Meridon

Philippa Gregory

Table of ContentsCover PageTitle PageMapChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16

Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33Chapter 34Chapter 35Chapter 36Chapter 37

Chapter 38Chapter 39Chapter 40Chapter 41

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTSAbout the AuthorBY THE SAME AUTHORCopyrightAbout the Publisher

Map

1‘I don’t belong here,’ I said to myself.Before I even opened my eyes.

It was my morning ritual. To wardoff the smell and the dirt and the fightsand the noise of the day. To keep me inthat bright green place in my mindwhich had no proper name; I called it‘Wide’.

‘I don’t belong here,’ I said again.A dirty-faced fifteen-year-old girlfrowsy-eyed from sleep, blinking at thehard grey light filtering through thegrimy window. I looked up to thearched ceiling of the caravan, the dampsacking near my face as I lay on the topbunk; and then I glanced quickly to myleft to the bunk to see if Dandy wasawake.

Dandy: my black-eyed, black-haired, equally dirty-faced sister.Dandy, the lazy one, the liar, the thief.

Her eyes, dark as blackberries,twinkled at me.

‘I don’t belong here,’ I whisperedonce more to the dream world of Widewhich faded even as I called to it.Then I said aloud to Dandy:

‘Getting up?’‘Did you dream of it – Sarah?’

she asked me softly, calling me by mymagic secret name. The name I knewfrom my dreams of Wide. The magicname I use in that magic land.

‘Yes,’ I said, and I turned my faceaway from her to the stained wall andtried not to mind that Wide was just adream and a pretence. That the realworld was here. Here where theyknew nothing of Wide, had never evenheard of such a place. Where, exceptfor Dandy, they would not call meSarah when I had once asked. They hadlaughed at me and gone on calling meby my real name, Meridon.

‘What did you dream?’ Dandyprobed. She was not cruel, but she wastoo curious to spare me.

‘I dreamed I had a father, a greatbig fair-headed man and he lifted meup. High, high up on to his horse. And Irode before him, down a lane awayfrom our house and past some fields.Then up a path which went higher andhigher, and through a wood and out tothe very top of the fields, and hepointed his horse to look back downthe way we had come, and I saw ourhouse: a lovely square yellow house,small as a toy house on the greenbelow us.’

‘Go on,’ said Dandy.‘Shut up you two,’ a muffled

voice growled in the half-light of thecaravan. ‘It’s still night.’

‘It ain’t,’ I said, instantlyargumentative. My father’s dark,tousled head peered around the head of

his bunk and scowled at me. ‘I’ll strapyou,’ he warned me. ‘Go to sleep.’

I said not another word. Dandywaited and in a few moments she said,in a whisper so soft that our da – hishead buried beneath the dirty blankets– could not hear, ‘What then?’

‘We rode home,’ I said, screwingmy eyes tight to re-live the vision ofthe little red-headed girl and the fairman and the great horse and the coolgreen of the arching beech trees overthe drive. ‘And then he let me ridealone.’

Dandy nodded, but she wasunimpressed. We had both been on andaround horses since we were weaned.And I had no words to convey thedelight of the great strides of the horsein the dream.

‘He was telling me how to ride,’ Isaid. My voice went quieter still, andmy throat tightened. ‘He loved me,’ I

said miserably. ‘He did. I could tell bythe way he spoke to me. He was my da– but he loved me.’

‘And then?’ said Dandy,impatient.

‘I woke up,’ I said. ‘That wasall.’

‘Didn’t you see the house, or yourclothes or the food?’ she askeddisappointed.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not this time.’‘Oh,’ she said and was silent a

moment. ‘I wish I could dream of itlike you do,’ she said longingly.‘’Taint fair.’

A warning grunt from the bedmade us lower our voices again.

‘I wish I could see it,’ she said.‘You will,’ I promised. ‘It is a

real place. It is real somewhere. Iknow that somewhere it is a real place.And we will both be there, someday.’

‘Wide,’ she said. ‘It’s a funny

name.’‘That’s not the whole name,’ I

said cautiously. ‘Not quite Wide.Maybe it’s something-Wide. I neverhear it clear enough. I listen and Ilisten but I’m never quite sure of it. Butit’s a real place. It is real somewhere.And it’s where I belong.’

I lay on my back and looked at thestains on the sacking roof of thecaravan and smelled the stink of fourpeople sleeping close with nowindows open, the acid smell of staleurine from last night’s pot.

‘It’s real somewhere,’ I said tomyself. ‘It has to be.’

There were three good things inmy life, that dirty painful life of agypsy child with a father who carednothing for her, and a stepmother whocared less. There was Dandy my twinsister – as unlike me as if I were achangeling. There were the horses we

trained and sold. And there was thedream of Wide.

If it had not been for Dandy I thinkI would have run away as soon as Iwas old enough to leave. I would haveupped and gone, run off to one of thesleepy little villages in the New Forestin that hot summer of 1805 when I wasfifteen. That was the summer I turnedon Da and stood up to him for the firsttime ever.

We had been breaking a pony tosell as a lady’s ride. I said the horsewas not ready for a rider. Da sworeshe was. He was wrong. Anyone but anidiot could have seen that the horsewas nervy and half wild. But Da hadput her on the lunge rein two or threetimes and she had gone well enough.He wanted to put me up on her. Hedidn’t waste his breath asking Dandyto do it. She would have smiled one ofher sweet slow smiles and

disappeared off for the rest of the daywith a hunk of bread and rind of cheesein her pocket. She’d come back in theevening with a dead chicken tucked inher shawl so there was never a beatingfor Dandy.

But he ordered me up on theanimal. A half-wild, half-foolish foaltoo young to be broke, too frightened tobe ridden.

‘She’s not ready,’ I said lookingat the flaring nostrils and the rollingwhites of her eyes and smelling thatspecial acrid smell of fearful sweat.

‘She’ll do,’ Da said. ‘Get up onher.’

I looked at Da, not at the horse.Da’s dark eyes were red rimmed, thestubble on his chin stained his faceblue. The red kerchief at his neckshowed bright against his pallor. Hehad been drinking last night and Iguessed he felt ill. He had no patience

to stand in the midday sunshine with askittish pony on a lunge rein.

‘I’ll lunge her,’ I offered. ‘I’lltrain her for you.’

‘You’ll ride her, you cheeky dog,’he said to me harshly. ‘No whelp tellsme how to train a horse.’

‘What’s the hurry?’ I asked,backing out of arm’s reach. Da had tohold the horse and could not grab me.

‘I got a buyer,’ he said. ‘A farmerat Beaulieu wants her for his daughter.But he wants her next week for herbirthday or summat. So she’s got to beready for then.’

‘I’ll lunge her,’ I offered again.‘I’ll work her all day, and tomorrow orthe day after I’ll get up on her.’

‘You get up now,’ he saidharshly. Then he raised his voice andyelled: ‘Zima!’ and my stepmothercame out into the sunshine from thegloomy caravan. ‘Hold ‘er,’ he said

nodding at the horse and she jumpeddown from the caravan step, and wentpast me without a word.

‘I want summat inside the wagon,’he said under his breath and I stoodaside like a fool to let him go past me.But as soon as he was near he grabbedme with one hard grimy hand andtwisted my arm behind my back sohard that I could hear the bone creakand I squeaked between clenched teethfor the pain.

‘Get up on ‘er,’ he said softly inmy ear; his breath foul. ‘Or I’ll beatyou till you can’t ride ‘er, nor anyother for a week.’

I jerked away from him: sullen,ineffective. And I scowled at mystepmother who stood, picking herteeth with her free hand and watchingthis scene. She had never stoodbetween me and him in my life. Shehad seen him beat me until I went

down on my knees and cried and criedfor him to stop. The most she had everdone for me was to tell him to stopbecause the noise of my sobbing wasdisturbing her own baby. I felt that Iwas utterly unloved, utterly uncaredfor; and that was no foolish girl’s fear.That was the bitter truth.

‘Get up,’ Da said again, and cameto the horse’s head.

I looked at him with a gaze asflinty as his own. ‘I’ll get up and she’llthrow me,’ I said. ‘You know that, sodo I. And then I’ll get on her again andagain and again. We’ll never train herlike that. If you had as much brainsinside you as you have beer, you’d letme train her. Then at least we’d have asweet-natured animal to show thisfarmer. The way you want to do itwe’ll show him a whipped idiot.’

I had never spoken to him like thatbefore. My voice was steady but my

belly quivered with fright at my daring.He looked at me for a long hard

moment.‘Get up,’ he said. Nothing had

changed.I waited for one moment, in case I

had a chance, or even half a chance towin my way in this. His face wasflinty-hard, and I was only a younggirl. I met his gaze for a moment. Hecould see the fight go out of me.

I checked he was holding thehorse tight at the head and then I turnedand gripped hold of the saddle andsprang up.

As soon as she felt the weight ofme on her back she leaped like amountain goat, stiff-legged sideways;and stood there trembling like a leafwith the shock. Then, as if she had onlywaited to see that it was not someterrible nightmare, she reared boltupright to her full height, dragging the

reins from Da’s hands. Da, like a fool,let go – as I had known all along hewould – and there was nothing then tocontrol the animal except the halteraround her neck. I clung on like alimpet, gripping the pommel of thesaddle while she went like a sprintingbullock – alternately head down andhooves up bucking, and then standinghigh on her hind legs and clawing theair with her front hooves in an effort tobe rid of me. There was nothing in theworld to do but to cling on like grimdeath and hope that Da would be quickenough to catch the trailing reins andget the animal under control before Icame off. I saw him coming towardsthe animal, and he was quite close. Butthe brute wheeled with an awkwardsideways shy which nearly unseatedme. I was off-balance and grabbing forthe pommel of the saddle to get myselfinto the middle of her back again when

she did one of her mighty rears and Iwent rolling backwards off her back tothe hard ground below.

I bunched up as I fell, in aninstinctive crouch, fearing the flailinghooves. I felt the air whistle as shekicked out over my head but shemissed by an inch and galloped awayto the other side of the field. Da,cursing aloud, went after her, runningpast me without even a glance in mydirection to see how I fared.

I sat up. My stepmother Zimalooked at me without interest.

I got wearily to my feet. I wasshaken but not hurt except for thebruises on my back where I had hit theground. Da had hold of the reins andwas whipping the poor animal aroundthe head while she reared andscreamed in protest. I watched stony-faced. You’d never catch me wastingsympathy on a horse which had thrown

me. Or on anything else.‘Get up,’ he said without looking

around for me.I walked up behind him and

looked at the horse. She was a prettyenough animal, half New Forest, halfsome bigger breed. Dainty, with abright bay-coloured coat whichglowed in the sunlight. Her mane andtail were black, coarse and knottednow, but I would wash her before thebuyer came. I saw that Da hadwhipped her near the eye and a pieceof the delicate eyelid was bleedingslightly.

‘You fool,’ I said in cold disgust.‘Now you’ve hurt her, and it’ll showwhen the buyer comes.’

‘Don’t you call me a fool, mygirl,’ he said rounding on me, the whipstill in his hands. ‘Another word out ofyou and you get a beating you won’tforget. I’ve had enough from you for

one day. Now get up on that horse andstay on this time.’

I looked at him with the blankinsolence which I knew drove him intomindless temper with me. I pushed thetangled mass of my copper-colouredhair away from my face and stared athim with my green eyes as inscrutableas a cat. I saw his hand tighten on thewhip and I smiled at him, delighting inmy power; even if it lasted for no morethan this morning.

‘And who’d ride her then?’ Itaunted. ‘I don’t see you getting up onan unbroke horse. And Zima couldn’tget on a donkey with a ladder againstits side. There’s no one who can rideher but me. And I don’t choose to thismorning. I’ll do it this afternoon.’

With that, I turned on my heel andwalked away from him, swaying myhips in as close an imitation of mystepmother’s languorous slink as I

could manage. Done by a skinny fifteenyear old in a skirt which barelycovered her calves it was far fromsensual. But it spoke volumes ofdefiance to my da who let out a greatbellow of rage and dropped thehorse’s reins and came after me.

He spun me around and shook meuntil my hair fell over my face and Icould hardly see his red angry face.

‘You’ll do as I order or I’ll throwyou out!’ he said in utter rage. ‘You’lldo as I order or I’ll beat you as soon asthe horse is sold. You’d betterremember that I am as ready to beatyou tomorrow night as I am today. Ihave a long memory for you.’

I shook my head to get the hair outof my eyes, and to clear my mind. Iwas only fifteen and I could not holdon to courage against Da when hestarted bullying me. My shouldersslumped and my face lost its

arrogance. I knew he would rememberthis defiance if I did not surrendernow. I knew that he would beat me –not only when the horse was sold, butagain every time he remembered it.

‘All right,’ I said sullenly. ‘Allright. I’ll ride her.’

Together we cornered her in theedge of the field and this time he heldtighter on to the reins when I was onher back. I stayed on a little longer butagain and again she threw me. By thetime Dandy was home with a vaguesecretive smile and a rabbit stolenfrom someone else’s snare danglingfrom her hand, I was in my bunkcovered with bruises, my headthudding with the pain of falling overand over again.

She brought me a plate of rabbitstew where I lay.

‘Come on out,’ she invited. ‘He’sall right, he’s drinking. And he’s got

some beer for Zima too, so she’s allright. Come on out and we can godown to the river and swim. That’llhelp your bruising.’

‘No,’ I said sullenly. ‘I’m goingto sleep. I don’t want to come out and Idon’t care whether he’s fair or foul. Ihate him. I wish he was dead. Andstupid Zima too. I’m staying here, andI’m going to sleep.’

Dandy stretched up so that shecould reach me in the top bunk andnuzzled her face against my cheek.‘Hurt bad?’ she asked softly.

‘Bad on the outside and badinside,’ I said, my voice low. ‘I wishhe was dead. I’ll kill him myself whenI’m bigger.’

Dandy stroked my forehead withher cool dirty hand. ‘And I’ll helpyou,’ she said with a ripple of laughterin her voice. ‘The Ferenz family arenearby, they’re going down to the river

to swim. Come too, Meridon!’I sighed. ‘Not me,’ I said. ‘I’m

too sore, and angry. Stay with me,Dandy.’

She brushed the bruise on myforehead with her lips. ‘Nay,’ she saidsweetly. ‘I’m away with the Ferenzboys. I’ll be back at nightfall.’

I nodded. There was no keepingDandy if she wanted to be out.

‘Will you have to ridetomorrow?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And the next day.The farmer’s coming for the horse onSunday. She’s got to be ridable bythen. But I pity his daughter!’

In the half-light of the caravan Isaw Dandy’s white teeth gleam.

‘Is it a bad horse?’ she asked, acareless ripple of amusement in hervoice.

‘It’s a pig,’ I said plainly. ‘I’ll beable to stay on it, but the little Miss

Birthday Girl will likely break herneck the first time she tries to ride.’

We chuckled spitefully.‘Don’t quarrel with him

tomorrow,’ Dandy urged me. ‘It onlymakes him worse. And you’ll neverwin.’

‘I know,’ I said dully. ‘I know I’llnever win. But I can’t keep quiet likeyou. I can’t even go away like you do.I’ve never been able to. But as soon asI can, I’m going. As soon as I can seesomewhere to go, I’m going.’

‘And I’ll come too,’ Dandy said,repeating a long-ago promise. ‘Butdon’t make him angry tomorrow. Hesaid he’d beat you if you do.’

‘I’ll try not,’ I said with littlehope, and handed my empty plate toher. Then I turned my face away fromher, from the shady caravan and thetwilit doorway. I turned my face to thecurved wall at the side of my bunk and

gathered the smelly pillow under myface. I shut my eyes tight and wishedmyself far away. Far away from theaches in my body and from the dreadand fear in my mind. From my disgustat my father and my hatred of Zima.From my helpless impotent love forDandy and my misery at my ownhopeless, dirty, poverty-strickenexistence.

I shut my eyes tight and thought ofmyself as the copper-headed daughterof the squire who owned Wide. Ithought of the trees reflected in thewaters of the trout river. I thought ofthe house and the roses growing socreamy and sweet in the gardensoutside the house. As I drifted intosleep I willed myself to see the diningroom with the fire flickering in thehearth and the pointy flames of thecandles reflected in the great mahoganytable, and the servants in livery

bringing in dish after dish of food. Myeternally hungry body ached at thethought of all those rich creamy dishes.But as I fell asleep, I was smiling.

The next day he was not bad from thedrink so he was quicker to the horse’shead, and held her tighter. I stayed onfor longer, and for at least two falls Ilanded on my feet, sliding off her tofirst one side and then the other, andavoiding that horrid nerve-joltingslump on to hard ground.

He nodded at me when westopped for our dinner – the remains ofthe rabbit stew watered down as soup,and a hunk of old bread.

‘Will you be able to stay on herfor long enough tomorrow?’

‘Yes,’ I said confidently. ‘Willwe be moving off the next day?’

‘That same night!’ Da saidcarelessly. ‘I know that horse will

never make a lady’s ride. She’svicious.’

I held my peace. I knew wellenough that she had been a good horsewhen we first had her. If she had beencarefully and lovingly trained Dawould have made a good sale to aQuality home. But he was only everchasing a quick profit. He had seen aman who wanted a quiet ride for hislittle girl’s birthday, and next thing hewas breaking from scratch a two-year-old wild pony. It was coarse stupidity– and it was that doltish chasing aftertiny profits which angered me the most.

‘She’s not trained to side-saddle,’was all I said.

‘No,’ said Da. ‘But if you washyour face and get Zima to plait yourhair you can go astride and still looklike a novice girl. If he sees you on her– and you mind not to come off – he’llbuy her.’

I nodded, and pulled a handful ofgrass to wipe out my bowl. I hadsucked and spat out a scrap of gristle,and I tossed it to the scrawny lurchertied under the wagon. He snapped at itand took it with him back into theshadow. The hot midday sun made redrings when I closed my eyelids and layback on the mown grass to feel theheat.

‘Where d’we go next?’ I askedidly.

‘Salisbury,’ Da said withouthesitation. ‘Lot of money to be madethere. I’ll buy a couple of ponies on theway. There’s a fair in early Septemberas well – that idle Zima and Dandy cando some work for once in their lives.’

‘No one poaches as well asDandy,’ I said instantly.

‘She’ll get herself hanged,’ hesaid without gratitude and withoutconcern. ‘She thinks all she has to do

is to roll her black eyes at the keeperand he’ll take her home and give hersweetmeats. She won’t always getaway with that as she gets older. He’llhave her, and if she refuses he’ll takeher to the Justices.’

I sat up, instantly alert. ‘They’dsend her to prison?’ I demanded.

Da laughed harshly. ‘They’d sendus all to prison; aye, and to Australeyif they could catch us. The gentry isagainst you, my girl. Every one ofthem, however fair-spoken, howeverkind-seeming. I’ve been the wrong sideof the park walls all my life. I’ve seenthem come and seen them go – andnever a fair chance for travellers.’

I nodded. It was an old theme forDa. He was most pitiful when he wasin his cups on this topic. He was atinker: a no-good pedlar-cum-thiefwhen he had met my ma. She had beenpure Romany, travelling with her

family. But her man was dead, and shehad us twin babies to provide for. Shebelieved him when he boasted of agrand future and married him, againstthe advice of her own family, andwithout their blessing. He could havejoined the family, and travelled withthem. But Da had big ideas. He wasgoing to be a great horse-dealer. Hewas going to buy an inn. He was goingto run a livery stables, to train as amaster-brewer. One feckless schemeafter another until they were travellersin the poorest wagon she had evercalled home. And then she waspregnant with another child.

I remember her dimly: pale andfat, and too weary to play with us. Shesickened, she had a long and lonelylabour. Then she died, crying to Da tobury her in the way of her people, theRom way with her goods burned thenight of her death. He did not know

how, he did not care. He burned a fewtoken scraps of clothing and sold therest. He gave Dandy a comb of hers,and he gave me an old dirty piece ofstring with two gold clasps at eachend. He told me they had once heldrose-coloured pearls.

Where she got them Da had neverknown. She had brought them to him asher dowry and he had sold each oneuntil there was nothing left but thestring. One gold latch was engravedwith the word I had been told was‘John’. The other was inscribed‘Celia’. He would have sold the goldclasps if he had dared. Instead he gavethem to me with an odd little grimace.

‘You have the right,’ he said. ‘Shealways said it was for you, and not forDandy. I’ll sell the gold clasp for you,and you can keep the string.’

I remember my dirty hand hadclosed tight over it.

‘I want it,’ I had said.‘I’ll split the money with you,’ he

had said winningly.’ Sixty: forty?’‘No,’ I said.‘That’s enough to buy a sugar

bun,’ he said as if to clinch the deal.My stomach rumbled but I held firm.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Who are John andCelia?’

He had shrugged, shifty. ‘I don’tknow,’ he had said. ‘Maybe folks yourma knew. You have a right to thenecklace. She always told me to besure to give it to you. Now I’ve donethat. A promise made to the dead has tobe kept. She told me to give it to youand to bid you keep it safe, and toshow it when anyone came seekingyou. When anyone asked who youwere.’

‘Who am I?’ I had demandedinstantly.

‘A damned nuisance,’ he said; his

good temper gone with his chance totrick the gold clasp from me. ‘One of apair of brats that I’m saddled with till Ican be rid of you both.’

It would not be long now, Ithought, sucking on a grass stem for thesweet green taste of it. It would not belong now until he would be able to berid of us. That conversation hadhappened a long time ago, but Da hadnever changed his mind about us. Henever acknowledged how much meatDandy provided for the pot. He neverrealized that his horses would havebeen half-wild if I had not had theknack of riding them. Not he. Theselfishness which made it easy for himto take on a woman with two smallbabies at the breast and no way to keepher save a cartload of foolish dreams,now made it easy for him to plan tosell us to the highest bidder. Whateverthe terms.

I knew Dandy would end upwhoring. Her black brazen eyestwinkled too readily. If we had beenwith a gypsy family, travelling withkin, there would be an early betrothaland early childbirth for Dandy, and aman to keep her steady. But here therewas no one. There was only Da whocared nothing for what she might do.And Zima who laughed lazily and saidthat Dandy would be street-walking bythe time she was sixteen. Only I heardthat feckless prophecy with a shudder.And only I swore that it should nothappen. I would keep Dandy safe fromit.

Not that she feared it. Dandy wasvain and affectionate. She thought itwould mean fine clothes and dancingand attention from men. She could notwait to be fully grown and she used toinsist I inspect the conical shapes ofher breasts every time we swam or

changed our clothes and tell her if theywere not growing exceedingly lovely?Dandy looked at life with lazy laughingeyes and could not believe that thingswould not go well for her. But I hadseen the whores at Southampton, and atPortsmouth. And I had seen the soreson their mouths and the blank looks intheir eyes. I would rather Dandy hadbeen a pickpocket all her days – as shewas now – than a whore. I wouldrather Dandy be anything than a whore.

‘It’s just because you hate beingtouched,’ she said idly to me when thewagon was on the road towardsSalisbury for the fair. She was lying onher side in the bunk combing her hairwhich tumbled like a black shinywaterfall over the side of the bunk.‘You’re as nervy as one of your wildponies. I’m the only one you ever letnear you, and you won’t even let meplait your hair.’

‘I don’t like it,’ I saidinadequately. ‘I can’t stand Da pullingme on to his knee when he’s drunk. Orthe way Zima’s baby sucks at my neckor at my face. It gives me the shivers. Ijust like having space around me. I hatebeing crowded.’

She nodded. ‘I’m like a cat,’ shesaid idly. ‘I love being stroked. I don’teven mind Da when he’s gentle. Hegave me a halfpenny last night.’

I gave a little muffled grunt ofirritation. ‘He never gave me a thing,’ Icomplained. ‘And he’d never havesold that horse on his own. The farmeronly bought it because he saw me rideit. And if it hadn’t been for me Dawould never have trained it.’

‘Better hope the farmer’s daughteris a good rider,’ Dandy said with achuckle in her voice. ‘Will she throwher?’

‘Bound to,’ I said indifferently. ‘If

the man hadn’t been an idiot he’d haveseen that I was only keeping her steadyby luck, and the fact that she was bone-weary.’

‘Well it’s put him in goodhumour,’ Dandy said. We could hearDa muttering the names of cards tohimself over and over, practisingpalming cards and dealing cards as thecaravan jolted on the muddy road.Zima was sitting up front beside him.She had left her baby asleep onDandy’s bunk, anchored by Dandy’sfoot pressing lightly on her fat belly.

‘Maybe he’ll give us a penny forfairings,’ I said without much hope.

Dandy gleamed. ‘I’ll get you apenny,’ she promised. ‘I’ll get ussixpence and we’ll run off all night andbuy sweetmeats and see the booths.’

I smiled at the prospect and thenrolled over to face the rocking caravanwall. I was still bruised from my falls

and as weary as a drunken trooperfrom the day and night training of thepony. And I had that strange, detachedfeeling which I often felt when I wasgoing to dream of Wide. We would bea day and a half on the road, and unlessDa made me drive the horse there wasnothing I had to do. There were hoursof journeying, and nothing to do. Dandymight as well comb her hair over andover. And I might as well sleep anddoze and daydream of Wide. Thecaravan would go rocking, rocking,rocking down the muddy lanes andbyways and then on the harder highroad to Salisbury. And there wasnothing to do except look out of theback window at the road narrowingaway behind us. Or lie on the bunk andchat to Dandy. Between dinner andnightfall Da would not stop, the joltingcreaking caravan would roll onwards.There was nothing for me to do except

to wish I was at Wide; and to wonderhow I would ever get myself – andDandy – safely away from Da.

2It was a long, wearisome drive, all theway down the lanes to Salisbury, upthe Avon valley with the damp lushfields on either side where brown-backed cows stood knee-high in wetgrasses, through Fordingbridge, wherethe little children were out from dame-school and ran after us and hooted andthrew stones.

‘Come ‘ere,’ Da said, shuffling apack of greasy cards as he sat on thedriving bench. ‘Come ‘ere and watchthis.’ And he hitched the amblinghorse’s reins over the worn post at thefront of the wagon and shuffled thecards before me, cut them, shuffledthem again. ‘Did yer see it?’ he woulddemand. ‘Could yer tell?’

Sometimes I saw the quicksecretive movement of his fingers,hidden by the broad palm of his hand,

scanning the pack for tell-talemarkings. Sometimes not.

He was not a very good cheat. It’sa difficult art, best done with cleanhands and dry cards. Da’s sticky littlepack did not shuffle well. Often as weambled down the rutted road I said,‘That’s a false shuffle,’ or ‘I can seethe crimped card, Da.’

He scowled at that and said:‘You’ve got eyes like a damn buzzard,Merry. Do it yourself if you’re soclever,’ and flicked the pack over tome with an irritable riffle of the cards.

I gathered them up, his hand andmine, and pulled the high cards and thepicture cards into my right hand. Witha little ‘tssk’ I brushed an imaginaryinsect of the driver’s bench with thepicture cards in a fan in my hand to puta bend in them, ‘abridge’, so that whenI re-assembled the pack I could feel thearch even when the pack was all

together. I vaguely looked out over thepassing fields while I shuffled thedeck, pulling the picture cards and thehigh cards into my left hand andstacking them on top alternately withstock cards so I could deal a picturecard to myself and a low card to Da.

‘Saw it!’ Da said with meansatisfaction. ‘Saw you make a bridge,brushing the bench.’

‘Doesn’t count,’ I said,argumentatively. ‘If you were a pigeonfor plucking you’d not know that trick.It’s only if you see me stack the deckthat it counts. Did you see me stack it?And the false shuffle?’

‘No,’ he said, an unwillingconcession. ‘But that’s still a pennyyou owe me for spotting the bridge.Gimme the cards back.’

I handed them over and he slidthem through and through his callousedhands. ‘No point teaching a girl

anyway,’ he grumbled. ‘Girls neverearn money standing up, only way tomake money out of a girl is to get heron her back for her living. Girls are adamned waste.’

I left him to his complaints andwent back inside the lumbering wagonwhere Dandy lay on her bunk combingher black hair and Zima dozed on herbed, the babby sucking and snortling ather breast. I looked away. I went to myown bunk and stretched out my headtowards the little window at the backand watched the ribbon of the roadspinning away behind us as wefollowed the twists and turns of theriver all the way northward toSalisbury.

Da knew Salisbury well – thiswas the city where his ale-housebusiness had failed and he had boughtthe wagon and gone back on the roadagain. He drove steadily through the

crowded streets and Dandy and I stuckour heads out of the back window andpulled faces at errand boys and lookedat the bustle and noise of the city. Thefair was on the outside of town and Daguided the horse to a field where thewagons were spaced apart as strangerswould put them, and there were somegood horses cropping the short grass. Ilooked them over as I led our horse,Jess, from the shafts.

‘Good animals,’ I said to Da. Hisglance around was sharp.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘And a good pricewe should get for ours.’

I said nothing. Tied on the back ofthe wagon was a hunter so old andbroken-winded that you could hear itsroaring breaths from the driving seat,and another of Da’s young ponies, toosmall to be ridden by anyone heavierthan me, and too wild to be managedby any normal child.

‘The hunter will go to a flashyoung fool,’ he predicted confidently.‘And that young ‘un should go as ayoung lady’s ride.’

‘He’s a bit wild,’ I said carefully.‘He’ll sell on his colour,’ Da said

certainly, and I could not disagree. Hewas a wonderful pale grey, a greyalmost silver with a sheen like satin onhis coat. I had washed him thismorning, and been thoroughly wettedand kicked for my pains, but he lookedas bright as a unicorn.

‘He’s pretty,’ I conceded. ‘Da, ifhe sells – can Dandy and me go to thefair and buy her some ribbons, andsome stockings?’

Da grunted, but he was not angry.The prospect of the fair and big profitshad made him as sweet as he could be– which, God knew, was sour enough.

‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’llgive you some pennies for fairings.’

He slid the tack off Jess’s back andtossed it carelessly up on the step ofthe caravan. Jess jumped at the noiseand stepped quickly sideways, herheavy hoof scraping my bare leg. Iswore and rubbed the graze. Da paidno attention to either of us.

‘Only if these horses sell,’ hesaid. ‘So you’d better start working theyoung one right away. You can lungehim before your dinner, and then workhim all the day. I want you on his backby nightfall. If you can stay on, you cangad off to the fair. Not otherwise.’

The look I gave him was blackenough. But I dared do nothing more. Ipulled Jess’s halter on and staked herout where she would graze near thecaravan and went, surly, to the newgrey pony tied on the back of thewagon. ‘I hate you,’ I said under mybreath. The caravan tipped as Da wentinside. ‘You are mean and a bully and

a lazy fool. I hate you and I wish youwere dead.’

I took the long whip and the longreins and got behind the grey pony andgently, patiently, tried to teach it twomonths’ training in one day so thatDandy and me could go to the fair witha penny in our pockets.

I was so deep in the sullens that Ihardly noticed a man watching me fromone of the other caravans. He wasseated on the front step of his wagon, apipe in his hand, tobacco smokecurling upwards in the still hot airabove his head. I was concentrating ongetting the grey pony to go in a circlearound me. I stood in the centre,keeping the whip low, sometimestouching him to keep him going on,mostly calling to him to keep his speedgoing steady. Sometimes he went well,round and around me, and thensuddenly he would kick out and rear

and try to make a bolt for it, draggingme for shuddering strides across thegrass until I dug my heels in and pulledhim to a standstill and started thewhole long process of making himwalk in a steady circle again.

I was vaguely aware of beingwatched. But my attention was all onthe little pony – as pretty as a pictureand keen-witted. And as unwilling towork in the hot morning sunshine as Iwas. As angry and resentful as me.

Only when Da had got down fromthe caravan, pulled on his hat andheaded off in the direction of the fairdid I stop the pony and let him dip hishead down and graze. I slumped downthen myself for a break and laid asidethe whip and spoke gently to him whilehe was eating. His ears – which hadbeen back on his head in ill humourever since we had started – flickeredforward at the sound of my voice, and I

knew the worst of it was over until Ihad to give him the shock of my weighton his back.

I stretched out and shut my eyes.Dandy was away to the fair to see whatwork she and Zima might do. Da wastouting for a customer for his oldhunter. Zima was clattering pots in thecaravan, and her baby was crying withlittle hope of being attended. I was assolitary as I was ever able to be. Isighed and listened to a lark singing upin the sky above me, and the croppingsound of the pony grazing close to myhead.

‘Hey! Littl’un!’ It was a low callfrom the man on the step of thecaravan. I sat up cautiously and shadedmy eyes to see him. It was a finewagon, much bigger than ours andbrightly painted. Down the side inswirly red and gold letters it saidwords I could not read; with a great

swirly ‘E’ which I guessed signifiedhorses for there was a wonderfulpainted horse rearing up before a ladydressed as fine as a queen twirling awhip under its hooves.

The man’s shirt was white, nearlyclean. His face was shaved and plump.He was smiling at me, friendly. I wasinstantly suspicious.

‘That’s thirsty work,’ he saidkindly. ‘Would you like a mug of smallbeer?’

‘What for?’ I asked.‘You’re working well, I enjoyed

watching you,’ he said. He got to hisfeet and went inside his wagon, his fairhead brushing the top of the doorway.He came out with two small pewtermugs of ale, and stepped downcarefully from the step, his eyes on themugs. He came towards me with oneoutstretched. I got to my feet and eyedhim, but I did not put out my hand for

the drink though I was parched andlonging for the taste of the cool beer onmy tongue and throat.

‘What d’you want?’ I asked, myeyes on the mug.

‘Maybe I want to buy the horse,’he said. ‘Go on, take it. I won’t bite.’

That brought my eyes to his face.‘I’m not afraid of you,’ I said defiantly.I looked down longingly at the drinkagain. ‘I’ve no money to buy it,’ I said.

‘It’s for free!’ he said impatiently.‘Take it, you silly wench.’

‘Thank you,’ I said gruffly andtook it from his hand. The liquid wasmalty on my tongue and went down mythroat in a delicious cool stream. Igulped three times and then paused, tomake it last the longer.

‘Are you in the horse business?’he asked.

‘You’d best ask my da,’ I said.He smiled at my caution and sat

down on the grass at my feet. After alittle hesitation, I sat too.

‘That’s my wagon,’ he saidpointing to the caravan. ‘See that on theside? Robert Gower? That’s me.Robert Gower’s Amazing EquestrianShow! That’s me and my business. Allsorts I do. Dancing ponies, fortune-telling ponies, acrobatic horses, trick-riding, cavalry charges. And the storyof Richard the Lionheart and Saladin,in costume, and with two stallions.’

I gaped at him. ‘How many horseshave you got?’ I asked.

‘Five,’ he said. ‘And the stallion.’‘I thought you said two stallions,’

I queried.‘It looks like two,’ he said,

unabashed. ‘Richard the Lionheartrides the grey stallion. Then we blackhim up and he is Saladin’s mightyebony steed. I black-up too, to beSaladin. So what?’

‘Nothing!’ I said hastily. ‘Arethese your horses?’

‘Aye,’ he said gesturing at theponies I had noticed earlier. ‘Thesefour ponies, and the skewbald whichpulls the wagon and works as arosinback. My boy’s riding the stallionaround the town, crying-up the show.We’re giving a show in the next-doorfield. Two performances at three andseven. Today and Every Day. ByPublic Demand. For the Duration.’

I said nothing. Many of the wordsI did not understand. But I recognizedthe ring of the showground barker.

‘You like horses,’ he said.‘Yes,’ I said. ‘My da buys them,

or trades them. We both train them. Weoften sell children’s ponies. So I trainsthem.’

‘When will this one be ready?’Robert Gower nodded to the greypony.

‘Da wants to sell him this week,’I said. ‘He’ll be half-broke by then.’

He pursed his lips and whistledsoundlessly. ‘That’s fast work,’ hesaid. ‘You must take a lot of tumbles.Or is it your da who rides them?’

‘It’s me!’ I said indignantly. ‘I’lllunge him all today and I’ll get on himtonight.’

He nodded and said nothing. Ifinished the ale and looked at thebottom of the mug. It had gone tooquick and I had been distracted fromsavouring it by talk. I was sorry now.

‘I’d like to see your da,’ he saidgetting to his feet. ‘Be back for hisdinner, will he?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I scrambled to myfeet and picked up the whip. ‘I’ll tellhim you want to see him. Shall hecome over to your wagon?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And when you’vefinished your work you can see my

horse show. Admittance Only OnePenny. But you may comeComplimentary.’

