s husband was killed and I thought I’d lost you, yet it was meant to be, my darling. Fate landed you and me here, miles and miles away, and I’m glad. Up there, I’d be scared half out of my mind that you and him would meet.’

‘Happen you are right.’ He unclasped her clinging arms, standing a little away from her, cupping her face in his hands.

‘I love you, my Alice. I never stopped loving you, even when I thought I’d lost you. The past is over and done with, I promise it is.’

‘Happy anniversary, Tom.’

Yet even as they kissed passionately, kissed as if there was to be no tomorrow, she knew he would never completely forget; that his hatred for Elliot Sutton would fester inside him and that if ever he could do him harm, he would.

Without so much as the batting of an eyelid.

2

Helen, Lady Sutton closed the door behind her, then let go a gasp of annoyance.

‘The fool! The smug, unfeeling fool! I am so angry!’

‘Oh, dear.’ Julia MacMalcolm kissed her mother’s flushed cheek. ‘Why don’t you sit down and tell me what happened at the meeting to make you so very cross.’

‘That vicar! I don’t know how I kept hold of my temper!’

‘Don’t let him upset you. He’s only a locum. He’ll be gone when Luke Parkin is fit again.’

‘But Luke won’t get well and we all know it, Julia. Six months, at the most,’ she whispered bitterly.

All the men she could once rely on, lean upon – all dead, her husband, her sons, her son-in-law; bluff, brusque Judge Mounteagle and soon, Luke Parkin. That ugly war – how dare they call it the Great War – had taken so many young men and now the older ones, weakened by four years of too much responsibility and too little consideration and overburdened with the worry of it, were themselves falling victims to its aftermath.

‘Sssh. Just tell me?’

‘We-e-ll, it was the usual parish meeting – or should have been. I knew they’d be talking about the war memorial; I was happy about that.’ She had promised any piece of land the parish saw fit to choose so the war dead of Holdenby should be remembered. ‘But to suggest a German field gun should stand beside it!’

‘A what!’ Julia flushed scarlet. ‘Whose damn-fool idea was that?’

‘Our temporary vicar’s! He said that any city or town – Holdenby, even – could claim a German gun as spoils of war and wouldn’t it be a splendid thought to have one here and site it beside the war memorial? So I said that upon further consideration, I wasn’t at all sure that I could offer that piece of land – leastways, not if an enemy gun was to stand on it. Indeed, I said, if anyone was thoughtless enough to bring one here, I would hope to see the wretched thing rolled down the hill and into the river! That’s what I said!’

‘And then you swep’ out! Good for you, mother! How could he even think such a thing?’

‘How indeed, when not one household in Holdenby came through that war without loss. The last thing they want to see is a German gun. Julia – did we really win? It makes me wonder when I see heroes with no work to go to; men with a leg or an arm missing, begging on street corners. Half our youth never to come home again and oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to remind you.’

‘You didn’t, because I don’t need reminding. And I’m glad you put him in his place. If Luke retires, I hope that vicar doesn’t get ideas about getting the living for himself. When the time comes for a new parish priest, I think it should be Nathan. I’d like to have him here. He’ll be back from the African mission, soon – and who better?’

‘I agree, and since Rowangarth will have some say in the matter, perhaps we can help him. Nathan saw service as an army chaplain – he’d be a popular choice, hereabouts. But this is not the time to talk of such things. We must hope for a miracle for Luke. And meantime –’

‘No German field gun,’ Julia supplied.

‘Not on any piece of Rowangarth land!’ And since Rowangarth owned every square yard of Holdenby village and much, much more besides, it seemed that Helen Sutton would have her way.

‘I shall miss you when you go to Hampshire for the christening.’ Deftly, she changed the subject.

‘You’re sure you’ll be all right, mother? Drew can be rather a handful, now.’

‘Of course I can manage. I’ve been looking forward to having him all to myself. And isn’t it wonderful that Alice has a little girl of her own?’

Dear Alice. She at least was happy. It was to her, Helen acknowledged, they owed the beautiful boy who would one day inherit Rowangarth. So sad that Giles never lived to see his son.

‘I reared the three of you with no trouble at all. One small boy won’t put me out in the slightest.’

‘But we three had a nanny – and a nursery maid!’

‘So you did, but nannies are going out of fashion and there’ll be Miss Clitherow to help me – if I need help.’

‘Yes, and Cook and Tilda and Mary’ – all of whom spoiled Drew dreadfully.

‘A growing child cannot have too much love and affection. Children are treated differently, now,’ Helen smiled, calm again, for just to think of her grandson gave her such feelings of love and gratitude that any anger was short-lived.

‘I’d thought to leave a day earlier – stay the night with Aunt Sutton, whilst she’s at Montpelier Mews.’

‘A good idea.’ Her sister-in-law, Helen frowned, spent so little time in England, now. ‘How long since anyone saw her?’

‘Oh, ages.’ Since not long after Andrew was killed, Julia recalled. ‘She couldn’t wait to get back to France, once the war was over. We can have a nice long chat – catch up with the news, then I’ll go on to Hampshire. It will mean being away for five days – you’re sure you can manage?’

‘Of course.’ She loved him dearly, the grandson who was walking sturdily, now, and had cut most of his teeth with scarcely a disturbed night. Drew, who made her young again. ‘Think of it, Julia. He’ll be two, at Christmas.’

‘Mm.’ The months had rushed past. Soon, there would be the second anniversary of Andrew’s death to be lived through and that of Giles who died the day his son – Alice’s son – was born.

‘Julia?’ Her mother’s voice came to her softly through her rememberings.

‘Sorry. Just thinking …’

‘Aah.’ Her daughter was often just thinking. Sometimes she was far away, eyes troubled; other times there would be a small smile on her lips and she would be a girl again, impatient to come of age, marry her young doctor. There hadn’t been a war, then, nor even thoughts of one. Her elder son, Helen pondered, had been in India and Giles with his nose in a book, always, and nothing more to worry her than the next dinner party she would give. Lovely, gentle times. Days of roaring fires and hot muffins for winter tea and sun-warmed summer days and the scent of flowers at dusk and the certainty that nothing need change.

But then the war had come and nothing could be the same again. Only Rowangarth endured.

‘And talking about Alice – and we must talk about it, sooner or later – do you think you might mention it to her – and Tom, of course – whilst you are there?’

‘That people should be told she was married again, you mean?’

‘Well, it is all of eighteen months since she left Rowangarth; people will want to know what is happening.’

‘But it isn’t anything to do with people – not really, mother, though I agree with you. I’ll have a word with her. After all, she’s done nothing wrong. She had every right to remarry.’

‘I accept that – and Tom was her first love.’

‘Her only love.’ Her once and for ever love. ‘None of us ever pretended she cared in the same way for Giles – those of us who knew the real truth of it – about their marrying, so soon after Tom was killed, I mean …’

The real truth of it? Not even her mother knew that, nor ever could. There were things never to be told – even to Drew.

‘I know, my dear. I have always accepted the circumstances of Drew’s conceiving and been grateful to Alice for leaving him with us. I’d longed so for a grandson, you know; for a boy, for Rowangarth.’

‘And you got him,’ Julia smiled. ‘And what’s more, you can’t wait to have him all to yourself, can you?’ Best drop the subject of Drew’s getting. For his sake alone, it must remain a closed book. ‘Do you suppose he’ll miss me?’

‘I’ll do my best to see that he doesn’t. And you deserve a break, Julia. Just think how much news there’ll be to catch up on; it seems such a long time since Alice left us. And I’m sure she’ll let you share her little girl, if your maternal instincts get the better of you.’

Her maternal instincts, Julia brooded. Drew had been hers from the moment of his birth. She it had been who fought for him when Alice lay desperately ill and unable to feed him. That fatherless babe had given her something to live for after Andrew’s killing. She was Drew’s mother, now.

‘You must take a lock of his hair, for Alice,’ Helen smiled. One of his fair, baby curls, now cut off. Drew had remained in his long baby clothes until he walked, though Julia hadn’t entirely agreed with keeping little boys in nursery frocks, she acknowledged, and allowing their hair to grow untrimmed so that many were hard put to know if the child was a girl or a boy. But it had been the custom when her sons were toddlers and she had wished it for Drew, though now he was a real little boy, her hair cut short and wearing his first breeches. ‘Well – if you think it won’t upset her too much. That child is the image of his father when he was little, you know.’

‘Take one of his curls? No – she won’t be upset.’

Not in the way you mean, mother. Alice won’t go all emotional and want to take him from us when she sees a lock of his hair. She never wanted him, couldn’t love him – but you didn’t know that, dearest. And never say Drew is the image of his father, because he isn’t – and please God he never will be.

Only she and Nathan knew, and perhaps Tom, now. And Giles had known; had married Alice knowing she carried another man’s child, then claimed it to be born a Sutton – a Rowangarth Sutton, and Rowangarth’s heir. Little Drew. Two years old, at Christmas.

‘Alice says I’m to take tweeds and tough shoes.’ Julia, too, was adept at subject-changing. ‘They live right out in the country – it’s quite a walk, I believe, into the village to post a letter. And it’s Reuben’s birthday in September,’ just three days after Andrew’s, ‘so she wants me to bring his present back with me.’

‘Dear old Reuben. He misses Alice for all there’s a letter from her every week. That’s why people should know Alice and Tom are married, now. Reuben isn’t getting any younger. There might come a day when Alice is needed here.’

‘But she can return to Rowangarth any time she likes. She’s done nothing wrong!’