‘I don’t have a penny,’ I said,understanding only that.

‘You can come free,’ he said.‘Either show.’

‘Thank you,’ I said awkwardly.‘Sir.’

He nodded as gracious as a lordand went back to his bright wagon. Ilooked again at the picture on the side.The lady with the whip and the rearingwhite horse was dressed as fine as aqueen. I wondered who she was and ifshe was perhaps his wife. It would bea fine life to dress as a lady and trainhorses in a ring before people whopaid all that money just to see you. Itwould be as good as being bornQuality. It would be nearly as good asWide.

‘Hey you!’ he called again, his

head stuck out of his caravan door.‘D’you know how to crack that whip,as well as flick it?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I ought to be able to.I had practised ever since I was able tostand. My da could crack a whip soloud it could scare the birds out of thetrees. When I had asked him to teachme he had thrown an old rag down onthe ground at my bare feet.

‘Hit that,’ he had said; and thatwas as much help as he was ready togive. Days I had stood flicking thewhip towards the target until I hadgradually strengthened my little-girlwrists to aim the whip accurately at thecloth, and now I could crack it high inthe air or crack it low. Dandy had oncetaken a stalk in her mouth and I hadtaken the seed head off it for a dare.Only once. The next time we tried it Ihad missed and flicked her in the eye. Iwould never do it after that. She had

screamed with the pain and her eye hadswollen up and been black with abruise for a week. I had been terrifiedthat I had blinded her. Dandy forgot itas soon as her eye healed and wantedme to crack a whip and knock feathersoff her hat and straws out of her mouthfor pennies on street corners; but Iwould not.

‘Crack it, then,’ said RobertGower.

‘No,’ I said. ‘It would scare thepony and he’s done nothing wrong. I’llcrack it for you when I’ve turned himout.’

He nodded at that and a little puffof surprised smoke came from his pipelike a cottage chimney.

‘Good lass,’ he said. ‘What’syour name?’

‘Meridon,’ I said.‘Gypsy blood?’ he asked.‘My mother was Rom,’ I said

defensively.He nodded again and gave me a

wink from one of his blue eyes. Thenhis round fair head ducked back inunder the doorway and the caravandoor slammed and I was left with theyoung pony who had to be schooledenough for me to ride him that eveningif Dandy and I wanted to go to the fairwith a penny each.

I made it by the skin of my teeth. Da’srule was that I had to get on the horse’sback without him kicking out orrunning off – and apart from a quiverof fright the grey stood still enough.And then I had to get off again withoutmishap. By working him all day untilwe were both weary I had him soaccustomed to my nearness that he onlythrew me once while I was traininghim to stand while I mounted. Hedidn’t run off far, which I thought a

very good sign. I did not work at all atteaching him to walk forwards or stop.They were not the conditions Da hadset for a visit to the fair so I carednothing for them. All he could do bythe end of the day was stand still forthe twenty seconds while I mounted,smiled with assumed confidence at Da,and dismounted.

Da grudgingly felt in his pocketand gave a penny to Dandy and a pennyto me.

‘I’ve been talking business withthat man Gower,’ he said grandly. ‘Asa favour to me he says you can both goto his show. I’m going into town to seea man about buying a horse. Be in thewagon when I come back or there’ll betrouble.’

Dandy shot me a warning look tobid me hold my tongue, and saidsweetly: ‘Yes, Da.’ We both knew thatwhen he came back he would be so

blind drunk that he would not be ableto tell if we were there or not. Norremember in the morning.

Then we fled to the corner of thefield where the gate was held half-open by Robert Gower, resplendent ina red jacket and white breeches withblack riding boots. A steady stream ofpeople had been going by us allafternoon, paying their pennies toRobert Gower and taking their ease onthe grassy slopes waiting for the showto start. Dandy and I were the last toarrive.

‘He’s Quality!’ Dandy gasped, aswe dashed across the field. ‘Look athis boots.’

‘And he got dressed in thatcaravan!’ I said amazed, having neverseen anything come out of our caravanbrighter than the slatternly glitter ofZima’s best dress over a soiledpetticoat grey with inadequate

washing.‘Ah!’ said Robert Gower.

‘Meridon and…?’‘My sister, Dandy,’ I said.Robert Gower nodded grandly at

us both. ‘Please take a seat,’ he saidopening the gate a little wider to allowus inside. ‘Anywhere on the grass butnot in front of the benches which isreserved for the Quality and for theChurchmen. By Special Request,’ headded.

Dandy gave him her sweetestsmile and spread her ragged skirt outand swept him a curtsey. ‘Thank you,sir,’ she said and sailed past him withher head in the air and her glossy blackhair in thick sausage ringlets all downher back.

The field was on a slight slope,levelling off at the bottom, and theaudience were seated on the grass onthe slope looking down. In front of

them were two small benches, emptyexcept for a fat man and his wife wholooked like well-to-do farmers but notproper Quality at all. We had come inat the bottom of the hill and had towalk past a large screen painted withstrange-looking trees and a violet andred sunset and yellow earth. It washinged with wings on either side sothat it presented a back-cloth to theaudience and went some way to hidingthe ponies who were tethered behindit. As we walked by, a youth of aboutseventeen dressed very fine in whitebreeches and a red silk shirt glancedout from behind the screen and staredat us both. I know I looked furtive,expecting a challenge, but he saidnothing and looked us over as if freeseats made us his especial property. Ilooked at Dandy. Her eyes hadwidened and she was looking straightat him, her face was flushed, her smile

confident. She looked at him as boldlyas if she were his equal.

‘Hello,’ she said.‘Are you Meridon?’ he said

surprised.I was about to say: ‘No. I am

Meridon and this is my sister.’ ButDandy was ahead of me.

‘Oh no,’ she said. ‘My name isDandy. Who are you?’

‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Jack Gower.’Unnoticed, standing behind my

beautiful sister, I could stare at him.He was not fair like his father butdark-haired. His eyes were dark too. Inhis shimmering shirt and his whitebreeches he looked like a lord in atravelling play – dazzling. Theconfident smile on his face as helooked down at Dandy, whose paleface was upturned to him like a floweron a slim stem, showed that he knew it.I looked at that smile and thought him

the most handsome youth I had everseen in my whole life. And for somereason, I could not say why, Ishuddered as if someone had justdripped cold water on my scalp, andthe nape of my neck felt cold.

‘I’ll see you after the show,’ hesaid. The tone of his voice made itsound as if it might be a threat or apromise.

Dandy’s eyes gleamed. ‘Youmight,’ she said, as natural a coquetteas ever flirted with a handsome youth.‘I have other things to do than hangaround a wagon.’

‘Oh?’ he asked. ‘What things?’‘Meridon and I are going to the

fair,’ she said. ‘And we’ve money tospend, and all.’

For the first time he looked at me.‘So you’re Meridon,’ he saidcarelessly. ‘My da says you can trainlittle ponies. Could you manage a

horse like this?’He gestured behind the screen and

I peered around it. Tied to a stake onthe ground was a beautiful greystallion, standing quiet and docile, buthis dark eye rolled towards me as hesaw me.

‘Oh, yes,’ I said with longing. ‘Icould look after him all right.’

Jack gave me a little smile aswarm and understanding as his da.

‘Would you like to ride him afterthe show?’ he invited. ‘Or do you havebetter things to do, like your sister?’

Dandy’s fingers nipped my armbut for once I ignored her. ‘I’d love toride him,’ I said hastily. ‘I’d ratherride him than go to any fair, any day.’

He nodded at that. ‘Da said youwere horse-mad,’ he said. ‘Wait tillafter the show and you can go up onhim.’

He glanced towards the gate and

nodded as his father waved.‘Take your seats,’ Robert Gower

called in his loud announcing voice.‘Take your seats for the greatest showin England and Europe!’

Jack winked at Dandy and duckedbehind the screen as his father shut thegate and came to the centre of the flatgrass. Dandy and I scurried to the hilland sat down in expectant silence.

I sat through the show in a daze. I hadnever seen horses with such training.They had four small ponies – Welshmountain or New Forest, I thought –who started the show with a dancingact. There was a barrel organ playingand the boy Jack Gower stood in themiddle of the ring with a fine purplecoat over his red shirt and a long whip.As he cracked it and moved from thecentre to the side the little ponieswheeled and trotted individually,

turning on their hind legs, reversing theorder, all with their heads up and theplumes on their heads jogging and theirbells ringing ringing ringing like out-of-season sleighbells.

People cheered as he finishedwith a flourish with all four poniesbending down in a horse curtsey, andhe swept off his purple tricorne hat andbowed to the crowd. But he exchangeda look with Dandy as if to say that itwas all for her, and I felt her swellwith pride.

The stallion was next in the ring,with a mane like white sea foamtumbling down over his arched neck.Robert Gower came in with him andmade him rear and stamp his hooves toorder. He picked out flags of anycolour – you could call out a colourand he would bring you the one youordered. He danced on the spot and hecould count up numbers up to ten by

pawing the ground. He could add up,too, quicker than I could. He was abrilliant horse and so beautiful!

They cheered when he was gonetoo and then it was the time for thecavalry charge with the barrel organplaying marching music and RobertGower telling about the glorious battleof Blenheim. The little pony camethundering into the ring with its harnessstuck full of bright coloured flags andabove them all the red cross of StGeorge. Robert Gower explained thatthis symbolized the Duke ofMarlborough ‘and the Flower of theEnglish Cavalry’.

The other three ponies came inflying the French flag and while theaudience sang the old song ‘The RoastBeef of Old England’, the four poniescharged at each other, their littlehooves pounding the earth and churningit up into mud. It was a wonderful

show and at the end the little Frenchponies lay down and died and thevictorious English pony gallopedaround in a victory circle and thenreared in the middle of the ring.

The drink-sellers came aroundthen, with a tray of drinks, and therewere pie-men and muffin-sellers too.Dandy and I had only our pennies andwe were saving them for later.Besides, we were used to goinghungry.

Next was a new horse, a greatskewbald with a rolling eye and abroad back. Robert Gower stood in thecentre of the ring, cracking his whipand making the horse canter round in agreat steady rolling stride. Then with asudden rush and a vault Jack came intothe ring stripped down to his red shirtand his white breeches and Dandy’shand slid into mine and she gripped metight. As the horse thundered round and

around, Jack leaped up on to her backand stood balanced, holding one strapand nothing else, one arm outflung forapplause. He somersaulted off and thenjumped on again and, while the horsecantered round, he swung himself offone side, and then another, and then,perilously, clambered all the wayaround the animal’s neck. He vaultedand faced backwards. He spun aroundand faced forwards. Then he finishedthe act, sweating and panting, with aride around the ring, standing on thehorse’s rump absolutely straight, hisarms outstretched for balance, holdingnothing to keep him steady, and a greatjump to land on his feet beside hisfather.

Dandy and I leaped to our feet tocheer. I had never seen such riding.Dandy’s eyes were shining and wewere both hoarse from shouting.

‘Isn’t he wonderful?’ she asked

me.‘And the horse!’ I said.That was the high point of the

show for me. But Robert Gower asRichard the Lionheart going off to warwith all the little ponies and thestallion was enough to bring Dandyclose to tears. Then there was atableau of Saladin on a great blackhorse which I could not haverecognized as the same stallion. ThenRichard the Lionheart did a triumphantparade with a wonderful golden rugthrown over the horse’s back. Only hisblack legs showing underneath wouldhave given the game away if you werelooking.

‘Wonderful,’ sighed Dandy at theend.

I nodded. It was actually too muchfor me to speak.

We kept our seats. I don’t think my

knees would have supported me if wehad stood. I found I was staring at themuddy patch at the bottom of the hilland seeing again the flash of thunderinglegs and hearing in my ears the ringingof the pony bells.

All at once my breaking andtraining of children’s ponies seemed asdull and as dreary as an ordinarywoman’s housework. I had neverknown horses could do such things. Ihad never thought of them as showanimals in this way at all. And themoney to be made from it! I was cannyenough, even in my starstruck daze, toknow that six hard-working horseswould cost dear, and that Robert andJack’s shining cleanliness did notcome cheap. But as Robert closed thegate behind the last customer he cametowards us swinging a money bagwhich chinked as if it were full ofpennies. He carried it as if it were

heavy.‘Enjoy yourselves?’ he asked.Dandy gleamed at him. ‘It was

wonderful,’ she said, without a wordof exaggeration. ‘It was the mostwonderful thing I have ever seen.’

He nodded and raised an eyebrowat me.

‘Can the stallion really count?’ Iasked. ‘How did you teach him hisnumbers? Can he read as well?’

An absorbed look crossed RobertGower’s face. ‘I never thought of himreading,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Youcould do a trick with him takingmessages perhaps…’ Then herecollected us. ‘You’d like a ride, Ihear.’

I nodded. For the first time in athieving, cheating, bawling life I feltshy. ‘If he wouldn’t mind…’ I said.

‘He’s just a horse,’ RobertGower said, and put two fingers in his

mouth and whistled. The stallion, stilldyed black, came out from behind thescreen with just a halter on, obedientas a dog.

He walked towards Robert whogestured to me to stand beside thehorse. Then he stepped back andlooked at me with a measuring eye.

‘How old are you?’ he askedabruptly.

‘Fifteen, I think,’ I said. I couldfeel the horse’s gentle nose touchingmy shoulder, and his lips bumpingagainst my neck.

‘Going to grow much?’ Robertasked. ‘Your ma now, is she tall? Yourpa is fairly short.’

‘He’s not my da,’ I said. ‘ThoughI call him that. My real da is dead andmy ma too. I don’t know whether theywere tall or not. I’m not growing asfast as Dandy, though we’re the sameage.’

Robert Gower hummed to himselfand said, ‘Good,’ under his breath. Ilooked to see if Dandy was impatientto go but she was looking past me atthe screen. Looking for Jack.

‘Up you get then,’ he saidpleasantly. ‘Up you go.’

I took the rope of the halter andturned towards the stallion. The greatwall of his flank went up and up, wellabove my head. My head was as highas the start of his great arching neck.He was the biggest horse I had everseen.

I could vault on Jess our carthorseby yelling, ‘Hike!’ to her and takingher at a run. But she was smaller thanthis giant, and I did not feel fit to shoutan order to him and rush at him.

I turned to Robert Gower. ‘I don’tknow how,’ I said.

‘Tell him to bow,’ he said, notmoving forwards. He was standing as

far back as if he was in the audience.And he was looking at me as if hewere seeing something else.

‘Bow,’ I said uncertainly to thehorse. ‘Bow.’

The ears flickered forwards inreply but he did not move.

‘He’s called Snow,’ RobertGower said. ‘And he’s a horse like anyother. Make him do as he’s told. Don’tbe shy with him.’

‘Snow,’ I said a little morestrongly. ‘Bow!’

A black eye rolled towards me,and I knew, without being able to saywhy, that he was being naughty like anyordinary horse. Whether he could countbetter than me or no, he was just beingplain awkward. Without thinking twiceI slapped him on the shoulder with thetail end of the halter and said, in avoice which left no doubt in his mind:

‘You heard me! Bow, Snow!’

At once he put one forefootbehind the other and lowered rightdown. I still had to give a little springto get up on his back, and then I called,‘Up!’ and he was up on four feet again.

Robert Gower sat on the grass.‘Take him around the ring,’ he said.

One touch of my heels did it, andthe great animal moved forwards insuch a smooth walk that it was as if wewere gliding. I sat a little firmer and hetook it as an order to trot. The greatwide back was a steady seat and Ijogged a little but hardly slid. I glancedat Robert Gower. He was tending tohis pipe. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Canter.’

I sat firmer and squeezed – thelightest of touches and the jarring paceof the trot melted into a canter whichblew the hair off my shoulders andbrought a delighted smile to my face.Jack came out from behind the screenand smiled at me as I thundered past

him. Snow jinked a little at themovement but I stayed on his back assolid as a rock.

‘Pull him up!’ Robert Gowersuddenly yelled, and I hauled on therope, anxious that I had done somethingwrong. ‘Hold tight!’ he shouted. ‘UpSnow!’

The neck came up and nearly hitme in the face as Snow reared. I couldfeel myself sliding back and I clung onto the handfuls of mane for dear life ashe pawed the air, and then droppeddown again.

‘Down you come,’ Robert Gowerordered and I slid down from thehorse’s back instantly.

‘Give her the whip,’ he said toJack, and Jack stepped forward, asmock thrown over his showtimeglory, with a long whip in his hand.

‘Stand in front of the horse, asclose as you can, nice loud crack on

the ground. Shout him “Up!” and then acrack in the air. Like the painting onmy wagon,’ Robert ordered.

I flicked the whip lightly on theground to get the feel. Then I looked atSnow and cracked it as loud as I could.‘Up!’ I yelled. He was as tall as atower above me. Up and up he wentand his great black hooves were wayabove my head. I cracked the whipabove my head, and even that longthong seemed to come nowhere nearhim.

‘Down!’ Robert shouted and thehorse dropped down in front of me. Istroked his nose. The black came offon my hand and I saw that my handsand face and my skirt were filthy.

‘I should have given you asmock,’ Robert Gower said by way ofapology. ‘Never mind.’ He took a greatsilver watch from his pocket andflicked it open. ‘We’re getting behind

time,’ he said. ‘Would you give Jack ahand to get the horses ready for thesecond show?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said at once.Robert Gower glanced at Dandy.

‘D’you like horses?’ he asked. ‘D’youlike to work with them?’

Dandy smiled at him. ‘No,’ shesaid. ‘I do other work. Horses is toodirty.’

He nodded at that, and flicked hera penny from his pocket. ‘You’re adeal too pretty to get dirty,’ he said.‘That’s your pay for waiting for yoursister. You can go and wait by the gateand watch that no one sneaks in beforeI’m there to take the money.’

Dandy caught the penny one-handed with practised skill. ‘All right,’she said agreeably.

So Dandy sat on the gate while Ihelped Jack wash Snow and brush andtack-up the little ponies in their bells

and their plumes, and water and feedthem with a little oats. Jack workedsteadily but shot a glance now and thenat Dandy as she sat on the gate with theevening sun all yellow and gold behindher, singing and plaiting her black hair.

3We did not cross the muddy lane to thefairground until late that night after wehad seen the whole show throughagain, and I had stayed behind to cleanthe horses and feed them for the night. Iknew Dandy would not mind waiting,she sat placidly on the gate andwatched Jack and me work.

‘I have tuppence to spend,’ I saidexultantly as I came towards her,wiping my dirty hands on my equallydirty skirt.

She smiled sweetly at that. ‘I havethree shillings,’ she said. ‘I’ll give youone.’

‘Dandy!’ I exclaimed. ‘Whosepocket?’

‘The fat old gentleman,’ she said.‘He gave me a halfpenny to fetch him adrink after he had missed the drink-seller. When I brought it back to him I

was close enough to get my hand in hisbreeches pocket.’

‘Would he know you again?’ Iasked worried.

‘Oh yes,’ she said. Dandy hadknown she was beautiful fromchildhood. ‘But I daresay he won’tthink it was me. Anyway, let’s spendthe money!’

We stayed out until it was allgone and our pockets were crammedwith fairings. Dandy would havepicked another pocket or two in thecrush but there were gangs of thievesworking the fair and they would havespotted her, even if no one else had.She might talk her way out of troublewith an ageing gentleman, but if one ofthe leaders of the gangs of thievescaught her we would both have to turnout our pockets and give themeverything we had – and get a beatinginto the bargain, too.

It was dark when we crossed thelane back to the field and our caravanand there were no lights showing atGower’s wagon. I checked on ourhorses before I went in. The old hunterwas lying down to sleep, I could onlyhope he would be able to get up in themorning. If he did not, Da would gowild. He was counting on a sale to payfor a horse he wanted to buy from oneof the fairground showmen. And a deadhorse is little profit, even when thebutchers call it beef.

We were all asleep when thecaravan lurched and he fell in thedoorway. Zima did not stir. She waslying on her back, snoring like atrooper, all tumbled into bed in herfinery. I had seen a new gilt necklacearound her neck and guessed that shehad not been wasting her time whileDa was out drinking. The caravanrocked like a ship in a storm at sea

when Da blundered in and thenbounced like a jogging horse when hetried to mount Zima, drunk as he was. Iheard Dandy snigger under her blanketas we heard him curse and blame theale, but I could not laugh. I turned myface to the familiar stained wall andthought of a sandstone-yellow houseamid a tall well-timbered park and astallion as white as sea spray trottingdown the drive towards me as I stoodon the terrace in a riding habit as greenas grass with a clean linen petticoat.

Da paid for his drinking in themorning, but Zima paid for it worst. Hesaw the gilt necklace and wanted themoney she had been paid. She sworeshe had only had one man, and onlybeen paid a shilling but he did notbelieve her and set to beating her withher shoe. Dandy and I made haste toget under the wheels of the wagon andwell out of harm’s way. Dandy

stopped to snatch up the baby and lugher to safety with us, and got abackhanded clout for her pains. Shewas soft-hearted about the littlewretch, she was always afraid thatZima would throw it at Da in a rage.

We were under the wagon withthe swearing and breaking crockeryloud above us when I saw RobertGower come out on to his step with amug of tea in his hand and his pipe inhis mouth.

He nodded good morning to us asif he was deaf to the thuds and screamsfrom our wagon, and sat in the sunshinepuffing on his pipe. Jack came out tosit beside his father, but we bothstayed in our refuge. If Da was stillangry he couldn’t reach us under thewagon unless he poked us out with thebutt of the whip, and we weregambling he wouldn’t bend over withthe beer still thudding in his head. It

was getting quieter above, though Zimahad started sobbing noisily, and thenshe stopped. Dandy and I sat tight untilwe were sure the storm was over, butRobert Gower walked towards ourwagon and called out, ‘Joe Cox?’when he was three paces from theshafts.

Da came out, we felt the caravanrock above our heads and I picturedhim, rubbing frowsty eyes andsquinting at the sunlight.

‘You again,’ he said blankly. ‘Ithought you didn’t want my finehunter.’ He hawked and spat over theside of the wagon. ‘D’you want to buythat pretty little pony of ours? He’dlook nicely in your show. Or thehunter’s still for sale.’

The fine hunter was still lyingdown and looked less and less likelyto get up. Da did not see it, he waswatching Robert Gower’s face.

‘I’m interested in the pony if youcan get it broken by the end of theweek,’ Robert Gower said. ‘I’ve beenwatching your lass train it. I doubt shecan do it.’

Da spat again. ‘She’s an idlewhelp,’ he said dismissively. ‘Her andher good-for-nothing sister. No kin ofmine, and I’m saddled with them.’ Heraised his voice. ‘And my wife’s awhore and a thief!’ he said louder.‘And she’s foisted another damned girlbrat on me.’

Robert Gower nodded. His whiteshirt billowed at the sleeves in theclean morning air. ‘Too many mouthsto feed,’ he said sympathetically. ‘Noman can keep a family of five andmake the profits a man needs.’

Da sat down heavily on the stepof the wagon. ‘And that’s the truth,’ hesaid. ‘Two useless girls, one uselesswhore, and one useless baby.’

‘Why not send them out to work?’Robert suggested. ‘Girls can alwaysmake a living somehow.’

‘Soon as I can,’ Da promised.‘I’ve never been fixed anywhere longenough to get them jobs, and I swore totheir dead ma that I wouldn’t throwthem out of her wagon. But soon as Ican get them fixed…out they go.’

‘I’d take the littl’un,’ RobertGower offered nonchalantly. ‘What’sshe called? Merry something? She canwork with my horses. She’s uselesswith anything bigger than a pony soshe’d be little help to me. But I’d takeher off your hands for you.’

Da’s bare cracked feet appearedat the wheels at our heads as wecrouched beneath the wagon. He slidoff the step and went towards theshining topboots of Robert Gower.‘You’d take Meridon?’ he saidincredulously. ‘Take her to work for

you?’‘I might,’ Gower said. ‘If the

terms were right with the pony.’There was a silence. ‘No,’ Da

said, his voice suddenly soft. ‘Icouldn’t spare her. I promised her ma,you see. I couldn’t just let her gounless I knew she was going to a goodplace with ready wages.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Robert Gowersaid and I saw his shiny black bootswalk away. They went for three stridesbefore Da’s dirty feet pattered after.

‘If you gave me her wages inadvance, gave them to me, I’d considerit,’ he said. ‘I’d talk it over with her.She’s a bright girl, very sensible.Brilliant with horses you see. All ofmine she trains for me. She’s gypsyyou see, she can whisper a horse out ofa field. I’d be lost without her. She’llget that pony broken and ridable withina week. You see if she doesn’t. Perfect

for your line of work, she is.’‘Girls are ten a penny,’ Robert

Gower said. ‘She’d cost me money inthe first year or so. I’d do better takinga proper apprentice with a fee paid tome by his parents. If you’d beenwilling to give me a good price for thepony I’d have taken whatever-her-name-is off your hands for you. I’ve abig wagon, and I’m looking for ahelper. But there’s a lot of bright ladswho would suit me better.’

‘It’s a good pony though,’ Da saidsuddenly. ‘I’d want a good price forit.’

‘Like what?’ Robert Gower said.‘Two pounds,’ Da said looking

for a profit four times what he had paidfor the animal.

‘A guinea,’ Robert Gower said atonce.

‘One pound twelve shillings andMeridon,’ Da said. I could hear the

urgency in his voice.‘Done!’ Robert Gower said

quickly and I knew Da had sold thepony too cheap. Then I gasped as Irealized that he had sold me cheap tooand, whether Da was hung-over or no,I should be in on this deal.

I squirmed out from under thewagon and popped up at Da’s side ashe spat into his palm to shake on thedeal.

‘And Dandy,’ I said urgently,grabbing his arm but looking at RobertGower. ‘Dandy and I go together.’

Robert Gower looked at Da.‘She’s idle,’ he said simply. ‘You saidso yourself.’

‘She can cook,’ Da saiddesperately. ‘You want someone tokeep your wagon nice. She’s a goodgirl for things like that.’

Robert Gower glanced at hisperfect linen and at Da’s torn shirt and

said nothing.‘I don’t need two girls,’ he said

firmly. ‘I’m not paying that money for acheap little pony and two girls toclutter up the wagon.’

‘I won’t come on my own,’ I saidand my eyes were blazing green.‘Dandy and I go together.’

‘You’ll do as you’re told!’ Daexclaimed in a rage. He made a grabfor me but I ducked away and gotbehind Robert Gower.

‘Dandy’s useful,’ I said urgently.‘She catches rabbits, and she can cookwell. She can make wooden flowersand withy baskets. She can do cardtricks and dance. She’s very verypretty, you could have her in the show.She could take the money at the gate.She only steals from strangers!’

‘Won’t you come on your own tobe with my horses?’ Robert Gowersaid temptingly.

‘Not without Dandy,’ I said. Myvoice quavered as I saw my chance ofgetting away from Da and Zima and thefilthy wagon and the miserable lifefading fast. ‘I can’t go without Dandy!She’s the only person in the wholeworld that I love! If I didn’t have her, Iwouldn’t love anyone! And whatwould become of me if I didn’t loveanyone at all?’

Robert Gower looked at Da. ‘Aguinea,’ he said. ‘A guinea for the ponyand I’ll do you a favour and take bothlittle sluts off your hands.’

Da sighed with relief. ‘Done,’ hesaid and spat in his palm and theyshook on the deal. ‘They can come toyour wagon at once,’ he said. ‘I’mmoving on today.’

I watched him shamble back tothe wagon. He was not moving ontoday. He was running away beforeRobert Gower changed his mind on the

deal. He would celebrate getting aguinea for a pony and cheating RobertGower – a warm man – out of aneleven shilling profit. But I had afeeling that Robert Gower had plannedfrom the start to pay a guinea for thepony and for me. And maybe he knewfrom the start that he would have totake Dandy too.

I went back to the wagon. Dandywriggled out, pulling the baby behindher.

‘I want to take the babby,’ shesaid.

‘No Dandy,’ I said, as if I werevery much older than her and verymuch wiser. ‘We’ve pushed our luckenough.’

We were on our best behaviour for therest of that week at the Salisbury fair.Dandy went out to the Common outsidethe town and brought back a meat

dinner every day.‘Where are you getting it from?’ I

demanded in an urgent whisper as shespooned out a rabbit stew thick andchunky with meat.

‘There’s a kind gentleman in a bighouse on the Bath road,’ she said withquiet satisfaction.

I put the bowls out on the tableand dropped the horn-handled spoonswith a clatter.

‘What d’you have to do for it?’ Iasked anxiously.

‘Nothing,’ she said. She shot me asly smile through a tumbling wave ofblack hair. ‘I just have to sit on hisknee and cry and say, “Oh! Pleasedon’t Daddy,” like that. Then he givesme a penny and sends me out throughthe kitchen and they give me a rabbit.He says I can have a pheasanttomorrow.’

I looked at her with unease. ‘All

right,’ I said unhappily. ‘But if hepromises you a rib of beef or a leg oflamb or a proper joint you’re not to goback again. Could you run away if youhad to?’

‘Oh yes,’ she said airily. ‘We sitnear the window and it’s always open.I could be out in minutes.’

I nodded, only slightly relieved. Ihad to trust Dandy with these weirdfrightening forays of hers into the adultworld. She had never been caught. Shehad never been punished. Whether shewas picking pockets or dancing toplease elderly gentlemen with skirtsheld out high; she always came homewith a handful of coins and no trouble.She was as idle as a well-fed cataround the caravan. But if she sensedtrouble or danger she could slipthrough a man’s hands and be gone likequicksilver.

‘Call them,’ she said, nodding

towards the doorway.I went out to the step and called:

‘Robert! Jack! Dinner!’We were on first-name terms

now, intimate with the unavoidablecloseness of caravan-dwellers. Jackand Dandy sometimes exchanged asecret dark smile, but nothing more.Robert had seen how they weretogether the very first evening we hadspent in the caravan and had pulled offhis boots and started blacking them,looking at Dandy under his blondbushy eyebrows.

‘Look here, Dandy,’ he had said,pointing the brush at her. ‘I’ll bestraight with you, and you can bestraight with me. I took you on becauseI thought you’d do nicely in the show. Ihave some ideas which I’ll break opento you later. Not now. Now’s not thetime. But I can tell you you could havea pretty costume and dance to music

and every eye in the place would be onyou. And every girl in the place wouldenvy you.’

He paused, and satisfied with theeffect of this appeal to her vanity wenton: ‘I’ll tell you what I want for myson,’ he said. ‘He’s my heir and he’llhave the show when I’m gone. Beforethen I’ll find him a good hard-workinggirl in the shows business like us. Agirl with a good dowry to bring withher, and best of all an Act and a Nameof her own. A Marriage of Talents,’ hesaid softly to himself.

He broke off again, and thenrecollected where he was and went on.‘That’s the best I can do for the both ofyou,’ he said fairly. ‘Where you wedsor beds is your own affair, but you’llnot lack offers if you keeps clean andstays with my show. But if I catch youmooning over my lad, or if he puts hishand up your skirt, you just remember

that I’ll put you out of this wagon onthe high road wherever we are.However you feel. And I won’t lookback. And my lad Jack won’t lookback either. He knows which side hisbread is buttered, and he might haveyou once or twice, but he’ll never wedyou. Not in a thousand years.’

Dandy blinked.‘See?’ Robert said with finality.Dandy glanced at Jack to see if he

had anything to say in her defence. Hewas resolutely buffing the white of histopboots. His head bent low over hiswork. You would have thought himdeaf. I looked at the dark nape of hisneck and knew he was afraid of hisfather. And that his father had spokenthe truth when he said that Jack wouldnever go against him. Not in a thousandyears.

‘What about Meridon?’ Dandysaid surly. ‘You don’t warn her off

your precious son.’Robert shot a quick look at me

and then smiled. ‘She’s not a whore-in-the-making,’ he said. ‘All Meridonwants from Jack and me is a chance toride our horses.’

I nodded. That much was true.‘D’you see?’ Robert asked again.

‘I’d not have taken you into my wagonif I’d known you and Jack weresmelling of April and May. But I canput you out here and you’d still have achance of finding your da again. Hewon’t have got far – not with thatdamned old carthorse of his pullingthat wagon! You’d best go if you’re hotfor Jack. I won’t have it. And it won’thappen without my letting.’

Dandy looked once more at theback of Jack’s head. He had started onthe other boot. The first one wasradiantly white. I thought he hadprobably never worked so hard on it

before.‘All right,’ she said. ‘You can

keep your precious son. I didn’t wanthim so much anyway. Plenty of otheryoung men in the world.’

Robert beamed at her, he lovedgetting his own way. ‘Good girl!’ hesaid approvingly. ‘Now we can alllive together with a bit of comfort. I’lltake that as your word, and you’ll hearno more about it from me.

‘And I’ll tell you something,pretty-face. If you keep those lookswhen you are a woman grown, there’sno telling how high you might aim. Butdon’t go giving it away, girl. Withlooks like yours you could even thinkabout a gentry marriage!’

That was consolation enough forDandy and she went up into her bunkearly that night to comb her hair andplait it carefully. And she did notexchange another languorous smile

with Jack. Not for all the time we werein Salisbury.

It was a fine summer, that hotsunny summer of 1805. I changed fromthe dreary unhappy girl I had been inmy da’s wagon to a working groomwith pride in my work. My skirt grewbedraggled and my shoes wore out. Itseemed only natural to borrow Jack’ssmock and then, as he outgrew them,his second-best breeches and his oldshirt. By the end of the summer Idressed all the time as a lad and felt adelight in how I could move and myfreedom from the looks of passing men.I was absorbed by the speed of thetravel, by the way we went from onetown to another overnight. Neverstaying longer than three days at anysite, always moving on. Everywherewe went it was the same show. Thedancing ponies, the clever stallion, thecavalry charge, Jack’s bareback ride,

and the story of Richard the Lionheartand Saladin.

But every night it was somehow alittle bit different. The horses would gothrough their paces differently everytime. For a while one of the littleponies was sick and went slower thanthe others and spoiled the dancing.Then Jack ricked his ankle unloadingthe wagon and had trouble with hisvaults on to the horse, so all of that actwas changed until he was strong again.Little changes – but they absorbed me.

It was soon my business to carefor the horses from the time Jack andRobert had changed into theircostumes. I had been steadily doingmore and more from the first nightwhen I had stayed behind for the sheerjoy of stroking the velvety noses andsmoothing the hot sides. But now itwas my job. Dandy worked in thecaravan. She bought the groceries and

poached what food we needed. Shekept the caravan as clean as RobertGower thought fit – which was alifetime away from Zima’s ranksluttery. Then she came to the field andkept the gate while Robert did thebarking for the show.

All the while we were learningthe business. All the time we weregetting to love the contrast between thehard life of the travelling and the magicof the costume and the disguise. Andall the time we were growing addictedto the sound of delighted applause, andto the sense of power from being thecentre of attention, making magicbefore scores and sometimes hundredsof people.

While we were learning, Robertwas planning. Every time we wereanywhere near another show he wouldgo and see it. Even if it meant missingone of our own performances he would

put on his best jacket – a tweed one,not his working red coat – take the biggrey stallion, and ride for as much astwenty miles to see another show. Butit was not horse shows which drewhim. I realized that when Jack cameback from crying up the show aroundKeynsham with a bill in his hand, andsaid with confidence:

‘This’ll interest you, Da.’It was not a bill for a horse show

but a brightly coloured picture of manswinging upside down from a barwhich had been hung high in theceiling. He looked half-naked, in acostume like a second skin andspangled. He had great broadmustachios and was beaming down asif he had no fear at all.

‘Why, you’re white as a sheet,’Robert said looking at me. ‘What’s thematter, Meridon?’

‘Nothing,’ I said instantly. But I

could feel the blood draining from myhead and I knew that I might faint atany moment.

I squeezed past Robert and thatterrifying picture and stumbled to thecaravan step and sat gulping in thefresh air of a warm August evening.

‘Be all right to work, will you?’Robert called from inside the wagon.

‘Yes, yes…’ I assented weakly. ‘Ijust felt faint for a moment.’

He left me in silence to look at thestaked-out horses and the sun low inthe sky behind a bank of pale butter-coloured clouds.

‘Not started your bleeding haveyou?’ he asked, standing in thedoorway with rough sympathy.

‘It’s not that!’ I exclaimed, stung.‘Well, it’s hardly an insult…’ he

excused himself. ‘What’s the matterthen?’

‘It was that picture, the hand-

bill…’ I said. I could hardly explainmy terror even to myself. ‘What wasthe man doing? He looked so high!’

Robert drew the hand-bill out ofhis pocket. ‘He calls himself a trapezeartiste,’ he said. ‘It’s a new act. I’mgoing into Bristol to see it. I’d like toknow how it’s done. See…’ he pushedthe hand-bill towards me but I turnedmy head away.

‘I hate it!’ I said childishly. ‘Ican’t bear to see it!’

‘Are you afraid of being up high?’Robert asked. He was scowling as ifmy answer mattered.

‘Yes,’ I said shortly. In all mydare-devil boyish childhood it hadbeen the only thing which made me illwith fear. Only on birds’ nestingexpeditions was I never the leader of agame. I always insisted on staying onthe ground while other travellers’children climbed trees. Only once,

when I was about ten years old, I hadforced myself up a tree for a dare, andthen frozen, terrified, on a low branch,quite unable to move. It had beenDandy, of all people, who had climbedup with placid confidence to fetch me.And Dandy who had been able to giveme the courage to scramble down. Ipushed away the memory of theswaying branch and the delighted cruelupturned faces below me. ‘Yes,’ Isaid. ‘I am afraid of being up high. Itmakes me ill just thinking about it.’

Robert said: ‘Damn,’ under hisbreath and jumped down from thecaravan step to pull on his boots.‘Horses ready for the show?’ he askedabsently. The little puffs of smoke fromhis pipe came out quickly, as they didwhen he was thinking hard and bitingon the stem.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Not tacked-up yet,of course.’

‘Aye,’ he said. He stood up andstamped his feet down into the bootsand then tapped his pipe out on thewheel of the caravan and put itcarefully by the driving seat.

‘What about Dandy?’ he saidabruptly. ‘I suppose she won’t climb. Isuppose she’s no good up high too?’

‘Dandy’s all right,’ I said. ‘Wereyou thinking of something for theshow? You’d have to ask her, but sheused to climb trees well when wewere little.’

‘I’m just thinking aloud,’ he said,snubbing my curiosity. ‘Just thinking.’

But as he went towards the showfield I heard him muttering under hisbreath. ‘Amazing Aerial Act. An AngelWithout Wings. The AmazingMamselle Dandy.’

He visited the trapeze act atBristol; but he came back late and saidnothing about it in the morning. Only

Jack was allowed to ask overbreakfast: ‘Any good?’ Dandy and Iwere eating our bread and bacon on thesun-drenched step of the caravan, soonly Jack heard more than a mumbledreply. But I had heard enough to guessthat Robert’s promise to Dandy ofbeing in the centre of the ring mightcome true.

She welcomed it when I told herwhat he had said. Already our workfor the show had been expanded. WhenJack went crying-up the show into newtowns and villages he often took Dandyriding on the crupper behind him. I hadseen Robert frown the first time he sawthe white horse and his son with Dandylooking so pretty, riding behind himwith her arms around his waist. But hewas thinking of business and not love.

‘You should have a proper ridinghabit,’ he said. ‘A proper riding habitand be up on your own. It’d look

grand. Robert Gower’s AmazingEquestrian Show with Lady Dandy inthe Ring,’ he said.

He gave Dandy five shillings fora bolt of real velvet and she madeherself a riding habit in two evenings,working under the lantern until hereyes were bleary from the strain. WhenJack next cried-up the show, he tookher up behind him with her beautifulblue riding habit sweeping downSnow’s shining side. Dandy’s smileunder her blue tricorne hat was heart-stoppingly lovely. In the next villagewe had the best gate we had evertaken.

‘The public like lasses,’ Robertannounced at supper that night. ‘I wantyou riding in the ring, Meridon. AndDandy you’re to cry-up the show withJack every day. Stay in your costume totake at the gate.’

‘What shall I wear?’ I asked.

Robert looked at me critically. I hadwearied of brushing my thick mass ofcopper hair every day and had startedcutting out the tangles and thehayseeds. Dandy had exclaimed at theragged edges I had left and hadtrimmed it in a bob, like a country lad.The natural curl had made it into a mopof red-gold ringlets, which tumbledabout my head like an unruly halo. Ihad gained no weight over the summerof good living with the Gowers thoughI had grown taller. I was as lanky andas awkward as a young colt whileDandy had the poise and the warmcurves of a young woman.

‘I’m damned if I know,’ Robertsaid chuckling. ‘I’d put you in a pierrotsuit for half a crown. You look like alittle waif, mophead. If you’re going togrow as bonny as your sister, you’dbetter make haste!’

‘What about dressing her as a

lad?’ Jack said suddenly. He waswiping out his bowl with a hunk ofbread, but he paused with stickyfingers and smiled his confident smileat me. ‘No offence, Meridon. But shecould wear a silk shirt and tight whitebreeches and boots. You look at herwhen she’s in those old trews of mine,Da, she looks unladylike…but it wouldwork in the ring. And she could do arosinback act with me.’ Jack pushedhis bowl to one side. ‘Hey!’ he saidexcitedly. ‘D’you remember that actwe saw when someone came out of thecrowd? The show outside Salisburyone time? We could do something likethat and I could come out from theback, pretending to be a drunk, youknow, and come up on the horse andknock Meridon off.’

‘More falls,’ I said glumly. ‘I hadenough of them when I was breakinghorses for Da.’

‘Pretend falls,’ Jack said, his eyeswarm on me. ‘And they wouldn’t hurt.And then she could get up on the bighorse, and do a bit of bareback work.’

Robert looked at mespeculatively.

‘Bareback work in the breeches,’he said. ‘The riding and clowning in ariding habit. That’d look better dressedas a girl. Two acts and only half acostume change.’ He nodded. ‘Wouldyou like to do that, Meridon?’ heasked. ‘I’d pay you.’

‘How much?’ I said instantly.‘Ha’penny a show, penny a night,’

he said.‘Penny a show,’ I said at once.‘Penny a day whether we have a

show or not,’ he offered, and I stuckmy grimy hand across the table and weclosed the deal.

My training started the next day. I had

seen Jack vaulting on and off the bigskewbald horse, and I had ridden heroften enough. But I had never tried tostand up on her. Robert set hercantering around the field and Jack andI rode astride together, me sittingbefore him. Then he got to his feet andtried to help me up. The pace, whichseemed as smooth and as easy as arocking chair when I had been seatedon her back, was suddenly as jolting asa cart over cobbles. With a helplesswail I went off first one side, and thenthe other. And one time, earning myselfa handful of curses and a cuff on theear from Jack, I knocked him off theback of the horse as I went.

Robert called the practice to ahalt when I had managed to get up andstand for a few seconds. ‘Do it againtomorrow,’ he said, as mean withpraise as ever. ‘Not bad.’

Jack and I went down to the river

together and stripped off down to oursweat-stained shirts, and waded intothe water to cool our bruises and ourtempers. I floated on my back in thesweet water and looked up at the bluesky. It was September and still as hotas high summer. My pale limbs in thewater were as white as a drownedman. I kicked a fountain of sprayupwards and then looked at my feetwith the ingrained dirt around thetoenails with no sense of shame. Iturned on my front and dipped my faceinto the water and then dived rightunder until I could feel the cold waterseeping through my curls to my scalp.That made me shudder and I surfacedagain, kicking and blowing out, andshaking the wet hair out of my eyes.Jack was out already, lying on thegrassy bank in his breeches, watchingme.

I came out of the water and it

flowed in streams down my neck. Theshirt was slick and cold against me andJack’s eyes followed the little rivuletsof water down over my slight breastswhere the nipples stood out against thewet thin fabric, down to the crotch ofmy legs where the shadow of copperhair showed dark under the cloth.

‘D’you not mind working as hardas a lad when you’re growing into awoman?’ he asked idly.

‘No,’ I said shortly. ‘I’d rather betreated as a lad by your father andyou.’

Jack smiled his hot smile. ‘By myfather, yes possibly. But by me?Wouldn’t you like me to see you as ayoung woman?’

I walked steadily on the sharpstones at the river edge on myhardened feet and picked up my jerkinand pulled it on. I was still bare-arsedbut Jack’s knowing smile had never

caused me any discomfort and I wasuntroubled by his sudden interest inme.

‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ve seen how youare with women.’

His hand waved them away downriver. ‘Those!’ he said dismissively.‘Those are just sluts from the villages.I would not treat you in the way I treatthem. You’d be a prize worth taking,Meridon. You in your funny breechesand my cut-down shirts. I’d like tomake you glad to be born a woman. I’dlike you to grow your hair to pleaseme.’

I turned and looked at him in franksurprise.

‘Why?’ I said.He shrugged, half moody, half

wilful. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Younever look twice at me. You neverhave looked twice at me. All thismorning you have been in my arms and

you have clung to me to save yourselffrom falling. All this morning you havehad your body pressed tight againstmine and I was feeling you, aye – andwanting you! And then you strip yourclothes off in front of me and get intothe water as if I was nothing more thanone of the horses!’

I stood up and pulled on mybreeches. ‘D’you remember what yourda said to Dandy our first evening?’ Iasked. ‘I do. He warned her off you.He told her and he told me that he hada good marriage in mind for you andthat if she ever became your lover he’dleave her on the road. She’s not lookedat you since that evening, and neitherhave I.’

‘She!’ he said in the same voiceas he had spoken of the village girls.‘She’d come fast enough to my whistle.I know that. But don’t tell me that youdon’t think of me to please my da,

because I don’t believe it.’‘No’, I said truthfully, careless of

vanity. ‘No, it’s not the reason. I don’tthink of you because I have no interestin you. It’s true: I don’t think of youany more than I do the horses.’ Iconsidered him for a moment, and thensome spark of devilry prompted me tosay, absolutely straight-faced,‘Actually, I think I like Snow better.’

He stared at me incredulous for amoment, then with one graceful easymovement he jumped to his feet andwalked away from me. ‘Gypsy brat,’he said under his breath as he wentaway. I dropped back down on thebank and watched the sunshine on theripples of the river and waited until hewas well out of earshot before Ilaughed aloud.

He did not bear me a grudge forthat insult, for the next day he held meas firmly and as fairly as he had done

the day before. It was my fault that Ifell more and more often, and my faultwhen he lost his balance and fellbackwards off the horse, and fell hardtoo, and hit his head.

‘Clumsy wench!’ Robert hadscolded me, and clouted me lightly onmy ear which made my own head ring.‘Why don’t you lean back and let Jackguide you like you were doingyesterday? He’s had the practice. He’sgot the balance. Let him take you.Don’t keep trying to pull away andstand on your own!’

Jack was holding his head in hishands but he looked up at that and hesmiled at me ruefully. ‘Is that what’sgoing wrong?’ he asked frankly. ‘Youwon’t lean back against me?’

I nodded. His black eyes smiledinto my green ones.

‘Oh forget it!’ he said gently.‘Forget I ever said it. I can’t go on

falling off a horse all morning. Let’sjust do the act, shall we?’

Robert looked from one to theother of us. ‘Have you two had afight?’ he demanded.

We were both silent.He took three steps away from us

and then turned and came back. Hisface was stony. ‘Now look here, youtwo,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you this once,and it’s the only time. Whatever goeson outside the ring, or even behind thescreen, once you are in the ring and upon the horse you are working. I don’tcare if you take an axe to each otherwhen your act is over. You can’t workfor me unless you take this seriously.And you are not serious unless youforget everything – everything – butyour act.’

We nodded. Robert could be veryimpressive when he chose. ‘Now haveanother try,’ he said, and cracked the

whip and called to Bluebell to canter.Jack vaulted up and went astride

her and put his hand out to catch meand pull me up before him. He held theleather strap and got to his feet, hisbare toes splayed out on Bluebell’ssweaty white and brown back. Then Ifelt his hard hand clutching in myarmpit and I got up to my feet,gracelessly bow-legged, and then,while Robert shouted encouragementand abuse, I cautiously straightened myknees and leaned back towards Jackand let his body guide mine and hisarm steady me. We did one wholecircle without falling and then Jack letme jump down with a triumphant yelland somersaulted off himself.

‘Well done!’ Robert said. He wasbeaming at us with red-faced delight.‘Well done you both. Same timetomorrow.’

We nodded and Jack clapped my

shoulder with a friendly hand as Iturned away and took Bluebell by thehead collar to lead her around and coolher down.

‘Mamselle Meridon the BarebackHorse Dancer!’ Robert said to himselfvery low, as he walked past the screenout of the field. ‘See Her BreathtakingLeaps Through a Hoop of BlazingFire!’

4Dandy and I had not been raised asproper gypsy chawies. When theweather had grown colder and thecaravan was so clammy that even theclothes we slept in were damp in themorning, Da would get work as anostler or a porter or a market lad in anyof the bigger towns where people werenot particular whom they employed,and the Parish officers were slow andlazy and did not move us on. We hadno idea of a rhythm of seasons whichtook you regularly from one place toanother and then returned you safeevery winter to familiar fields andhills. With Da often as not we were onthe run from card partners, little cheatsor bad business deals, with no plannedroute or tradition of travelling. Henever knew where he was going, otherthan to follow his nose for gullible

card players, fools and bad horses,wherever they might be gatheredtogether.

Travelling with Gower’s Showwas a different life. We never lingeredin any one place because Robert hadfound a friend or had taken a fancy to atown. We moved fast and we movedregularly, every three days or sooner ifthe crowds showed any signs ofslackening. We only stayed longer ifwe were working alongside a big fairwhich could pull crowds from milesand miles about. But at the end ofOctober the season of the fairs waswaning and the weather was gettingcolder. In the mornings I had to breakthe ice on the water buckets and thestallion had a blanket strapped on himat night.

‘Last week this week,’ Robertsaid when we stopped for dinner. Jackand I had been practising our bareback

riding and for the first time I had stoodwithout him holding me, though I stillneeded to keep a tight grip on the strap.

‘Last week for what?’ Dandyasked. She was slicing bread and shedid not look up as she spoke.

‘Last week on the road,’ Robertsaid, as if everyone knew already.‘We’ll go into winter quarters nextweek. Down at my house atWarminster. Then we’ll really start towork.’

‘Warminster?’ I said blankly. ‘Ididn’t know you had a house atWarminster.’

‘Lots you don’t know,’ Robertsaid cordially through a hunk of breadand cheese. ‘You don’t know whatyou’ll be doing next season yet. Nordoes she,’ he said indicating Dandywith a wave of bread and a wink toher. ‘Lots of ideas. Lots of plans.’

‘Is the barn ready?’ Jack asked

him.‘Aye,’ Robert said with

satisfaction. ‘And the man is coming toteach us about the rigging and how theact is done. He says he’ll stay for twomonths, but I’ve got him on a bonus toteach the two of you quicker. He saystwo months are enough to startsomeone off if they’ve got the knackfor it.’

‘For what?’ I demanded, unableto contain my curiosity.

‘Lots you don’t know,’ Robertsaid slyly. He took a great bite ofbread and cheese. ‘Gower’s AmazingAerial Show,’ he said muffled. ‘Seethe Horses and the Daring BarebackRiders! Thrill to the Dazzling AerialDisplay! Laugh at the Pierrot and theWonderhorse Dancing! See the FlyingBallerina! Gower’s Flying RidingShow – All the Elements in One GreatShow!’

‘Elements?’ I queried.‘Fire,’ he said, pointing the crust

of bread at me. ‘That’s you, jumpingthrough a blazing hoop. Air: that’sDandy, she and Jack are going to trainas a trapeze act. Earth is the horses andWater I don’t know yet. But I’ll thinkof something.’

‘A trapeze act!’ Dandy slumpeddown in her seat and I looked quicklyat her. My own head was pounding infright at the thought of her being uphigh and swinging from some perilousrope. But her eyes were shining. ‘And Iget a short costume!’ she exclaimed.

‘One that shows your pretty legs!’Robert confirmed, smiling at her.‘Dandy, my girl, you were born awhore!’

‘With sequins,’ she stipulated.‘Is it safe?’ I interrupted. ‘How

will she ever learn to do it?’‘We’ve got the act from Bristol

coming to stay with us. He’ll teachDandy, and Jack as well, how it’sdone. You’ll learn too, my girl, see ifwe can conquer that fear of yours. Anact with two girls up on the swingswould be grand.’

The mouthful I had justswallowed came up from my belly intomy throat again and I choked andretched and then pushed away from thetable and bolted for the door. I wassick outside, vomiting the bread andcheese under the front wheel. I waiteduntil I was steady and then I came inagain, white faced, to where they werewaiting, staring at me in amazement.

‘Were you sick at the thought ofit?’ Robert demanded. He was sostunned he had forgotten to eat and wasstill holding his bread in mid air. ‘Wasthat it, lass? Or are you ill?’

‘I am not ill,’ I said. The metalicslick in my mouth made me swallow

and reach for my mug of small ale.‘I’m not ill in myself,’ I said. ‘But thethought of having to go up high on oneof those things does make me ill. I amsick with fright.’

Jack looked at me with interest.‘Well that’s an odd thing,’ he saidunsympathetically. ‘I’d never havethought Meridon was nervy. But she’sas missish as a lady.’

‘Leave her be,’ Dandy saidcalmly. ‘You leave her be, Robert. I’mhappy to learn how to do it. And if Iam doing the Aerial Act you’ll needMeridon to do the horses. She can’t doboth.’

‘Maybe not,’ Robert said halfconvinced. ‘And if the worst comes tothe worst I could always buy apoorhouse girl and have her trained.’

I gulped again, thinking of the girlstraight out of the workhouse inconditions worse than a prison and up

a ladder to swing on a trapeze. But Inodded to Robert. I had no sympathy towaste on a stranger. I had notenderness to spare. There was onlyone person in the world for me, andshe was happy.

‘Yes, you do that,’ I said. ‘Youknow I’d try anything with the horses.But I cannot go up a ladder.’

Robert smiled. ‘You’re to give ita try,’ he said firmly. ‘A fair try. Noone will force you to go up high butyou’ll wait and see the swing beforeyou make up your mind, Meridon.’

‘I’ll have too much to do with thehorses,’ I said defensively. ‘I can’t bea bareback rider and swing on atrapeze.’

‘Jack will,’ he said. ‘You can too.I give you my word, Meridon; I won’tforce you, but you’re to give it a try.That’s fair.’

It was not fair, but I had reached

the hard core in Robert where hewould not be moved.

‘All right,’ I said sullenly. ‘Ipromise I’ll try, and you promise that ifI can’t do it, you get someone else in.’

‘Good girl,’ he said as though Ihad agreed rather than been forced intoit. ‘And you’ll have plenty of learningwith the horses. I’ll have you dancingbareback, aye, and going through ahoop of fire before the next season.’

I thought that was ambitious and Iglanced at Jack but he had never in hislife spoken one word against his father.

‘Can I learn it that quick?’ Iasked.

‘Going to have to, lass,’ Robertreplied with finality. ‘I’m not housingyou and feeding you all winter for loveof your green eyes. You’re going towork for your living at Warminster asyou do now. Training the horses, andlearning a bareback act, and doing

what the trapeze man tells you. Andyou, miss,’ he turned sharply to Dandy.‘You will get yourself off to a wisewoman in the village and have her tellyou about how to avoid getting a bellyon you. I’m not spending a fortunetraining you how to swing from atrapeze to see you up there fat with awhelp. And you keep away from thevillage lads, too, d’you hear? It’s arespectable village, Warminster, and Igo there every winter. I want notrouble with my neighbours.’

We both nodded obediently. ButDandy caught my eye and winked at mein anticipation. I smiled back at her. Ihad never slept under a roof butalways a wagon, always in a narrowbunk within touching distance of fourother people. It would make me feellike Quality to get into my own bed. Itwould be like being a lady. It would belike being at Wide.

I took that thought with me to bed,after I had rubbed down the horses andeaten my supper nodding over my bowlwith weariness. That thought took mein my dream to Wide.

I saw it so clearly that I coulddraw a map of it. The pale lovelysandstone house in the new style with around turret at one end which makes apretty rounded parlour in the westcorner. That room catches the sun inthe evening and there are window seatsupholstered with pink velvet whereyou can sit and watch the sun set overthe high high green hills whichsurround the little valley. The housefaces south, down a long windingavenue of tall beech trees which wouldhave been old when my ma was young,even when her ma was young. At thebottom of the drive is a pair of greatwrought-iron gates. They have rustedon their hinges and are left open. The

family, my family, never wants themshut. For out of the drive and down thelane is the source of their wealth, orour wealth. The little village with anew-built church and a row ofspanking new cottages one side of theonly street; and a pretty vicarage and acobbler and a smithy and a carter’scottage and stable yard on the otherside.

These are the people of Wide.These are my people, and this is whereI belong. However much I might lovethe travelling life with the Gowers, Iknew this was my home. And in mydream of Wide I knew – knew withouta shadow of doubt – that I was not agypsy’s brat. I was not Meridon Cox ofGower’s Amazing Equestrian Event. Iwas Sarah. Sarah of Wide. And oneday I would be back there.

I awoke on that thought and staredat the ceiling of the wagon. This

caravan was not damp like the otherand there were no strange-shapeddamp patches to make boggart facesand frighten me. I squeezed my fingerinto the hole in my straw mattress andfelt for the scrap of cloth which I hadtwisted and hidden there. I hooked itout and unwrapped it, leaning on oneelbow to hold it to the grey lightfiltering in through the spriggedcurtains at the window. The string wasgrimy and old but the clasp was stillshiny. It still said ‘Celia’ on one sideand ‘John’ on the other, names ofpeople I did not know. But they musthave known me. Why else should Ihave all that was left of Celia’snecklace? And I heard a voice, not myown voice but a voice in my head, calllongingly, but without hope of ananswer: ‘Mama.’

The next day was our last day andwe gave only one performance which

was ill attended. It was too cold forpeople to relish sitting on the dampgrass for long, the horses were surlyand unwilling to work, and Jack waschilled in his shirtsleeves.

‘Time to move,’ Robert saidcounting the gate money in theswinging bag. ‘We’ll start now andstop at suppertime. Get the loadingdone, you three, I’m going to thevillage.’ He shrugged on his tweedjacket and pulled on his ordinary bootsand set off down the lane. Dandyscowled at his back.

‘Aye, push off when there’s workto be done,’ she said softly. ‘Leavetwo girls and your son to do all thehard work.’ She looked at me. ‘Themore money that man makes, thegreedier and the lazier he becomes,’she said.

‘Is he making money?’ I asked. Ihad noticed no great change, but Dandy

kept the gate and knew as well asRobert how the money bag had beengrowing heavier.

‘Yes,’ she said shortly. ‘He istaking shillings and pounds every dayand he pays us in pennies. Hi Jack!’she called suddenly. ‘How much doesyour da pay you?’

Jack was folding up the costumesand putting them carefully in a greatwooden chest bound with hoops whichwould slide under one of the bunks.The props and saddles and feed werestrapped on top or slung alongside thewagon. He looked up at Dandy.

‘Why d’you want to know?’ heasked suspiciously.

‘Just curious,’ she replied. Sheundid the bolts which held the screentogether and unhitched one of thepanels. ‘He’s doing all right, isn’t he,your da?’ she said. ‘Doing all right formoney. And this new show he’s

planning for next season. That’ll be abig earner, won’t it?’

Jack slid a sideways glance ather, his eyes crinkled. ‘So what, MissDandy?’ he asked.

‘Well what d’you get?’ she askedreasonably. ‘Me and Meridon getpennies a week – depending what wedo. If I knew how much you got, I’dknow how much I ought to ask for theflying act.’

Jack straightened up. ‘You thinkyou’re worth as much as me?’ he saidderisively. ‘All you’ve got is a prettyface and nice legs. I work with thehorses, I paint the screen, I plan theacts, I cry it up, I’m a bareback riderwith a full riding act.’

Dandy stood her ground. ‘I’mworth three-quarters what you are,’ shesaid stubbornly. ‘I never said I shouldhave as much. But I should get at leastthree-quarters what you earn if I’m on

the trapeze.’Jack gave a triumphant shout of

laughter and swung the heavy box upon to his shoulder. ‘Done!’ he said.‘And may you never make a betterdeal! Done, you silly tart! Because hepays me nothing! And you’ve justbargained your way into three quartersof nothing.’

He marched towards the wagon,laughing loudly at Dandy’s mistake andswung the box down to the floor with aheavy crash. Dandy exchanged a lookwith me, lowered the wing of thescreen gently to the grass and went tounbolt the other side.

‘That’s not right,’ she said to himwhen he came back to steady thescreen for her. ‘That’s not fair. Yousaid yourself how much work you dofor him. It’s not right that he should payyou nothing. He treats us better and weare not even family.’

Jack lowered the centre section ofthe screen down to the ground andstraightened up before he answered.Then he looked from Dandy to me as ifhe were wondering whether or no totell us something.

‘You don’t know much, you two,’he said finally. ‘You see the show andyou hear about Da’s plans. But youdon’t know much. We weren’t alwaysshow people. We weren’t alwaysdoing well. You see him now at hisbest, how he is when he has money inthe sack under his bed and a string ofhorses behind the wagon. But when Iwas a little lad we were poor, deathlypoor. And when he is poor he is a veryhard man indeed.’

We were standing in a shelteredfield in bright autumn sunshine but atJack’s words I shivered as if the frosthad got down my neck, his face was asdark as if there were snow clouds

across the sun.‘I’ll have the show when he is too

old to travel,’ he said with confidence.‘Every penny he saves now goes intothe show, or goes into our savings.We’ll never be poor again. He’ll seeto that. And anything he says I shoulddo…I do. And anything he says heneeds…I get. Because it was him andone bow-backed horse that earned usfood when the whole village wasstarving. No one else believed hecould do it. Just me. So when he tookthe horse on the road I went with him.We didn’t even have a wagon then. Wejust walked at the horse’s head fromvillage to village and did tricks forpennies. And he traded the horse foranother, and another, and another. Heis no fool, my da. I never go againsthim.’

Dandy said not a word. We wereboth spellbound by Jack’s story.

‘How was he a hard man?’ Iasked, going to the central question forme. How he would treat us, how hewould treat Dandy if the tide of luckstarted going against us? ‘Did he usedto hit you? Or your mother? Did shetravel with you too?’

Jack shook his head and bentdown so that Dandy and I could lift thescreen on to his back. He walked withit towards the wagon, dragging itbehind him, and then he came back.

‘He’s never raised his hand tome,’ he said. ‘He never laid a finger onmy ma. But she didn’t believe in him.He left her and the three little ones inthe village and went on the tramp withthe horse. He’d have left me behind toobut he knew I was the only one thatbelieved he could do it. He had metrained to ride on the horse withindays. I was only a littl’un and I wasscared of nothing. Besides, it’s a very

big horseback when you’re only five orsix. It was easy to stay on.

‘At the end of the summer wewent home. He’d been sending moneyback when he could. And after thewinter we started out again. This timethere was a cart we could borrow. Mawanted to come too, but Da wasagainst it. But she cried and said sheneeded to be with him. I wanted her.And Da wanted the little ones alongwith him. So we all went on the road.’

Jack stopped. Then he bent for thefinal section of screen and loaded it insilence. Dandy and I said nothing. Hecame back and picked up a couple ofhalters and slung them towards thewagon. He turned and went for the gateas if the story was over.

We went after him.‘What happened then, Jack?’ I

asked. ‘When you were all travellingtogether?’

Jack sighed and leaned on thegate, looking across the field as if hecould see the wagon and the womanwith the two small children and thebaby at the breast. The man walkingwith his son at the horse’s head, thehorse which he had trained to dancefor pennies.

‘It was a grand season,’ he said.‘Warm, and sunny. A good harvest andthere was money about. We went fromfair to fair and we did well at everyone of them. Da had enough money tobuy the cart and then he exchanged itfor a proper wagon. Then he saw ahorse he fancied and bought her. That’sBluebell that we have now. He sawshe had a big enough back for me as Igrew bigger. And she’s steady.

‘We had two horses then so wedidn’t work the street corners any morebut we took a field and started to takemoney at the gate. I had an act jumping

from one horse to another, and througha hoop. I was still quite small you see– I must have been about seven oreight.

‘Ma was on the gate, and the littlebabbies sold sweets that she made tothe audience. We were making goodmoney.’

He stopped again.‘And?’ Dandy prompted.Jack shrugged. Shook the past off

his shoulders with one quick movementand then a long stretch. ‘Oh!’ he saidwearily. ‘She was just a woman! Dasaw Snow and wanted to buy him. Mawanted to go back to the village withthe money we’d made and settle downand Da go back to cartering.

‘They argued about it – night andday. Da wanting Snow with all hisheart and promising Ma that he’d makehis fortune with the horse. That she’dhave a cottage of her own and a

comfortable wagon for travelling. Thatwe’d move up in the world. He knewhe could do it with Snow.

‘Ma couldn’t win the argument.She didn’t understand the businessanyway. So she went to a wise womanand got herself a brew from the oldwitch and then told Da – pleased aspunch – that she was pregnant and thatthere would be no money for Snow.And that she would not give birth to achild on the road but that they wouldhave to go home.’ Jack smiled, but hisdark brown eyes were like cold mud.‘I can remember her telling him: “I’vecaught you now,”’ he said. ‘She got abelly on herself to trap him.’

‘What did your da do?’ I asked.‘He left her,’ Jack said briefly.

‘All this happened at Exeter, our homewas outside Plymouth. I never knew ifshe got herself home. Or the babbies.Or what happened to the one she had in

her belly. He took the money he hadbeen saving and bought Snow and wemoved the next day. He wouldn’t lether in the wagon though she beggedand cried and my brothers and sistercried too. He just drove away fromher, and when she tried to get up on thestep he just pushed her down. Shefollowed us along the road crying andasking him to let her in, but he justdrove away. She only kept up for amile or so, she had the little ones andthey couldn’t walk fast. And she wascarrying the babby, of course. Weheard her calls getting fainter andfainter as she fell further and furtherbehind.’

‘Did you ever see her again?’ Iasked, appalled. This calculatedcruelty was worse than any of Da’sdrunken rages. He would never haveleft Zima so, whatever she had done.He would never have pushed Dandy

and me off the step of the wagon.‘Never,’ Jack said indifferently.

‘But don’t you forget that if my da cando that to his wife of fifteen years, whobore him four children and had his fifthin her belly, he can certainly do it toyou two.’

I nodded in silence. But Dandywas angry.

‘That’s awful!’ she exclaimed.‘Your ma most likely had to go on theParish and they’d have taken herchildren away from her. She wasruined! And she had done nothingwrong!’

Jack swung up into the wagon andstarted stowing blankets and beddingfor the journey.

‘He thought she’d done wrong,’he said from the dark interior. ‘That’senough for me. And she was cheating,getting a belly on her like that. Womenalways cheat. They won’t do a straight

deal with any man. She got what shedeserved.’

Dandy would have said more, butI touched her on the arm and drew heraway from the step, around to the backof the wagon to help me hump feed.

‘I can hardly believe it!’ she saidin a muttered undertone. ‘Robertalways seems so nice!’

‘I can believe it,’ I said. I wasalways more wary than Dandy. I hadwatched Jack’s unquestioningobedience to his father; and I hadwondered how that round-facedsmiling man could exert such invisiblediscipline.

‘Just remember not to cross him,Dandy,’ I said earnestly. ‘Especially atWarminster.’

She nodded. ‘I’m not going to beleft on the road like his wife,’ she said.‘I’d rather die first!’

That odd shudder, which I had felt

when Jack started talking about hismother, put icy fingers down my spineagain. I put out my hand to Dandy.‘Don’t talk like that,’ I said, and myvoice was faint as if it were comingfrom a long way away. ‘I don’t like it.’

Dandy made an impudent laughingface at me. ‘Miss Misery!’ she saidcheerily. ‘Where are these buckets togo?’

It was sunset before we were packedand ready to leave – the sudden redsunset of autumn. Bluebell wasbetween the shafts, her head noddingwith pretended weariness. Jack was inhis working breeches and smock. Hewas going to ride Snow the stallion,who was too valuable to be tied for along journey like the ponies. Heoffered me the ride, but I was tired andfelt lazy. If Robert did not order me todrive the wagon I would lie in my bunk

and doze.‘You’re getting as lazy as Dandy,’

Jack said to me in an intimateundertone as we tied the ponies in astring at the back of the wagon. Da’slittle pony had settled down with theothers and went obediently into line.

‘I feel idle today,’ I confessed,not looking up from the halter I wasknotting.

His warm hand came down overmy fingers as I tied the rope, and Ilooked up quickly to see his face,saturnine in the twilight.

‘What do you dream of in yourbunk, Meridon?’ he asked softly.‘When you lie in your bunk anddaydream and the ceiling is rockingabove you. What d’you dream of then?Do you think of a lover who will takeoff your clothes, strip those silly boy’sbreeches off you, and kiss you and tellyou that you are beautiful? Don’t you

dream of a clean bed in a warm roomand me, lying in bed beside you? Is thatwhat you think of?’

I left my hand under his warmclasp and I met his eyes with my steadygreen gaze.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I dream that I amsomewhere else. That my name is notMeridon. That I do not belong here. Inever dream of you at all.’

His handsome dark face turnedsulky in an instant. ‘That’s twiceyou’ve said that,’ he complained. ‘Noother girl has ever turned away fromme, not ever.’

I nodded fairly. ‘Then chasethem,’ I said. ‘You’re wasting yourtime with me.’

He turned on his heel and left meabruptly. But he did not go back to thelighted wagon. I nearly bumped him asI came around the wagon with a hay netto hang on the side. He had been

leaning against the wagon, brooding.‘You’re cold, aren’t you?’ he

accused. ‘It is not that you don’t likeme. I’ve just been thinking. Dandysmiles at the old gentlemen and theychuck her under the chin and give her aha’penny. But you never smile, do you?And now I think of it, I’ve never seenyou let anyone touch you except Dandy.You don’t even like men to look at you,do you? You won’t come out to cry-upthe show with me because men mightlook at you and desire you, and youdon’t like that, do you?’

I hesitated, a denial on my lips.But then I nodded. It was true. I hatedthe fumblings and the giggling. Thedirty hands questing inside lice-riddenclothes. The tumblings behind hedgesand haycocks and emerging shame-faced. It was as if my body had a peltmissing, my skin was too sensitive fora stranger’s touch.

‘I don’t like it,’ I said honestly.‘And I’ve never understood howDandy can bear it. I hate the old menwho want to touch me, I hate the waythey look at me.

‘I don’t dislike you, Jack, but Iwill never desire you – nor anyone, Ithink.’ I paused, turning over in mymind what I had just said. ‘I’m noteven sad about it,’ I said. ‘I’ve nofather to care for me, and I wouldn’tknow how to keep house for a lover.I’m better off as I am.’

‘Cold,’ he said, taunting me.‘As ice,’ I confirmed, quite

unruffled. Then I heaved the heavy haynet up to the hook and pushed past himand went into the wagon.

Dandy was already in her bunk,combing out her black hair and singingunder her breath in a low languoroushum. I climbed up into mine, and dozedoff at once, barely waking when the

caravan started rocking over the fieldand into the lane. I just opened my eyesand saw the open doorway and thestars ahead of us and heard the noise ofmany unshod hooves on the hardpackedmud as we headed for winter quartersand Warminster.

We stopped one night on the road. Itumbled out of my bunk to rub downSnow and Bluebell, to walk themdown to the stream and let them drinkwhen they were cool, and then the littleponies. The little ones were nervous inthe dark and shied. One of themscraped my leg and trod on my toe andI cursed in a voice still husky withsleep but I was too dozy to cuff him.

We put them out on stakesbecause we were camped by the lane-side and did not want them wandering.Robert himself checked that theblankets were tied safe on Snow and

Bluebell to keep them warm. Then weall took our suppers of bread and milkinto our bunks, saying not a word toeach other. We were all tired and wewere used now to saying nothing whenwe were hard-worked on the road. Itwas the best and easiest way. We atein silence, each one alone with privatethoughts. Then Robert’s tin mugclanked on the wooden floor as hedropped it down from his bunk emptyand said, ‘G’night,’ into the darknessof the wagon. Then I heard Jack’s mugdrop, and Dandy’s.

‘Sarah?’ Dandy whispered intothe darkness, invoking my childhoodlove for her by use of my secret name.