‘Of course she hasn’t – but there’s Tom …’

‘A deserter, who could be put in prison for it, if people knew? Is that what you mean? But who is going to tell on him? Not you, mother; not me! I agree with what he did and so would Giles, if he were alive. Tom was a soldier who was pushed too far! He was reported killed in action – the authorities think him dead – so all we need say is that he wasn’t killed at all but taken prisoner and the Red Cross was never told about it. He wouldn’t be the first man to come back from the dead! I see no reason why the pair of them shouldn’t walk through Holdenby, heads high!’

‘Julia, child – hush your anger! You’ll never be rid of that Whitecliffe temper! Small wonder the old lady was so taken with you. And I agree with you about Tom Dwerry-house; there is nothing I would like more than to see them both back here, even though it can’t ever be.’

‘And why not, pray?’

‘We-e-ell, if they were to come back to Keeper’s Cottage – and we all thought that when Reuben retired, Tom would live there, with Alice – if they came back, just what would their position be? Alice is Drew’s mother; Drew – Sir Andrew – will one day inherit, so he would be Tom’s employer …’

‘Mother, how you do run on!’ Julia laughed. ‘I don’t think Tom and Alice will ever come back here. From what I read in her letters, she’s well suited in Hampshire. But I would like her to be able to visit us, from time to time. Tom would understand her need to see Reuben. And remember, she is still Drew’s legal guardian.’

‘Exactly – and that’s one reason I want it to be known she isn’t Alice Sutton any longer. I would like her to come home to Rowangarth whenever she has a mind to. She was my son’s wife, albeit for less than a year, and I cared – care – for her, deeply. And she’ll never take Drew away from us, I know it.’

‘She won’t. Not ever. I know it too, dearest. So what are we worrying about? I’ll have a talk with Alice and Tom – see what they think. We’ll be able to work something out and had you thought, there might soon be a pardon for deserters, so Tom wouldn’t have anything to be afraid of and never, ever, anything to be ashamed of. He fought in the trenches which is more than Elliot ever did!’

‘Julia! Why ever must you bring him into it? And why, since we are talking about your cousin –’

‘My nasty, over-indulged, awful cousin!’

‘Talking about Elliot,’ Helen went on, calmly, ‘why do you always get so prickly when his name is mentioned and make excuses not to meet him?’

‘Because I detest him, mother. No, I hate him. I dislike his womanizing and his arrogance and I won’t ever forgive his mother for arranging two safe postings for him when he joined the Army. She bought them, for him!’

‘You mustn’t say that of your Aunt Clemmy!’

‘Not even when it’s true?’ Julia jumped to her feet and stood, arms akimbo, at the window, staring out across the lawns and the wild garden to Brattocks Wood. ‘And I hate him because he’s alive – because he hardly got his boots dirty in that war, yet Robert and Giles and Andrew will only be names, soon, on a war memorial!’

And she hated him, too, for what he had done to Alice, and the fact that they could never be sure that one day he might not say, ‘Giles’s son? Are you sure …?’ That was the reason she hated him so much, though she could never speak of it. Giles was Drew’s father as far as her mother was concerned, and if she ever learned the truth of their deception, her heart would break.

‘Oh, darling – forgive me?’ Julia hurried to her mother’s side, falling to her knees, laying her head on her lap as she had done since childhood. ‘And try to understand my bitterness?’

‘I do.’ Helen dropped a kiss on her daughter’s head. ‘I know what it is like to lose the man you love, always remember that, will you, when you think the world is against you.

‘And go upstairs, why don’t you, and take a peep at Drew, then come with me for a walk around the garden, before the light goes. This is such a beautiful evening. Let’s walk quietly, and count our blessings?’

‘Let’s. I won’t be a minute.’ Blessing-counting. It always worked for her mother, Julia thought sadly as she opened the nursery door. Why, then, did it do nothing for her? Why could she never accept Andrew’s death nor cease to want him until her body throbbed and ached from it? And why, no matter what her common sense told her to the contrary, did she still fear the harm Elliot Sutton could do?

‘Alice – I do so long to see you,’ she whispered as she tucked in the cot blankets. ‘You can’t know how I have missed you; how much I would give to have you back here.’

But Alice would never return to Rowangarth.

Clementina Sutton began her scheming the moment she learned about the people next door, in Cheyne Walk. She had been anxious, during the war, about the house standing empty next to hers, worrying that the Army would commandeer it as a billet for soldiers or, worse, that it would be filled with refugees, foreign refugees, thus lowering the area in general and the value of her own property in particular.

She had bought the London house for mixed reasons, though mainly to use for entertaining during the social season when mothers, desperate for good marriages for their daughters, paraded them at dances and parties, at race meetings and concerts like hawkers setting out their stalls.

It was at one of these events she had hoped her eldest son Elliot would meet a suitable young lady and if she came with a title, it wouldn’t matter how poor she was; Clemmy Sutton had money enough to support her. Nor would it matter if she were plain as a pikestaff, so long as she came from a line of good breeders and had the stamina to produce two sons at least. And if that were not all, the favoured young lady would have the ability – and the sense, if she knew what was good for her – to turn a blind eye to her husband’s excursions into infidelity for it was certain that no one woman, no matter how beautiful and bed-worthy, would satisfy her Elliot. Clementina had come to expect it and even to forgive him for it, because it wasn’t his fault he was born so handsome and so attractive to the opposite sex.

Mind, it had to be acknowledged that Elliot always seemed to attract the worst kind of woman; sometimes married ones but most often women that she, his mother, would refuse to touch with the end of a long stick. Ladies of easy virtue. Whores! Why did they attract him so when he could have had all the pleasuring he wanted free, and in his own bed, if only he’d had the sense to marry!

Of course, with the coming of the war, young women had been quick to throw off their chaperons with alacrity and delight; had raised their hemlines, spoken to young men to whom they had not been introduced and smoked and drank cocktails in public. And they had taken to uniforms with high delight, driving ambulances, being lady typists in the Women’s Army Corps – even nursing as her niece Julia had done; gone to France an’ all to do it, risking life and limb for her stupidity.

Well, now that was over, and young women would be falling over themselves to get their hooks into a husband and husbands not so easy to catch, either. Stood to reason, didn’t it, with many millions of men killed and thank God her own three sons had come through it unscathed, though Nathan had ended up in the thick of it with the soldiers in the trenches and him not caring one jot for his mother’s feelings.

But now she could forget the war and its inconveniences, for she had embarked on the task of seeing her eldest son safely wed – and before another year ran, if she had anything to do with it!

‘I think,’ she said to her husband, ‘that I might have acted a little hastily, putting up that fence …’

‘Fence?’ Edward Sutton lowered the evening paper he was reading.

‘At Cheyne Walk.’

‘Aah. To keep out the gypsies next door?’

‘Not gypsies, Edward.’ She squirmed at her own foolishness. ‘There was a man – a giant of a fellow …’ He had lived in the basement area, emerging from it from time to time to yell at dogs or glower at any passer-by who was foolish enough to linger outside. A thick black beard he’d had and terrified Molly more and more with every sighting. ‘I got it wrong; Molly got it wrong. The dark fellow was a Cossack it would seem, and Cossacks were loyal to a man to their Czar. I should have known better than to listen to her, but what can one expect from a woman of her class?’

‘Or for three shillings and sixpence a week,’ he added, raising his newspaper again.

‘She gets a pint of milk a day and old clothes! And all she does is caretake an empty house …’

‘So am I to take it that the fence will be removed – or at least lowered a couple of feet? Are the new tenants next door all at once acceptable?’

‘I don’t know. One hears such stories. That is why I shall go to London and see for myself; see if they are socially acceptable, that is.’ She might even leave her card, though card-leaving did not have the same social power it once had. Standards had been lowered since the war ended, she sighed. Things would never be the same. The working man had fought a war and thought he was as good as his master, now! ‘Shall you come with me?’

‘I think not.’ Edward Sutton disliked London. Even this house he lived in – Clemmy’s great, ornate, completely vulgar house – was to be preferred to noisy, smoky, overcrowded London. ‘I’m sure you can manage without me.’

‘Of course.’ She hadn’t for a moment imagined he would want to leave Pendenys. ‘But if you don’t come, I shall need someone with me. I shall take a couple of servants.’

‘Take whom you wish, Clemmy.’

She usually did. She considered it cheaper to buy train tickets for them than pay out good money to keep permanent servants there – apart from what they ate and stole in her absence.

‘Yes.’ She intended to. After all, it was she who paid their wages, not her husband.

‘When will you go?’

‘Tomorrow, Edward, I think. I shall take a cook, a housemaid and a footman.’ Sufficient to impress the people next door if they were what she supposed them to be. She would have taken her butler, pompous and arrogant though she thought him, had she imagined for a moment he would agree to go with her. But the Cheyne Walk house was far beneath the man’s dignity. For one thing, its cellars were completely empty of wine and for another, it did not provide him with his own sitting-room and a man in his position, he stressed, whenever London threatened, was entitled to his privacy. A snob, Clementina brooded, who looked down his nose at her; at Mrs Clementina Sutton whose hand fed him. She only put up with him because as butlers went he knew what he was about and she got his expertise cheaply on account of his liking for red wine. They understood each other, she and that butler!

‘I said I would take –’

‘Yes, my dear. Do as you wish. Take Elliot, too.’ Elliot had been on his best behaviour these few weeks past. Soon, his instincts would surface and better they surfaced in London – and under the eye of his mother!

‘You can’t bear to be alone in the house with him, can you?’ she countered tartly. ‘Can’t speak a civil word to your own son …’

‘Clemmy – let us not quarrel over Elliot?’ he sighed. ‘Leave him here at Pendenys, if that’s what you wish.’

She did not reply. Her mind was back at Cheyne Walk and the people next door. Refugees, of course, but what refugees! Not destitute, if what she had heard was to be believed, and real aristocrats, possessed of a title! A daughter, too, and unmarried; strictly chaperoned by the fierce Cossack whenever she ventured out.

She purred inside her, just to think of it. To have what she had been searching for landed next door to her was past belief. Such luck – even if they were Russians. She wouldn’t mind betting they’d got out of St Petersburg with a small fortune sewn into their corsets and the benefit of a London bank account set up long before the shooting of the Czar. Oh, my word, but it was worth looking into. Well worth looking into!

Tom Dwerryhouse checked his pocket watch with the station clock and found they agreed. He was in time. He had sent the pony along at a brisk pace, determined that Julia MacMalcolm should not arrive before him and take the station taxi.

He needed time alone with her to explain the way it had been; thank her for what she had done for him. But mostly he wanted to tell her that he knew about young Drew and that Rowangarth’s secret was safe with him. It was why he had taken time off work and harnessed up the pony and trap provided by his employer for the use of the estate workers – them being so cut off from civilization. The pony and cart could be used by any employee at any time, provided due notice was given to the groom who looked after Ralph Hillier’s hunters.

He had, Tom considered, done very well for himself, all things taken into account. A decent employer, a good house, now that Alice had licked it into shape; a suit of clothes every second year and boots and leggings, an’ all. And by far the most important, he had Alice and Daisy.

Why, then, should Miss Julia’s coming disturb him? Not entirely on account of her being gentry and him being working class nor because he was an army deserter, either, though he wasn’t proud of it nor ever quite free of the fear that one day the Army would arrive to cart him off.

He set his jaw tightly, shaking such thoughts from his head because they were not the cause of his misgivings. The truth of it, he was bound to admit, was that she was coming from Rowangarth; from the place where he and Alice met and where they had expected to end their days. Keeper’s Cottage on the Rowangarth estate had a woodman in it now because these days there was no need of a gamekeeper there; not until young Drew – Sir Andrew – was old enough to handle a shotgun, that was.

Yet that was still not all and if he were honest, he would admit it. Miss Julia would be bringing the north country with her and Tom Dwerryhouse was a son of the north and no matter how well suited he was with the way his life had turned out nor how contented Alice was with her new little bairn and her own hearth, one thing could never be denied. Northern roots did not easily transplant into southern soil. He was surprised Mr Hillier had seen fit to do it, him being a northerner, an’ all. But maybe it was all right for the likes of someone who owned another house in Westmorland and who could take off whenever the fancy took him. Windrush Hall, on the edges of the New Forest, was where it was convenient for Ralph Hillier to live, being close to a port and near enough to London where most of his business deals took place. But whenever his early years tugged on the thread of memory, he need only order his motor to be driven round to the front entrance and he could be away and back to his roots.

It was different for Tom Dwerryhouse who could never return to Rowangarth. For one thing, most folk thereabouts thought him dead, killed in the last year of the war; and to go back there would be to carry hate inside him for a man he might meet at any time. Elliot Sutton lived only a cock-stride from Rowangarth and for Alice’s sake – and for young Sir Andrew’s, too – it were best the two of them should never meet.

A signal fell with a clatter. A porter pushing a trolley and the stationmaster with top hat and green furled flag appeared on the platform. The train, no more than a noiseless speck down the track, would arrive on time. Julia was coming, and bringing their past with her.

She got down from a third-class compartment, lifting a gloved hand to bring the porter hurrying from the far end of the train and the first-class carriage that usually put a sixpenny tip his way.

She had not changed. Everything about her proclaimed her status; her understated air of command, her well-labelled leather suitcases, the way she held her head, even. She was still a Sutton. Not even what she had endured in the war could wipe out her breeding. She saw him, and smiled, and he walked towards her, removing his cap.

‘Tom!’ She held out her hand, her voice low with emotion. ‘It is so good to see you. How long is it?’

‘More’n five years, Miss Julia, and it’s right grand to see you, an’ all.’

They walked unspeaking beside the porter, waiting as he lifted her luggage into the cart.

‘Step up carefully, Miss Julia.’ Tom offered his hand, settling her comfortably, laying a rug over her knees. Then he jerked the reins, calling, ‘Hup!’ and clicking his tongue.

They were well out of the station environs before he said, ‘I want to say I’m sorry about what happened to the doctor, Miss Julia. And I’d like to thank you for being so decent about giving me a reference. It got me the job, though I’d have understood if you’d have wanted no truck with a deserter, after all you’d been through.’

‘Alice gave you the reference, Tom …’

‘Aye, but written in your hand, Miss, and it was you signed Alice’s name to it. I’m grateful.’

‘Then don’t be. Any man who had the guts to desert that war has my understanding. And Tom, there’s one thing I’d like to say to you. You must not call me Miss Julia. Not only am I Mrs MacMalcolm, now, but I am also a guest in your house. Alice calls me Julia – I would like you to do it, as well.’

‘But it wouldn’t be right! I used to work for her ladyship and you are still her daughter.’

‘Those days are long gone and besides, Alice is my friend. I still look on her as my sister and it would please me if you would treat me as she treats me.’

‘It’ll be a mite strange …’

‘Alice found it strange, too, but it didn’t take her long.’

‘I can but try,’ he smiled, touched and embarrassed both at the same time. ‘Though how you can show such kindness to someone who ran away –’

‘But I understood and my mother understood, too. Alice told us how it was. It was a terrible thing to have to shoot a man – a boy – in cold blood. That you threw down your rifle afterwards and risked the death sentence for what amounted to an act of mutiny, was a brave thing to do.’

‘No, it wasn’t.’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘I was beside myself with disgust; all twelve in that firing party were. One man stood there shaking as if he was going to throw a fit and another was sick. I just stormed up to that officer and told him I wouldn’t do a thing like that again, and they were all of them in such a state that I got away with it. But I wasn’t acting the hero. It’s this temper of mine …’

‘I can understand. I’ve got one, too. My mother calls it my Whitecliffe temper,’ she laughed. ‘Act first then think afterwards. You and me both, Tom.’

‘Aye. I was thinking on the way here about Rowangarth and that no matter how much I miss the old days, it’s as well I’m here. If Alice and me lived there, then I’d always be on the lookout for him.’ His eyes sought hers, asking understanding.

‘Elliot Sutton, you mean?’ Her gaze met and held his. ‘So you know?’

‘I know. Alice told me. It bothered her, you see. Told me it all.’

‘I see. And do you agree, now, that we did what we had to do? Giles needed a son and had just been told he would never father one – his injuries, you see – and Alice was demented with worry about your death and the pregnancy she didn’t want – a child she could never accept, or bring herself to love.’

‘And her ladyship …?’

‘She believes what Giles told her; that Drew is Giles’s son, conceived in a single act of compassion. She accepts it. She even thinks that Drew was meant to be.’

‘I’ve come to accept it, too.’ Tom slowed down the pony at the crossroads, turning to the right. ‘Almost there. And I’m grateful to Sir Giles. He was a decent man, and a brave one, too. Geordie and me would go out into No Man’s Land at night with the stretcher bearers, picking up the wounded. We’d hide ourselves and keep watch; try to give them some protection if they were seen by the German gunners. It took a brave man to be a stretcher bearer, like Sir Giles was. Brave fools, we called them – and the orderlies and doctors who went under the barbed wire with them.’ He slid his eyes to where she sat and saw her sudden sadness. ‘I’m sorry, Miss. We must try not to look back …’

‘Oh, but you are so wrong, Tom! We must always look back. We must remember, so it won’t happen again to Drew and Daisy. But we must always remind ourselves that the pain of remembering will grow less – or so I’m always being told.’ She lifted her head, and smiled. ‘I’m so looking forward to being with you both. I’ve missed Alice so. And as for seeing my god-daughter – oh, this will be such a wonderful holiday for me!’

Alice stood at the gate, waiting impatiently for the sound of the pony and cart. Beside her, in her shiny black perambulator, her baby girl slept.

The house was clean and shining; a joint of beef roasted in the fire oven. Vegetables stood ready for cooking; an apple pie cooled on the slate slab in the pantry.

Flowers from the garden were newly arranged in her best vases; Julia’s bedroom was as perfect as ever it could be. She hoped Julia would not find it inconvenient, there not being a bathroom at Keeper’s Cottage, but no one hereabouts had one. Water, except at Windrush, came out of wells or pumps or rain butts.

And why was Daisy asleep? Why couldn’t she be awake to fix Julia with brilliant blue eyes? She didn’t smile, yet, but she recognized voices and turned towards familiar sounds. She knew the minute Tom gave his warbling whistle. Tom loved her so much …

Impatiently, she walked to the turn in the lane, standing still, listening; walking back to the gate, again, sure the wheel must have fallen off the cart.

Then she heard a faraway sound and held her breath, making out the steady clopping of hooves, the round grinding of wheels. Her cheeks reddened; she felt a sudden tensing of her hands.

Then Tom was pulling on the reins, smiling, calling, ‘Well, here she is, now!’

Slowly, carefully, Julia got down, then stood, not moving nor speaking, as if she didn’t believe any of it. Then as one they ran, arms wide, clasping each other tightly, saying not a word, standing close, cheek upon cheek.