‘Yes?’ I replied.‘You don’t think he’d ever leave

us behind, do you?’ she asked.I was silent for a moment,

thinking. In the wordy, bargaining partof my mind I was very sure that Robert

would leave Dandy, would leave me,would leave Jack his own son, if hisupward struggle from his povertydemanded it. But there was a part ofmy mind which gave me shivers downmy spine. It had given me my dream ofwide, it had taught me that my namewas Sarah and reminded me constantlythat I belonged at Wide with myfamily. And that part of my mind washeavy with some kind of warning, likethe distant rumble of a summer storm.

‘I don’t think he’ll leave usbehind,’ I said slowly. A noise likethunder rolled in my inner ears. ‘Butthere is no telling what he would do,’ Isaid. I was afraid but I could not havenamed my fear. ‘There is no knowing,Dandy. Don’t upset him, will you?’

Dandy sighed. Her fear was goneas soon as she had expressed it to me.‘I can handle him,’ she said arrogantly.‘He’s just a man like any other.’

I heard the slats of her bunk creakas she turned over and went to sleep. Idid not sleep, even though I was tired.I lay awake, my hands behind my head,looking with unseeing eyes at theceiling which was so near my face,pattering softly with the sound of lightrain. I lay and listened to the rain onthe canvas and I thought it told me in ahundred tiny voices that Dandy waswrong. She could not manage Robertlike any man. Indeed she could notmanage men: even while she pickedtheir pockets they were getting hercheap. She thought she was managingthem; she prided herself on her skill.But they were cheating her – enjoyingwatching or fingering a pretty gypsyvirgin, and cheap, very cheap indeed.

I shuddered and drew the coverscloser up under my chin. The rainpattered softly, whispering like a priestin a Popish confession that there was

only one safety for Dandy and me andthat was to get away from this lifealtogether. To get away from theshowgrounds and the fairs. To getaway from the gawping villages andthe street-corner mountebanks. Iwanted to be safe with Dandy, safe in aQuality life with clean sheets, andgood food on the table, fine dressesand days of leisure. Horses for riding,dogs for hunting, little canaries incages and nothing to do all day but talkand sew and read and sing.

I wanted that life for Dandy andme – to save her from the world of theshowgrounds and from the life of awhore. And for me: because I did notknow what I would become. I couldnot stay in my boy’s breeches and carefor horses for ever. Jack was awarning to me as much as a threat. Hemight desire me a little, in his vaincoquettish way. But other men might

desire me more. I could keep my haircropped and green eyes down, but thatwould not save me. There was no onein my life who would fight to keep mesafe, or who would refuse a good pricefor me.

There was only one place where Iwould be safe. There was only oneplace where I could take Dandy andgive her the things which delighted herand yet keep her from danger – Wide.

I knew it was my home.I knew it was my refuge.I had no idea where it was.I sighed like an old lady who has

reached the end of her musings andfound she is no further forward. Oneday I would find Wide; I was sure ofit. One day I would be safe. One day Iwould be able to make Dandy safe.

I turned on my side with thatthought…and I fell asleep.

5I don’t know what I had expected ofWarminster but the little grey-stonedmain street with the three or four shopsand two good inns pleased me. Itlooked like a place where nothing verymuch had ever happened or wouldhappen. I looked around the broadmain street and imagined the weeklymarket which would be held there: thestalls selling flour and bread andcheeses, the noise of the beasts fromthe sheep and cattle market. I was gladwe were spending the winter here. Itlooked like a place where Dandywould find little scope for her talentsof coaxing silver out of the pockets ofold gentlemen – I was glad of that.

I leaned forwards to look aboutme and Robert Gower smiled at myeagerness, said proudly, ‘Nearly therenow,’ and took a sharp left-hand turn

off the cobbled main street down anunpaved mud lane. I expected a one-room upstairs, two-rooms downstairscottage with a low roof and paper andrags stuffed in the windows, with alittle patch of a kitchen garden at thefront, and a field for the horses at theback.

‘Gracious!’ Dandy said as thewagon turned in off the track and wefound ourselves in a handsome stableyard.

Robert Gower smiled.‘Surprised, little Miss Dandy?’ heasked with satisfaction. ‘I thought youwould be! All your little nosiness intohow much I earn and how much I paynever discovered that I’m a freeholderin a market town! Aye! I have a voteand all!’ he said triumphantly.

He pulled the wagon up andDandy and I got down. I went withoutthinking to the ponies at the back and

untied them and brought them round.Robert nodded at me.

‘Stabling I’ve got!’ he said.‘Stabling for every one of them if Iwanted them inside all winter eatingtheir heads off and getting fat. They’llgo out in the fields of course, but if Iwanted to keep them in I could. Everysingle one of them. Ten loose boxesI’ve got here! Not bad, is it?’

‘No,’ I said, and I spoke the truth.It was a miracle of hard work andcareful planning to bring a man frompoverty to this secret affluence. And Irespected him all the more that hecould leave this comfort to travel in thewagon and work every day of the weekfor a long arduous season.

A door in the wall of the yardopened and a grey-haired woman cameout dressed in her best apron with amatching white mob cap. She dippedRobert a curtsey as if he were Quality.

‘Welcome home, sir!’ she said.‘There’s a fire in the parlour and inyour bedroom when you are ready tocome in. Shall I send the lad out foryour bags?’

‘Aye,’ Robert said. ‘And set teafor two in the parlour, Mrs Greaves.These two young women, Meridon andDandy, will take their tea in the kitchenwith you.’

She smiled pleasantly at me, but Ifrankly gaped at her. By travelling afew miles down a road Robert Gowerhad transformed himself into Quality.He and Jack made the transition.Dandy and I were what we always hadbeen: Romany brats.

Jack saw the change too. He slidoff Snow’s back and handed the reinsto me as if I were his groom. Hepassed Bluebell’s leading rein to meas well, so that I was holding the stringof ponies and the two big horses.

‘Thank you, Meridon,’ he saidgraciously. ‘The lad will show youwhere they go,’ and then he walkedpast me through the doorway to thehouse. Dandy, still on the step of thewagon, exchanged one long look withme.

‘Phew,’ she puffed out, andjumped down from the wagon to takethe string of little ponies off me.‘Welcome to the servants’ quarters,Merry!’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘No wonder RobertGower didn’t want Jack fancyingeither one of us. He must think he’shalf-way to being gentry!’

An odd sly look crossed Dandy’sface, but she had her head down to thehalter and was leading the ponies awayso I could not see her properly. ‘Aye,’she said over her shoulder. ‘Our prettyJack must be quite a catch for theyoung ladies of Warminster!’

Before I could answer her a ladcame through the door to the stableyard. He was dressed well enough butcheaply in good breeches and a roughshirt and a fustian waistcoat. He tookBluebell’s reins from me and pattedher neck in greeting.

‘I’m William,’ he said by way ofintroduction.

‘I’m Meridon Cox,’ I replied.‘And this is my sister Dandy.’

His look went carefully over me,noting the slim-cut boy’s ridingbreeches and the cut-down shirt; mytumble of copper curls and my wirystrength; and then widened when hesaw Dandy, her red skirt casuallyhitched up to show her ankles, hergreen shawl setting off her mass ofloosely plaited black hair.

‘Do you work for RobertGower?’ he asked incredulously.

‘I do the horses and Dandy does

the gate,’ I said.‘And are you the lasses that are

going up on that swing?’ he demandedof me.

My stomach churned at the thoughtof it. ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘My sister will,but I work with the horses. I just haveto try it a little. I’m to be the barebackrider.’

‘He’s had the barn cleaned out,and the trapeze man came yesterdayand put the ropes and the blocks andthe pulleys up in it,’ William said in arush. ‘Ever so high. And they’vestretched a net like a fisherman’s netunderneath, to catch you if you fall. Wetested it too with a couple of bales ofhay to see if it’s strong enough.

‘The barn’s filled with woodshavings from the wood mill – sacksand sacks of them. So when you’redone with practising on the rigging, hecan use the barn for training the horses

when the weather’s too bad to beoutside.’

I nodded. Robert had meant itwhen he promised us a hard winter ofwork. ‘And where do we sleep?’ Iasked. ‘Where do we take our meals?’

‘He’s had the rooms above thestables done up for you,’ William said.‘We’ve put two beds of straw in foryou, and your own chest for yourthings. And your own ewer and basin.There’s even a fireplace and we hadthe sweep in to clear it out for you.You’ll eat at the kitchen table with MrsGreaves and me.’

He showed us the way into thestables. Each door had a horse’s nameon it. William glanced at me and saw Iwas puzzling over the words, notknowing where I should take Snow.

‘Can’t you read?’ he askedsurprised. And taking the horse fromme he led Snow into the best stall,

furthest away from the door and fromthe draughts. Bluebell went in nextdoor; and then the ponies, two to aloose box. I looked over the doors tosee they all had hay and water.

‘When they’re cooled downthey’re to go out, all except Snow,’William said. ‘Through that gateway,down the little path through the gardenand there’s a field at the bottom.You’ll take them down.’

‘What do you do?’ I demanded,nettled at this allocation of work.‘Don’t you look after them?’

William crinkled his brown eyesat me through his matted fringe.

‘I does whatever I’m told,’ hesaid, as if it were some private joke.‘Robert Gower took me out of thepoorhouse. If he tells me to be agroom, I’m a groom. I was that lastwinter, and the one before that. Butnow that’s your job and I do the heavy

work in the house and anything else heasks me. Whatever he tells me to do, Idoes it. And as long as I please him, Isleep sound in a bed and I eat well. Iain’t never going back into thepoorhouse again.’

Dandy shot a look at me whichspoke volumes. ‘How much does hepay you?’ she demanded.

William leaned against the stabledoor and scratched his head. ‘He don’tpay me,’ he said. ‘I gets my keep, sameas Mrs Greaves and Jack.’

‘Mrs Greaves gets no money?’ Idemanded, the picture of the smartrespectable woman clear in my mind.

‘He bought her out of theworkhouse too,’ William said. ‘Hegives her the housekeeping and shefeeds well out of that. He gives hersome money every quarter for herlaundry bill and new aprons. But hedoesn’t pay her. What would she want

money for?’‘For herself,’ I said grimly. ‘So

that if she wanted to leave she could.’William gave a slow chuckle.

‘She wouldn’t want to do that,’ hesaid. ‘No more than I would. Wherewould she go? There’s only theworkhouse, for there are no jobs goingin the town, and no one would take aservant who had left without acharacter. There’s plenty as tidy andneat as her in the workhouse – whyshould anyone take a woman off thestreet? Why should anyone pay wageswhen the workhouse is full of pauperswho would work for free with theirkeep?’ William paused and looked atDandy and me. ‘Does he pay you?’ heasked.

I was about to say, ‘Yes,’ but thenI paused. He did indeed pay me, apenny a day. But out of that princelysum I had repaid him for my shirt and

my breeches, and I wanted to buy ajacket for the winter too. I had nosavings from my wages. He had paidout the pennies and when I had savedthem into shillings, I had paid themback. I looked at Dandy; he paid herthe odd penny for minding the gate andshe still picked the occasional pocket.‘Do you have any money saved,Dandy?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I had to repayRobert for the material for my ridinghabit. I still owe him a couple ofshillings.’

‘We’re all treated the same then,’William said with doltish satisfaction.‘But you have a real pretty room ofyour own up the ladder.’

He pointed to a rough woodenstaircase without a handrail whichwent up the side of the stable wall. Ichecked that all the horses were safelybolted in, and then Dandy and I

clattered up the twelve steps to thetrapdoor at the top. It lifted up and wewere in the first room we had everowned in our lives.

It was a bare clean space withtwo mattresses of straw with blanketsin each corner, a great chest under thewindow, a fire of sticks laid in thelittle black grate, and two littlewindows looking out over the stableyard. The walls were finished in therough creamy-coloured mud of theregion, and the sloping ceiling whichcame down to the top of the windowswas the underside of the thatched roof– a mesh of sticks and straw.

‘How lovely!’ Dandy said withdelight. ‘A proper room of our own.’

She went at once to the broken bitof mirror which was nailed to one ofthe beams running crosswise across theroom and smoothed her hair back fromher face. ‘A looking glass of my own,’

she breathed, promising herself hoursof delight. Then she dropped to herknees and examined the ewer and bowlstanding in lonely state on the chest.‘Real pretty,’ she said with approval.

I ducked my head to look out ofthe window. I could see over the stableyard and across the lane to the yardand cottage on the far side. Beyondthem was a glimpse of green fields andthe glitter of light on a broad river.

William’s brown head appearedcomically though the trapdoor. ‘Comefor your tea,’ he invited. ‘It’s ready inthe kitchen. You can bring your thingsup later.’

Dandy rounded on him with allthe pride of a property dweller. ‘Don’tyou know to knock when you come to alady’s bedroom!’ she exclaimed,irritated.

William’s round face lost itssmile and his face coloured brick red

with embarrassment. ‘Beg pardon,’ hemumbled uncomfortably, and thenducked down out of sight. ‘But tea isready,’ he called stubbornly.

‘We’ll come,’ I said and takingDandy firmly by the arm I got her awayfrom the mirror and the ewer andwould not even let her stop to examinethe great chest for the clothes we hadnot got.

Our first two days in Warminster wereeasy. All I had to do was to care forthe horses, to groom them and waterthem, and discover the boredom ofcleaning out the same stable over andover again. Travelling with horses Ihad never had to wash downcobblestones in my life, and I did notenjoy learning from William.

Dandy was equally surly whenMrs Greaves called her into thekitchen and offered her a plain grey

skirt and a white pinny. She clutched toher red skirt and green shawl andrefused to be parted from them.

‘Master’s orders,’ Mrs Greavessaid briefly. She stole Dandy’s finerywhile she was sulkily changing, andtook them away to be washed but thendid not return them. Dandy collaredRobert as he was inspecting the stablethe same afternoon.

‘I warned you,’ he said genially.‘I told you there’d be no whoringaround this village. They’re God-fearing people, and my neighbours.You’ll cause all the stir you want atchurch tomorrow morning withoutbeing as bright as a Romany whore.’

‘I’ll not go to church!’ Dandysaid, genuinely shocked. ‘I ain’t neverbeen!’

Robert glanced at me. ‘Youneither, Meridon?’ he asked. I shookmy head.

‘Not been christened?’ he askedin as much horror as if he had beenanything but godless himself when wewere on the road.

‘Oh aye,’ Dandy said withreasonable pride. ‘Lots of times. Everytime the preacher came round we waschristened. For the penny they givesyou. But we never go to church.’

Robert nodded. ‘Well you’ll gonow,’ he said. ‘All my household do.’He looked at me under his bushy blondeyebrows. ‘Mrs Greaves has a gownfor you too, Meridon. You’ll have towear it for going in the village.’

I stared back, measuring thepossibility of defiance. ‘Don’t try it mygirl,’ he advised me. His voice wasgentle but there was steel behind it.‘Don’t dream of it. I’m as much themaster here as I am when we’re in thering. We play a part there, and we playa part here. In this village you are

respectable young women. You have towear a skirt.’

I nodded, saying nothing.‘You always did wear a dress,

didn’t you?’ he asked. ‘That first day Isaw you, you were training the horse insome ragged skirt, weren’t you? Andyou rode astride in a skirt as well,didn’t you?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘But I likeboy’s breeches better. They’re easierto work in.’

‘You can wear them for work,’ hesaid. ‘But not outside the stable yard.’

I nodded. Dandy waited till hisback was turned and then she pickedup her dull long grey skirt and swepthim a curtsey. ‘Mountebank squire,’she said; but not so loud as he couldhear.

I said nothing about the dressdestined for me. But that night, atsupper in the kitchen, Mrs Greaves

pushed a petticoat, chemise, grey dressand pinny across the wide scrubbedtable. There was even a plain whitecap folded stiffly on top of the pile ofclothes.

‘For church tomorrow,’ she said.I raised my green eyes to her pale

blue ones. ‘What if I don’t want to go?’I asked.

Her face was like a pat of buttersmoothed blank by fear and suffering.‘Better had,’ she said.

I picked them up without a word.They were strange to put on next

morning. Dandy helped me with them,and spent hours herself, plaiting andreplaiting her hair until it was to hersatisfaction in a glossy coronet withthe little white cap perched on top asfar back as she dared. In absolutecontrast I had pulled my cap downlow, and stuffed as much of my coppermop inside as I possibly could. I

regretted now my impatient hacking ofmy hair with the big scissors we usedto trim the horses’ tails. If it had beenlonger I could have tied it back. Cutragged, it was a riot of curls whichcontinually sprang out.

I straightened the cap in front ofthe mirror. Dandy was retying herpinny ribbon and not watching me. Istared at myself in the glass. It was amuch clearer reflection than the watertrough beneath a pump, I had neverseen myself so well before. I saw myeyes, their shifting hazel-green colour,the set of them slanty. My pale clearskin and the fading speckle ofsummertime freckles. The riotous thickcurly auburn hair, and the mouth whichsmiled, as if at some inner secret, eventhough my eyes were cold. Even thoughI had little to smile for.

‘You could be pretty,’ Dandysaid. Her round pink face appeared

beside mine. ‘You could be reallypretty,’ she said encouragingly, ‘if youweren’t so odd-looking. If you smiledat the boys a bit.’

I stepped back from the little bitof mirror.

‘They’ve got nothing I want,’ Isaid. ‘Nothing to smile for.’

Dandy licked her fingers to makethem damp and twirled her fringe andthe ringlets at the side of her face.

‘What do you want then?’ shesaid idly. ‘What d’you want that a boycan’t give you?’

‘I want Wide,’ I said instantly.She turned and stared at me.

‘You’re going to have a silk shirt andbreeches, aye and a riding habit, andyou still dream of that?’ she asked inamazement. ‘We’ve got away from Da,and we can earn a penny a day, and weeat so well, and we can wear clothesas fine as Quality and everyone looks

at us. Everyone! Every girl wishes shecould wear velvets like me! And youstill think of that old stuff?’

‘’Tisn’t old stuff!’ I said,passionate. ‘’Tisn’t old stuff. It’s asecret. You were glad enough to hearabout it when there was just you andme against Da and Zima. I don’t breakfaith just because I’ve got a place inservice.’

‘Service!’ Dandy spat. ‘Don’tcall this service. I dress as fine asQuality in my costume!’

‘It’s costume,’ I said angrily.‘Only a silly Rom slut like you wouldthink it was as fine as Quality, Dandy.You look at real ladies, they don’twear gilt and dyed feathers like you.The real ones dress in fine silks, clothso good it stands stiff on its own. Theydon’t wear ten gilt bangles, they wearone bracelet of real gold. Their clothesain’t dirty. They keep their voices

quiet. They’re nothing like us, nothinglike us at all.’

Dandy sprang at me, quicker thanI could fend her off. Her two handswere stretched into claws and she wentstraight for my eyes, and raked ascratch down my cheek. I was strongerthan her, but she had the advantage ofbeing heavier – and she was as angryas a scalded cat.

‘I am as good as Quality,’ shesaid, and pulled at my cap. It waspinned to my hair and the sharp pain assome hair came out made me shriek inpain and blindly strike back at her. Ihad made a fist, as instinctive as herscratching hands, and I caught her onthe jaw with a satisfying thud and shereeled backwards.

‘Meridon, you cow!’ she bawledat me and came for me at a half run andbowled me back on to my strawmattress and sat, with her heavier

weight, while I wriggled and tossedbeneath her.

Then I lay still. ‘Oh, what’s theuse?’ I said wearily. She released meand stood up and went at once to themirror to see if I had bruised herflower-white skin. I sat up and put ahand to my cheek. It stung. She haddrawn blood. ‘We’ve always seendifferent,’ I said sadly, looking at heracross the little room. ‘You thoughtyou might marry Quality from that dirtylittle wagon with Da and Zima. Nowyou think you’re as good as Qualitybecause you’re a caller for a travellingshow. You might be right, Dandy, it’sjust never seemed that wonderful tome.’

She looked at me over hershoulder, her pink mouth a perfectrosebud of discontent. ‘I shall havegreat opportunities,’ she saidstubbornly, stumbling over one of

Robert’s words. ‘I shall take my pickwhen I am ready. When I amMademoiselle Dandy on the flyingtrapeze I will have more than enoughoffers. Jack himself will come to mybeck then.’

I put my hand to my head andbrought it down wet with blood. Iunpinned my cap hoping it was stillclean, but it was marked. I would havecomplained, but what Dandy said mademe hold my peace.

‘I thought you’d given up onJack,’ I said cautiously. ‘You knowwhat his da plans for him.’

Dandy primped her fringe again.‘I know you thought that,’ she saidsmugly. ‘And so does his da. And soprobably does he. But now I’ve seenwhat he’s worth, I think I’ll have him.’

‘Have to catch him first,’ I said. Iwas deliberately guarding myselfagainst the panic which was rising in

me. Dandy was wilfully blind to thetyrannical power of Robert Gower. Ifshe thought she could trick his son intomarriage, and herself into the lady’schair in the parlour which we had notbeen even allowed to enter, then shewas mad with her vanity. She couldtempt Jack – I was sure of it. But shewould not be able to trick RobertGower. I thought of the wife he had leftbehind him, crying in the road behind avanishing cart, and I felt that prickle offear down my spine.

‘Leave it be, Dandy,’ I beggedher. ‘There’ll be many chances for you.Jack Gower is only the first of them.’

She smiled at her reflection,watching the dimples in her cheeks.

‘I know,’ she said smugly. Thenshe turned to look at me, and at onceher expression changed. ‘Oh Merry!Little Merry! I didn’t mean to hurt youso!’ She made a little rush for the ewer

and wetted the edge of my blanket anddabbed with the moist wool at my headand my cheek, making little apologeticnoises of distress. ‘I’m a cow,’ shesaid remorsefully. ‘I’m sorry, Merry.’

‘S’all right,’ I said. I bore herministrations patiently, but to be pattedand stroked set my teeth on edge.‘What’s that noise?’

‘It’s Robert in the yard,’ Dandysaid and flew for the trapdoor down tothe ladder. ‘He’s ready for church andJack and Mrs Greaves and evenWilliam with him. Come on, Merry,he’s waiting.’

She clattered down the stairs intothe yard and I swung open the littlewindow. I had to stoop to lean out.

‘I’m not coming,’ I called down.Robert stared up at me. ‘Why’s

that?’ he asked. His voice was hard.His Warminster, landlord voice.

He squinted against the low

winter sun.‘You two been having a cat-

fight?’ he asked Dandy, turning sharplyon her.

She smiled at him, inviting him toshare the jest. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Butwe’re all friends now.’

Without a change of expression,Robert struck her hard across the face,a blow that sent her reeling back. MrsGreaves put out a hand to steady her onher feet, her face impassive.

‘Your faces – aye and your handsand your legs and your arms – are yourfortunes, my girls,’ Robert said evenly,without raising his voice. ‘If you twofight you must do it without leaving amark on each other. If I wanted to do ashow tomorrow I could not use Merryin the ring. If you get a black bruise onyour chin you’re no good for callingnor on the gate for a week. If you twocan’t put my business first I can find

girls who can. Quarrelsome sluts aretwo a penny. I can get them out of theworkhouse any day.’

‘You can’t get bareback riders,’Dandy said, her voice low.

Robert rounded on her. ‘Aye, soI’d keep your sister,’ he said meanly.‘It’s you I don’t need. It’s you I neverneeded. You’re here on her ticket. Sogo back up and wipe her face and gether down here. You two little heathensare going to church, and mind MrsGreaves and don’t shame me.’

He turned and strode out of theyard with Jack. He didn’t even look tosee if we followed. Mrs Greaveswaited till I tumbled down the stablestairs pulling on my cap and patting mycheek with the back of my hand beforeleading the way out of the yard. Dandyand I exchanged one subdued glanceand followed her, side by side.William fell in behind us. I felt no

malice towards Dandy for the fight. Ifelt no anger towards Robert for theblow he had fetched her. Dandy and Ihad been reared in a hard school, wewere both used to knocks – far heavierand less deserved than that. What I didnot like was Robert’s readiness tothrow us off. I scowled at that as weturned out of the gate and walked toour right down the lane towards thevillage church.

There was a fair crowd besidethe church gate and I was glad then thatI had not kept my breeches. All theway up the path to the church doorheads were turned and fingers pointedus out as the show girls. I saw whyRobert had been so insistent that webehave like Quaker servant girls anddress like them too.

He was establishing his gentilityinch by inch in his censorious littlevillage. He was buying his way in with

his charities, he was wringing respectout of them with his wealth. He darednot risk a whisper of notoriety abouthis household. Show girls we might be,but no one could ever accuse any ofRobert Gower’s people of loweringthe tone.

Dandy glanced around as wewalked and even risked a tinysideways smile at a group of ladswaiting by the church door. But RobertGower looked back and she quicklyswitched her gaze to her new boots andwas forced to walk past them withouteven a swing of the hips.

I kept my eyes down. I did notneed a glance of admiration from anyman, least of all a callow youth.Besides, I had something on my mind. Idid not like the Warminster RobertGower as I had liked the man on thesteps of the wagon. He was too clearlya hard man with a goal in sight and

nothing, least of all two little gypsygirls, would turn him from it. He hadfelt that he did not belong in the parishworkhouse. He had felt that he did notbelong in a dirty cottage with a failedcartering business of his own. His firsthorse had been a starting point. Thewagon and the Warminster house werelater steps on the road to gentility. Hewanted to be a master of his trade –even though his trade was a travellingshow. He had felt, as I did, that his lifeshould be wider, grander. And he hadmade – as I was starting to hope that Imight make – that great step frompoverty to affluence.

But he paid for it. In all therestrictions which this narrowmindedvillage placed on him. So here hisvoice was harder, he had struckDandy, and he had told us both that hewas ready to throw us off.

I, too, wanted to step further. I

understood his determination because Ishared it. I wanted to take the two of usaway. I wanted to step right away fromthe life of gilt and sweat. I wanted tosit in a pink south-facing parlour andtake tea from a clean cup. I wanted tobe Quality. I wanted Wide.

I watched him and Mrs Greavesclosely and I kneeled when theykneeled and I stood when they stood. Iturned the page of the prayer bookwhen they did, though I could not readthe words. I mouthed the prayers and Iopened my mouth and bawled ‘la la la’for the hymns. I followed them in everydetail of behaviour so that RobertGower could have no cause forcomplaint. For until I could get ussafely away, Robert Gower was ourraft on the sea of poverty. I wouldcling to him as if I adored him, until itwas safe to leave him, until I hadsomewhere to take Dandy. Until I

could see my way clear to a home forthe two of us.

When we were bidden to pray Isank to my knees in the pew like someranting Methody and buried my face inmy calloused hands. While thepreacher spoke of sin and contrition Ihad only one prayer, a passionate pleato a God I did not even believe in.

‘Get me Wide,’ I said. Iwhispered it over and over. ‘Get meand Dandy safe to Wide.’

6We kept the Sabbath, now that wewere on show as Robert Gower’syoung ladies. Dandy and I wereallowed to walk arm in arm slowlydown the main street of the village andslowly back again. I – who could facedancing bareback in front of hundredsof people – would rather have walkedthrough fire than join Dandy in herpromenade. But she begged me; sheloved to see and be seen, even withsuch a poor audience as the lads ofWarminster. Also, Robert Gower gaveme a level look over the top of his pipestem, and told me he would be obligedif I stayed at Dandy’s side.

I flushed scarlet at that. Dandy’scoquetry had been a joke among thefour of us in the travelling wagon. Butin Warminster there was nothing funnyabout behaviour which could lower the

Gowers in the eyes of their neighbours.‘It’s hardly likely I’d fancy any of

those peasants!’ Dandy said, tossingher head airily.

‘Well, you remember it,’ Robertsaid. ‘Because if I hear so much as awhisper about you, Miss Dandy, therewill be no training, and no short skirt,and no travelling with the show nextseason. No new wagon of your own,either!’

‘A new wagon?’ Dandy repeated,seizing on the most material point.

Robert Gower smiled at hersuddenly sweet face.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I have it in mindfor you and Merry to have a littlewagon of your own. You’ll need tochange clothes twice during the showand it’ll be easier for you to keep yourcostumes tidy. You’ll maybe have anew poorhouse wench in with you aswell.’

Dandy made a face at that.‘Which horse will pull the new

wagon?’ I asked.Robert nodded. ‘Always horses

for you, isn’t it, Merry? I’ll be buying anew work horse. You can come withme to help me choose it. At Salisburyhorse fair the day after tomorrow.’

‘Thank you,’ I said guardedly.He shot a hard look at me. ‘Like

the life less now we’re in winterquarters?’ he asked.

I nodded, saying nothing.‘It has benefits,’ he said

judicially. ‘The real life is on the road.But only tinkers and gypsies live on theroad for ever. I’ve got a good-sizedhouse now, but I’m going to buy abigger one. I want a house so big andland so big that I can live just as Iplease and never care what anyonethinks of me, and never lack foranything.’

He looked swiftly at me. ‘Thatmake any sense to you, Merry?’ heasked. ‘Or is the Rom blood too strongfor you to settle anywhere?’

I paused for a moment. There wasa thin thread of longing in my heartwhich was my need for Wide.

‘I want to be Quality,’ I said, myvoice very low. ‘I want a beautifulsandstone house which faces due southso the sun shines all day on the yellowstone, with a rose garden in front of it,and a walled fruit garden at the back,and a stable full of hunters on the westside.’ I broke off and looked up at him,but he was not laughing at me. Henodded as if he understood.

‘The only way I’ll get my house iswork, and hard trading,’ he said. ‘Theonly way you’ll get to yours ismarriage. You’d better make haste andget some of your sister’s prettiness,Meridon. You’ll never catch a squire

with your hair cropped short and yourchest as flat as a lad.’

I flushed scarlet from my neck tomy forehead.

‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said turningaway, angry with myself for saying toomuch; and that to a man I should neverwholly trust.

‘Well, take your walk,’ he calledgenially, to Dandy and me together.‘Because tomorrow you start work inearnest.’

I knew what Robert Gower’s idea ofearnest work was like, and I keptDandy’s saunter to a minimum – just upand down the wide main street – sothat I could be home before dinner intime to muck out the stables and groomthe horses. Ignoring Dandy’s protests Iinsisted we leave the kitchen straightafter our dinner, so that we could turnthe horses out in the paddock just as it

was growing dark. In the corner of thefield stood the barn which RobertGower had ordered to be ready, whereDandy’s work would start tomorrow.

‘Let’s go and see it,’ Dandy said.We trod carefully across the

uneven ground and pushed the widedoor open. Our feet sank into deepwood shavings, thickly scattered allaround the floor. Above our heads,almost hidden in the gloom was awooden bar on a frail-looking pair ofropes swinging slightly in the draughtlike a waiting gibbet. I had never seensuch a thing before, except in thathand-bill. Just standing on the floorand gazing up made me sick withfright. Dandy glanced up as if shehardly minded at all.

‘How on earth will we get upthere?’ I asked. My voice was quaveryand I had my teeth clenched to stopthem chattering.

Dandy walked across and stood atthe bottom of a rope-ladder which hungfrom a little platform at the top of anA-frame built of pale light wood.

‘Up this, I suppose,’ she said. Shetipped her head back and looked up atit. ‘D’you see, Meridon? I suppose westand up there and jump across to thetrapeze thing.’

I looked fearfully up. The trapezewas within reach, if you stretched outfar and jumped wide out over the void.

‘What d’we do then?’ I askedmiserably. ‘What happens then?’

‘I s’pose we swing out to Jack,’she said, walking across the floor ofthe barn. On the other side was amatching A-frame with an open top.‘He stands at the top and catches myfeet, swings me through his legs andback up,’ she said as if it were theeasiest thing in the world.

‘I won’t do it,’ I said. My voice

was harsh because I was so breathless.‘I won’t be able to do it at all. I don’tcare what I promised Robert, I didn’tknow it would be so high and the ropesso thin. Surely you don’t want to do iteither, Dandy? Because if you’d rathernot, we’ll tell Robert Gower we won’tdo it. If the worst comes to the worstwe can make a living some other way.We could run away. If you don’t wantto do it too, he cannot make us.’

Dandy’s heart-shaped facerounded into her sweetest smile. ‘Ohnonsense, Merry,’ she said. ‘You thinkI’m as big a coward as you are. I don’tmind it, I tell you. I’m going to makemy fortune doing this. I shall be theonly flying girl in the country. They’llall come to see me! Gentry, too! I shallbe in all the newspapers and they’llmake up ballads about me. I can’t waitto start. This is everything for me,Merry!’

I held my peace. I tried to shareher excitement, but as we stood in thatshadowy barn and I looked up at theyawning roof and the slim swing andthe slender rope I could feel my mouthfill with bile and my head grow dizzy.

I put my hands over my ears.There was a rushing noise, I could notbear to hear it. Dandy took hold of mywrists. She was shaking them. From along way away I could hear her saying:‘Merry, are you all right? Are you allright, Merry?’

I shook my head, pulling awayfrom her grip, fighting in a panic formy breath, waiting for the vomit tocurdle up into my mouth. Then the nextthing I knew was a sharp slapping onmy cheek. I opened my eyes and put upmy hand to ward off a blow. It wasJack. I was held in his arms, Dandyhovering beside him.

‘You with us now?’ he asked

tersely.I shrugged off his hold and sat up.

My head still swam.‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m all right.’‘Was it just looking at the swing?’

he asked glancing upward, incredulousthat anyone could faint for fear at sucha petty object.

I hesitated. ‘Yes,’ I saiduncertainly. ‘I suppose it was.’ Jackpulled me to my feet before I couldthink more clearly. ‘Well, don’t look atit then,’ he said unsympathetically,‘and don’t go setting Dandy off neither.Da is set on having her up there, andyou promised you’d try it.’

I nodded. Dandy’s face wasbright, untroubled.

‘She’s set on going,’ I said. Myvoice was croaky, I coughed and spatsome foul-tasting spittle. ‘An’ I’ll keepmy word and try it.’

‘You won’t be up there for a

while,’ Jack said. ‘Look there, that’sthe practice one.’

He gestured over to the other sideof the barn near the door where aswing hung so low that I could havejumped up to reach it. Someonehanging would be only ten inches fromthe floor, just enough to dangle.

‘On that!’ I exclaimed. Jack andDandy laughed at my face. ‘I couldface that!’ I said. Relief made megiggly and I joined in their laughing.‘Even I could swing on that,’ I said.

‘Well, good,’ said Jackagreeably. ‘It would please my da verymuch if you would swing on thepractice swing. You need never gohigh unless you want to, Merry. Buthe’s paying a big fee for the man fromBristol to come and teach us. He’d liketo see him in full work for the twomonths.’

‘I’d wager on that,’ Dandy said

nastily. ‘But he agreed that Merryneedn’t learn if she was afeared. She’sdoing enough for the two of you fallingoff horses all day, as it is.’

‘I don’t mind swinging on that,’ Isaid, and I meant it. ‘I might even likeit.’

‘Getting dark,’ Jack said. ‘Youtwo had best get back. We’ll startwork early in the morning.’

We went out into the grey twilightand Jack pulled the door shut behindus.

‘What’s it like sleeping in a houseafter being in a wagon all your lives?’he asked.

‘Too quiet,’ Dandy said. ‘I missyou snoring, Jack.’

‘It’s odd,’ I agreed. ‘The roomstays still all the time. You get used tothe wagon rocking every time someonemoves, I suppose. And the ceilingseems so high. In our old wagon, with

Da and Zima, the roof was just abovemy head and I used to get a wet facewhen I turned over and brushed againstit.’

‘What’s it like for you, Jack?’Dandy said insinuatingly. ‘Will youmiss not seeing us in our shifts in themorning? Or getting a little peep at uswhen we wash?’

Jack laughed but I guessed he wasblushing in the darkness.

‘Plenty of girls in Warminster,Dandy,’ he said. ‘Plenty of choice inthis town.’

‘As pretty as me?’ she asked.Dandy could make her voice soundlike a gilt-edged invitation to a party, ifshe had a mind to. I could feel Jacksweat as he walked between us.

‘Nay,’ he said honestly. ‘But adarned sight less troublesome.’ Heturned abruptly as we walked into thestable yard. ‘I’ll say goodnight to the

two of you here,’ he said, and wentthrough the little door in the wall to thegarden and the main house.

Dandy went up the stairs beforeme humming, and unpinned her capbefore the bit of mirror while I lit ourone rush candle.

‘I could have him,’ she saidsoftly. It was almost an incantation, asif she were making magic with her ownlovely mirror-image. ‘I could havehim, though his da has warned himagainst me, and though he thinks tolook down on me. I could call him intomy hand like a little bird with a speckof bread.’