‘Oh, my word!’ Alice was the first to find her voice. ‘Let me look at you. My dear, dear Julia – I’ve missed you!’

‘And I you.’ Julia’s eyes pricked with tears and she blinked rapidly, smiling through them. ‘Sixteen months! It’s been so long. And do let me see her!’

‘Asleep, as usual,’ Alice sniffed, pulling back the pram cover. ‘Don’t know what I did to deserve such a placid babe.’

Daisy Dwerryhouse lay on her pretty pink pillow, face flushed from sleep, half-moons of incredibly long eyelashes resting on her cheeks.

‘But she is beautiful! She is incredible!’

‘If you don’t mind, I’ll leave the pair of you to it.’ Tom deposited suitcases on the doorstep. ‘Best take the pony back. Supper at half-past six, will it be?’ He didn’t even try to conceal his pride.

‘There or thereabouts,’ Alice nodded. ‘Let’s go inside, Julia? You must be fair gasping for a cup of tea. The kettle’s on the hob and the tray set and oh, my dear, it’s so good to be together again!’

‘It is,’ Julia whispered throatily. ‘So very good …’

When Tom had excused himself after supper and Daisy had been fed and settled in Julia’s arms in the fireside rocker, Alice set about restoring order in the kitchen.

‘You must be tired, love,’ she murmured.

‘Not if you aren’t.’ Julia cupped the little head protectively in her hand, smiling softly. ‘She smells of breast milk and baby soap. She has a mouth like a little rosebud. You should have called her Rose …’

‘No. Her mother is a buttercup girl and daisies go best with buttercups. Now – tell me about Aunt Sutton? How was she, when you called?’

‘She insists she came back to London to see her bank manager, but she let it slip that she also visited her doctor – then went to great pains to hide it. Said she might as well let him have a look at her, whilst she was over, but she was altogether too casual about it. It’s my belief she came especially to see him and when I said as much she told me it was all stuff and nonsense and that she had no intention of taking the pills he’d given her. A fussy old woman, she called him.

‘She’ll be back in the Camargue, now, and I’ve got a peculiar feeling about it all. I wonder if I should try phoning her doctor – get to the bottom of it.’

‘He wouldn’t tell you – you know he wouldn’t.’

‘No, and nor would Aunt Sutton. All she said was, “Fiddle-de-dee!” If only Andrew was here …’

Alice remained silent, then, drying her hands, she walked to where Julia sat, standing behind her chair, hands on her shoulders. For a moment she stood there, then said softly, ‘Is she asleep? Why don’t you take her upstairs to her cot? I don’t have to tell you how to do it, now do I?’

Julia was quite composed by the time she came downstairs and Alice was setting out cups and saucers.

‘Kettle’s just on the boil,’ she smiled, removing her apron. ‘Now we can have that chat. Tom won’t be back, yet.’

‘Does he always work this late?’

‘Bless you no – leastways, not these days. Windrush was very run down when Mr Hillier bought it. The Army were in it right through the war – the place had gone to rack and ruin. Game covers overgrown and hardly a pheasant in them. Tom’s had to start from scratch. There was no shooting last back end, though he’s hopeful there’ll be good sport come October. He’ll need another keeper, by then. Mr Hillier is keen to have his business friends from London for a few shoots, so Tom wants it all to be in good order.

‘Said he was going to make up the hour he took off, this afternoon, but really it’s only to let you and me have a good gossip.’

‘And you’re happy, Alice? No regrets – about leaving Rowangarth, I mean, and starting afresh here?’

‘No regrets –’cept that I miss you and Reuben and her ladyship. We’re so out of the way, here, and I only see people on shopping day – apart from the district nurse. She calls once a week but we shan’t be seeing so much of her, once Daisy gets to be six weeks old. I write to Reuben, though it isn’t often he writes back …’

‘I see him often. He’s fine, Alice, and tells me what you have written, though often you’ve already given me the same news. But I’m sure he’d like to see Daisy.’

‘I’d like him to. If he decided to visit us, either Tom or me would go to London and meet him. Wish I could persuade him to come.’

‘Or you and Daisy could come to Holdenby to see him?’

‘Oh, my goodness!’ Alice set down the tea tray with such force that the cups and saucers rattled. ‘You know I couldn’t! When I left Rowangarth the excuse was that I’d had a bad time getting over Drew’s birth and I was going to Aunt Sutton for a change and a rest. But that was ages ago! What are they going to say if I turn up with a baby in my arms?’

‘Well, you won’t shock Reuben nor mother, because they knew you were really going to Tom and they know about Daisy, so who else is there? Everyone else at Rowangarth is your friend. Oh, I tell them from time to time that you are fine and they know that you and I write to each other – but I’m sure they often thought about you and wondered when you’d be back. So why don’t you let me tell them that you have married again? You had every right to.’

‘But married to Tom?’

‘A deserter, you mean? But who knows about that? Mother, Reuben, and me – and we aren’t going to tell. And the Army thinks he was killed, so where’s the bother? You know the way we feel about it – we’re on Tom’s side.’

‘Yes, an’ I’m grateful. But what do I say – that I’m Alice Dwerryhouse, now, and that Tom was never killed? Are folks going to accept that?’

‘Of course – if you tell them he was a prisoner and the authorities were never told about it by the Germans. It happened often, in the war – men turning up like that. Everyone who knew you both would be glad.’

‘Aye,’ Alice frowned. ‘I think they’d believe it–especially as Jinny Dobb knows about Tom, already.’

‘Old Jin knows! How on earth …?’

‘She saw him the day he came back to Reuben’s cottage, when he came looking for me. Reuben had to tell him I’d wed Giles, and had a bairn …’

‘I know. I’m not likely to forget that day. But you’re sure Jin saw him?’

‘Certain. She told me she had and wanted to know why I wasn’t going with him.’

‘Yet she never said a word about it to anyone – not to my knowledge, at least.’

‘She promised she wouldn’t. But when I left Rowangarth, Jin must have suspected I wasn’t going away for the good of my health.’

‘Well – there you are, then,’ Julia smiled. ‘It would be a five-minute wonder. They’d all be so busy ooh-ing and aah-ing over Daisy that they’d pay no heed to what you and Tom had been doing.’

‘I don’t know …’ Alice frowned, biting her lip, cupping her blazing cheeks in her hands. ‘I’d have to talk to Tom about it. I mustn’t do anything to risk him being caught and happen he’d not be so keen to have me visit – well, you know what I mean?’

‘Elliot Sutton? Well, you’d just have to promise to keep out of Brattocks Wood. And anyway, you’d have no need to go there. Reuben lives in the village, now.’

‘But I think I’d want to go there – just once, for old time’s sake. It was where Tom and me did our courting, remember. I used to take Morgan out and hope like mad I’d bump into Tom.’

‘And you’d want to tell the rooks what had been happening, wouldn’t you,’ Julia teased. ‘Then I’d have to come with you, that’s all. Have you any rooks here, to talk to?’

‘Some over in the far wood – but I haven’t made their acquaintance, just yet. And happen I’ve grown up a bit, since I used to tell my secrets to the Rowangarth rooks.’

‘They’d be glad to see you, for all that,’ Julia urged.

‘Maybe. But what about her ladyship? Would she be glad? And if I did come – and I’m not saying I will, mind – where would I stay? There isn’t room for me and Daisy in Reuben’s little house.’

‘But mother would love to see you again – and as for sleeping, what’s wrong with Rowangarth? It was your home, wasn’t it? You would stay with us.’

‘What would they all say, though – Miss Clitherow and Cook and Mary and Tilda?’

‘Alice – you know staff don’t usually make comments about mother’s house guests, even though I know they would all say, “Welcome back, Alice!”’

‘There’s Tom …’ She was wavering, she knew it; knew, too, that she desperately wanted to see Reuben just once more – see Rowangarth, too.

‘Tom was a prisoner of war. I shall tell them that and mother will confirm it. And anyway, Tom wouldn’t be coming with you – not on your first visit. Are you afraid Will Stubbs would poke and pry and ask his business?’

‘Will!’ Alice gasped, remembering the inquisitive coachman, bursting into laughter. ‘Is he still a terrible busybody?’

‘As bad as ever, though he’s careful to keep his own affairs a secret – or so he thinks,’ Julia grinned. ‘We all happen to know that he’s setting his cap at Mary.’

‘Mary Strong? Her ladyship’s parlourmaid?’

‘The very same Mary. And Alice – don’t revert to your old ways entirely? You were once married to my brother – you were Lady Alice Sutton. Mother thinks of you still as hers. If you should come home to Rowangarth, don’t call her milady or refer to her as her ladyship? You used to call her dearest, as Giles did – remember?’

Nodding, Alice closed her eyes. She remembered so much and almost all of it security and kindness and the sweet sense of belonging. All at once, Rowangarth called her.

‘I couldn’t leave Tom,’ she gasped.

‘Not if he’d want you to pay Reuben a visit? Tom was fond of him – and Reuben isn’t getting any younger.’

‘You think I don’t know it? He’ll be seventy-five, come September. I’d hoped you would take his birthday present back with you – give it to him on his birthday. I’ve got tobacco and mints and knitted him two pairs of good thick socks.’

‘I’ll take them, gladly, and see he gets them, too. But mightn’t it be nice to be able to tell him on his birthday that one day soon you’ll be bringing Daisy to see him? At least don’t dismiss it entirely?’

‘Don’t, Julia! I want so much to visit, and you know I can’t! There’d always be Elliot Sutton at the back of my mind – not just meeting him, though that would be bad enough. What if he saw me – and blurted it all out? What then?’

‘Elliot won’t say anything – not now. If he’d been going to make trouble, he’d have made it when he realized he’d been cheated out of hopes of the title. He can’t know – not for certain – that Drew is his. Hateful though he is, I’d give him credit for keeping his mouth shut.

‘And you wouldn’t be staying long – a week, at the most? Surely for so short a time we could make sure you and he didn’t meet?’

‘We? You and your mother, you mean? But she doesn’t know that Elliot Sutton is Drew’s father – had you forgotten?’

‘No. But I’m trying to. From the day he was born I always thought of Drew as Giles’s son – just as mother does. You must do the same, Alice. Elliot Sutton is a womanizer and a lecher but he isn’t so stupid that he’d stand on the top of Holdenby Pike and shout it out to the three Ridings, now is he?’

‘N-no …’

‘There you are, then! We stand together, you and I – just as we did when we were nursing. We each took care of the other, in the old days – we can do it again. We’d wither cousin Elliot at a glance. And remember, Alice – I hate him as much as you do.’

‘You can’t. You don’t know what it’s like to – to’

‘To be raped by him? No, I don’t. But he’s alive and my husband was killed in that war, so I hate him more than you do – and never forget it!’

‘I believe you do,’ Alice said, wonderingly. She hadn’t thought, not for a moment, that anyone could hate him as much as she. ‘You really do …’

‘Oh, yes. And you and Daisy would be safe with me. And bring Morgan with you, if you’d feel better. Morgan hates him, too …’

‘Oh, I couldn’t come. It wouldn’t be right to leave Tom on his own. I want to come, Julia – you know I do – but how could I?’

Yet even as she said it, she knew it was only a matter of time. One day, and soon, she would return to Rowangarth. Nothing was more certain.

3

‘I tell you it was Alice,’ Mary Strong insisted. ‘That’s where Miss Julia has been! Miss Julia and her ladyship were talking on the telephone and it was Alice Hawthorn they were talking about! Her ladyship said, “Where are you ringing from, Julia?” and then she said, “Good. That’s handy to know if ever we need to get in touch with Alice.”’

‘Alice Sutton, don’t you mean, and have you forgotten, Mary, that parlourmaids don’t listen to private telephone conversations?’ Cook corrected, her mouth a round of disapproval. ‘And then what did she say?’

‘Then …’ Mary pushed her cup across the table to be refilled, taking another piece of cinnamon toast without so much as a by-your-leave,‘ … then her ladyship said, “And how are Daisy, and Morgan? We mustn’t forget dear old Morgan.”’

‘Alice took Morgan with her, didn’t she,’ Tilda frowned, ‘when she left for Aunt Sutton’s, I mean. And why has she stayed away so long without so much as a word? Surely she’s better, now. And who is Daisy?’

‘Don’t know anything about any Daisy,’ Mary shrugged. ‘But I happen to know that Alice keeps in touch with Miss Julia. I’ve said so all along, haven’t I? I know her writing on the envelopes.’

‘Aye, and as for us not hearing a word,’ Tilda defended, ‘we did make it pretty plain when Alice came back from France Lady Sutton that things had changed, now didn’t we?’

‘Things had to change,’ Cook murmured. ‘Alice wasn’t below stairs any more – Miss Clitherow made sure we knew that, right from the start. And we still aren’t any the wiser, are we?’

‘Curiouser, though.’ A pity, Mary thought, she’d had to move on in mid-conversation, so to speak, but there was a limit to the time it took any one person to walk across the hall. ‘Wonder if Miss Julia will tell us about it? After all, Alice is supposed to be with Miss Sutton and that’s where Miss Julia was supposed to be going. The very last thing her ladyship said to her when she left was, “Give my dearest love to Anne Lavinia, don’t forget. Tell her we don’t see half enough of her.” I heard her!’

‘A lot of supposing, for all that,’ Cook murmured, half to herself.

‘Yes, but Miss Sutton spends most of her time in France,’ Tilda insisted. There could be no doubting it when her ladyship always gave her the stamps from the envelopes for her little brother who collected them. ‘So why do Alice’s letters have a Southampton postmark on them?’

‘Hmmm.’ Cook thought long and hard, then ventured, ‘Happen letters from France get brought over to Southampton on ships and the Post Office there –’

‘Happen my foot!’ Mary interrupted, forgetting herself completely. ‘I see all the letters that come into this house and Miss Sutton’s have a Marseilles or a Nice postmark on them so why, will you tell me, don’t Alice’s?’

‘That’s enough!’ Cook snapped, aware the conversation had gone too far. ‘What Upstairs does and where their letters come from is none of our business and we’d all do well to remember it if we want to keep our positions in these hard times. And not one word of what’s been said in my kitchen is to go beyond these four walls – do I make myself clear?’ She fixed Mary with one of her gimlet glances. ‘We’re all getting as bad as Will Stubbs,’ she added as a final reminder.

‘There’ll be none hear anything from me!’ Mary countered archly. ‘Never a word passes my lips when I’m in Will’s company. I hope I know my place here and have always given satisfaction, Mrs Shaw!’

‘That you have, Mary; that you have – so don’t spoil it!’

Whereupon her ladyship’s cook rose from her chair, indicating that morning break was over. ‘Now let’s all of us be about our business. If we’re intended to know, we’ll be told when Miss Julia gets home, Tuesday. If not, then we keeps our eyes down and our mouths shut tight!’

All the same, she pondered, there were things that didn’t add up, postmarks on letters apart. Just why had Alice stayed away so long? And who was Daisy?

Clementina Sutton was in a tizzy of delight. Not only had the first visiting card she left at the house in Cheyne Walk been accepted by a servant dressed in black from top to toe, but the next day – the very next day, mark you – a card had been delivered by the black-bearded Cossack which indicated, if Russian etiquette ran parallel with English, that Clementina was now free to call. Hadn’t the Countess added the time – 10.30 – in small, neat letters in the bottom, left-hand corner, and tomorrow’s date?

The Countess. Just to think of it made Clementina glow. Merely to look at the deckle-edged card bearing what could only be the family crest embossed in gold and the name Olga Maria, Countess Petrovska beneath it, gave her immense pleasure.

She knew little of the family next door, save that they had fled St Petersburg where the Russian revolution started, though now those Bolsheviks were calling the city Petrograd, if you please! Mind, the Bolsheviks appeared to have gained the upper hand, so were entitled to call it what they wished. The last of the British troops sent to help restore the Czar to his throne had long ago left and heaven help anyone who had the misfortune to fall foul of the men – and women – who waved their triumphant red banners. Shot, like as not, just as the Czar and his family had been.

But it couldn’t happen here, Clementina insisted nervously, even though men were joining trade unions as never before and threats of strikes were always present. But they wouldn’t strike. For every man who withdrew his labour there were ten only too grateful to take his place. She dismissed the British working man from her mind, thinking instead of tomorrow’s call. Investigating the pedigree of refugee Russians and whether the daughter of the house was in the market for a husband might prove interesting. It could turn out to be an extremely enlightening talk.

Talk? But what if the family next door spoke no English; used French as their international language as diplomats did? She would not only feel a fool, but be shown to be one! Then she comforted herself with the thought that any foreigner of any consequence spoke English and if the Russians did not, then they were not worth wasting her time on – which would be a pity, because the daughter of a countess was exactly what she had set her heart upon, for Elliot.

She sighed deeply, then began to search her wardrobe for something suitable to wear, regretting having brought so few clothes with her. And this town house, though small, she resolved, must be brought into full working order and before so very much longer, too. Elliot had dillied and dallied far too long. Now he would be given to understand that he had a twelve-month in which to get himself wed – or else!

She closed the wardrobe door firmly. Nothing there; nothing half good enough in which to call upon a countess. Best take a stroll through the Burlington Arcade and along Bond Street – buy new …

Julia felt a warm glow of homecoming the moment the station taxi entered the carriage drive that swept up to the steps of the old house. For more than three hundred years Rowangarth had stood there, blessing Suttons on their way; welcoming them back.

‘I’ve missed you both!’ She kissed her mother’s cheek, then swept the small, pyjama-clad boy into her arms, closing her eyes, hugging him to her, amazed he should feel so solid, so robust against Daisy’s newborn fragility. ‘It’s good to be back, though it was such a joy being with Alice again. I wanted to bring her home with me.’

‘Come inside, do. It feels quite cold out here.’ Helen Sutton shivered. ‘I promised Drew he should stay up to welcome you, though he’s been fighting sleep this past half-hour.’

‘Then I shall take you upstairs at once, my darling, and tuck you in,’ Julia smiled, kissing him again. ‘Have you had your supper?’

‘Mm. Mummy not go away again?’

‘No, Drew. Next time, you shall come with me. We’ll go for a lovely long ride on a puffing train – now what do you say to that?’

He regarded her solemnly through large grey eyes – Andrew’s eyes – stuck a thumb in his mouth, then laid his head on her shoulder. Almost before she had tucked the bedclothes around him, he was asleep.

‘Now, give me all the news,’ Helen smiled as they sat at dinner. ‘How was Anne Lavinia?’

‘She seemed fine. I gave her your love, as you asked.’ Best not spoil tonight with vague suspicions about her health. ‘She’ll be back in France, by now. I think it was business brought her home. Figgis has retired now, remember. There’s no one in the house, so maybe she thought she’d better check up on things – pick up bills. And she popped in on her doctor. Nothing wrong. Just a quick check-up,’ Julia hastened, feeling better for having mentioned it, albeit briefly. ‘It was good to see Alice again. She and Tom are very happy – and as for little Daisy! Five weeks old and a beauty already. I could have stolen her to be Drew’s sister!’