She untied her pinny and slid hergown up and over her head. The curvesof her body showed clear as a rippleon a stream. Her breasts rounding andplump with pale unformed nipples. Thedark shadow of curly hair between herlegs and the smooth curve of her

buttocks were like magical symbols inan old book of spells. ‘I could havehim,’ she said again.

I stripped my Sunday gown offand bundled it into the chest andleaped into my bed, covers up to mychin.

‘Don’t even think of it,’ I said.At once the desirous tranced

expression left her face, and she turnedto me laughing. ‘Old Mother Meridon!’she taunted. ‘Always on the lookout fortrouble. You’ve got ice between yourlegs, Meridon, that’s your trouble. Allyou ever want there is a horse.’

‘I know what a horse is thinking,’I said grimly. ‘Pretty Jack could plan amurder and you’d never see it in hiseyes. And Robert wants nothing butmoney. I’d rather have a horse anyday.’

Dandy laughed. I heard thefloorboards creak as she lay down on

her mattress.‘I wonder what the trapeze artist

will be like,’ she said sleepily. ‘Iwonder how old he is, and if he’smarried. He looked fine on that hand-bill, d’you remember, Merry? Half-naked he was. I wonder what he’ll belike.’

I smiled into the darkness. I neednot fear the charms of Jack Gower northe anger of his father if the man of thetrapeze act would just flirt a little withDandy for the two months that he waswith us – and then go.

He was prompt, anyway. He walkedinto the yard at six o’clock on a bitterlycold November morning, a small bagin his hand. He was dressed like aworking farmer, good clothes, made ofgood quality cloth, but plain andunfashionable. He had a greatcoat onand a plain felt hat pushed back. His

impressive moustaches curled outgloriously along his cheeks and madehim look braggish and good-humoured.William took one look at him andbolted into the house to tell Robert thathe had arrived. Dandy and I observedhim minutely from our loft window.

Robert came out at once andshook his hand like an equal. Williamwas told to take the little bag into thehouse.

‘He gets to sleep inside,’ Dandywhispered to me.

‘But where will he eat?’ Ireplied, guessing that it was the entryto the dining room which was thesignificant threshold.

Jack came out at once and wasintroduced to the visitor.

‘My son Jack,’ Robert said.‘Jack, this is Signor Julio.’

‘Foreign,’ whispered Dandy,awed.

‘Call me David,’ the man saidwith a beaming smile. ‘Signor Julio isjust a working name. We thought itsounded better.’

Robert turned so quickly that hecaught sight of us as we ducked backfrom the window.

‘Come down you two,’ he called.We clattered down the stairs.

Dandy pushed me before her. I waswearing my working breeches and awhite cut-down shirt which oncebelonged to Jack. I flushed as I sawhim look me over. But when I raisedmy eyes I saw that he was measuringmy strength, as I would look at a newcolt and wonder what it could do. Henodded at Robert as if he werepleased.

‘This is Meridon,’ Robert said.‘She’s horse-mad. But if you could gether up high I’d be obliged. She’s theone who doesn’t fancy it, and I’ve

given my word she won’t be forced.She’s scared of heights.’

‘There’s many like that,’ Davidsaid gently. ‘And sometimes they arethe best in the end.’ His voice had asinging lilt I’d heard only once before,from a Welsh horse-trader who soldDa the smallest toughest pony I hadever seen.

‘And this is Dandy, her sister,’Robert said.

Dandy walked slowly forward,her eyes on David’s face, a hint of asmile around her lips as she watchedhim scan her from the top of her darkhead to the glide of her feet.

‘They’ll pay just to see you,’David said to her, very softly.

Dandy beamed up at him.‘Right,’ Robert said briskly.

‘Let’s go to the barn. My lad said he’dset the rigging as you ordered but ifthere’s anything amiss we can set it

right at once. If it is all to your likingthen the girls and Jack are ready tostart the training at once.’

David nodded and Robert led theway through the stable gate into thegarden and then down to the paddockat the end of the garden. David lookedaround him as he followed Robert andI guessed he was thinking, as I haddone, that this was a man who hadcome very far with very little excepthis own hard work and brains.

Robert threw open the door of thebarn with something of a flourish andthe Welshman stepped inside andlooked all around. His shoulderssquared, his head came up. I watchedhim narrowly and saw him changefrom the new employee in the stableyard to a performer at home in hiselement.

‘It’s good,’ he said nodding. ‘Youunderstood my drawings then?’

‘I had them followed to theletter,’ Robert said proudly. ‘But thecarpenter had no idea what waswanted so part of it was done byguess.’ He took his pipe from hispocket and tamped down the tobacco.

‘Good guesses,’ David said. Hewent over to the rope-ladder andswung it gently. It quivered up itslength like a snake. He cast his eyeover the ring.

‘Good and level,’ he saidapprovingly.

He went over to the practicetrapeze and his walk was not like thatof an ordinary man. He was muscledso hard and he walked so tight that helooked as lean and as fit as a stable catready to pounce. I glanced at Dandy;she met my eyes with a wink.

David the Welshman made a littlespring with his hands above his headand I saw his knuckles turn white as he

gripped on the bar. For a second hehung there, motionless, and then hebrought his straight legs up before himand then beat them back with a smoothfluid force which sent the swing flyingforward. Three times he swung and thethird time he let go and spun himselfhead over heels towards us, andlanded smack on his feet, solid as arock, his blue eyes gleaming, his whitesmile bright.

‘No smoking in here,’ he saidpleasantly to Robert.

Robert had just got his pipe goingand took it from his mouth in surprise.

‘What?’ he demanded.‘No smoking,’ David replied. He

turned to Jack and Dandy and me. ‘Nosmoking in here, no eating, no drinking,no fooling around. Never play tricks oneach other in here. Never show off onthe ropes or the swings. Never bringyour temper in here, never come in

here courting. This place is where youare going to learn to be artistes. Thinkof it as a church, think of it as a royalcourt. But never think of it as anordinary place. It has to be magic.’

Robert went quietly outside andknocked the hot ember out of his pipeinto the wet grass. He said nothing. Iremembered the time he had told Jackand me that we were never never tofight inside the ring. Now the barn wasto be half sacred! I shrugged. It wasRobert’s money. If he wanted to builda barn where he was not allowed tosmoke his pipe and pay a man to givehim orders it was his affair. He sawmy eyes on him and gave me a ruefulsmile.

Dandy and Jack were spellbound.They were awed by the idea of thepractice barn becoming a special placewhere they would become specialpeople.

‘It is magic,’ David went on, thelilt in his voice more pronounced.‘Because here you are going to becomeartists – people who can make beauty,like poets or painters or musicians.’

He turned abruptly to Robert. ‘Isthere no heating?’ he asked.

Robert looked surprised. No,’ hesaid. ‘I know you had a stove on yourdrawing but I thought you’d all bewarm enough, working in here.’

David shook his head. ‘You can’tkeep the sinews of the body warm byworking them,’ he said. ‘They get coldand then they strain and even snap.Then you can’t work for weeks whilethey heal. It’s a false economy not toheat the building. I won’t work withouta stove.’

Robert nodded. ‘I was thinking ofhow we work with the horses,’ hesaid. ‘I always get hot enough workingwith them. But I’ll have one put in this

afternoon. Can you use the buildinguntil then?’

‘We can make a start,’ David saidgrandly. He looked at Dandy. ‘Do youhave some breeches like your sister?’he asked.

Dandy’s face was appalled. ‘I’mto wear a short skirt!’ she said.‘Robert promised! I’m not to be inbreeches!’

David turned to Robert, smiling.‘A short skirt?’ he asked.

Robert nodded. ‘In pink,’ he said.‘A little ruffled skirt with shinybuttons, and a loose matching shirt atthe top.’

‘She’d be safer with bare arms,’David said. ‘Easier to catch.’

Robert puffed on the cold stem ofhis pipe. ‘Bare arms and a naked neckwith a little stomacher top, and a skirtabove her knees?’ he asked. ‘They’dhave the Justices on me!’

David laughed. ‘You’d make yourfortune first!’ he said. ‘If the lasswould do it!’

Robert pointed the stem of hispipe at Dandy. ‘She’d do it stark nakedgiven half a chance, wouldn’t youDandy?’

Dandy lowered her black eyes sothat all one could see was the sweep ofdark eyelashes on her pink cheek. ‘Idon’t mind wearing a skirt and a littlebodice top,’ she said demurely.

‘Good,’ David said. ‘But youmust practise in breeches and a warmsmock with short sleeves.’

‘Go to the house, Dandy,’ Robertordered. ‘Mrs Greaves will fit youwith something from Jack or William.Make haste now.’ He looked at Jackand me wearing our riding breechesand our stable smocks. ‘These two allright?’

‘Yes,’ David said.

‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ RobertGower said reluctantly. ‘You’llremember our agreement is that theycan spring to the trapeze and swing outto Jack and back to their platforminside two months.’

‘I remember,’ David saidsteadily. ‘And you will remember myterms.’

‘Daily payments in coin,’ Robertconcurred. ‘If you work till eleven youcan all take breakfast in the kitchen.Then an afternoon session until dinnerin the kitchen at four.’

‘Then they’ll need to rest,’ Davidsaid firmly.

Robert nodded. ‘The girls canmake their costumes then,’ he said.‘But tomorrow I promised Merry shecould come to the horse fair with me.’

David nodded and waited forRobert to go out and close the barndoor behind him. Then he looked at

Jack and me.‘Better get to work,’ he said.

7In my apprehensive fright of the ropesand the swings and the high vaultingroof of the barn I had been certain thatDavid would insist we should climbright to the top on that very firstmorning. But he did not. Even beforeDandy reappeared from the houselooking sulky and beautiful in a pair ofbaggy homespun breeches belonging toWilliam and a linen shirt of Jack’s,David had ordered Jack and me to trotand then sprint around the barn on fiveincreasingly fast circuits.

Then he had us runningbackwards and dancing on the spotuntil our faces were flushed and wewere all panting. Dandy’s carefulcoronet came down and she twisted itcarelessly into a bun on the nape of herneck. But the three of us were as fit asworking ponies. Jack and I had been

training hard every night on thebareback act and were as quick and assupple as greyhounds. And for all thatDandy would sneak off to doze in thesun at every opportunity, she had beenraised as a travelling child and to walktwenty or thirty miles in a day was nohardship to her – and to swim races atthe end of it.

‘You’ll do,’ David himself waspuffing as we dropped to the woodshavings for our first rest. ‘I was afraidthat you would all be plump and lazy,but you are all well muscled andyou’ve got plenty of wind.’

‘When do we go up?’ Dandydemanded.

‘Any time you like,’ he saidcarelessly. ‘I’ll check the rigging whileyou go to your breakfast and then youcan go up and down whenever youwish. I’ll show you how to drop intothe net, and once you know that you can

come to no harm.’‘I don’t know I can,’ I said. I was

keeping my voice steady but the flutterof fear in my belly kept snatching mybreath away.

David smiled at me, his enormousmoustaches still curly on his sweatycheeks.

‘I know you are afraid,’ he saidreassuringly. ‘I understand that. I havebeen afraid too. You will work at thespeed you wish. You’ve the build forit, and the body, I should think. But thisis something you can only do if yourheart is in it. I’d not be party to forcinganyone up a ladder.’

‘How did you come into it?’ Jackasked.

David smiled. ‘It’s a long story,’he said lazily. ‘The pressgang snatchedme from my home at Newport and Iwas pressed on board a man-of-war –big it was, frightening for a country

lad. I jumped ship as soon as I could,Portugal actually, Lisbon, and livedrough for a while. Then I joined atravelling show of contortionists. Ididn’t have the body for that, but theyput me at the bottom of the heap and Icould hold the rest of them up. Then Isaw an act up high on Roman Ringsand I set my heart on it.’ He twirled hismoustache. ‘It made me,’ he saidsimply. ‘I apprenticed myself to theman I saw doing it, and he taught me.Then we used a trapeze instead of therings which meant we could swing outand not just hang like other performerswere doing. First I was the only one.But then his young son started to learnand we found he could swing out andreach for me, and I could catch him andswing him back to his trapeze. It was agood act.’

He paused. I saw his eyes narrowwith grief at some memory. I felt my

belly clench with fear.‘What happened?’ I asked.‘The lad fell,’ he said simply. ‘He

fell and broke his neck and died.’Nobody said anything for a

moment.‘Merry, you’re green,’ Jack said.

‘Are you going to be sick?’I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Go

on, David. What did you do then?’‘I came back to this country and

found a partner to help me with therigging and to stand the other side andreach out and catch my feet as I swungover. But your father is the man withthe ideas! I’d never have thought ofputting lasses up high. The people willlove it.’

‘He’ll be paying you a good sum,’Dandy said acutely. ‘You’re the onlyman in England who can swing on atrapeze. Yet you’re teaching us. Andyou say yourself that girls will pull a

crowd.’David beamed. ‘I’m getting old,’

he said frankly. ‘I get tired after twoshows and my partner is getting slow.I’ve no savings, nothing at all. Robertis paying me a king’s ransom to teachyou three something that I’ll have nouse for in two seasons’ time. And he’llpay me more yet – to refuse to teachother people the tricks I’ve taught you.’He grinned at Jack and moistened hisfingers with his tongue so that he couldcurl the ends of his moustache. ‘That’sno secret,’ he said. ‘Your father knowsit as well as I do.’

Jack nodded. ‘How long do youlast on the trapeze?’ he asked.

‘Till you’re twenty-five or so,’David said consideringly. ‘Dependshow fit you are to start with. I’ve beenhungry and ill most of my life. I don’texpect to be working much after thirty.’

‘It’s a hard life,’ I said looking at

him. His skin was flushed pink and thewonderful moustaches were curly,ebullient. But the bags under his eyeswere deep and shadowed.

‘Isn’t every trade hard?’ he askedme; and I nodded, hearing an echo ofmy own half-starved worldliness.

‘Now!’ he said, suddenly active.‘To work.’

He set Jack to exercises, fivehundred paces of running on the spotand then lying flat and pushing up anddown using his arms. He gave Dandy ametal bar and ordered her to run on thespot holding it before her, and thenabove her head, and then push it up anddown as she ran. But me he tookaround the waist and lifted me up sothat my fingers closed around thesmooth hardness of the low-slungtrapeze bar.

I hung like a confused bat whilehe stepped back and called me to raise

my legs and beat them down hard. I didso, and the swing rocked forward.

‘Keep your legs together! Let theswing take you back!’ he called. ‘Nowat the back-up, at the return of theswing stick your arse out, force yourlegs down together! Beat!’

Again and again he called thetiming for me, and the barn faded, andJack and Dandy’s sweating facesfaded, and my fear faded until therewas nothing but a voice saying, ‘Now!’and my irritatingly slow body takingtoo long to beat down with the legs sothat I swung forward, arched like theprow of a boat.

I could not get my legs to go downfast enough, smoothly enough. Eachtime he said, ‘Now!’ I was consciousof being too late, too slow. I had neverfelt so fat and awkward and flusteredin my life. Then when the swing boreme forward I could not bring up my

legs high enough to give me the spaceto beat back. I worked till I was neartears with frustration and with alonging sense that I could do it – that Iwas only a few lazy muscles awayfrom doing it right – when he saidgently: ‘That’s enough Meridon. Havea rest now.’

I shook my head then and theswing drifted to a standstill and I foundmy arms were aching with fatigue. Idropped down off the swing andcrumpled to sit where I landed. Dandyand Jack were watching me and Davidhad a quizzical smile.

‘You like it,’ he said certainly.I nodded ruefully. ‘I feel so close

to getting it right!’ I said angrily. ‘I justcan’t get to the beat at the right time.’

‘I’ll try,’ Jack offered and pickedhimself up off the floor. His hands andwrists were plastered with woodshavings and he brushed them off. I

moved aside and squatted on myhaunches to watch him. My arms andshoulders were tingling with the strainand my hard-worked belly wasquivering. My hands and legs wereshaking but it was a tremblyexhilaration from exhausted musclesand a singing delight in stretching mybody to a new skill.

I had been angry with myself formissing the beat of it, but I was glad tosee that I was better than Jack. It hadirritated me for months, the way hecould stand so easily on Bluebell’sback while I was still dependent on hisshoulder or on the strap for balance.David called the beat for him, andcounted it. But Jack was nowhere near.He dropped off the trapeze red-facedand cursing under his voice. One levellook from David’s blue eyes hushedhim but he stalked off to where a barwas set into the wall and started

hauling himself up and down on it inirritable silence.

Dandy swayed forward. ‘Myturn?’ she asked David.

‘Your turn,’ he said and put hisbig hands on her small waist to lift herup.

She was better than Jack. She hada sense of rhythm as natural as dancingand she could sway forward and backwith the trapeze rather than strugglingagainst it. Her upraised arms strainedthe shirt over her breasts and I watchedDavid’s eyes to see if he was lookingat her. He was not. He was watchingthe beat of her legs as she tried to workthe trapeze forward and back. I gave alittle secret smile. I had nothing to fearfrom David. He might notice Dandy’slooks, but he was not a man to go madfor her. He would not forget that he hada job of work to do here and a smallfortune to make if he did it right.

We worked like that all the earlymorning until William came down tosummon us for breakfast in the kitchen.We ate as if we were half starved, MrsGreaves bringing tray after tray offresh-baked rolls to the table withhome-made creamy butter, ham, beef,and cheese. Jack and David drankgreat pints of ale while Dandy and Idrank water. Even then, I could notresist snatching an apple from the bowlas I passed the Welsh dresser on ourway out again.

David declared an hour’s restwhile he checked the rigging, andDandy went to raid Jack’s wardrobefor something more becoming while heand I went to check the ponies. Afterwe had seen they were well, andwatered them and humped a hay netdown to them, the church clock wasringing the hour and we were due backin the barn.

Already there was a blacksmithworking on a second-hand stove in thecorner, rigging a chimney through a gapin the wall. I noted the speed withwhich David’s demands were met; butI said nothing.

Dandy and Jack were wild to goup the shaking ladder to the platform atthe top and David said that they mightclimb up. He showed Jack how to holdthe ladder while Dandy climbed, bystepping into the bottom rung andweighting it for her, and then he held itsteady while Jack went up too. I sat inthe corner of the barn like an unfledgedsquab and peered at them through thecracks in my fingers. I did not daremove my hands from covering my face.David, courteously, paid no attentionto me at all.

He showed them how to climb theladder, toe-heel, toe-heel, all up theshaking length of it. And he laughed

gently when Dandy called down thatshe was out of breath just fromclimbing the twenty-five steps.

‘You must practise then!’ he said.‘If you are going to be MademoiselleDandy, the Angel without Wings, thenyou must seem to soar up the ladder.Not waddle up like a pinioned duck!’

He went up the ladder behindJack, with no one to hold it still forhim, and he looked as if he wererunning upstairs he took it so swiftly. Ipeeped through my fingers at them,sickeningly high, and I caught parts ofhis low-voiced instructions. He wasthoughtful for me, because he calleddown to warn me.

‘Meridon, I am teaching them tofall into the net, so you will see us allfalling, but we shall all be quite safe.’

I uncovered my face at that so thathe could see me nod to show Iunderstood. I even watched as he took

hold of the trapeze firmly in his handsand stepped off the little platform,swinging gently out, letting its swingdie down of its own accord until it wasstill – then he dropped from it. As hefell he turned his legs up so that helanded on his back and on hisshoulders. He sprang to his feet andwalked with an odd, bouncy, gracelessstride to the edge of the net and vaulteddown.

‘Like that!’ he called. ‘Keep yourlegs up, your chin tucked on your chestand you cannot be hurt.’

Jack’s distant white face noddedand he reached out a shepherd’s crookand hooked the swinging trapeze anddrew it towards him. I watched as hetook a grip of it and then I had to shutmy eyes as I saw his expression hardenand knew he was nerving himself tostep off the platform clinging to it.

The twang of the net told me he

had landed safely, and his yell ofelation up to Dandy. ‘Come on, Dandy!It is fine! It is a wonderful feeling.Better than riding even! And the fall isscary, but it is so good to feel yourselfsafe! Come on, Dandy!’

That broke something in me.‘Don’t make her! Don’t make her!’ Iscreamed and whirled up from thewood shavings on the floor of the barn.Jack had sprung down from the net andturned and fairly caught me as Ilaunched myself at him. ‘Youshouldn’t! You shouldn’t!’ I said. I wasbeyond myself, not knowing what Iwas saying. My hands were in fists andI went to thump Jack hard in the face,but he parried the blow. ‘Don’t makeher!’ I shrieked again. ‘It ain’t safe!’

Jack could not manage me, butDavid, a clear foot taller than him andmuch heavier, grabbed my arms andhugged me tight, pinning my arms to my

sides.‘It is safe,’ he said, his voice a

low rumble in my ear. ‘I would not letyour sister come to harm. I would notlet her up there if I thought her indanger. I want her to do well, and sodo you. She wants to learn this trick.You must not be selfish and stop hergoing her way.’

‘It’s not safe for her,’ I said. Iwas weeping in the hopeless effort tomake him understand me. ‘It’s not safefor her! I know! I am a gypsy! I havethe Sight! It’s not safe for her!’

He turned me in his arms, turnedme to face him and scanned my franticwet face. ‘What is safe for her?’ heasked gently. ‘This is the way shechooses now. She could chooseworse.’

That made me pause. If Dandycould delight in the applause fromhundreds of people and earn a fair

share of the profits then she would notgo running after strangers and let themput their hands up her ragged skirts fora penny. If I knew Dandy, she wouldlearn airs and graces as soon as shebecame Mademoiselle Dandy. I couldtrust Robert Gower to keep hisinvestment away from men who wouldhurt her. I could trust him not to leaveher on the road once she was a trainedact in her own right and any showmanin the world would give his eye-teethfor her.

I gave a little sob. ‘She’ll fall,’ Isaid uncertainly. ‘I’m sure she will.’

His grip tightened on me. ‘Youcan will her into falling,’ he saidominously. ‘If you carry on like thisyou will have wished her into a fall.You are frightening yourself and youare frightening her. You are robbingboth of you of the confidence you need,and you are wrecking my training. And

you’re a fool if you do that, Meridon.You and I both know that RobertGower won’t keep her if she’s idle.’

I shrugged off David’s restrainingarms and looked up into his face. Iknew my eyes were blank withdespair. ‘We keep on travelling,’ Isaid. ‘But there is nowhere to go.’

His blue eyes were sympathetic.‘You’re no gypsy,’ he said. ‘You wanta home.’

I nodded, the familiar longing forWide rising up inside me so stronglythat I thought it would choke me likeswallowed grief. ‘I want to take Dandysomewhere safe,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘You keep thepennies,’ he said softly. ‘She’ll earnwell with this act when I’ve finishedtraining her. You watch how RobertGower did it. You keep the penniesand the gold and within a season ortwo you could buy your own home for

her. Then you can take her away.’I nodded. Dandy was still waiting

on the little board, I could see itswaying in the air currents at the roofof the barn.

‘She’ll need to hear you,’ he said.‘You’d better tell her you’re all right.’

‘Very well,’ I said, surly. ‘I’ll tellher.’

Dandy’s pale distant face peeredat me from the side of the platform,looking down to where I stood far, farbelow her.

‘All right, Dandy,’ I called up.‘I’m all right now. I’m sorry. You jumpif you want to. Or come down theladder if that’s all you want to dotoday. You’ll never hear me try to stopyou again.’

She nodded and I saw her hookthe trapeze towards her.

‘I’ve never seen you cry before,’Jack said wonderingly. He put a hand

up to touch the tears on my cheek but Ijerked my head away.

It didn’t stop him. ‘I didn’t thinkyou were girl enough for tears,Meridon,’ he said. His tone was as softas a lover.

I shot him a hard sideways look.‘She’ll never hear me call her downagain,’ I promised. ‘And you’ll neversee me cry again. There’s only oneperson in the whole world I care for,Jack Gower, and that’s my sisterDandy. If she wants to swing on thetrapeze then she shall. She won’t hearme scream. And you’ll never see mecry again.’

I turned my shoulder on him andlooked up to the roof of the barn. Icould not see Dandy’s face. I did notknow what she was thinking as shestood there on that rickety littleplatform and looked down at us: at thefretwork of the brown rope catch-net,

the white wood shaving floor, and ourthree pale faces staring up at her. Thenshe snatched the bar with a suddendecision and swooped out on it like aswallow. At precisely the centre of itsreturn, at the very best and safestplace, she let go and dropped like astone, falling on to her back into thevery plumb centre of the net.

There were hugs all around atthat, but I stood aloof, even fendingDandy off when she turned to me withher face alight with her triumph.

‘Back to work,’ David called,and set us to exercises again.

Jack was ordered to hook his legsover the bar on the wall and practisetrying to haul his body up so that it wasparallel with the ground. I workedbeside him, hanging from my arms andpulling myself up so that my eyes werelevel with the bar and then droppingdown again in one fluid motion.

Dandy he lifted up to the trapezeand set her to learning the time to beatagain.

Then we all took a short rest andswapped around until dinner-time.

Robert Gower came into thekitchen when we were at our dinnerand took Mrs Greaves’s seat at thehead of the table, a large glass of portin his hand.

‘Would you care for one of these,David?’ he asked, gesturing to hisglass.

‘I’ll take one tonight gladly,’David replied. ‘But I never drinkwhile I’m working. It’s a rule youcould set these young people, too. Itmakes you a little bit slow and a littlebit heavy. But the worst thing it does ismake you think that you are better thanyou are!’

Robert laughed. ‘There’s manythat find that is its greatest advantage!’

he observed.David smiled back. ‘Aye, but I’d

not trust a man like that to catch me if Iwere working without a net beneathme,’ he said.

Robert sprang on that. ‘You usecushions in your other show,’ he said.‘Why did you suggest we try a nethere?’

David nodded. ‘For your ownconvenience mostly,’ he said.‘Cushions are fine for a show which ishoused in one place. But enoughcushions to make a soft landing wouldtake a wagon to themselves. I’ve seena net used in a show in France and Ithought it would be the very thing foryou. If they were using the rings, andjust hanging, not letting go at all, youcould perhaps take the risk. Butswinging out and catching, you needonly be a little way out, half an inch,and you’re falling.’

The table wavered beneath myeyes. I took my lower lip in a firm gripbetween my teeth. Dandy’s kneepressed against mine reassuringly.

‘I’ve worked without cushions ornets,’ David said. ‘I don’t mind it formyself. But the lad I was working withdied when he fell without a net underhim. He’d be alive today if his dahadn’t been trying to draw a biggercrowd with the better spectacle.’ Helooked shrewdly at Robert Gower.‘It’s a false economy,’ he said sweetly.‘You get a massive crowd for the nextthree or four nights after a trapezeartist has fallen. They all come for theencore, you see. But then you’re onedown for the rest of the tour. And goodtrapeze artists don’t train quick anddon’t come cheap. You’re better offwith a catch-net under them.’

‘I agree,’ Robert Gower saidbriefly. I took a deep breath and felt

the room steady again.‘Ready to get back to work?’

David asked the three of us. Wenodded with less enthusiasm than atbreakfast. I was already feeling thefamiliar ache of overworked musclesalong my back and my arms. I waswiry and lean but not all my humpingof hay bales had prepared me for thework of pulling myself up and downfrom a bar using my arm musclesalone.

‘My belly aches as if I’ve got theflux,’ Dandy said. I saw Robertexchange a quick smile with David.Dandy’s coquetry had lasted only aslong as her energy.

‘That’s the muscles,’ David saidagreeably. ‘You’re all loose andflabby, Dandy! By the time you’reflying I shall be able to cut a loaf ofbread on your belly and you’ll be ashard as a board.’

Dandy flicked her hair back andshot him a look from under her blackeyelashes. ‘I don’t think I’ll be invitingyou to dine off of me,’ she said, hervoice warm with a contradictorypromise.

‘Any aches, Jack?’ Robert asked.‘Only all over,’ Jack said with a

wry smile. ‘It’s tomorrow I’ll stiffenup, I won’t want to work then.’

‘Merry won’t have to worktomorrow,’ Dandy said enviously.‘Why’re you taking her to the horsefair, Robert? Can’t we all go?’

‘She’ll be working at the horsefair,’ Robert said firmly. ‘Not flittingaround and chasing young men. I wanther to watch the horses outside the ringfor me and keep her ears open, so Iknow what I’m bidding for. Merry canjudge horseflesh better than either ofyou – actually better than me,’ he saidhonestly. ‘And she’s such a little slip

of a thing no one will care what theysay in front of her. She’ll be my eyesand ears tomorrow.’

I beamed. I was only fifteen andas susceptible to flattery in some areasas anyone else.

‘But mind you wear your dressand apron,’ he said firmly. ‘And getDandy to pin your cap over thosedratted short curls of yours. Youlooked like a tatterdemalion in churchyesterday. I want you lookingrespectable.’

‘Yes, Robert,’ I said demurely,too proud of my status as an expert onhorseflesh to resent the slight to mylooks.

‘And be ready to leave at seven,’he said firmly. ‘We’ll breakfast as wego.’

8We went to Salisbury horse fair insome style. Robert Gower had a trimlittle whisky cart painted bright redwith yellow wheels and for the firstfew miles he let me drive Bluebell,who arched her neck and trotted well,enjoying the lightness of the carriageafter the weight of the wagon. MrsGreaves had packed a substantialbreakfast and Robert ate his share withrelish and pointed out landmarks to meas we trotted through the little towns.

‘See the colour of the earth?’ heasked. ‘That very pale mud?’

I nodded. There was somethingabout the white creaminess of it whichmade me think of Wide. I felt as ifWide could be very near here.

‘Chalk,’ he said. ‘Best earth forgrazing and wheat in the world.’

I nodded. All around us was the

great rounded back of the plain,patched with fields where the turnedearth showed pale, and other greatsweeps where the grass was resting.

‘Wonderful country,’ he saidsoftly. ‘I shall build myself a greathouse here one day, Meridon, you waitand see. I shall choose a site near theriver for the shelter and the fishing, andI shall buy up all the land I can see inevery direction.’

‘What about the show?’ I asked.He shot me a smiling sideways

glance and bit deep into the crusty meatroll.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I’d always gowith it. I’m a showman born and bred.But I’d like to have a big place behindme. I’d like to have a place so big itbore my name. Robert Gower, ofGower’s Hall,’ he said softly. ‘Pity itcan’t be of Gowershire; but I supposethat’s not possible.’

I stifled a giggle. ‘No,’ I saidcertainly. ‘I shouldn’t think it is.’

‘That’ll give my boy a start inlife,’ he said with quiet satisfaction.‘I’ve always thought he’d marry a girlwho had her own act, maybe her ownanimals. But if he chose to settle with alass with a good dowry of land he’dnot find me holding out for the show.’

‘All his training would have beendone for nothing then,’ I observed.

‘Nay,’ Robert contradicted me.‘You never learn a skill for nothing.He’d be the finest huntsman in thecounty with the training he’s had on myhorses. And he’ll be quicker wittedthan all of the lords and ladies.’

‘What about Dandy and me?’ Iasked.

Robert’s smile faded. ‘You’ll doall right,’ he said not unkindly. ‘Assoon as your sister sees a lad shefancies she’ll give up the show, I know

that. But with you keeping your eye onher and me watching the gate, shewon’t throw it away for nothing. If shegoes into some rich man’s keeping thenshe’ll make a fortune there. If shemarries then she’ll be kept too. Samething, either way.’

I said nothing but I was coldinside at the thought of Dandy as a richman’s whore.

‘But you’re a puzzle, littleMerry,’ Robert said gently. ‘While youwork well I’ll always have a place foryou with my horses. But your heart isonly half in the show. You want ahome but I’m damned if I can see howyou’ll get one without a man to buy itfor you.’

I shook my head. Robert Gower’sgood-natured speculation about myfuture need for a man set my teeth onedge.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘I’ll take the

reins, you have your breakfast. And forthe Lord’s sake pull your bonnetstraight. Your curls are all blown outfrom under it.’

I handed him the reins andcrammed the hat on my head, tying itmore securely. It was an old onebelonging to Mrs Greaves which shehad offered me last night together witha demure brown cape. They were bothtoo big for me and I looked like a littlegirl dressing up in a game to look likea farmer’s wife. But the skirts were theworst. Every time I took a stride Iseemed to get my legs tangled up in theyards of fabric. Dandy had hooted withlaughter and warned me that I hadbetter take little ladylike steps at thefair or I would fall flat on my face.

Robert kept the reins as wetrotted into Salisbury and droveaccurately to the Black Bull near thehorse market. The streets were full of

people and everywhere the warmsmell of hot horseflesh as string afterstring of every sort of animal trotteddown the street. The pavements werecrowded with pie-sellers and themuffin men rang their bells loudly.Flower girls were selling heather andbright-berried sprigs of holly, andeverywhere I looked there were matchgirls and boot boys, porters andurchins, people selling horses andpeople looking at them, and on onecorner a gypsy telling fortunes.

I glanced across at her. I wasalways drawn to my own people,though I could remember next tonothing of our language and our laws.But I had a dim memory of mymother’s dark-framed face and hersmile, and her strange-tonguedlullabies.

The Rom woman was sellingclothes pegs and carved wood flowers

and fairings out of a big withy basket ather side. Under her shawl she had alittle mug and a well-wrapped bottle,and I noticed many men stop and giveher a penny for a swig from the mug.She’d be selling smuggled rum or gin, Iguessed. Strong spirits whichrespectable publicans would not touchbut which would keep the cold out on araw day such as this. She felt my eyeson her and she turned and staredfrankly at me.

I would normally have drawnback to Robert Gower’s side at such achallenging stare. But I did not, I took acouple of steps forward. In my pocket Ihad six pennies dedicated until thismoment for ribbons for Dandy andsweetmeats for myself, but I steppedforward and held out one of them toher.

‘Will you tell my fortune?’ Iasked her.

She bent her head in its dirty redheadscarf over my palm.

‘Give me another penny,’ shestarted. ‘I can’t see clear.’

‘Tell me a misty fortune for apenny, then,’ I said shrewdly. But shesuddenly pushed my hand away and putmy penny back into it.

‘I can’t tell your fortune,’ she saidto me quickly. ‘I can’t tell you nothingyou don’t already know.’

‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘Because I’mRomany too?’

She looked up at that and shelaughed, a high old-woman’s clatter.‘You’re no Rom,’ she said. ‘You’re agorgio through and through. You’re alandowner, a daughter of a line ofsquires and you’re longing for theirland all the time, aren’t you?’

‘What?’ I exclaimed. It was as ifshe had peeped into my head and seenthe childhood dreams which I had

never told anyone except Dandy.Her face creased with mocking

laughter. ‘They’ll think highly of you!’she said. ‘You with your gypsy sisterand your dirty face and your commonways! You’ll have to break your backand break your soul and break yourheart if you want to become a lady andrule the land like them.’

‘But will I get it?’ I demanded inan urgent whisper, one look over myshoulder to see that Robert had notheard. She was pulling herself to herfeet and picking her basket up, movingaway from me into the crowd. I put arestraining hand on her shawl. ‘Will Ibecome a lady? Will I find my home?’

She turned, and her face whichhad been hard was no longer laughingbut gentle. ‘They’ll bring you safelyhome to their land,’ she said. ‘In theend, I think they will. Your true ma,and her ma especially. It’s their hunger

you feel, silly little chavvy. They’llbring you safe home. And you’llbelong to their land in a way theynever could.’

‘And Dandy?’ I asked urgently.But the fringe of her shawl slippedthrough my fingers and was gone.

I waited for a moment, lookinginto the crowd. Then I saw her, bow-backed, slipping her way through toanother corner of the square, spreadingher cloth, arranging her basket,hunkering down on the cold stone. Ilooked around for Robert, afraid I hadlost him in the crowd, but he was onlya few yards away, talking to a red-faced man with his hat pushed far backon his forehead.

‘A killer,’ the man saidemphatically. ‘That horse is a killer. Ibought him from you in good faith andhe near killed me. He’s untrainable.’

‘No such thing as an untrainable

horse,’ Robert said slowly. He wastalking very softly, keeping his temperwell in check. ‘And I sold him to youin good faith. I told you I had boughthim for my son to ride in the show butthat we could not manage him, norwaste the time training him. We weretravelling through the town as you wellknew, six months ago, and I warnedyou I would not be here to take himback if you misliked him. But you wereconfident you could handle him andyou paid a paltry price for him becauseI warned you fair and square that hehad been badly broken and handledworse before he ever came to me.’