‘She is Drew’s sister,’ Helen reminded, fork poised. ‘Had you forgotten?’

‘No.’ Nor was she likely to. ‘The christening was lovely. Quiet, but lovely. Alice sent you a piece of cake, by the way.’

‘And Morgan – I almost forgot the old softie. Is he all right?’

‘Morgan’s fine. I’m glad Alice took him with her. He’s never looked so fit – thinner, because he gets a lot more exercise.’

‘And no titbits from Cook,’ Helen supplied.

‘Absolutely not. His coat shines, now. He shares brick kennels with Tom’s two labradors, though he’s really Alice’s dog. When Tom is at work, she lets Morgan out and he sits beside Daisy’s pram, on guard.’

‘Good. Giles would have been pleased …’ Helen paused, reluctant to ask the question uppermost in her mind. ‘About Alice – did you feel – I mean …’

‘Did I ask her about well – what we talked about – and yes, I did. I put it to her, then left it at that; didn’t want her to feel I was pressurizing her to come home. Where Tom is – that’s really her home, now. But I don’t want to lose her. The war took so much from me and she is one of the people I have left who understands. She was with me the day I met Andrew …’ Her eyes took on a remembering look, then she tilted her chin, and smiled. ‘When I left, Tom drove me to the station. He told me they’d talked about it – about Alice visiting us, I mean; said there was no reason at all why she shouldn’t stay with us. And he agreed with me that people should know that he and Alice are married.’

‘Then what are we to tell them?’ Helen frowned. ‘That he wasn’t killed, but taken prisoner …?’

‘Exactly that. Alice and I will tell the same story, be sure of it. No one shall ever know what really happened. We wouldn’t be so foolish as to say anything that would get him arrested, now would we?’

‘Then everything would seem to have worked out very well.’ Helen smiled tremulously. ‘And if we ever need to get in touch with Alice – about Drew, I mean – I believe there is a number we can use?’

‘In the village – it’s called West Welby, by the way. You can ring up from the Post Office, there. They’ve got a tiny switchboard at the back of the office, and if you give them one-and-sixpence for every trunk call, they’ll put you through with no trouble at all. Just one snag. They use an extension phone, so it isn’t very private. People waiting at the counter for stamps and postal orders can have a good old listen.’

‘But they could get a message to Alice?’

‘Of course they could. Alice sews for the postmistress; I believe they are quite friendly. But you seem obsessed with getting in touch with Alice. What has put the idea into your head?’

‘I don’t know. Just don’t want to lose touch, I suppose. And she is Drew’s mother, you know. In law –’

‘Dearest! Alice left Drew in our keeping and she knows we would do anything we had to for him. And I’m sure that if a real emergency arose, we could always ring Windrush – that’s where Tom’s employer lives. Mr Hillier seems a decent man and he’s devoted to Daisy. Never passes the house without taking a peep at her if she’s outside, in her pram. He gave her a beautiful christening mug …’

‘So everything would seem to be all right?’

‘More than all right. They are all very happy and one day soon Alice will visit us. I shall tell Reuben when I give him Alice’s birthday present that before so very much longer he’ll be seeing her. And would it be all right if she and Daisy stayed here?’

‘It would be perfect. And it would be good for Drew to get his nose pushed out a little. He gets far too much attention, that young man,’ she said fondly, complacently. ‘And he can get to know his sister.’

‘His half-sister,’ Julia cautioned. ‘But he isn’t old enough, yet, to be told the truth of it. We’ll have to be very careful when we do tell him; say the right things and not have him imagine his mother abandoned him.’

‘You are the only mother he’s ever known, Julia; he even calls you Mummy. But I agree we must break it to him carefully – when the time comes.’

She stopped, abruptly, as Mary brought in a joint of mutton.

‘What were you saying about Aunt Clemmy being in London?’ Julia hastened, filling the void.

‘I was – er – saying, dear, that she went down there two days ago, though why,’ Helen sighed, ‘I haven’t the slightest idea. She did tell me, though, that Nathan should be on his way home from Africa by now. So good to see him again …’

‘Will you carve, milady, or shall I?’ Clearly, Mary realized, there were to be no snippets to carry back to the kitchen.

‘You do it, Mary – then I’m sure we can look after ourselves quite nicely,’ Helen smiled.

No news at all, Mary brooded, as she closed the dining-room door behind her, because everyone already knew that the Reverend Nathan was expected home at any time and it was the best-known secret hereabouts that Mrs Clementina spent more time in her London house, nowadays, than ever she spent at Pendenys Place. And anyway, who was interested in the Pendenys Suttons? Even that Mr Elliot seemed to be behaving himself these days, she shrugged. Not so much as a whisper of scandal from that quarter. There were times, she was forced to admit, when life around Holdenby could be very dull indeed …

Tom rocked back and forth, humming softly. This was his special time; the time he took Daisy after her evening feed, laying her over his shoulder, cradling her tiny body with his hand, loving her nearness, the softness of her and her sweet baby smell.

‘Is she asleep, yet?’ Alice whispered. ‘Shall I put the kettle on?’

‘Leave it for a while. Sit yourself down, lass.’

Gladly, she did as he asked her, pulling off her shoes, wriggling her toes, contentment pulsing through her like a steady, warm heartbeat.

She looked at her husband through half-closed eyes, seeing the small smile of pleasure that tilted the corners of his mouth. This last half-hour of the day always belonged to Tom and Daisy; their together time, when he would rock her to sleep.

She smiled, wondering what pleased him so – apart from his daughter, that was. Closing her eyes, she set her chair rocking.

My, but they’d had a grand time, the three of them, Tom thought. These past four days had done Alice a power of good. He had never before realized how close the two women had grown. Sisters? They were that, all right. And how proud he’d felt at the christening. It was, Julia had said as he’d driven her to the station to catch the early morning train, quite the nicest she had ever been to.

‘I did so enjoy it. Daisy was very good,’ she smiled. ‘Well, apart from that cry of utter rage when she felt the water on her head. Did you know, Tom, that Daisy is my only godchild? No one has ever asked me before.’

‘It was kindly of you to accept, though Alice wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. The day the bairn was born she said she wanted you to stand for her. And it was good of you,’ he murmured, ‘to give her such a lovely present.’

‘It belonged to Grandmother Whitecliffe. I know it isn’t usual to give a brooch at a christening, but I thought sapphires would suit her eyes – if they stay so beautifully blue, that is.’

‘Alice was overcome. There are twenty-one stones in it. She counted.’

‘Very small stones, Tom. I really chose it because it was in the shape of a daisy, though daisy petals aren’t blue and the pearl in the middle should have been yellow.’

‘Alice says she won’t be allowed to wear it till she’s old enough to take good care of it.’

‘She’s my only god-daughter – take good care of her.’

‘You know I will. And here we are …’ He slowed the pony to a walk, guiding it carefully into the station yard, tying the reins to the fence before helping her down.

‘It’s been grand, having you with us. Come and visit again – bring the little lad.’

‘I will. As soon as Alice can accept him, I promise I will. And thank you for making me so welcome. When things get bad, I shall know where to run, now …’

‘It still hurts, then?’ There was understanding in his eyes, and compassion.

‘Like the very devil, Tom. Sometimes I want to beat my fists against the wall, and scream. It’s a good thing I’ve got Drew to keep me sane.’ The train let off a hiss of steam, then clanked to a stop. Smiling bravely, she turned to him, holding out her hand in goodbye. ‘Don’t wave me off, Tom? Just give me a hand with my cases, then go?’

‘If that’s what you want …’

‘It is. I like to be met, but partings dismay me.’

‘Right, then!’ He lifted her cases high onto the luggage rack, then stepping down he gathered her to him, holding her tightly. ‘Thanks for all you did for Alice when she was in need of a friend. If there’s ever anything we can do for you, we’ll do it – no questions asked.’ He cupped her face in his hands, laying his lips gently to her forehead. ‘You’re a lovely lady, Julia MacMalcolm. Come and see us again, soon? Don’t wait for the next christening?’

‘I won’t – be sure of it. Now off you go – please? No goodbyes …’

He thought a lot about Julia and her ladyship on his way home and about the little lad up there at Rowangarth. And he thought about what he and Alice had talked about, last night in bed. It had been her decision entirely, yet he had agreed with it, even though he told her to sleep on it, then sleep on it again before she wrote to Lady Helen. But when Alice’s mind was made up there was nothing would change it. She would think on, like he said, yet still she would write that letter to Rowangarth, and now that she had accepted the way things were, it was best for all concerned she should do it.

He felt a sudden pricking of tears and coughed sternly, blowing his nose loudly. And it hadn’t really been tears he had felt – more like a tingling of happiness – nay, gratitude – that his world should be so damn-near perfect, because how many men had everything they could wish for on the face of this earth? How many?

Tom Dwerryhouse was not a praying man, but he had lifted his eyes to the early morning sky and whispered, ‘Thanks’; whispered it so quietly that only God could hear him. Then he shook his head, feeling foolish at his daftness, and slapped the reins down hard and called, ‘Hup!’ to the pony.

But how many men were lucky as Tom Dwerryhouse? Certainly not Giles Sutton nor his brother Robert, nor Andrew MacMalcolm. They had nothing but a hero’s death; no Alice, no nestling girl child to rock to sleep. And Julia had so little. Only young Drew, and her memories. Happen this morning he should not have kissed her goodbye, but he’d done it on an impulse, seeing the naked sadness in her eyes, the aloneness. It had been a kiss of compassion, of comfort, and she had not taken it amiss. That brief closeness between them had prompted him to whisper,

‘No goodbyes, but don’t look so lost, Julia lass. Alice shall come and visit, I promise you. All I ask is that she won’t meet up with young Sutton. I couldn’t abide it if he was to upset her again. If I ever thought there was the smallest chance of that, I wouldn’t want her to go.’

‘He won’t upset her, be sure of that! You know how I detest him,’ Julia had said, tight-mouthed. ‘Alice and Daisy will be safe, at Rowangarth.’

‘Detest? Aye, that’s how I feel about him an’ all. That one’s a creature only a mother could love – and there must be times when even she loses patience with him.’

‘Don’t worry, Tom. Always remember that I don’t want them to meet, either. It’s every bit as important to me he should never suspect that Drew is his.’

‘But mightn’t he suspect already?’ Tom frowned.

‘He might, but suspicion is one thing; proof is quite another. It’s his word against Rowangarth’s, don’t forget. Even his brother Nathan is on our side. Elliot wouldn’t dare!’

‘Happen you are right. And why are we spoiling the last of your holiday talking about him,’ he’d laughed, making light of it, and she had stepped onto the train, taking the window seat, smiling. She was still smiling, chin high, when he turned for a last look at her. She would be home, now, at Rowangarth, poor lass; back to her lonely bed with no one to kiss her, make love with her, tell her everything would be all right.

‘Damn that war!’ he gasped.

‘Tom?’ Alice was at his side in an instant, eyes anxious. ‘What is it, love? What was it you just said?’

‘Dreaming,’ he mumbled, cursing his carelessness. ‘Must have nodded off. Aye – happen I was dreaming …’

‘About the war! It’s been over two years, almost, yet still it’s always there, at the backs of our minds. Don’t think anyone who was in France will rightly forget …’

‘No. It’s got a lot to answer for. But let’s get this bairn up to her cot? She’s fast asleep.’

Carefully, he got to his feet, cupping the little head protectively in his hand. Then half-way up the stairs he turned abruptly.

‘Alice, I do love you – but you know it, don’t you?’

‘I know it,’ she said softly, and there was no need for reassurance, because her eyes said it for her. I love you. I shall always love you …

‘Off you go,’ she said softly. ‘Put her in her cot. I’ll set the kettle on. We’ll have a sup of tea, then I’ve got a letter to write …’

‘There, now.’ Alice lay down her pen and corked the ink bottle. ‘That’s over and done with. I’ll post it in the morning when I go to the village. Just one thing more, Tom …’

‘Whatever else?’ he smiled indulgently. ‘Can’t it wait until morning?’

‘That it can’t! I’m in the mood for setting things to rights. I’ve written to Rowangarth – now there’s one thing more I must tell you.

‘You mind you said that Daisy did well at her christening – had so many lovely things given to her that the West Welby lads’d be courting her for her dowry – or something daft like that …?’

‘A joke, love, though I’ve given the matter a deal of thought,’ he said gravely, though his eyes were bright with teasing, ‘and there’s none in that village half good enough for our Daisy! But what’s brought all this on?’

‘Like I said – setting things to rights, because happen you should know that you might be more right than you realize – about the bairn, I mean …’

‘Alice?’ He moved towards her, but she got to her feet, taking up a position behind her chair. And she always did that, he frowned, when something bothered her. ‘Tell me, sweetheart?’

‘Our Daisy does have a dowry,’ she whispered, eyes on the chairback. ‘First thing I did after she was born was to open a bank account in her name.’

‘And what’s wrong with that, bonny lass? Nice to think she’ll have a bit of brass to draw on if ever she should need it. I’ve set my heart on her getting a scholarship to the Grammar School – there’ll be fancy uniform to buy, and –’

‘Tom! Stop your dreaming! There’s years and years before we need think about that. She’s hardly six weeks old, yet! And if you’re set on educating her,’ she added reluctantly, ‘she can always be paid for.’

‘And just how, might I ask? It costs good money every term at that school if a child hasn’t the brains to get a free place, though happen we’d manage.’ Rabbits to sell, he calculated. Rabbits were vermin and all a keeper caught, it was accepted, were his own. And rabbit skins and mole skins fetched a fair price and –

‘Will you listen, Tom? It would be nothing to do with managing. Daisy has enough money of her own!’

There now, she’d said it and please God that Dwerry-house temper wouldn’t flash sudden and sharp.

‘Her own? Tell me, Alice?’

His voice was soft, ordinary almost. They weren’t going to have words if only because it was Daisy they were talking about. She drew in a breath of relief.

‘When I was married to – when I was at Rowangarth and I thought of you as dead …’

‘When you were Lady Sutton, wed to Sir Giles,’ he supplied. ‘Lovey, we’ve had all this out. It happened. You did what you had to. Don’t talk about it as if it’s something to be ashamed of. Just tell me about Daisy’s bank book.’

‘All right, then. Giles made me an allowance – I didn’t touch it, hardly. It didn’t seem right. Any road, when I came to you there was most of it left …’

‘And all we’ve got in this house – it was that money paid for it,’ he gasped.

‘No. You know that after you and me were wed, I sent to Rowangarth for my things – my own things – all the bedding and linen I’d collected, the rest of my clothes, the chest of drawers Reuben gave us …’

‘Aye. And instead of them being delivered by the railway, they came in a carrier’s motor, and all manner of things, beside!’

‘Yes. Another bed, a washstand and jug and bowl, and rugs and kitchen chairs and –’

‘It was good of Julia to send them and wrong of me to think otherwise.’

‘Furniture Rowangarth had no need of, and kindly given. And the rest of our home came out of my own savings, Tom, I promise you. I didn’t use a penny of Giles’s money. All I ever took from it was money for Daisy’s pram – and whilst I’m about it, that pram cost five guineas. Our little one was to have the finest coach-built perambulator I could lay hands on, I vowed. And besides, it’ll come in nicely for the rest of our bairns. Good things always last,’ she added with defiant practicality.

‘That great posh pram will outlast six more, then!’ he laughed. ‘We’re going to have to be busy if we’re to get our value out of it.’

‘Sweetheart – you aren’t angry? You don’t think I should have told you before this?’

‘I’m not angry.’ He loved her too much. They were too happy, the three of them, that he’d be a fool ever to lose his temper again. ‘But might a man be told how wealthy a daughter he’s got?’

‘Aye. I reckon I owe you that.’ Alice opened the dresser drawer, slid her fingers beneath the lining paper and took out the bank book. ‘See for yourself …’

‘Heck!’ His eyes widened; he let go a gasp of disbelief. ‘That’s enough to buy this house we’re living in and then some!’

‘That’s just about it. And not a penny of it can be touched till she’s seven and can sign her own name to get at it. But I don’t want her to know about it, Tom; don’t want her thinking she can have all the toys she wants, nor any bicycle she thinks fit to choose. Daisy Dwerryhouse cuts her coat according to our cloth; I’ve made up my mind about that. So not one word, mind …’

‘Not a word! But think on, eh – our Daisy rich!’

‘Rich my foot! She’s got something put by, that’s all. Rich is – well, it’s like Mr Hillier is and the Pendenys Suttons.’ She stopped, abruptly. ‘Sorry, Tom. We don’t talk about them, do we? Only about Nathan …’

‘Only about the Reverend, who’s the best of the bunch of them. But tell me what’s in yon’ letter to her ladyship?’ He nodded towards the envelope on the mantelpiece, waiting to be stamped and posted. ‘Or am I not to know?’

‘I think you know already, but I’ll tell you all about it when I get her reply – which will be soon, I shouldn’t wonder. Now give the fire a stir, will you, and hurry that kettle up. And Tom – I do so love you. We aren’t too happy, are we?’ she whispered, all at once afraid.

‘No, sweetheart. I’ve always been of the opinion that we get what we deserve in this life and what we’ve got, you and me, we paid for – in advance. So stop your worriting and make your man that sup of tea!’

Almost without thinking, his hand strayed to his pocket and the rabbit’s foot he kept there; his lucky rabbit’s foot. Reuben had given it to him the day before he’d left Rowangarth to join the Army; given one to Davie and Will Stubbs an’ all, and all three of them came through that war. He had great faith in that old rabbit’s foot, he thought, curling his fingers around its silky softness. It had taken care of him in the war and now it would take care of Alice and the bairn – and their happiness. Stood to reason, didn’t it? And Alice should go home to Rowangarth just as soon as maybe – let old Reuben see Daisy – be blowed if she shouldn’t!

He smiled his contentment, pushing the kettle deeper into the coals.

Too happy? Of course they weren’t!

4

‘I think you should read this letter. It’s from Alice, and it’s about Drew.’

‘It’s nothing –’ Helen Sutton’s head jerked sharply upwards, eyes questioning.

‘It’s nothing wrong,’ Julia smiled comfortingly. ‘Read it.’

‘My spectacles.’ Still a little alarmed, Helen reached into the pockets of her cardigan. ‘I must have left them upstairs. Read it for me?’

‘Only if you drink your coffee, and relax. It isn’t anything awful. Listen …’

My dear Julia,

It was lovely our being together after such a long time. Those few days were so good and just like it used to be. We must not let it go so long again. Seeing you made me realize how much I have missed Rowangarth.

I have thought about it a lot – talked to Tom about it, too, and he agrees that I must visit Reuben, though before I do I hope you will tell them all about the way it is now – about Tom not being killed and our getting married – prepare them beforehand.