‘I can’t give him away!’ the red-faced man broke in, nearly dancing onthe spot in his impatience. ‘I broughthim here today to sell as a riding horseand he put one buyer on his back in themud and damn near broke his arm.Now they just laugh at me. You’ll

return me my money, Mr Gower, or I’lltell everyone that you’re not to betrusted as a horse-dealer.’

That caught Robert on the raw,and I smiled grimly at the thought ofhim caring for his honour when he wastrading in horse flesh, rememberingDa’s shady flittings from fair to fair.

‘I’ll see the animal,’ Robert saidlevelly. ‘But I make no promises. Icare for my good name and for thereputation of my horses and I won’thave it bandied around the market, MrSmythies.’

Mr Smythies looked meanly atRobert. ‘You’ll return my money plusinterest or you’ll never sell a horseagain within twenty miles of thistown,’ he said.

The two of them turned. Ifollowed Robert through the crowd,keeping my eye on his broad back, butnoticing how even in all this press of

people there was a way cleared for thetwo of them. People fell back to makea way for Mr Smythies, he wasevidently a Someone. Robert mightfind he had to buy the horse back, and Ihad the familiar irritated dread that itwould be me who would have to readythe brute for the next fair and the nextfool.

I was prepared to hate it on sight.I knew exactly how it would look, Ihad seen enough ill-treated horses inmy time. Its eyes would be rimmedwith white all the time, its coat foreverdamp with a fearful sweat. If you wentto its head he would toss and sidle, anupraised hand would make it rear andscream. If you went anywhere near itstail it would lash out and if you got onits back it would try to get down androll on you to break every bone in yourbody. If you fell and stayed down itwould paw at you with wicked hooves.

The only way Da and I evercoped with really bad horses was tocut the inside of their leg and dribbleas big a dose of Black Drop into thevein as we dared, sell the horse atonce before the drug wore off, andclear out of town as fast as we could. Imade a grimace of distaste at thethought of working on a wicked-tempered horse again and caught atRobert’s coat-tails as he rounded acorner and went into a stable yard.

In the far corner, with his headover a loose box, was the mostbeautiful horse I had ever seen.

He was a deep shining grey witha mane as white as linen and eyes asblack as ivy berries. He looked acrossthe yard at me and all but whickered inpleasure to see me.

‘Sea,’ I said softly, as if I knewthat was his name. Or as if it weresomehow half of his name, the first half

of a name like Sea Fret, or Sea Mist,or Sea Fern.

I sidled closer to Robert and gavehis coat-tail a gentle tug. Mr Smythieswas still complaining at his side butRobert’s tip of the head in my directiontold me that he was listening to mywhisper.

‘I can ride him,’ I said, my voicealmost inaudible above the risingcrescendo of Mr Smythies’ complaints.

Robert shot a quick look at me.‘Sure?’ he said.I nodded. ‘I’ll ride him if you’ll

give him to me for my very own,’ Isaid.

I could feel Robert stiffen at thethreatened loss of cash.

Mr Smythies on his other side hadbeen joined by two friends. One ofthem, flushed with ale, had seen thebuyer thrown from the horse and wastelling a third man who had now joined

them how dangerous the horse was.‘Should be shot,’ he said. ‘Shot

like a dog. ‘Sdangerous.’I sensed Robert’s rising

discomfort and temper, and I nippedhis arm through the thick sleeve of hisjacket.

‘A wager,’ I said quietly. ‘You’llwin your money back, and more.’

Robert shook his head. ‘He’s adevil horse,’ he said quietly. ‘I soldhim as a problem. You’d not stay on.’

Mr Smythies was reaching theclimax of his tirade. ‘I have someinfluence in this town,’ he boomed.‘Aye, and I’m not unknown even inyour village, I think. There’s many whowould be upset to know that you triedto trick me into buying a horse whichno one could ride. A dangerous horse,that has this very day broken a man’sarm. Could have broken his back!’

‘’Sdangerous,’ his friend

corroborated owlishly. ‘Should beshot.’

Robert reached for his purse tieddeep in his jacket pocket. I grabbed hishand.

‘I can,’ I hissed. ‘If I come off,I’ll work for you all year for nothing.’

Robert hesitated.‘Dandy too,’ I offered recklessly.

‘I really can.’Robert wavered for a moment,

and truly, so did I. If I lost a bet forhim he would not beat me as Da wouldhave done under those circumstances.Robert’s anger would be infinitelyworse. I remembered his wife weepingand left on the road as the wagon drewunhurriedly away from her and felt abolt of sudden doubt. But then I lookedagain across the yard and saw thehorse which could not possibly hurtme. I knew it. It was my horse. Andthis was the only way I could earn it.

‘The horse is not so bad,’ RobertGower said, his voice as loud as MrSmythies’. Some men walking past thealley paused and turned in to see whatwas happening in the little yard. ‘I soldhim with a warning that he had beenbadly broke and badly ridden beforehe came to me. But he was not a killerwhen he left me, and he is not onenow.’

Mr Smythies looked ready toexplode, his colour had flusheddeeper, his hat pushed back evenfurther on his head had left astrawberry stripe above his poppingeyes.

‘Why, my little housemaid herecould get on his back,’ Robert saidbeguilingly, drawing me forward. ‘Sherides a little with my show, she goesaround crying it up, you know. Butshe’s just a little lass. She could stayon him, I’d put money on it.’

‘A wager!’ shouted someone fromthe back and at once the call was takenup. Mr Smythies was torn between abeam of pride at being at the centre ofattraction and confusion that Robertseemed to have clouded the issue.

Robert looked thoughtful. ‘I didnot mean to say that she could ride thehorse here and now,’ he saidhesitantly. ‘I was just saying the horseis not so black as he’s been painted.’

‘Yes you did,’ Mr Smythies said,back into his stride as a bully. ‘Yousaid (and my friends here will bearwitness) that you’d put money on yourlittle housemaid staying on his back.Well, fifty pounds says she cannot getnear him, Mr Robert Gower. If youcan’t put that up you’d better give memy money back and a handsomeapology with it.’

Robert glanced around; it wasbeautifully done. ‘All right,’ he said

unwillingly. ‘Fifty pounds it is. But sheonly has to sit on him.’

‘Keep her seat for three minutesby my watch,’ said the drunken man,sobering suddenly at the prospect ofsome sport.

‘And not here,’ Robert saidsuddenly, looking at the cobbled yard.‘In the parish field in ten minutes.’

‘Right!’ roared Smythies.‘Anyone else want to bet on ahousemaid who can stay on a horsewhich has thrown me? Anyone elsewith money burning a hole in hispocket? I’ll take bets at two to one! I’lltake bets at five to one!’ He suddenlyreached around Robert and grabbed myarm and pulled me forward. I made ahalf-curtsey and kept my face down.Da and I had sold several pups in thistown at one time or another and Ididn’t want to be recognized. ‘Damn it,I’ll take ten to one!’ Mr Smythies

yelled.‘I’ll put a guinea on the wench!’

someone from the back shouted. ‘Shelooks as if she’d keep her legstogether! I’ll risk a guinea on her!’

I stepped back in apparentconfusion and tugged at Robert’ssleeve again. He bent down to me withan expression of benign concern.

‘Start a book, for God’s sake,’ Ihissed in an undertone. ‘And findsomeone to put money on me for you.’

‘No bets now,’ Robert saidauthoritatively. ‘We’ll start a properbook down at the field. Come on!Who’ll bring the horse?’

I watched as a stable lad ran totack the horse up. It was a man’ssaddle, and a whole tanner’s shop ofleather to keep the poor beast fromthrowing his head up or pulling toohard, a martingale to keep him frombolting. Everything but a safety strap to

bind the rider into the saddle. I slippedacross the yard unnoticed.

‘My master don’t want that stuffon him,’ I said pleasantly to the lad.‘He told me to tell you, just the saddleand the bridle with a simple bit. Notthe rest of that stuff.’

The lad thought to argue, but Iwas gone before he could query theorder. I followed the crowd down tothe field. We picked up a good coupleof dozen on the way. I saw Robert hadgot hold of a small weasel-faced manwho was passing among the noisierfamers and placing bets with them. Theodds were getting better all the time. Itook great care to walk in Robert’sshadow in mincing steps and keep myeyes on the backs of his heels.

In the field they formed into anexpectant circle. The horse was leddown the path from the inn, he jinked atthe leaves rustling on the ground at his

feet. The little lad at his head led himat arm’s length, wary of a sudden nip.The horse’s ears were laid back hardand his face was bony and ugly. Hiseyes were white all around.

‘Damn,’ Robert said softly. Thehorse was worse than he remembered.

I looked at him as he cametowards me under the blue wintry skyand I smiled as if I was warmedthrough at the very sight of him. I knewhim. I felt as if I had known him all mylife. As if he had been my horse beforeI was born, as if he had been mymother’s horse, and her mother’s too.As if he and I had ridden on Wide eversince the world had been made.

‘Sea,’ I said softly, and steppedinto the middle of the circle to wait forhim.

I had forgotten my bonnet and heshied and wheeled as the ribbons werewhipped by the wind. There was a

chorus of ‘Look out! Mind his backlegs!’ as he backed suddenly and threedrunk young bloods swayed backwardsout of harm’s way. But then I pulled mybonnet and my cap off too and felt thecold wind in my hair and on my face.

I stepped forward. Robert at myside took the reins from the stable ladand waited to help me up. There was acontinual mutter of men placing betsbehind me and some part of my mindknew that I was going to make Robert asmall fortune this day, but the mostimportant thing was that I was going towin Sea for my very own horse.

I went to his head; he sidledanxiously. Robert was holding thereins too tight, and he could sense thetension among all the people. Robertturned, waiting to throw me into thesaddle; but I took a moment to standabsolutely still.

Sea dropped his head, Robert

loosened his hard grip on the reins.Sea dropped his head towards me andput his long beautiful face towards meand snuffed powerfully at the front ofmy dress, at my face, and at my curlyhair. Behind us there was a suddenrush of talk as the odds shortened andsome people tried to recall bets whichhad not been recorded. I hardly heardthem. I put a gentle hand up to his neckand touched him on that soft piece ofwarm skin behind the right ear andrubbed him as gentle as a mare herfoal. He blew out, as if he had lost hisfear and his anger and his rememberedpain at that one touch and then I liftedmy eyes to Robert and smiled at himand said, ‘I’ll go up now.’

He was too much of a showman togawp at me, but his eyes weredisbelieving as he nodded and claspedhis hands together for my boot andthrew me up, astride, into the saddle.

‘Stand aside,’ I said swiftly. Itwas as I had feared. At the touch ofweight in the saddle the horse couldremember nothing but the pain ofbreaking and the cruelty of training andthe hard sharp joy of ripping back atthe men who tormented him. He rearedat once above Robert and onlyRobert’s quick cowardly dive to theground and swift roll kept him out ofrange of those murderous hooves.

‘Catch him!’ screamed one man atthe stable lad.

But Robert was on his feet.‘Wait!’ he ordered. ‘There’s a bet on.’

I had clung like a louse when thatwhite neck soared up. When hethudded down I had waited for him torear again but it had not happened. Istayed as still as a novice rider. Myweight was so light, compared to thefat farmers who had tried to train him,he might even think he had thrown me,

and all I would have to do was to sitstill for three minutes. I saw the manwith the watch out of the corner of myeye and I hoped to God he was soberenough to see the moving hand crossingoff the minutes.

The horse was frozen. I reached ahand down to his neck and I touchedhis warm satiny skin. At my touch thefretwork of muscles in his necktrembled as if a human touch was agadfly.

‘Sea,’ I said softly. ‘Darling boy.Be still now. I am going to take youhome.’

His ears went forward his headwent up so that he was as trim and asproud as a statue of a horse. I touchedhim lightly with my heels and hemoved forward in a fluid smoothstride. I checked him with a littleweight on the reins and he stopped. Ilooked forward over his alert,

forward-pointing ears and saw RobertGower’s face blank with amazement,jaw dropped. I gave him a little smileof triumph and he recollected himselfand looked correctly judicious andunsurprised.

‘Two and a half,’ the drunk withthe watch said.

They stared at me as if they wouldhave preferred to see me on the groundat their feet with my neck broken. Iglanced around and saw the hungryfaces of an audience, avid for a show.Any show.

‘Three,’ the drunk said solemnly.‘Three minutes, definite. By my watch.Timed it myself.’

‘Fixed!’ bawled Mr Smythies.‘The horse was trained to let the girlride him. Damn me, I bet she isn’t evena girl but that dratted son of yours,Robert Gower! Fixed to make a fool ofme and rob me of half a fortune!’

At his voice Sea went mad. Heshot up on his hind legs so fast that Ifelt myself falling off the back and hadto grab to the saddle to stay on his backand then he took two ludicrous strongstrides still on his back legs, hishooves raking at the air. The menbefore us scattered, shouting in fright,and the noise made him worse. Heplunged down, shoulder first to theground, to throw me off, and I soaredhopelessly over his head and smashedinto the frosty ground with a blowwhich knocked the breath out of me,and my senses out of me.

When I came to, it was all overbar Mr Smythies’ complaints. I satquietly, with my head between myknees dripping blood on to my newgrey gown while Robert ticked off hiswinnings in the book. Once a manpatted my bowed head and dropped asixpence beside me, one man bent

down and whispered an obscenity. Ipocketed the sixpence – I was not thatfaint – and waited for the shinytopboots to shuffle past me and away. Ilifted my head and saw Robert lookingat me.

The little weasel man wascounting up the take in a big book.Robert’s pockets were bulging. Thelittle lad had hold of the horse againbut was standing nervously waiting forsomeone to take him off him.

‘He’s mine,’ I said. My voicewas croaky, I hawked up some bloodfrom the back of my throat and spat itout, wiping my face on my shawl. As Igot to my feet I found that I was badlybruised. I hobbled towards him, puttingmy hand out for the reins.

The stable lad handed him overwith open relief. ‘You’ve got a shiner,’he said.

I nodded. A haziness around

everything warned me that one eye wasclosing fast. I patted it gently with thecorner of my pinny which had been soclean and white this morning.

‘I thought it was fixed till I sawyou come off like that,’ he said.

I tried to smile, but it was toopainful. ‘It wasn’t fixed,’ I said. ‘I’venever seen the horse before.’

‘What’ll you do with him now?’he demanded. ‘How will you keephim?’

‘You’ll feed him with the others,won’t you Mr Gower?’ I said, turningto Robert. There were still a fewstragglers leaving the field. Theywaited for his reply. But I think he’dhave treated me fairly even withoutwitnesses.

‘I said you could have him if youcould stay on him,’ he said. ‘I’ll feedhim and shoe him, for you. Aye and I’llbuy you tack for him as well. That do

you, Meridon?’I smiled at that and felt the

bloodstained skin crack around myeye.

‘Yes,’ I said. Then I put one handon Sea’s neck for support, and startedto hobble from the field.

9Robert sent me back to the inn wherewe had left the whisky cart and I ledSea into a loose box and curled up inthe corner myself on a bale of straw,too tired and too battered and bruisedto care where I was; and much too shyand dirty to order myself a hot drinkand my dinner in the parlour as Roberthad instructed. Hours later, when thestable was getting dark and the coldwinter twilight was closing the horsefair, he came clattering into the yardwith two big horses and three littleponies tied reins to tail behind him.

I stumbled to my feet as groggyand weary as if I had been riding allday and peered over the stable door.Sea blew gently down my neck.

‘Good God,’ Robert said. ‘Youlook like a little witch, Merry. Stickyour head under the pump for the

Lord’s sake. I can’t take you home likethat.’

I put my hand up to my head andfound my cap was lost and my curls allmatted with dried blood. The eyewhich I had bruised was almostclosed, and smeared all around mymouth and nose was dried blood.

‘Are you badly hurt?’ Robertasked as I came carefully out of thestable.

‘No,’ I said. ‘It probably looksworse than it is.’

He shouted for a stable lad andtossed the reins of the two big horsestowards him.

‘Come here,’ he said gruffly, andworked the pump for me as I dippedmy head underneath it.

The icy water hit me like a blowand rushed into my ear and made megasp with shock. But I felt better assoon as my face was clean. I rinsed

most of the blood out of my hair aswell.

Robert sent another lad runningfor a kitchen towel and I rubbed myhair dry. I was shivering with the coldand I had horrid trickles of icy waterrunning down my neck inside my gown,but at least I had woken up and felt fitenough to face the drive home.

‘Or do you want me to ride?’ Iasked, eyeing the string of horses wehad to get home somehow.

‘Nay,’ Robert said contentedly.‘You’ve done a day and a half’s worktoday, Merry, and I’m better pleasedwith you than I ever have been withany living soul, and that’s the truth.You won me £300 in bets, Merry, andit’s a gamble I’d never have dared takeif you hadn’t urged me to it. I’mobliged to you. You can have yourhorse with my blessing, and I’ll giveyou ten guineas for your bottom drawer

as well. You’re a fine lass. I wish Ihad a dozen of you.’

I beamed back at him, then Ishivered a little because with thefalling darkness a cold breeze hadsprung up.

‘Let’s get you home,’ Robert saidkindly; and he sent the lad back insideto borrow a couple of blankets andwrapped me up on the seat of thewhisky as if I were a favoured childinstead of the hired help.

He decided against bringing allthe horses home in the dark on his own.He tied only the big horses on the backof the carriage with Sea tied behind aswell, and ordered stabling for theponies overnight. Then he swunghimself up beside me, clicked toBluebell and we set off for home in thefading light.

He hummed quietly under hisbreath as we left the outskirts of the

town and then he said abruptly to me:‘Did you do that with your da,

Merry? Take a wager on your ridingand then gull people out of theirmoney?’

‘Sometimes,’ I said cautiously. Iwas not sure if he would approve.‘But, often it was too well known that Itrained horses for my da and so peoplewouldn’t bet heavily like they didtoday.’ I shrugged. ‘I looked different,too,’ I said. ‘Today I looked like ahousemaid. With Da I always lookedlike a gypsy.’

Robert nodded. ‘I’ve never madeso much money in one day in my life,’he said. ‘I’d give half of it away if Icould do it again.’

I shook my head regretfully. ‘Icouldn’t do it with any other horse,’ Isaid. ‘It would be a grand trick to earnmoney. But Sea was special. I knew hewas my horse the moment I saw him. I

knew he would not hurt me.’Robert glanced at my battered

face. ‘You hardly came off scot-free,’he observed.

I made a little grimace. ‘That wasbecause he heard that horrid man’svoice,’ I said. ‘It scared him all overagain. But he was all right with me.’

Robert nodded and said nothingas the horse trotted between the shaftsand the light from the lamps on eitherside of the cart dipped and flickered. Itwas growing darker all the time, Iheard an owl hoot warningly. Themoon was coming up, thin and verypale, like a rind of goat cheese.

‘What about an act where wechallenge all comers to ride him?’Robert said slowly, thinking aloud.‘Outside the field, before the showstarts. We could call him the killerstallion and challenge people to stayon his back. Charge them say tuppence

a try, with a purse if they stay on formore than a minute.’ He hesitated.‘Make that five minutes,’ he amended.‘Then, after we’ve called up a crowdand they’ve seen him throwing a fewmen, out you come in a pretty dress andask for your turn. Jack makes up abook, you ride the horse, and we allmake a little profit.’

He turned and looked at me,beaming.

I took a deep breath. ‘No,’ I saidquietly. At once, his good-humouredsmile vanished.

‘Why not?’ he asked. ‘You’ll geta cut of the profits, Merry. You didwell today remember. I’ve notforgotten I promised you ten guineas.I’ll pay up and all.’

‘No,’ I said steadily. ‘I am sorry,Robert, but I won’t do that with myhorse.’

Something in my voice checked

his bluster. ‘Why not, Merry?’ heasked. ‘Wouldn’t do any harm.’

‘Yes it would,’ I said certainly. ‘Idon’t want him taught to be wild andvicious. I don’t want him frightenedany more. I want to teach him to be agood saddle horse, a hunter. I don’twant him throwing every fool withtuppence who thinks he’s a rider. Iwant him to have a soft mouth and asweet temperament. He’s my horse,and I won’t have him working as akiller stallion.’

Robert was silent. Bluebelltrotted, the clatter of the hooves behindus sounded loud in the darkness.Robert hummed under his breath againand said no more.

‘You promised to keep him forme,’ I said, calling on Robert’s senseof fair trade. ‘You didn’t say he had towork for it.’

Robert scowled at me, and then

broke into a smile. ‘Oh all right,Merry!’ he said gruffly. ‘You’re aproper horse-dealer for you haggle likea tinker. Keep your damned horse, butyou’re to ride him when you’re callingup the act, and you’re to look totraining him for tricks in the ring. Buthe won’t do anything you don’t like.’

I smiled back at him, and in oneof my rare gestures of affection I putmy hand on his sleeve.

‘Thank you, Robert,’ I said.He tucked my hand under his arm

and we drove home in the darkness.My head nodded with weariness andmy eyelids drooped. Some time in thejourney I felt him draw my head downto rest on his shoulder, and I slept.

Dandy undressed me and put me to bedwhen we got home, exclaiming overmy hurts, and the loss of my cap, andthe bloodstains on my grey gown and

white apron. Mrs Greaves brought atray with soup and new-baked bread, abreast of chicken and some stewedapples for me to have dinner in bed.Jack came up to our room with abasketful of logs and lit the fire for mein the little grate in our room, and thenhe and Dandy sat on the floor anddemanded to know the whole story ofthe horse fair, and the winning of Sea.

‘He’s a beautiful animal but hehardly let me near him,’ Jack said. ‘Hewent for my shoulder when I took hisbridle off. You’ll have your work cutout for you trying to train that one,Merry.’

Dandy wanted to know how muchRobert had earned, and they bothopened their eyes wide when I toldthem of the guinea bets which had beencalled all around me, and that Roberthad promised me ten of my very own.

‘Ten guineas!’ Dandy exclaimed.

‘Merry, what will you do with so muchmoney?’

‘I shall save it,’ I said sagely,dipping my bread into the rich gravyaround the chicken. ‘I don’t know whatmoney we will need in the future,Dandy. I’m going to start saving for ahouse of our own.’

They both gaped at me for thatambition, and I laughed aloud thoughmy bruised ribs made me gasp and say:‘Oh! Don’t make me laugh! Pleasedon’t make me laugh! I hurts so when Ilaugh!’

Then I asked them to tell me whatthey had been doing all the day; butthey both complained that it was thesame as the day before, and lookedlike being the same for ever. They hadboth swung up high on the trapeze inthe roof of the barn, but most of theirwork had been on the practice trapezeat ground level, and pulling themselves

up and down on the bar.‘I’m aching all over,’ Dandy

complained. ‘And that dratted Davidjust makes us work and work andwork.’

Jack nodded in discontentedagreement.

‘I’m starving too,’ he said.‘Merry, we’ll go over and get ourdinners and come back to you after. Isthere anything you need?’

‘No,’ I said smiling in gratitude.‘I’ll lie here and watch the firelight.Thank you for making the fire, Jack.’

He leaned towards me and ruffledmy hair so my curls stood on end.

‘It was nothing, my littlegambler,’ he said. ‘We’ll see you in alittle while.’

The two of them clattered downthe stairs to the stable, I heard Dandygroan as she had to pull the trapdoor atthe head of the stairs shut with her

aching arms, and then their voices asthey crossed the yard and went throughthe little gateway to the house. Then Iheard the kitchen door open and closeand there was silence.

Silence except for the flickeringnoise of the fire and the occasionalrustle from Sea, safe in the stablebeneath my room. I watched theshadows bob and fall on the wallbeside me. I had never seen a fire lightup a bedroom before, I had never lainin darkness and felt the warm glow ofit on my face, and seen the brightwarmth of it behind my closed eyelids.I felt enormously comfortable and atpeace and safe. For once in my life Ifelt that I need not fear the next day,nor plan our survival in an unreliableand dangerous world. Robert Gowerhad said that he wished he had a dozenof me. He had said that he was betterpleased with me than he had been with

any living soul. I had let him hold myhand, and I had not felt that uneasyanxious prickle of distaste at his touch.I had let Jack rumple my head and Ihad liked the careless caress. Iwatched the flames of the fire whichJack had lit for me, in the room whichRobert had made ready for me, and foronce I felt that someone cared for me. Ifell asleep then, still smiling. Andwhen Jack and Dandy came to see howI did, they found me asleep with myarm outflung and my hand open, as if Iwere reaching out, unafraid. They putan extra log on the fire and crept away.

I did not dream in the night, and Islept late into the morning. Robert hadordered Dandy not to wake me, and Idid not stir until breakfast time. I wentto the kitchen then and confessed toMrs Greaves that I had lost her bonnetin the course of winning the master afortune. She already knew the story and

smiled and said that it did not matter.The dress and the apron were a

more serious matter. The apron waspermanently stained with blood andgrass stains, the grey dress marked aswell. I looked cheerfully at them bothas Mrs Greaves hauled them out of thecopper and tutted into the steam.

‘I’ll have to wear breeches all thetime then,’ I said.

Mrs Greaves turned to me with alittle smile. ‘If you knew how bonnyyou looked in them you’d not wearthem,’ she said. ‘You think to dresslike a lad and no man will notice you.That may have been true when youwere a little lass, or even this summer;but now you’d turn heads even if youwere wearing a sack tied around yourmiddle. And in those little breechesand your white shirt you look apicture.’

I flushed scarlet, suddenly

uncomfortable. Then I looked up at her.She was still smiling. ‘Nothing to beafraid of, Meridon,’ she said gently.‘You’ll have seen some bad doingswhen you were a girl, but when a manloves a woman it can sometimes bevery sweet. Very sweet indeed.’

She gave a little sigh and dumpedthe heap of wet cloth back into thecopper and set it back on to boil.

‘It’s not all sluts in hedgerowsand dancing for pennies,’ she said,turning her back to me as she laid thetable for breakfast. ‘If a man trulyloves you he can surround you withlove so that you feel as if you are themost precious woman in the world. It’slike forever sitting in front of a warmfire, well fed and safe.’

I said nothing. I thought of RobertGower keeping my hand warm underhis arm as he drove home. I thought ofmy head dropping on his shoulder as I

slept. For the first time in a cold andhungry life I thought that I couldunderstand longing for the touch of aman.

‘Breakfast,’ Mrs Greaves said,suddenly practical. ‘Run and call theothers, Merry.’

They were practising in the barn.David, Jack and Dandy; and Robertwas watching them, his unlit pipegripped between his teeth. Dandy wasswinging from the practice trapeze andI could see that even in the day that Ihad been away she had learned to timeherself to the rhythm of the swing.David was calling the beat for her butmore and more often she was bringingher legs down at exactly the rightmoment and the swing was rising,gaining height, rather than trailing to astandstill as it had done on our firstday.

They were glad enough to come

back to the house for breakfast. Davidexclaimed over my black eye but it hadopened enough for me to see clearlyand I had taken enough knocks in mygirlhood to rid me of vanity about afew bruises.

‘When we were chavvies I don’tthink I ever saw Merry without a blackeye,’ Dandy said, spreading MrsGreaves’ home-made butter on a hunkof fresh-baked bread. ‘If she didn’tcome off one of the horses then our dawould clip her round the ear and miss.We didn’t know her eyes were green-coloured until she was twelve!’

David looked at me as if he didnot know whether to laugh or be sorryfor me.

‘It didn’t matter,’ I said. Theywere hurts from long ago, I would notlet the aches and pains of my childhoodcast a shadow over my life now. Notwhen I could feel myself opening, like

a sticky bud on a chestnut tree in April.‘Will you be too sore to train

today?’ David asked me.‘I’ll try,’ I said. ‘Nothing was

broken, I was just bruised. I reckon I’llbe all right to work.’

Robert pushed his clean plateaway from him. ‘If your face startsthrobbing or your head aches, youstop,’ he said. Dandy and Jack lookedat him in surprise. Mrs Greaves, at thestove, stayed very still, her head turnedaway. ‘I’ve seen some nasty after-effects of head injuries,’ he said toDavid, who nodded. ‘If she seemssleepy or in pain you’re to send her into Mrs Greaves.’

Mrs Greaves turned from thestove and wiped her hands on herworking apron, her face inscrutable.

‘If Meridon comes in ill you takecare of her, ma’am,’ he said to her.‘Put her on the sofa in the parlour

where you can keep an eye on her.’She nodded. Dandy was frozen, apiece of bread half-way to her mouth.

‘Meridon to come into theparlour?’ Dandy demanded tactlessly.

A flicker of irritation crossedRobert’s face. ‘Why not?’ he saidsuddenly. ‘The only reason you twogirls are housed in the stable yard isbecause I thought you would like yourown little place, and it is easier foryou to mind the horses. The two of youare welcome in the house, aye, and inthe parlour too if you wish.’

I flushed scarlet at Dandy’s slip,and at Jack’s open-mouthed stare.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said flatly.‘I’m well enough to work and I won’tneed to rest. In any case, I’d not wantto sit in the parlour.’

Robert pushed his chair backfrom the table and it scraped on thestone-flagged floor. ‘A lot of to-do

about nothing,’ he said gruffly andwent out of the kitchen. David got tohis feet as well.

‘Half an hour’s rest,’ he said tothe three of us. ‘I’d like to see thisfamous horse of yours, Meridon.’

I smiled at that and led all ofthem, Mrs Greaves as well, out to thestable yard to see my horse, my veryown horse, in daylight.

He was lovely. In daylight, in afamiliar stable yard, he was evenlovelier than I had remembered him.His neck was arched high, as if therewere Arab blood in him. His coat wasa dark grey, shading to pewter on hishind legs. His mane and tail were thepurest of white and silver, down hisgrey face there was a pale white blaze,just discernible. And four white sockson his long legs. He whickered whenhe heard my step and came out of thestable with just a halter on, as gently as

if he had never thrown and rolled on arider in his life. He threw up his headand sidled when he saw the others andI called:

‘Stand back, especially you Jackand David. He doesn’t like men!’

‘He’ll suit Meridon, then,’ saidDandy to Jack and he smiled andnodded.

Sea stood quiet enough then, and Iheld his head collar and smoothed hisneck and whispered to him to be still,and not to be frightened, for no onewould ever hurt him or shout at himagain. I found I was whisperingendearments, phrases of love, tellinghim how beautiful he was – quite themost beautiful horse in the world! Andthat he should be with me for ever andever. That I had won him in Robert’sbet, but that in truth we had found eachother and that we would never partagain. Then I led him back down

through the path at the side of thegarden to the field and turned him outwith the others to graze.

‘You’ll be wanting time off totrain him,’ David said wryly, watchingmy rapt face as Sea stretched his longneck and trotted with proud longstrides around the field.

‘Robert wanted me to work theother horses anyway,’ I said. ‘I wasnever to be your full-time pupil.’

David nodded. ‘And you’vestarted your little savings fund,’ hesaid. ‘You’ll be a lady yet, Meridon.’

I was about to smile and turn offthe remark when I suddenlyremembered the gypsy at the streetcorner in Salisbury, just before I sawSea, just before the bet and the rideand the fall. She had said I would getmy home, my gentry home. She saidthat my mother and her mother wouldlead me home, and that I would be

more at home there than either of them.I would indeed be a lady, I wouldmake my way into the Quality. Davidsaw my suddenly absorbed expressionand touched me on the shoulder. I didnot flinch at his touch.

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ he said.‘I’ll not rob you,’ I replied at

once. ‘I was thinking nothing whichwas worth sharing.’

‘Then I’ll interrupt your thoughtswith some work,’ he said briskly andraised his voice so that the other twocould hear: ‘Come on you two! A raceback to the barn to warm you up. One,two, three, and away!’

That day’s training was thepattern for the following days of thatweek, and for the week after. Everyday we worked, running, exercising,heaving ourselves up on the bar,pushing ourselves up from the floorusing just our hands. Every day we

grew stronger, able to run further, to domore of the exercises. Every day weached a little less. I had learned theknack of swinging on the practicetrapeze: I could build the swing higherand higher until it felt like flying. Asthe swing grew the swoopingfrightened feeling inside me grew, but Ilearned to almost enjoy that suddendown-rush with the air in my face andmy muscles working to keep the swingmoving, to build the speed and themomentum. Every day, though for somedays I truly did not notice, David hadraised the rigging on the trapeze so thatit hung higher and higher from the flooruntil the only way to mount it was to goup the ladder at the side of the barn andswoop down with it.

Then one day, in the third week,while Dandy and Jack were practisingswinging on the high trapeze in the roofof the barn, David called me off the

practice trapeze.I dropped to the ground and

waited. I was scarcely out of breath atall now.

‘I want you to try going up theladder today,’ he said gently. ‘Not toswing if you don’t want to, Meridon. Ipromised you I’d never force you, andI mean it. But for you to see if you haveyour nerve for heights now you are soconfident on the practice trapeze.Besides, when you hang straight fromthe flying trapeze you are about theheight from the catch-net as you arenow from the floor. It’s just as safe,Meridon. There’s nothing to fear.’

I looked from his persuasive blueeyes up to the pedestal rigged at theroof of the barn, and at Dandy’s casualconfident swing on the trapeze. Sheand Jack were practising doing tricksinto the net. As I watched, uncertain if Icould face the ladder up to the rocking

pedestal, Dandy launched herself offthe pedestal on the trapeze and flungherself off it in a ball. Shesomersaulted once and fell into the neton to her back, and bounced upsmiling.

‘I’ll try,’ I said drawing a deepbreath. ‘I’ll go up there at least.’

‘Good girl,’ David said warmly.He patted my back and called toDandy. ‘Go up the ladder behind yoursister. She’s going to see the viewfrom the top.’ To Jack he snapped hisfingers. ‘You come down,’ he said.‘No point having all of you up there.’

I knew how to climb the ladder –heel to toe, heel to toe – and I knew topush up with my legs, not to try to haulmyself up with my arms. The ropeladder trembled as I went up and I bitmy tongue on a little gasp of fear.

I was afraid of stepping from theladder to the pedestal board. It was

such a tiny bit of wood with two raisedpoles to hold on to. It was only aswide as half my foot, and my bare toescurled over the edge as if I would griplike a dancing monkey on a stick. Iclenched my hands around the poles oneach side of the board, and saw myknuckles go white. I was bow-leggedwith fear and trying to balance. Mystomach churned and I longed to piss infright. There was nothing I could holdwhich was firm, which felt safe. I gavea little sob.

Dandy, coming up behind me onthe ladder, heard me.

‘Want to come down?’ she asked.‘I’ll guide you down.’

I was crouched on the pedestalnow, shifted slightly to the right, bothhands gripping the left-side pole. Ilooked at the jigging ladder whereDandy waited and feared it as much asthe trapeze.

‘I’m afraid,’ I said. Fear hadtightened my throat and I could hardlyspeak. My stomach pulsed with terror,my knees were bent like an old damewith rheumatism. I could not straightenup.

‘Is it bad?’ David called up fromdown below. I did not dare nod forfear that would shake the pedestalboard. Dandy waited on the ladder.

‘Do you want to climb down?’David called.

I opened my mouth to tell him thatI did not dare climb. That I did notdare swing. I had lost my voice. All Icould do was croak like a fear-struckfrog.

‘Get out of it,’ Dandy said,careless of my deep terror. ‘Grab holdof the trapeze and swing down anddrop into the net, Meridon. It’s thequickest way. Then you’ll never haveto come up again.’

I could not turn my head to lookfor her. I was clamped rigid by myfear. With one lithe movement she wasup beside me on the pedestal and hadunhooked the trapeze. She drew ittowards me and took my arm andwrested it from its grip on the uprightpole. I grabbed at the trapeze bar as ifit might save me. It pulled me a littlenear the edge with its weight and Igasped a little in fright. It was draggingme off. I had not known that it wouldpull me so. I was midway betweenfalling and clinging on. I did not havethe strength to pull back, and my fistwas clenched so tight I was not able todrop the trapeze and let it swing away.

With one swift, callous movementDandy reached behind my back andsnatched my left hand from thesupporting pole. At once the weight ofthe trapeze dragged me forward and offthe pedestal board into the void of

space. In panic I grabbed at the trapezewith my free hand as a drowning mangrabs at a twig in his despair. Iclutched it and cried for help as Iswooped down the lurching blackvalley of the swing in a blank haze ofscreaming terror.

It was like falling in dreams, inthose dreadful nightmares when youseem to fall and fall for ever and theterror of them is so bad that you wakescreaming. I swooped downwardsclinging to the trapeze and then felt thedrag as it swung up the hill of the otherside of the swing. Then I was fallingbackwards, which was even worse,swinging back towards the pedestaland I was yelling in terror that I wasgoing to hit the pedestal and knockDandy off it.

‘It’s all right!’ I heard her callfrom close behind me. ‘Just swing,Merry! Like you do on the practice

trapeze.’The brown of the tarry string of

the catch net leapt into vision as Iswung down towards it again and thenit fell away from me as I crested theswing. I hung like a brace of pheasantsin a larder. But inside my limphopeless body I was weeping withterror.

Three more times the swingrocked backwards and forwards withme a white doll tossed aboutunderneath it. Then it slowed andslowed and finally stopped and I hungstill above the catch-net.

‘Drop down,’ David called.‘You’re safe now, Meridon. Dropdown into the net. Keep your legs up asyou drop and you’ll land softly on yourback. Just let go the bar, Meridon.’

I was frozen. My hands werelocked tight on the bar. I looked downand there between my feet was the

catch-net and, beneath it, the gleamingwhite of the wood shavings. Safety,solid ground. I willed myself to let thebar go.

It was no use. It was as if I hadforgotten the skill to open my hands, torelease my fingers. I was clenching thebar as if it were the only thing whichwould save me from tumbling headfirst into a precipice.

‘Let go!’ David called, his voicemore urgent. ‘Meridon! Listen to me!Just let go the bar and we’ll have youdown!’

I looked towards him and he sawthe mute terror in my face. He wentover to the A-frame where the catcherstraddles, ready to swing the flyerforwards and back up to the trapeze.He climbed up Jack’s ladder swiftlyuntil he was parallel with me, his faceon a level with my own. But too distantto reach me.

‘Come on, girl,’ he said, his voicesoft and warmed with his Welshaccent. ‘Just let your hands go andyou’ll drop gently in the net and wecan all go and have a rest. You’veworked hard this morning, you’ll beready for your dinner.’

I could feel the tears coming intomy eyes and then running down mycheeks but I did not cry out. His voicewas warmer.

‘Come on, Merry,’ he saidsweetly. ‘Just lift your legs up a littleand lie back and you’ll be down assnug as if you were laid in bed.You’ve seen Dandy do it a hundredtimes. Just lift your legs a little and letgo.’

I opened my mouth to speak, butstill no voice came. I took a deepbreath and my overstrained backmuscles shuddered. I gripped tighterwith my fingers in fear of falling.

‘I…can’t,’ I said.‘Course you can,’ David said

instantly. ‘There’s not the leastdifficulty in the world, little Merry.Lift your legs up towards me and shutyour eyes and think of nothing. You’llbe down in a second.’

I obeyed him, as I could, as wellas I could. I did as I was bid. I liftedmy legs so that when I dropped Iwould fall backwards into the catchnet. I shut my eyes. I took a deepbreath.

It was no good. My fingers werelocked as if they were the latches on adoor. I could not will them to open. Iwas clinging, like a baby monkey to itsmother’s back, in pure instinctiveterror. I could not let go.

I did not let go.Minutes I hung there while David

talked to me gently, ordered me,begged me. Minutes while Dandy

climbed up the ladder in his place andsmiled at me and asked me to let goand come down to her. Her smile wasstrained, I could see the fright in hereyes and, despite myself, my griptightened.

The tears poured down mycheeks, I was torn between my longingfor this nightmare to be over and to beon safe ground again, and my absoluteblank and helpless terror which hadlocked my grip so that I could not letgo.

‘Meridon, please!’ Jack said fromground level. ‘You’re so brave,Meridon! Please do as David says!’

My clenched muscles around mychin and throat struggled to open. ‘I…can’t,’ I said.

David climbed up the catcher’sframe again. ‘Meridon,’ he said softly.‘Your grip is going to go soon and youwill fall. You can’t stop that. As you

feel yourself going I want you to liftyour legs so that your weight goesbackwards. Then you will land on yourback. If you fall straight down you willhurt yourself a little. I want you to landsoft. When you feel your grip slippingget your legs up.’

I heard him. But I was far beyondobeying him. All I could feel was thesinging continuous pain in my back andmy shoulders and my arms and mychest. My bones felt as if they werebeing dragged from the sockets. Myhands were like claws. But I could nottighten their grip. And though I wassqueezing them harder and harder Icould feel them begin to loosen andslip.

‘No!’ I wailed.‘Legs up!’ yelled David. But I

could not hear him in my panic. Myfingernails clawed at the bar, my handsgrasped at air. I fell like a dagger into

the ground, feet first, into the catch net.At once it threw me back up. It

was stretched taut to catch Dandyfalling softly on her back, not a feet-first dive. My legs doubled up, myknees cracked me in the face, mystomach lurched as the net threw me upand I fell, as helpless as a baby birdfrom a nest, down to the swingingmerciless blow again. Four or fivetimes I bounced, hopelessly out ofcontrol, until the last time when thefear and the shock were too much forme, and everything went blank.

10When I came to, I was in bed; not inmy own bed but in the pretty lime-washed room at the back of RobertGower’s fine house. When my eyelidsquivered I could hear Robert’s voicetelling me in a muted whisper that Iwas safe in his house. He knew I couldnot open my eyes to see for myself. Iwas stone blind.

Robert Gower sat with me. Heordered Jack and Dandy back to workat once, as soon as they had carried meinto the parlour and William had goneat a gallop for the Salisbury surgeon.Robert would not trust the Warminsterbarber. Dandy had sworn at him andsaid she would not leave my side butRobert had pushed her out of the roomand said she might come and sit withme but not until she had swung on thehigh trapeze and done every single

trick she had already learned.I wanted to cry out that Dandy

should not go up there, that it was tooterrifying, too high for anyone,especially my beloved sister. But mythroat was wracked with pain, the onlynoise I could make was a helplessrasping sob, and the hot tears squeezedout of my swollen eyes and stung asthey ran down my scraped cheeks.

‘It’s for her good,’ Robert saidsoftly. I could tell from his voice thathe was standing beside me. ‘She’s togo up at once or she’ll brood over yourfall and lose her nerve, Meridon. I’mnot being cruel to her, or to you. Davidsaid the same.’

I would have nodded my head, butthe very sinews of my neck felt as ifthey had been ripped out. I lay insilence, in my blind blackness, and Ifelt the sofa underneath me roll andshift as I lost consciousness again.

‘And who will look after Dandy whenI am dead?’ I thought as the world slidaway from me.

She was back beside me when thesurgeon arrived, but she was crying toohard to be of any help to him; easy,sorrowful tears while she washed theblood off my face with a cloth whichstung as if it were on fire. I felt for herin my private darkness and whispered:‘Dandy, am I going to die?’

It was Robert Gower who heldme gently so that the skilled man couldfeel all around my fiery neck. He hadgentle hands, and I could feel himtaking care not to hurt me. But everypart of my neck and shoulders andthroat, even the skin of my scalp, wassearing with pain. It was RobertGower who laid me back on the pillowand unbuttoned the shirt so that the mancould feel my ribs. Each touch waslike a burning brand but I did not cry

out. Not from bravery! My throat waslocked so tight I could make no sound.

‘She’s bad,’ the surgeon said atlast. ‘Broken nose, contusion of thehead, concussion, ricked neck,dislocated shoulder, cracked rib.’

‘She’ll be well again?’ Robertasked.

‘It will be nigh on a month atleast,’ the voice replied. ‘Unless shetakes a fever, or an ague from shock.But she seems tough enough, sheshould survive it. I can set the shouldernow.’

He leaned towards me; in mypain-filled darkness I could feel hisbreath on my cheek.

‘I have to twist your arm so that itfits back into the socket of yourshoulder, miss. It will hurt, but it willbe better for you when it is done.’

I could say neither yes nor no. If Icould have spoken I would have

begged him to leave me alone.‘Best go out, Dandy,’ Robert said.

I was glad he was thinking of her.I listened intently and I heard her

footstep go to the door and the click ofthe latch. The surgeon took hold of myhand; my fist was clenched against thepain, and Robert took hold of myaching shoulders. They twisted hardwith sudden force and the pain and theshock of it made me scream aloud untilthe darkness swallowed me up andeverything was gone again.

Next time when I awoke I knewwhere I was. My eyes were stillbruised tight shut but I could smell thelavender scent on the sheets, and Icould feel the lightness of the room onmy swollen eyelids. In the garden Icould hear a solitary robin singing arippling dancing tune. Some of the painhad gone. The shoulder felt better, ashe had promised me it would. The eyes

were eased with pads of somethingcool and wet. My head ached as if ithad been pounded like a drum; but inthe middle of my pain I smiled. I wasalive.

I had truly thought that I was goingto die. Yet here I was, under sweet-smelling linen sheets, with wintersunlight on my closed eyelids. Alive –able to care for Dandy, to keep hersafe. Able to smell the clear scent oflavender. I felt my bruised face turnupwards in a little smile.

‘Don’t know what you’ve got tosmile about.’ Robert Gower spokegruffly, he was sitting somewhere atmy head. He had been so quiet I hadthought myself in the room alone.

‘I’m alive,’ I said. It came out asa rasping croak, but I could at leastspeak.

‘You are,’ he said. ‘You’re theluckiest little kitten which ever

escaped a drowning, Meridon. Ithought you were dead when I sawDavid bringing you into the kitchenwith blood everywhere and your armhanging as if it were broken. MrsGreaves shrieking, Dandy crying andhollering at David. David cursinghimself and all of us for not listening toyou! The whole thing was a damnednightmare, and now here you arelooking like a wagon drove over you,and smiling as if you are happy!’

My smile stretched a littlebroader at that, but broke off in awince as my neck hurt me. ‘I amhappy,’ I said hoarsely. ‘Is Dandy allright?’

Robert made a little ‘tsk’ noise ofimpatience. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘She’sdown in the kitchen eating her dinner. Isaid I’d sit with you while they ate.’

I said nothing, and we sat insilence for long minutes while the

robin sang outside in the garden andthe shadows on my eyelids grewdarker.

Then I felt a gentle touch, as softas a robin’s feather on the clenchedfingers of my hand.

‘I am sorry, Meridon,’ Robertsaid softly. ‘I would not have had youhurt for the world. We’re all sorry thatyou went up. You need never go upagain. I’ll get a poorhouse girltomorrow to start training. You canstick with the horses.’

I shut my eyes on that thought andstarted the slide into sleep where mybruises would not hurt me and thesmell of lavender might make medream of Wide. I heard, as if from along way away, Robert whisper:‘Good-night, my brave little Merry.’Then I thought I felt – but I must havebeen mistaken – the featherlight touchof lips on my clenched fist.

He was as good as his word and Iheard from David and from Dandy thatthe workhouse girl started the next day.She was chosen because she had beena farm worker in wheat country – alifetime of heaving stooks had givenher hard muscles in her belly and arms.David also told me (though Dandy,notably, did not) that she lookedravishing up high on the pedestal. Shehad long blonde hair which she let flyfree behind her. She had no fear ofheights and no nerves, and though shestarted a whole month behind the othertwo she was swinging from the hightrapeze and doing the simplest of tricksinto the net within a few weeks.

The surgeon had ordered me torest and I was glad to lie still. My facewas awful. I had two black eyes whichclosed so tight that for the first three orfour days I was fully stone blind. I had

broken my nose when my kneescracked up into my face, and for therest of my life it would be slightlyskewed.

It was many days before I wasable to walk down across the field tosee them working. I passed the horseson the way and saw Sea in the farcorner of the field, his coat a deep greyshimmer. Robert had promised me thatno one would touch him while I wasill. He might grow a little wilder, buthe would have no fresh memories ofrough handling. He was fed with theother horses, and brought indoors whennights were cold. But while Roberttrained them and taught them their newtricks, Sea was left out in the field.

There was a hard frost on theground, it looked as if it might snowfor Christmas. I cared little either way.Da and Zima had never celebratedChristmas in our dirty little caravan

and my only memory of the festivalwas that it was a good time for Dandyto pick pockets while the mummerswent around, and a good time forselling horses for spoilt children. Ourbirthday fell some time afterChristmas. This year we would besixteen. We never paid no mind toeither Christmas nor our birthday –whenever it was.

‘Cold,’ Robert said. He waswalking with me, his hand under myelbow to help me over the frozenmolehills and hard tussocks of grass.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Will you bring thehorses in all day if it snows?’

‘Nay,’ he said. ‘I can’t afford tomake them soft. The time will comewhen we do shows all the year round.I’ve already turned down work at aGoose fair outside Bath over theChristmas holidays. If you’d been wellI’d have taken at least you and Jack to

work the fair. I’ll let it go this year, butnext year we’ll lay off in October,work for December and the TwelfthNight fairs, and then lay off again untilShrove Tuesday.’

He looked at the barn as if hewere staring into the future.

‘I’ll take a complete show out onthe road. The horses will open theshow and do the first half, and thenduring the interval we’ll rig up the netand the frames. When I can get a barnwe’ll take it and do evening shows bylamplight as well.’ He looked beyondthe barn, to where the afternoon sunwas red on the horizon. ‘There’s moreand more places which stay open allyear round,’ he said longingly. ‘Wherethey’ve built a hall with the ring in themiddle, aye, and a stage behind forsinging and dancing. A few good yearson the road, and maybe I could buildmy own place with the rigging up high

and the ring underneath, and we wouldnot need to travel from fair to villages– the audience would come to us.’

I nodded. ‘You could do that,’ Isaid with a little smile, looking at hisrapt face. ‘It might work. A big enoughtown, with lots of people travellingthrough, and wealthy people whowould come again and again. It mightwork.’

He glanced down at me. ‘Youbelieve in me,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ I said simply. ‘I alwayshave.’

There was a little silence then,between us.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘You see howyour sister is doing!’

He flung open the door to the barnand we went in. They were losing thelight inside and were doing the lasttricks of the day before stopping work.The poorhouse girl, Katie, was on the

ladder. Dandy was on the pedestal.Jack was standing astride on thecatcher’s frame.

I felt my throat grow dry and Iswallowed at the sight of Dandylooking so small and up so high.

‘Right!’ David called. He was onthe ground below the flyers’ ladder.‘Last trick of the day, and we have anaudience so let’s show what we cando! Dandy! Let’s have that trick again.’

Dandy climbed two paces up anextra ladder above the pedestal to giveherself more height and took thetrapeze in both hands. Jack checked thebuckles which held the thick leatherbelt at his waist, and rubbed his handstogether, scowling and lookingupwards. I hardly saw him. I waswatching Dandy like a fieldmousewatches a circling hawk far above him.I saw her smile. She was happyenough.

I looked back to Jack. He waswatching Dandy’s swing build up untilshe came so close that if he reachedout he could tap her on the feet. Heshifted a little, as if to ready himselfand then he called, ‘Pret!’ in the wayDavid had taught him. Dandy beat withher legs and swung a little harder, thenJack shouted, ‘Hup!’ and Dandystretched her feet out towards him asfar as she could.

For a moment she seemed to hangin space, quite motionless. Then Jackreached out and we heard the firm slapof his hands on her ankles. At thatmoment Dandy let go the trapeze andswung, head down, arms trailing,through Jack’s legs, through the A-frame, while Jack bent low to swingher.

She crested the swing on the otherside and Jack let her swing backunderneath him just as the trapeze

swung back towards them. Then, witha scowl of concentration, Jack twistedhis arms and Dandy half turned so sheslewed around, still travelling in theair to face the trapeze as it cametowards her, reached out her hands toit and took a firm grip as Jack releasedher feet. Dandy swooped upwards,clinging to her trapeze, and then backto the pedestal. Katie at the topreached out and caught her round thewaist and helped her up. Dandy turnedaround and shrieked, ‘Bravo!’ toherself, Robert, and me, and we burstinto spontaneous clapping.

‘Well done!’ Robert called up.‘That is wonderful, Dandy! Well doneJack and well done David! That’sgrand! Is there any more?’

Again they readied themselves.Dandy built up the swing and then puther legs back and looped them aroundthe bar of the trapeze. Jack watched

her, called, ‘Pret!’ to Dandy to warnher he was ready for her on the nextswing. Then we heard him shout,‘Hup!’ This time she had further toreach and there was almost a secondwhen she released the safe lock of herlegs on the trapeze before we heard theslap of his hands on her wrists. Heswung her forwards and then back andDandy flew from his hands, turning alanguid elegant somersault beforebouncing safely into the net.

I was sorry that I was such a foolwith the ladder and the height that Icould not be up there beside her. Ishould have liked to have been close toDandy when she was swinging. Ishould have liked it to have been mewho grabbed her around her slim waistand hauled her in. I would have likedto have helped her back on to thepedestal from the sickening dropbeneath her.

‘What can Katie do?’ Robertcalled to David.

‘She’s not being caught yet,’David called back. ‘The idea is thatshe does the trick and she and Jack justtouch – so that they learn where eachother is. She’s not ready to finish thetrick yet.’

Robert nodded and we watchedas Katie swooped across, and Jackslapped her ankles with a sound whichechoed around the frosty air and shedropped into the net, turning up her feetand falling on her back.

‘Good work,’ Robert said. Hetook David by the shoulder and led himout of the barn, pausing only to dampdown the stove.

Katie climbed out of the net andsmiled at me. We had already met –Dandy had brought her up to the sparebedroom to meet me when she startedwork for Robert – but we had hardly

spoken.‘Well done!’ I said. ‘You are far

ahead of me, and I had a month’s fullpractice.’

‘I had a good teacher,’ she saidwith a sly little smile. I thought for amoment that she had meant David, butthen I saw that she was lookingtowards Jack as he came down theladder hand over hand, his legs andfeet held clear to one side.

Katie pushed back her mass ofyellow hair. ‘You slapped me hardenough today,’ she said to Jack. Hervoice, heavy with the Dorset burr, hada provocative little lilt to it. ‘Mywrists is all red.’

She held her arms out to him,palms up so that he should see the redmarks. I shot a look at Dandy. She wasstaring at Katie as if she had neverseen her before.

‘That’s nothing,’ David said

baldly. ‘Hello, Merry. Are youwalking all right?’

‘I’m stiff,’ I confessed, ‘and a bitunsteady. But I feel well enough now.’

Jack’s smile was openly warm. ‘Imissed you,’ he said frankly. ‘It’s goodto see you in here again. What did youthink of Dandy?’

He drew me towards him and putan arm around my waist to support meas we walked towards the door. I lethim help me over the hard ground, as Ihad let his father guide me before. I didnot flinch from the touch of theGowers. Father and son, I had come totrust them. And Jack’s touch on mywaist was warm, I could feel theroughness of his hand through the linenshirt.

Katie popped up on his otherside, took his arm.

‘What did you think of the act,Meridon?’ she asked. ‘Isn’t Jack fine?

I feel so brave when I hears himcalling the swing. I just jumps when hetells me!’

I hesitated. I felt as if during myillness a whole world had shiftedslightly so that everything was out offrame. I looked past Jack at Dandy.She was blank-faced too.

‘It was fine,’ I said neutrally.‘Robert was pleased.’

‘Robert!’ The poorhouse girlgave a little affected scream. ‘I callshim Mr Gower. I’d never dare call himRobert!’ She seemed to cling a littlecloser to Jack. ‘I really do respectsyour da,’ she assured him.

Jack turned his head to me andgave me one of his slow provocativewinks.

‘So you should,’ he said. ‘Merryand my father are old friends. He gaveher the right to call him by his givenname. And Dandy. Everything is

different when we’re working alltogether on the road.’

‘I can’t wait!’ she exclaimed. ‘Ican’t wait to get away from this horridlittle village where everyone looks atme and points at me. I can’t wait to getaway to do shows every night, and meand Dandy wear our pretty shortskirts!’

I looked across at Dandy. It wasmy guess that she would be seethingwith temper. I was right. Her face hadthat curiously intense expression whichcame over her in one of her suddentotal rages.

‘Dandy,’ I said quickly, beforeshe could explode. ‘Dandy, can youtake me to the kitchen? I want to sitdown.’

Jack stopped, went to lift me, butI put out an ungracious elbow andpushed him off.

‘I’ll go with Dandy,’ I said.

‘All right,’ Katie said blithely.‘We’ll check the horses together,won’t we Jack?’

Jack gave me another of his ruefullazy looks and let her turn him, let herlead him away into the gatheringdarkness towards the stable and thehay loft.

‘My oath, what a whore,’ Iexclaimed to Dandy under my breath.

Her black eyes were blazing.‘The damned she-dog!’ she said. ‘I’llscratch her eyes out if she triesanything on with Jack!’

‘You can hardly be surprised,’ Isaid. ‘She’s been here a good threeweeks. Surely she was like this allalong?’

Dandy was almost incoherentwith temper. ‘No! No!’ she said.‘D’you think I’d have stood for it?With my Jack? Not a damned look, notso much as a whisper. All she’s done

is work night and day on the trapezeand learned to swing. She never somuch as glanced at him!’

‘Why now, then?’ I askedpuzzled.

Dandy scowled dreadfullytowards the bright lights of the kitchenwhich shone over the darkeninggarden. ‘It’s you,’ she said suddenly.‘It must be you. She’s never done itbefore. She thinks he’s after you. Hecame down the ladder all showy toplease you, and he put his arm aroundyou. He’s been asking for you everyday, and he went to Salisbury twice tobuy you flowers and once for fruit. Hisda never told him wrong for wastingthe time either. She must think he’scourting you and she’s trying to castpoison.’

I gaped. ‘She’s mad,’ I saidblankly. ‘Doesn’t she know whatRobert would do if he thought any of us

were setting lures for Jack?’‘No,’ Dandy said swiftly. ‘She’s

hardly seen Robert. He’s been trainingthe horses all day, while we’ve beenworking. He’s never told her what heplans for Jack. He’s hardly spoken toher.’

We stood for a moment in silencegazing at each other and then suddenlywe both broke into laughter. ‘Oh don’t!Oh! Don’t!’ I said, holding my sides.‘My ribs still hurt! Don’t make melaugh, Dandy!’

‘Won’t he be absolutely wildwhen he finds out!’ Dandy crowed.‘Won’t she catch it then! It’ll be backto the poorhouse for her! Act or noact!’

I stopped laughing for a moment.‘That’s a bit hard,’ I said. ‘It’s a highprice to pay for being a bit of a flirt.’

Dandy’s face was stony. ‘Whocares?’ she demanded. ‘I won’t have

her hanging on Jack. If Jack goes withany one of us, he goes with me. I’vebeen ready enough to keep things coldbetween us because his da ordered itand you begged me; but if she iscrawling all over him I’m damned if Isee him taken away from me!’

‘Now Dandy, it’s nothing,’ I saidswiftly. ‘It’s probably as you say – thatshe was trying to tease me, to put me inmy place. She doesn’t know that noneof us court Jack. That none of us worklike that. I’m back sleeping in thestables tonight. I’ll tell her then.’

Dandy tossed her thick black hairand looked mulish. ‘I’d rather we justtold Robert that she was chasing Jackand let her go back to wherever shecame from,’ she said unkindly. ‘I don’tlike having her in my room. I don’t likeher hanging on Jack. I saw him first.He saw me. He’s had eyes for me fromthat first day, Merry. We only did

nothing to please his da. You knowthat.’

I thought a moment. I rememberedJack’s hot eyes upon me, and how hehad asked me if I dreamed of him. Ithought of him watching me as I swamand being angered by my indifference.

‘He’s a coquette as bad as her,’ Isaid without sympathy. ‘He’d go withany girl who flattered his vanity, andhe’d be challenged by any girl whokept him at a distance. I’d not besurprised to see him take up with her.’

Dandy grabbed my arm. ‘I meanthis, Merry,’ she said rapidly. ‘I’veheld off from him because I wanted tosee how the land lay with his da, andit’s been so different here. I wanted tosee if there was any chance of thisdamned future that Robert plans forhim. But I wanted him when I first sawhim. And I want him still.’

I held her away from me and

looked at her carefully. I knew Dandy,I had watched and loved her as closeas a mother, as intently as a lover. Iknew she was only speaking half thetruth. The part which she would notadmit was her vanity and her pride.She could not stand the thought thatJack might go into the hay loft with thepretty fair-headed pauper when he hadobeyed his father and not laid a fingeron Dandy for month after temptingmonth. Dandy had been the prettiestgirl any of us had ever seen for solong, that the thought of coming secondbest was enough to overset her.

‘Oh come on, Dandy,’ I saidreasonably. ‘I know you fancy him.He’s a nice enough young lad. Vain asa monkey, but nice enough. But youknow how Robert is about him; helooks very high for him. There’s nochance for anything more for you than akiss and a romp. You could do better

than that. When you’re MamselleDandy you’ll meet better men than Jackcould ever be. It’s as Robert says: ifyou keep your head then you couldmarry well. That’s better than a roll inthe hay with a lad whose father couldruin you if he caught you.’

For a moment she lookeduncertain, but then we heard thetrapdoor to the upstairs room at thestables slam and Dandy’s eyes blazed.

‘The little whore!’ she said, andshe tore herself out of my grip andraced towards the stables.

I tried to run after her but my ribsstill hurt, and my shoulder. I followedon behind, and by the time I reachedthe stables Jack was tumbling down thestairs shrugging his jacket on. He gaveme one of his naughty sideways grins.

‘Hey, Merry,’ he said. ‘Dandy’sthrown me out of your room, says shewants to change into her gown for

dinner. I’ll see you later.’‘What were you doing in my

room, Jack?’ I asked him, curious forhis answer.

He gave me a wink. ‘Nowtserious, Merry,’ he said.

‘Hasn’t your father warned youoff Katie?’ I asked curiously.

Jack’s dark gaze twinkled. ‘Halfof Warminster has had her,’ he said.‘My da wouldn’t waste his breath. Heknows I won’t let it affect my work. Heknows she won’t get a belly on her. Heknows it’s not loving. He don’t care.’

Jack beamed at me for a moment.‘Are you jealous, Merry?’ he askedsoftly. ‘Did you think I was kissing thesoft hairs on the back of her neck, andlicking the hollow between hershoulder blades? Did you want that foryourself?’

I stepped backwards so that hecould see my face clearly in the light of

the horn lantern. I knew my face wascalm, my eyes clear, unmoved.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I did not want thatfor myself. I will never want that. Notfrom you, not from any man. Iwondered if you were man enough togo against your da’s word or if youwould stay a virgin all your life toplease him. Now I understand, you’llonly have your poke where hepermits.’

Jack flushed brick-red with angerat that gibe.

‘I don’t admire your taste,’ I saidloftily. ‘But don’t forget that your daonly allowed her. He said you werenot to have Dandy.’

Jack threw his hands up inimpatience. ‘Dandy!’ he said. ‘She’sall you ever think of!’

‘Don’t you think of her?’ Idemanded, quick as a hawk in trainingto a lure.

Jack shrugged. ‘Not much,’ hesaid lightly. ‘I can live without her.’

‘Good,’ I said, and I meant it.Robert Gower was the only man in theworld who would feed and houseDandy and me while I was bruised andbattered and unable to work and whileDandy had no skill she could sell onher own. We were as dependent onhim as if we were his pauper servants.I knew now that Dandy desired Jackand I feared she would make a set forhim. The only thing which stoodbetween us and the frozen road out ofWarminster was Jack’s respect for hisfather’s wishes.

‘Don’t forget your da said youwere not to look at her,’ I insisted.

Jack shrugged his shoulders androlled his eyes at the darkening nightsky. ‘Merry, you carry on like someprioress. I don’t want your damnedsister. I could do with a roll in the hay.

Katie offered it for free. I’d do it withKatie, I wouldn’t touch Dandy with aten-foot barge pole. All right?’

‘All right,’ I said at last.I hoped to God it was.

11I expected to find Katie with her shirtripped and her face scratched.Poorhouse brat she might be,Warminster whore she might be, but Idid not think she would exceed mysister in the art of dirty fighting. Butwhen I climbed slowly up the stairs tothe loft-bedroom they were sitting sideby side brushing each other’s hair andgiggling together.

‘He put his hand down the insideof my shirt!’ I heard Katie say. Dandygiggled delightedly. ‘I said to him: “Idon’t know what you’re looking fordown there, Jack!”’

Dandy rocked with laughter at thissally. ‘You never did!’ she said. ‘Whatdid he do then?’

‘He took my hand and put it downhis breeches!’ Katie said triumphantly.

‘And?’ Dandy prompted.

Katie’s sharp hungry little facegrew avid. ‘He was hot,’ she said. ‘Hewas hard as a stallion to a mare.’

I was watching Dandy’s face andI saw a shadow of absolute envy passacross it. But she laughed merrilyenough.

‘I’m sorry I came in and spoiledsport then!’ she said lightly. ‘Wouldyou have done it with him, if I had notcome in?’

‘Oh aye!’ Katie said at once. ‘Iwas hot for it too!’

She and Dandy fell into eachother’s arms and rocked with laughter.Dandy’s eyes met mine across the fairhead and her dark eyes were cold asice.

‘I’m surprised he dares,’ she said.‘When Merry and I joined the show hisda told us plain that there was to be nocourting.’

Katie’s smile was world-weary.

‘’Tis hardly courting,’ she said. ‘It’sjust a bit of fun. You’d hardly call itcourting. We’re neither of us new to it.And neither of us would speak of love.Mr Gower told me I was to mind myways in the village. He didn’t saynothing about at home.’

‘But you don’t care for Jack?’Dandy asked sharply.

Katie laughed lazily, put herhands to her head to pin up hertumbling blonde hair. ‘I cared enough aminute ago,’ she said lazily. ‘I’d havecared to do it with him then. But I don’tmind now. If I get needful I can sneakdown to the Bush in the village.There’s a couple of lads down there Iknow well. They’ll meet me behind ahedge somewhere so Mr Gower don’tknow. They’ll give me a penny aswell.’

Dandy’s smile was as warm asice on a bucket. ‘Would you refuse him

then?’ she asked. ‘I’ve had my eye onhim since last summer. His da said“no” and he hasn’t dared. But I’ve hadmy eye on him for my very own.Would you refuse him if he comes toyou again? To oblige me, Katie?’

Katie threw back her lovely headand laughed aloud. ‘Nay!’ she said. ‘Ishouldn’t have the heart! And I had myhand down inside his breeches, Dandy,and he felt real fine to me. I couldn’tfind it in me to say “no”.’

‘I’d pay,’ Dandy said patiently.‘I’d pay you more money than you’dever think to earn in all your life.’

Katie sneered. ‘Got your penniessaved up have you, Dandy? Saved yourpennies from your horseback riding?’

‘I’d pay you a guinea,’ Dandysaid. She heard my gasp and sheavoided my eyes. ‘I’d pay you a guineaif you promise not to have him. I’d payyou a guinea and I’ll give it to you at

Whitsun.’‘Where’d you get a guinea from?’

Katie said, impressed despite herself.‘We’ve got it already,’ Dandy

said proudly. ‘You know Merry’s gother own horse. We’re doing better thanyou think. We’ve got ten guineasbetween the two of us, and someshillings for spending money. You’restraight out of the poorhouse, you don’tunderstand what it’s like for us withour own act. You’ve never seen Merrywork the horses. She can earn a lot ofmoney. We’re only staying with RobertGower this year. Next year we couldgo anywhere. Anyway, I’ve got aguinea all right. And it’s yours if youkeep your hands off Jack.’

‘Dandy,’ I said in an urgentundertone.

But it was too late. Thepoorhouse whore spat into her dirtypalm and Dandy shook quickly, before

she could change her mind. Dandy gotup and went to the mirror and pulled atthe string bow which was tying herhair. ‘I’ll know if you cheat, mind,’ shesaid to her reflection.

Katie slumped back on her pallet.‘I won’t cheat,’ she said disdainfully.‘You can keep your Jack. I have loversI don’t have to buy. I wish you goodluck with him.’

Dandy turned away from themirror. I thought she would be angry atthe gibe but her face was serene. ‘Ihave to get around his father yet,’ shesaid thoughtfully. ‘Buying you off isjust the start of it.’

She pulled her gown out of theclothes chest and slipped it on over hershift. She brushed out her hair andpinned it on top of her head. There wasa very faint tide mark of grime at herbare neck and she rubbed at it with adamp forefinger and then put a clean

white collar atop.I sat on my bed and said nothing.

Katie got to her feet and pulled on herpoorhouse skirt as a replacement forher working breeches. She looked fromDandy to me and then went down thestairs to the stables below in silence.

‘One guinea,’ I said grimly.Dandy turned from the mirror and

put out her hands to me. ‘Don’t looklike that, Merry,’ she said. ‘If I pullJack and marry him then we won’tneed your little ten guineas, we’ll havethis house and the whole show.’

‘If you so much as try then mylittle ten guineas is all we’ll have,’ Isaid miserably. ‘Robert warned you,Dandy, and he warned Jack in front ofus, and neither of you said so much asa whisper. He’ll put us out, both of us.And then where will we be? All we’llhave is a sixteen-hand hunter trained tonothing, you a trapeze artist without a

trapeze, and me a rosinback riderwithout a horse.’

Dandy went to hold me but I putmy hands up to fend her off. I was stilltoo sore all over, and anyway I did notwant her caresses.

‘He’ll never marry you, Dandy,’ Isaid certainly. ‘If you’re lucky he’llhave you and then forget all about it.’

Dandy smiled at me, a long slowpowerful smile. Then she dived underthe straw mattress of her bed andbrought out a little linen bag.

‘Robert sent me to the wisewoman,’ she said. ‘I lied and told himit was double the price. She told mehow to get rid of a baby if I shouldhave one. She told me when it was safeto go with a man so I should not getwith child; and…’ Dandy opened thedrawstring at the neck of the bag andshowed me the few dusty leavesinside, ‘she sold me this!’

‘What is it?’ I asked. I sat downon my bed. I was feeling deeply weary.Tired because of my bruising andaches, but sick inside at the way thatsome danger and trouble seemed to begrowing greater every moment withoutme being able to stay it or turn Dandyfrom her course.

‘It’s a love potion,’ she saidtriumphantly. ‘She knew I was Romand I would know how to use it. I shallhex him, Merry, and I shall bring himto me. I shall have him begging for me.And then he’ll persuade his da to let usbe wed.’

I leaned back against the wall andclosed my eyes. Night had fallenoutside and the room was lit only bythe firelight.

‘You’re mad,’ I said wearily.‘Robert Gower would never have youwed Jack.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong!’

Dandy said triumphantly. ‘Everyonehas noticed how he is about you. MrsGreaves, David, even Jack himself.Jack said that he was as worried aboutyour fall as if you had been his owndaughter. He’s softer with you than heis with any of us, even Jack. You’re thekey to Robert Gower, Merry! He wantsyou to work for him for always. Hewants you to train his horses for him.He sees now that you’re as good as heis, he’ll soon see that the way to keepyou with his show is to marry one of usinto it. He knows you’d never marry sothat only leaves me. Me and Jack!’ sheconcluded.

I closed my eyes and tried tothink. It was possible. Robert Gowercould not have taken more care of meif I had been his own child. Thesurgeon’s fees alone would run intopounds. It was true that I trained horsesbetter than anyone I had ever seen. I

had won him a fortune that day inSalisbury. There were other showslooking for horses and trainers. I hadonly Sea, but he could be made into awonderful act if I wished. Dandy wasonly an apprentice, but there could notbe a prettier girl flyer in the world.She was certainly the only girl flyer inthe country.

But…I stopped and opened myeyes. Dandy had tucked away her littlebag of herbs inside her shift and wastying her pinny around her waist.‘You’d never persuade Robert,’ I said.‘Not in a hundred years, not on yourown. The only person who could turnhim around would be Jack. And youwill never get Jack to stand up to hisda.’

Dandy’s face was as clear as aMay morning. ‘I will,’ she saidconfidently. ‘When he’s my lover he’lldo anything for me.’

If I had been stronger I shouldhave argued more. Even then, as Iclosed my eyes against the dizzy hazypain of headaches and old bruises, Iknew that I should sit up and makeDandy see sense. That she needed myprotection more than she had ever donein her life. But I failed her. I leanedback against the wall and rested untilshe had pinned her cap and was readyfor us to go to dinner. Even then, as thethree of us walked over to the house, Ishould have told Katie that thepromised guinea was mine and notDandy’s, and that I should not pay it.She could have Jack with my blessing.