There is something else, too, more important. We talked about it after you left. Drew is rightfully a Sutton. Rowangarth will belong to him one day and he belongs to Rowangarth. He is yours, and I think the time has come for me to give him up completely. Not meaning that I must never see him again, but I want you to adopt him, and even though you look upon him as your son, my dearest friend, I would wish her ladyship to do it so he may keep his Sutton name.

I accept that legally Drew is mine, but things change. I am no longer Lady Sutton and Drew must be brought up by his own kind. Will you think seriously about it?

‘There’s more, of course, but that’s the bare bones of it. Just think – Drew, ours. I think Alice could well be right …’

‘Adopt him? Oh!’ Helen let go her indrawn breath in a startled gasp. ‘I would like to – I think I always wanted to, truth known – but I never dared ask for fear of losing him.’

‘But Alice would never have taken him away from us. Just as she says in the letter, Drew is a Sutton and belongs here. I think we should think seriously about it – make an appointment with Carvers.

‘Alice means it kindly. She doesn’t want rid of Drew; she just wants what is best for him and for us. Shall I ring them up now – ask when’s best for us to see them? Do you want me to come with you?’

‘Don’t fuss me, child! This is a serious matter. We must look at it from all angles.’

‘But what is there to look at?’ Julia buttered and jammed a slice of toast, cutting it into small slices, arranging it on Drew’s plate. ‘All you would be doing is assuming responsibility for Giles’s son until he comes of age. Legally signed and sealed – that’s all it would amount to. For the rest, there would be no change. Alice left Drew in our care. He has been ours, I suppose, from the day he was born.’

‘You are right – and I do want Drew. It was a surprise to me, that’s all, yet you seem not one bit put out, Julia. Did you talk about it with Alice when you were there?’

‘Not a word. All we talked about was that perhaps she would visit Rowangarth – and now she’ll have to, won’t she? There’ll be papers to be signed, though there shouldn’t be a lot of legal fuss, especially if we are all in agreement. Which Carver do you want to see – old, middle, or young?’

‘I feel I should see the old gentleman. I wouldn’t like to upset him.’ Carver, Carver and Carver – father, son and lately, grandson, had dealt with Rowangarth’s affairs since before ever she and John were married, Helen pondered. ‘I have heard, though, that the young Mr Carver is very astute and wide-awake.’

‘Well, middle-Carver is more the financial side of the partnership, so I’ll tell their clerk you would like to see the old man but would take it kindly if you could meet the grandson, too. You haven’t met him, have you?’

‘Not yet.’ Helen shook her head. Giles had always taken care of legal matters after John died – when Robert had returned to India, that was.

‘Then you’ll get two for the price of one, that way. I’ll ring them now.’ She wiped strawberry jam from Drew’s chin. ‘When do you want to go? Friday? That would give us plenty of time to have a good long talk about it.’ And still come to the same conclusion. Of course her mother must adopt Drew. She pushed back her chair noisily and made for the telephone.

‘That’s it, then. Eleven on Friday will suit them nicely,’ Julia beamed, returning to the table again. ‘And Drew and I will come with you.’

‘Julia, dear, you mustn’t rush things so.’ Helen had not yet recovered from the suddenness of it. ‘We must think very carefully …’

‘Of course we will – and there’s no one more careful than Carver-the-old. But you know that what Alice suggests makes good sense – and there’s the other matter,’ she rushed on. ‘Alice wants it made known that she and Tom are married and I think it’s something we should do at once, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do, though it will be like letting her go, sort of. I care so much for her. Having her was such a comfort. And when she had Drew – oh, it would have been such a good day, had Giles not died.’

‘But he left us Drew. And he was very ill – you know he was, dearest – and often in pain from his wounds. Don’t let’s be too sad?’

‘You are right. This is a good day and we will start it by giving Miss Clitherow Alice’s news.’

‘I agree. Best she should be the first to know. But let’s both tell her? Then I’ll go to the kitchen and tell them exactly the same story – and let them know how glad about it we both are.’

‘Tell the same story? Don’t you think that sounds as if we are being a little underhanded?’

‘Telling lies about Tom having been a prisoner of war and Alice leaving Rowangarth to be with Aunt Sutton, you mean, when all the time she was with Tom in Hampshire? Yes, it is underhanded, but sometimes you have to stretch the truth a little.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Helen sighed, comforted. ‘But first you must tell Reuben. He’s known about Alice and Tom all along – it’s only right we should put him in the picture. And don’t you think Miss Clitherow should be the one to tell staff about it?’

‘No, I don’t.’ Julia’s reply allowed for no compromise. ‘It’s such lovely news that I want to be the one to tell them. Besides, Miss Clitherow might tell it her way. She never quite approved of Alice becoming Lady Sutton.’

‘But she did, Julia! She was extremely correct about it and insisted that Alice was given the respect due to her.’

‘She overdid it. Alice didn’t know where she stood. All right – so she had been your sewing-maid, then came back from France mistress of this house, though she never once exerted her authority. She was still Alice, and staff should not have been barred, entirely, from showing her kindness. And it was Miss Clitherow at the bottom of it!’

‘Did Alice complain? I never once thought she wasn’t happy.’

‘She was happy as she could be. But she and Giles didn’t live a normal married life – we both know it – yet for all that, she nursed him and cared fondly for him – and she gave Rowangarth a son.

‘But I want to tell staff about Alice and Tom. When Miss Clitherow has been told I shall go downstairs at once and take Drew with me if he isn’t asleep. I’ll have tea with them – like I used to.’

She called back staff teatime, with bread and jam and cake and sometimes, on special days, cherry scones. So long ago. So much water under so many bridges. So much heartache.

‘I remember. Cook spoiled you, just as she spoils Drew. You were always her favourite. And you are right. I’ll leave it to you to tell staff.’

‘Fine! I’ll put Drew in his pushchair and walk to the village. I intended calling on Reuben, anyway, to tell him about the christening and take his piece of cake. Now I’ll be able to tell him that Alice plans to visit. He’ll be so pleased.’

‘But not a word about the adoption, mind!’

‘Of course not.’ Not until they had seen the Carvers, old and young, and the legalities were set in motion. ‘Do you know, dearest, for all I was glad to be home again, I still had a sad feeling, leaving Alice. But now I’m so glad. Drew will be ours completely and Alice and Daisy will soon be coming to stay.’ She lifted the small boy from his high chair, throwing him into the air so he laughed with delight and demanded more. ‘Come on, young Sutton – let’s get you cleaned up. There isn’t a child anywhere who can get himself so sticky at breakfast! You’ve even got jam in your ear! Say ’bye to grandmother!’

Child on hip, she slammed out of the room, almost like the Julia of old, Helen thought. Almost …

Clementina Sutton, feeling quite splendid in a rose-red calf-length silk costume and toning bell-shaped hat, brought the knocker down three times, then took a deep breath.

It was all most exciting. She had never before met a Russian, much less been received by a countess who had one thing above all in her favour. She, Clementina, did not have the cut crystal voice of a true aristocrat – she knew it. Even her expensive schooling had not entirely removed her Yorkshire accent. No! She had never had that, exactly; more undertones of northness, perhaps. Yet she still had to pause, she admitted, before saying butter, government, and good luck. It was the way with northern vowels. They could give one away, no matter how very rich one might be. But the countess, being foreign, would have no ear for English dialects. It would be quite relaxing to sip tea from a samovar and not have to watch every word she said.

The door was opened by the same black-clad servant, who took the offered card, indicating with a graceful movement of her hand that the caller was to sit. Then she walked down the hall to announce the visitor. And she didn’t walk, Clementina pondered; rather she placed one foot before the other with the haughty, considered precision of a ballet dancer so that her long, full skirt swirled as she moved. Far more pleasing, Clementina thought nastily, than the pompous plodding of the flat feet of Pendenys’ butler.

‘Plis?’ Again the delicate movement of the hand, the indication she was to be followed.

A middle-aged woman, also dressed in black – even her beads and eardrops were of jet – rose to her feet, her hand extended.

‘Olga Maria Petrovska,’ she said softly, inclining her head.

‘Clementina Sutton of Pendenys,’ came the prompt reply. ‘It is kind of you to receive me.’

‘Please to sit down. Tea will be brought – or coffee?’

‘Tea is most satisfactory. You will realize that I live next door to you – when in London, of course.’ She spoke carefully, slowly, shaping her mouth like a mill girl in her eagerness to be understood.

‘Ah, yes. Karl – he is our coachman and houseman – keeps me informed of what happens in the world outside. I am little interested in it at the moment. I am in mourning. I rarely receive visitors.’

‘I am sorry. Might I ask for whom?’ The woman’s English was good – very good – for a foreigner. ‘That dreadful war – will we ever forget it?’

‘The war – yes. But for me my bête noire is the uprising, the Bolsheviks. My husband and elder son were killed by the rabble; Igor is still in Russia – though I would beg you not to speak of it outside this house. They have their spies everywhere. And I mourn for my country, also.’

‘But they will be defeated and punished, those terrible people. You will go home to Russia …’

‘No. Perhaps Igor and Anna, but not me.’

‘Your children?’ Clementina was enjoying herself immensely.

‘Igor is my younger boy; Anna my only daughter. Basil, our firstborn, died at his father’s side, defending our home. Igor tries to – to find things we left behind us,’ she hesitated, ‘but please not to talk of it until he is safely back?’

‘Not a word,’ Clementina breathed. ‘I have sons of my own. You have my sympathy and understanding …’