But I was tired and ill and, Isuppose, lazy. I had not the strength togo against Dandy’s overpoweringconviction. I did not even have the witto keep my eyes open to see if shepalmed the herbs and got them into hiscup of tea at dinner. I just let her go her

own way, even though there wassomething in the back of my mindwhich told me that I had let the dearestperson in the world slip through myfingers and had not put out a hand tosave her.

My sense of miserable forebodingstayed with me so long that Robertspoke of sending for the surgeon again.

‘You’ve lost your smiles, Merry,’he said. We were in the stable yardand I was ready to start working Sea. Ihad decided to treat him as if he wereunbroken – train him to a lunge rein,and take him slowly through all thestages of a young horse as if he hadnever been ridden before. His headnodded to me over the loose-box and Iwas anxious to begin, but Roberttouched my arm.

‘I’d send for the surgeon,’ heoffered. ‘He’ll not be working from

Christmas Eve tomorrow till TwelfthNight, but if you feel ill, Merry, he’llcome out for me.’

I paused and looked at Robert.His face was kindly, his eyes warmwith concern.

‘Robert,’ I said directly. ‘Wouldyou let me be a partner in yourbusiness? The ten guineas I have –would you let me buy more horses withthem and we could work them jointly?Would you let Dandy and me be jointowners with you?’

Robert stared at me blankly for amoment, as if he could not think whatthe words meant. Then I watched thecoldness spread across his face. Itstarted at his eyes which lost theiraffectionate twinkle and became ashard and stony as a man driving a badbargain. The smile died away from hislips and his mouth set hard in a thinline. Even the lines of his profile

became sharper, and under the joyful,laughing showman I saw the bones andsinews of the ruined carter who stakedhis livelihood on his little boy dancingon the back of one horse, and droveaway from the woman who had tried totrap him with her love.

‘No,’ he said, and his voice wasicy. ‘No, Meridon. This is my show,my own show, and God knows I haveworked hard enough for it and longenough for it. There will never be ashare in it for anyone but Jack. It willnever go out of my family. It is all thekin I now acknowledge. I’ll pay you abetter wage, if you’re discontent. I’llpay Dandy tuppence a show whenevershe works. But I’ll not share it.’

For a moment his face was almostpleading, as if he were asking me tounderstand an obsession. He lookeddown at me. ‘I’ve come so far to makeit my own,’ he said. ‘I’ve done things

I’ll have to answer for to my Maker…’He broke off and I wondered if hecould hear in his head the voice of thewoman calling him from behind theswaying wagon. ‘I can’t share, Merry,’he said finally. ‘It isn’t in my nature.’

I waited, then put out a placatoryhand to him. ‘Don’t be angry,’ Icautioned. ‘I want to ask you aquestion but don’t rip up at me.’

His face grew even more closed.‘What?’ he said.

I had a moment’s intenseimpatience that I should have to standin a stable yard and ask a man not to beangry with me for a question which Ihad not even yet voiced. Dandy’sintense female need had brought me tothe slavish role of trying to prepare aman for a request which I myselfthought was unreasonable. Somethingof this must have shown in my face, forRobert suddenly grinned:

‘Not like you to tread cautiously,Merry,’ he said. ‘Are you learningpretty pleasing girlish ways from yoursister and the Warminster whore?’

I gritted my teeth and then,unwillingly, laughed. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Butit’s a question you might dislike.’

‘Get on with it then,’ he said,weary of this fencing.

‘I want a share in the show,’ Isaid. ‘If you couldn’t abide strangerscoming in, how would it be if Dandyand Jack were to make a match of it? Iknow you looked higher for him, but heand Dandy working together make agood team. They could make theirfortunes. Marriage is the only wayyou’ll keep Dandy. And where shegoes, I go.’

Robert looked at me and I couldsee the pinched impoverished manlooking out of his eyes.

‘No,’ he said blankly. ‘No woman

is irreplaceable. If Dandy gets a betteroffer she can go. You can go with her.There are times when I love you like adaughter, Merry, but I have loved andleft a daughter before now, and neverregretted it. If you can’t work for meon wages then you’d best leave.’ Henodded at the stable, at the barnbeyond where Dandy and Jack werepractising the only touring trapeze actin England. ‘I’d change my plans forthe season, I’d throw away all myhopes rather than see Dandy wedJack,’ he said. ‘You’re a pair ofdraggle-tailed gypsies and she’s as hotas a bitch in heat. I look a good dealhigher for my son, I’d see you bothdead at my feet rather than have himwed either of you and bring yourtainted gypsy blood into my family andinto my show.’

I took a deep breath of the coldwinter air and I dropped him a curtsey,

as low and as slavish as Zima’s broad-arsed bobs.

‘Thank you, sir,’ I said, as if hehad tipped me a farthing. ‘I quiteunderstand now.’

I turned from him and walkedtowards my horse, Sea. I slid thebridle on his head and opened the doorto let him out in a daze of anger andhatred. I walked past Robert – Robertwho had been so kind to me and hadheld me when the surgeon pulled at myarm – I walked past him and I hardlysaw him. There was a hot red hazearound my eyes and I think if I had spaton his boots as I passed it would havecome out as blood. My pulse wasthundering in my head and my hand onSea’s lunging reins gripped by instinct,not care. In the back of my mind I knewit was Dandy’s folly that had led meinto this idiot’s babble of marriage andsharing. But I knew also that the warm

summer days in the wagon and the hardwintry work at Warminster had led meto see Robert’s interests and ours asrunning in harness. Dandy’s foolishlust for Jack had blinded me as well asher. She had convinced me she couldhave him. She had nearly convincedme she could keep him. I had neededRobert’s coldness to sober me.

He had looked in my face and hadspoken to me as a man of substancespeaks to a servant girl. Worse. He hadspoken to me as a freeholder and acitizen speaks to a dirty travelling slut.All the work I had done for him and theknocks I had taken for him had notserved to alter the fact that he hadbought me from Da as a job lot in witha pony and a girl they both knew was aslut. I walked away from him, and Iwalked away from the tiny growinghope I had felt that there might bebridges which I could build from the

world of the people who belonged,who slept soft and kept clean, andmine. There were no bridges. Therewas an absolute division.

As I led Sea down to the paddockI longed for Wide with as muchpassion as if I were still in my lice-ridden bunk listening to Da humpingZima. I had not belonged there. I didnot belong here. I felt as if I wouldbelong nowhere until I could own myown land and command servants of myown. There was no middling coursefor me, there was no staging place. Itseemed I was condemned to the veryditch of society unless I couldsomehow scramble my way, all alone,to the top. I had to get to the top. I hadto get where I belonged. I had to go toWide.

I stepped back from the horse andclicked to him to get going. He wasnew to the work or else he had

forgotten the skill. I worked with himall morning though my hands were stiffand my cheeks were icy. It was onlywhen I went into the kitchen for mybreakfast that I found they had becomered and chapped because I had beencrying into the cold east wind for all ofthe time.

We hardly noticed the Christmasseason. Robert was distant and cold tous all since that time in the yard. Hespun a silver coin down the table toJack at breakfast on Christmas morningand he gave Dandy and Katie and me athrupenny piece each. Mrs Greaveshad a bolt of material, William apenny, David a rather good pair ofsecond-hand gloves.

That was it. We all went back towork, and Christmas was just anotherday of training horses for me andworking on the trapeze for the rest of

them.The new ponies bought at

Salisbury were going well with theothers and Robert had taught me themoves with the stick in one hand andthe whip in the other and the words tocall at them. We had a pretty little actwith them coming into the ring andsplitting into two teams, crossing fromone side to another, passing while theycircled (I always lost the smallest onewho would tag on to the wrong team),pirouetting on the spot, and finallytaking a bow while I stood in themiddle of them smiling at where theaudience would be, with my back tothem as if I could trust them on theirown – which I absolutely could not.

I worked them every morningbefore breakfast, while Robertwatched the trapeze practice orworked at his accounts inside thehouse. After we had eaten we took

Bluebell and the new horse, Morris,into the field and I practised vaultingon them, and standing. Bluebell wassteady as a rock, she had learned thejob with Jack all those years ago and Iwas probably a welcome relief – agood deal lighter even if I did tend toovershoot and go flying off the far side.

‘Don’t jump!’ Robert would yellirritably from the centre of the ringwhile his pipe puffed little signals upat the cold blue sky. ‘Let the horse’sspeed take you up. All you do is getyour feet off the ground. Her canterwill do the rest!’

I had mastered standing up on thehorse with Jack to hold me, but withRobert keeping the horse at a steadypace I was learning to stand alone.First, hanging on like grim death to thestrap, but gradually – as we trainedevery day, snow or shine – learning tolet the strap drop and balance with my

arms outstretched holding nothing,standing head up, my feet shifting andstepping on the horse’s bouncinghaunches.

In the later afternoon Jack wouldcome out of the barn to work with us.Dandy and Katie would train withouthim, sometimes flying tricks to Davidwho would catch them, sometimespractising by flying a trick to the rightposition but dropping into the net, butmost of the time practising the newtrick David had taught them – a cross-over – where Dandy swung out on thetrapeze and was caught by Jack asKatie took off on the returning trapeze.Dandy would somersault from Jack’shands into the net as Katie was caughtby him, then Katie could either try toswing back up to the pedestal board, ordrop down to the net too. David, Jackand Robert all said it lookedwonderful. It was to be the final trick

of the show. Katie and Dandy preenedthemselves and looked smug once theyhad the timing right. I had no opinionon it at all. I simply could not watch it.

By the end of December Davidhad all but finished his task, on time,and earned the promised bonus. He hadgiven Robert a trained trapeze troupe:one boy catcher and two girl flyers;and that without too many mishaps.They had a routine of tricks: Dandycould swing from her bar to Jack into alegcatch, she could do a bird’s nestacross when she got her feet tuckedbehind the trapeze bar while stillholding on with her hands and then, atthe last moment, stretched out herhands to be caught. She could do apass they called the angel pass withone leg pointing to the roof and theother pointing down, when he handedher back to her own trapeze holding ahand and a foot, and she and Katie

could reliably do a cross-over. Katie’sbest trick was the angel pass. It lookedshowy but actually it was one of theeasiest. David had taught them all howto do somersaults and twisters, into thenet. They would have to practise themon their own.

He spent the last few daysworking with me on the practicetrapeze. As long as I did not have toclimb the ladder up to the pedestal Idid not feel that icy shaking fear. Icould do a number of tricks, get thetrapeze swinging, drop underneath it sothat I was upside down, get into thebird’s nest position, hang from my feetalone. Robert had it in mind to slingthe trapeze under Dandy’s A-frame,and to use me as a warm-up act afterthe interval to get the crowd ready forthe real trapeze work which would goon high above my head. I had noobjection except I stipulated I should

wear my breeches and a shirt.‘For God’s sake, Meridon!’

Robert said irritably. ‘You can’t do atrapeze act dressed like a stable lad.You’ll wear a short skirt and astomacher top and air your bubbieslike the other girls.’

‘Nowt to show!’ Katiewhispered.

I narrowed my eyes and saidnothing.

David intervened. ‘It takessomething of the excitement away fromthe aerial act,’ he said judiciously. ‘Itdetracts from the girls up high if Merryis only half-way up but dressed thesame. Why don’t we dress her likeJack? She can wear tight whitebreeches like him and a billowy shirttop. She’d look grand, and that leavesthe two girl flyers half-naked as theylike to be!’

Katie and Dandy simpered. Jack

nodded. ‘It suits us all better, Da,’ hesaid. ‘And you’ll have the Justicesdown on you for sure if you have a lasshalf-naked that near ground level.’

‘All right,’ Robert said. ‘Thegirls can wear blue costumes, and Jackand Meridon can have blue silk shirts.Meridon can use one of your short blueskirts when she’s doing her rosinbackact.’

‘She should have her own, in adifferent colour,’ said Dandy. Katienodded. Neither of them wanted toshare.

‘She’d look nice in green,’ Katievolunteered.

David and Robert shook theirheads in unison. ‘Green’s unlucky inthe ring,’ David said.

‘Share your damned skirts youlazy wenches,’ Robert said. ‘Or makeup another one in red.’

‘Down to my knees,’ I said.

Robert nodded. ‘That’s settledthen,’ he said briskly. Then he turnedto David. ‘You’ve done a grand job,I’m proud of you. We’ll have a dinnertonight to celebrate. Mrs Greaves isroasting a haunch of venison now.’

David did his little showman’sbow, his hand on his heart. ‘I’mobliged, sir,’ he said formally.

Robert nodded at us. ‘Finish yourpractice and turn out the horses andthen come in, the rest of you,’ he said.‘You can all take a glass of winetonight to say farewell to your trainer.He’s done you proud.’

He turned and went out of thedoor. I dropped from the practicetrapeze and watched Jack catching asKatie came towards him, her little facegrimacing with concentration.

David called them down and allthree of them threw somersaults intothe net, a showy confident end to a

good act. I watched the wood shavingsunderneath my boots.

‘Listen to me, you three,’ Davidsaid, his voice lilting. ‘I’ve done withyou now and these are my final wordsto be taken seriously.’ He turned toJack. ‘Watch the rigging,’ he said.‘These are good frames and I’ve usedsuch things myself. But the net is a newidea. I don’t know when it will get old.I don’t know whether it will stretch.Test it every time you get it out with acouple of hay bales into the middle,and watch it. Your lives depend on it.Don’t forget.’

Jack nodded, his face grave.‘You keep the beat,’ David said

to him as if he were passing on amantle of office. ‘You call the trick,and if they’re not ready or out of time,you keep yourself out of their way andlet them swing back, away from youagain. It’s not your job to grab at them.

Only catch the good tricks.’Jack’s dark eyes were wide. He

nodded.David turned to Dandy and Katie.

‘Don’t do the catcher’s work for him,’he said. ‘He’s paid to catch. Youswing to where you’re supposed to beand let him earn his money. He catchesyou, you just stretch out to where heought to be. If he’s not there, you swingback again, or do the trick to the netand you get on your back and you fallsoft.’

Katie and Dandy nodded, asearnest as apprentices.

‘Trust him,’ David said. Hisvoice sent a great shudder down myspine.

‘Trust him,’ David said again.‘He’s your catcher. You’ve got to flyto him as if you loved him entirely andare certain that he will be there. Trusthim and give yourself over to him.’

Robert had left the door ajar andit swung open. A gust of icy wind blewin, and with it, a great white tumblingbird. A barn owl, eyes glaring anddazzled by our lanterns. It flew in, amassive wide-winged bird, entirelysilently, not a whisper of its passing,its open crazed face turning right andleft, seeking its way out. It flewdirectly over Dandy and Jack, and thenwheeled around, so close to her that itspassing stirred her hair. It flewbetween her and the lantern hung on theceiling. Its shadow fell black over herand Dandy gave a little affected shriekand clung to Jack’s arm, then the doorswung open again, the bird turned andwas gone. I fell back against the walland felt the flints and mortar sharpagainst my fingers. I was shaken.

‘My God,’ Katie exclaimed. ‘Thatwas like a ghost!’

I saw David rub his hands hard

against his cheeks. I saw him squarehis shoulders, I saw him wipe his handacross his mouth as if he were paintingon his bright professional smile.

‘Just a barn owl trying to get outof the cold, poor thing,’ he said lightly.I think only I heard the strain in hisvoice. ‘Snow is coming, we’d best runup to the house and get ready fordinner. It’s the last decent meal I’llhave for days. I’m cooking for myselftomorrow.’

He looked across at me and hisbright smile faltered for a momentwhile we met each other’s darkenedgaze.

‘You hungry, Merry?’ he askeddeterminedly, willing me to pretendthat I had not seen that second of hissuperstitious fear. I pushed myselfaway from the wall to stand on my owntwo feet.

‘Starving,’ I said. My voice was

thin, but the others noticed nothing.David’s speech had been planned tosend them out with their new act full ofconfidence. He wanted them to trusteach other entirely, he wanted them towork without him, as well as they haddone for the past two months. He hadwanted to send them out with hisblessing. He did not want them thrownand frightened with the easysuperstition of travelling people.

We clattered around, banking inthe stove, blowing out the lanternsexcept one to light our way back to thehouse across the fields. I looked for thebarn owl when we were outside, but ithad gone.

We all got tipsy at dinner. Robertbecame maudlin and blinked at theshiny surface of the table, and theninsisted on singing loud and mournfulballads. David declared that all

Welshmen could sing from birthwithout training and blasted out someconvincing evidence in anincomprehensible language to prove it.Dandy danced very prettily with herskirts held high, and Katie sang abawdy ale-house ditty. Jack and Ibecame morosely quiet with the drink,though neither of us had more than acouple of glasses.

Robert called a halt at eleveno’clock.

‘Work tomorrow, same as usual,’he said.

‘I’ll be gone as you’re rising,’David said to the three of us. ‘I’ll saymy farewells to you now.’

He spread his arms wide andhugged all three of us: Katie, Dandyand me. Katie he bussed and put to oneside and whispered something in herear which made her giggle and blush.Dandy he held very close for a moment

and then set her on her feet.‘Keep your wits about you and

push out on the beat,’ he said. ‘If youknow a trick isn’t going to work thendrop into the net. And don’t get lazy!And practise every day!’

He turned to me and put his armsaround me. ‘I wish I could have gotyou up high, Merry,’ he said. ‘But I amsorrier than I can tell you about yourfall.’

I shrugged. ‘I’ll have others,’ Isaid, thinking of Sea waiting to bebroken to the saddle.

He did not hug Jack. He took himby the shoulders and he looked intoJack’s guileless open face. ‘They’reyour responsibility now,’ he said. ‘It isyour job to keep the flyers safe. Do youswear to me on your life that you willdo that?’

Jack blinked, surprised atDavid’s tone. ‘Yes,’ he said simply.

‘I’ll do the best I can.’I felt my hands clench into fists,

like they do when I’m afraid. Davidscanned Jack’s face once and thensmiled.

‘Well, good luck to the three ofyou then,’ he said. He nodded toRobert over our heads. ‘You’ll alwayshave my direction,’ he said. ‘If youneed me for new tricks or re-trainingI’d be glad to work with the four ofthem again.’

Robert rose from the table, andclasped his hand with a smile. ‘I’mobliged to you,’ he said. ‘It’s betterthan I’d dreamed.’

David saw us to the kitchen door.The room was cosy, the stove banked-in for the night. A dog in its basket. Acat curled in the hearth. We opened theback door and a gust of icy air blew in,a swirl of snowflakes with it. Dandyand Katie pulled their shawls over

their ducked heads and dashed outdown the path towards the stables. Ihesitated on the doorway, careless ofthe blowing snow. David looked downat me, waiting.

‘Does it mean anything,’ I asked,‘in shows? Does it mean anythingwhen an owl flies across the ring?When a bird flies in?’

David’s smile was easy. ‘Nothingat all, my fey little gypsy,’ he saidtenderly. ‘Now run to your bed beforeyou get cold. And try to stop tumblingoff those horses of yours. If you’reworried about Dandy there’s littleneed. I’ve done the best I can and sheknows her job.’

I nodded, longing to beconvinced.

‘It’s all right then?’ I said.‘It’s all right,’ he said, and he

bent and gave me a gentle kiss on theforehead. I held my ground and did not

pull away from his touch.I stepped out of the back door and

the wind hit me in the face and thesnowflakes dazzled me. I dipped myhead and ran in the direction of thestables. David had said it was all right.David had said that the bird meantnothing, its shadow falling on Dandymeant nothing. If there had been dangerDavid would have warned me.

I tumbled up the stairs to ourbedroom, shucked off my clothes in thecold room and fell into by bed. I didnot want to think about anything.

12We all missed David, but the routine ofour days went on as if he had beenthere. Jack called the beat instead ofthe sweet low Welsh voice, and thethree of them quarrelled and arguedand settled on the way they would trainand practise. Jack came out often toRobert and me in the paddock and wewould practise our new acts with thehorses.

Robert’s seed of an idea of an actwith challenging people to ride Seahad developed into a comical routine.Firstly I was to ride Bluebell aroundthe ring, vaulting on and off and thendancing on her back. I had yet to learnto jump through the hoop but I manageda couple of flat-footed jumps and acouple of skips.

‘Straighten up!’ Robert yelled atme time after time as I went bow-

legged with my bottom stuck outbackwards trying to keep my balance.

Straightening my legs onhorseback was an act of pure will, Ifound. It was no easier in the ungainlycrouch which came natural to me. Iwas probably making it harder formyself. But I found it such a relief tobe within grabbing distance of theskewbald mane. Then:

‘Straighten up!’ Robert wouldyell again, and I would force myself tostand tall and even to look straightahead with my chin up instead ofgazing longingly at Bluebell’s broadback.

The act we planned would haveme skipping and then jumping throughan open hoop on Bluebell’s back. ThenJack, dressed in fustian breeches andgaiters, would come out from the backof the crowd like a drunken youngfarmer and demand a turn. At first I

was supposed to refuse and turn myhead away from him, at which Jackwas to take a run from the far side ofthe ring and vault on to my place,pushing me off the other side.

Often we cracked heads,occasionally we would bounce offeach other and fall back, off our ownsides. Bluebell was excellent andstood as steady as a rock, even whenJack went up and I failed to drop offand we clung to each other and howledwith exhausted laughter.

Then I was supposed to try tocarry on with my act while Jackvaulted on to the horse. As long as Istayed well towards the tail and out ofthe way we were in little danger ofcollision. Jack vaulted on and endedup facing the tail, then he spun himselfaround so that he was facing the head,but both his legs were the same side.Then he lay flat on his back, his legs

and arms on either side of the canteringhorse. Then he spun around like a sackof meal. In the finale he crawled allaround under Bluebell’s belly and thenunder her neck.

We practised it so often that wegrew skilled and quick at it but it didnot seem funny to us. We only realizedhow good it would be in the showwhen Dandy and Katie finished theirpractice early one day and came overto watch us, and actually collapsed onto the grass they were laughing so loud.

Robert, who had stood in thecentre of the field for day after frozenday, had looked very thoughtful at thatand had wandered off chewing on thestem of his pipe muttering to himself:‘Lady and the Jester, the Girl and theTramp, the Clowns on Horseback.’

Next day he had a sign-writer upand spent a long time with him in thestable yard while I worked the team of

ponies in the paddock and Jack andDandy and Katie practised in the barn.

The horse acts had grown almostbeyond recognition now that I couldride in the ring and we had tworosinbacks. I did not yet know whatorder Robert planned to run the showbut we had the dancing pony team,Snow doing his tricks with countingnumbers and flags, Jack and me doinga two-horse bareback riding act, mydancing on the back of Bluebell, andthen the second part of the act whenJack came in dressed as the farmer.The little ponies could still do theBattle of Blenheim of course; and itwas rather more impressive now thatthe flower of British cavalryoutnumbered the French by four tothree, and for the end of the showRobert planned some kind of historicaltableau.

‘Summat like Saladin, but with

the three lasses,’ he said to himself,chomping on his pipe as he did whenhe was struggling with an idea. Hewalked around the stable yard in asmall half-circle. The pipe puffed alittle cloud of triumph. ‘Rape of theSabine Women,’ he said to himself.

We would be an impressive sighton the road, too. There was Snow,Robert’s grey stallion; Sea, my greystallion; Bluebell and Morris, the tworosinbacks; Lofty, the new wagonhorse; and seven little ponies. Loftywas a heavy draught horse bought withRobert’s profits from the Salisburygamble to pull the new wagon whichwould carry the heavy flying riggingand the new screens he ordered.Bluebell and Morris would pull thetwo sleeping wagons. This summerWilliam would come on the road too,for the first time. Robert might beparsimonious but even he could see

that Jack and he could not set therigging alone. We would need helpwith the horses at the end of two showsas well.

Then we worked. Worked andwaited. It snowed hard in January andwhen I fell off the back of Bluebell Ifell soft into drifts on either side of mytrack. I fell wet and cold too andRobert took pity on me and ordered metwo new pairs of breeches and smocksso that I could change into dry clothesat each break. Mrs Greaves kept themwarming for me on the front of herstove and I would dash into thekitchen, my teeth chattering with thecold and strip off my icy cold breechesand smock and drop them on the floor.

William came in one time, as Istripped from my snow-encrustedsmock, and dropped the pallet of woodhe was carrying and had a tongue-lashing from Mrs Greaves and was

banned from the kitchen. But then sheturned to me.

‘You must cover yourself,Merry,’ she said gently. ‘You’re not alittle girl any more.’

She reached behind the dresserand pulled out a big looking glass, atleast a foot square. She held it up forme to see myself, and I craned my necktrying to see all of me in the one glass.I had shot up in height, I was nearlyfull grown and I had fattened up at last,I was no longer wiry and scrawny. Ihad filled out. The curves of my bodywere usually hidden by my smock orby the cut-down shirts of Jack’s I worefor work. Now, in my chemise I couldsee that my breasts had grown. I had ashadow of hair in each armpit and atmy groin. My buttocks were smoothand as tightly muscled as a racehorse.My legs were long and lean, bruisedlike a charity schoolboy. I took a step

closer to the mirror and looked at myface.

The hair I had hacked off in thesummer had regrown and now fell tomy shoulders in thick copper waves.The tumbling colour of it softened thehungry hard lines of my face and whenI smiled the reflection which I sawwas that of a stranger. My eyes seemedto have grown more green this winter,they were still set slanty as a cat,black-lashed. My nose was slightlyskewed from the fall from the trapeze,my face would never be perfect. Iwould never have Dandy’s simplerounded loveliness.

‘You will be a great beauty,’ MrsGreaves said. She took the mirrorgently from me and tucked it back. ‘Ionly hope it will bring you some joy.’

‘I don’t want beauty,’ I said, andthough I was a young girl and not verywise I told her the truth. ‘I don’t want

beauty and I don’t want a man,’ I said.‘All I want is a place of my own andsome gold under my mattress. AndDandy safe.’

Mrs Greaves chuckled and helpedme tie the strings at my cuffs. ‘The onlyway for a lass like you to get that is tofind yourself a man and hope he’s arich one,’ she counselled. ‘You’ll likeit well enough when you’re older.’

I shook my head but said nothing.‘What about that sister of yours?’

she asked me. ‘She’s set her sights onMaster Jack, hasn’t she? Small changeshe’ll get there.’

I looked warily at Mrs Greaves.She worked in silence at the dinnertable, she cooked in silence in thekitchen. But she saw a good deal morethan anyone might expect. I knew shewas not in Robert’s confidence, but Ifeared what she might tell him.

‘Who says?’ I asked, cautious as

a hedgerow brat.Mrs Greaves chuckled. ‘Think

I’m blind, child?’ she asked me. ‘Mytea doesn’t have great lumps in the pot,yet night after night that poor lad hasdrunk down God knows whatnonsense. Is it working for her?’

My face was guarded. ‘I don’tknow,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what youmean.’

I did know. And it was working.The love potion, or the boredom of theshort winter days and the long winterevenings. The flattery of two prettygirls or the importance of being theircatcher. Something was calling Jackover to our little room above the stablefor evening after evening while hisfather pored over maps and overalmanacs of fairs.

We would hear his step on thefoot of the stair and then his low:‘Hulloa!’ and Dandy would call back:

‘Come up, Jack!’ in a voice of lazysweetness.

She would toss a handful oflavender seeds on the fire so it smokedwith an acrid sweetness. She wouldkick a pair of soiled clouts under themattress, and she would loosen the topof her bodice so that it showed thecreamy curves of the tops of herbreasts. Then she would wink at Katieand me and say, ‘Ten minutes, mind,’in quite a different voice to the two ofus.

Night after night Jack’s head camethrough the trapdoor wearing his half-rueful, half-roguish smile.

‘Hello Meridon, Dandy, Katie,’he would say. ‘I brought you someapples from the store room.’

He would hand them out and wewould sit and munch the icy fruit andtalk about the work we had done thatday. The tricks that had worked or

failed and our hopes for the seasonahead of us.

After about ten minutes or soKatie, who had now seen the goldenguinea she was to collect at Easter,would prompt me.

‘I’ll help you water-up, Merry,’she would say; and the two of uswould go down the stairs to check allthe horses had water and hay for thenight and that they were safe in thepaddock. Snow and Sea were keptindoors and we would check them too.Sometimes we would idle then, in theloose-boxes, giving Dandy and Jacktime to be alone together. I would halflisten to Katie’s chatter about lads inWarminster and one time a realgentleman from as far away as Bath,but most of the time I would lean mycheek against Sea’s warm neck andwish we were far away.

All I had to do to stop this

courtship in its tracks was to tellRobert. He would be angry but itwould be no worse than one of hisbawled tirades. I could cool Jack’sardour by just a hint of such a thing. OrI could promise Katie a further guineaif she intrigued with him behindDandy’s back. But for some reason Ifelt powerless. I felt as if Dandy’s hexon Jack had bound us all, so that Katieand I lingered in the stables thoughneither of us wished the affair well.And I lied to Mrs Greaves who mighthave told me what to do.

‘Dandy doesn’t fancy Jack,’ I saidunconvincingly. ‘We’re all three of usclose, through being on the roadtogether and working together like wedo. Robert’s aiming higher than us forhis son; and Dandy has her work.’

Mrs Greaves nodded and let it goat that. ‘Dinner in twenty minutes,’ shesaid and picked up my wet things from

the floor.I nodded and went out into the

gathering darkness to the stable yard.William should have lit the fire in ourlittle room by now and I thought Iwould steal some moments on my own.Half-way up the ladder I heard voicesand I paused. I heard Jack’s voice, andDandy’s amused ripple of laughter.

‘I think you’ve hexed me, Dandy,with some damned gypsy brew,’ hesaid. ‘I truly do!’

‘Only the magic that’s in yourbreeches,’ Dandy said softly, a smilein her voice. ‘What’s this then, mybonny lad, if it isn’t magic?’

‘Oh Dandy,’ Jack sighed. ‘Nay,keep your hands off, lass. I won’t beteased by you. You’ll make me tooweak to catch you at practicetomorrow.’

‘David told me to fly to you as if Iloved you,’ she said. ‘I can do that

Jack. I can fly to you as if I love you. Ido love you, you know.’

‘Dandy,’ Jack soundeduncomfortable.

‘D’you love me?’ she askedearnestly.

‘Dandy,’ Jack said again.‘You love me when I touch you

there,’ she said in a soft breathy voice.‘You love me well enough when I openmy bodice like this, don’t you Jack?You love me well enough when I kissyou like this, don’t you Jack?’

I could hear Jack’s breathingsuddenly grow harsher and I heard anabrupt scuffle as he broke away fromher.

‘Now stop this, Dandy,’ he saidrapidly. ‘We’ve got to stop this. If myda finds out he’ll throw us both off theshow and we’ll have nowhere to goand nothing to live on. He warned usboth. I’m a fool to come up here and be

with you on my own, and you’re adevil to lead me on like this. Youknow I can’t promise to love you. Idon’t promise to love you. When westarted you said it was just all for fun. Ican’t make promises to any lass, youknow that.’

There was utter silence in thelittle room. I crept a bit closer to thetrapdoor and strained my ears to hear. Ithought that Dandy would be mad withanger that he should pull away fromher, but I had not realized how clevershe was with him.

‘All right,’ she said sweetly andthe laughter was back in her voice.‘All right, bonny Jack. We’ll play byyour rules and we won’t upset your da.You make no promises to me and I’llmake no promises to you.’

I heard the floorboard creak asshe stood up and the whisper of herpetticoat as she slid down her gown.

‘Now,’ she said, and her voicewas full of potent female power. ‘Nowyou tell me, and you can tell me true.Not whether you love me, bonny Jack,for we’ve agreed not to say that word.But tell me if you like the look of me,mother-naked.’

I heard a sound from Jack thatwas like a groan and then the tumblingsound of them falling together back onto a bed. I heard my sister gasp as hethrust into her and then her littlewhimpering cries as they sought theirpleasure together. He gave a muffledshout and then a little later I heardDandy sigh deeply as if she had finallygot what she wanted.

I sat with my chin cupped in myhands on the draughty stairs and waitedfor them to have done so that I couldget into my room. I felt neither shock,nor that second-rate desire whichcomes from watching or hearing. I had

heard and seen my da and Zima eversince I was a baby and it meant nothingto me except the increased likelihoodof more quarrels later when theirappetites were slaked.

I had warned Dandy off, Jack hadwarned her against asking him forlove. She had been hot for him sincethe summer day she first saw him in hisred shirt and his white breeches in thefield outside Salisbury fair. Now shehad wooed him and had him. I did notknow if that would be enough for her. Ifelt, in every aching bone of my chilledbody, that no good would come to us ofthis, Jack might be as randy as a studdog, but he was not in love. If she wascounting on him to treat this romp as abetrothal she would be sorry beforeshe was done.

I shrugged and stood up. Dandyhad been likely to lose her maidenheadyoung, and I could have stopped it as

easily as stopping the wind blowing.The affair might cool within weeks andmy worry would have been for nothing.Certainly when we were workingtogether on the road under Robert’seye there would be fewer opportunitiesfor pleasuring. Jack had told herclearly that he would not love normarry her, and she had taken him withthat knowledge to satisfy his lust andhers. I judged they had enjoyed theprivate use of our room for longenough and crept down to the foot ofthe ladder. By the time I clatteredslowly up they were huddled into theirclothes and Jack was tending the fire.He nodded at my sullen face and tookhimself off to wash before dinner.

Dandy shot me a sideways glance.‘I’ve had him,’ she said.

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I was on thestairs.’

She nodded. Neither of us had

ever been house-dwellers, we neverminded being overheard.

‘Will that be enough for younow?’ I asked her. ‘Have him forpleasure, as you said, and leave therest alone.’

She pulled the bow that tied herhair and the great black wave tumbleddown over her face. ‘Oh surely,’ shesaid, from underneath it, and retired toher pallet and started brushing itthrough.

I stared at her in silent frustration.She was putting up a wall around herthoughts as surely as if she had told meto mind my own business. We had bothlearned that trick. Dandy could lie withher lover, learn her skill, wash herbody in front of me withoutembarrassment. She and I were raisedin a wagon, we had no sense of privateplace. Our private rooms were all inour own minds and she could shut me

out of her plans and imagination assurely as I could close her out of mine.

‘You won’t be able to have himwithout Robert knowing when we’reon the road,’ I said warningly.

Dandy swept back a wave ofglossy black hair. She smiled at me,her eyes were sated. She looked as ifshe knew what she was doing and waswell pleased.

‘I’ll be ready to move on by then,’she said sweetly. ‘Don’t fuss,Meridon, you’re like an old motherhen. I know what I’m doing. I’ve gotten weeks.’

I turned from her and stared intothe fire, the fire which Jack had tendedfor us. If I were a real Romany I shouldsee in the fire what the danger waswhich sent shivers up my spine. If Ihad the Sight instead of pretending toit, and a few worthless dreams ofWide, I should know what I feared so.

I turned my fears over in my mind likethe mother hen she called me, turningher eggs. Robert could abandon us inhis rage when he found that Dandy andJack had lain together. I knew that didnot matter now. There would be othershows which would be glad to have us.Dandy had a unique skill and I hadspecial talent. Dandy was the only girlflyer in the country and I was the besttrainer and rider I knew. We had tenguineas (nine, thanks to Dandy’sdesires) and a fifty-pound hunter. Wewould not starve. It was not the fear ofbeing left by Robert which clutched atmy heart.

Dandy might fall. But Dandyalways might fall. She was skilled andJack was a good catcher. They hadbeen taught well and they werepractising daily. Robert had sworn thatthey would never work without thecatch-net. The height might make me

sick with fear but it did not troubleDandy. And her happiness was soundenough. I knew she was hot for Jackbut it was partly lust and partly piquebecause he had fancied Katie. I did notbelieve in love. I had never seen sucha thing. I had never seen a man or awoman in love. I had never seen a manor a woman do anything except pleasethemselves. While Dandy wanted JackI thought she would be able to havehim. If his da spoiled sport when wewere on the road she could make herchoice to leave him go, or find ways tobe with him. Either way it wasDandy’s amusement. Not her life’sneed.

‘Are you done? Old MotherMerry?’ Dandy asked me mockingly.She had tied up her hair again and hada fresh kerchief tied at her neck. Shehad been watching me as I stared at theflames, and she had read my face

aright. ‘Worried all you can?’ shetaunted me.

‘Yes,’ I said. Then I put my fingeron the one, last fear. ‘You are sure theold woman showed you how to stop ababy,’ I said. ‘And told you when youare safe to lie with a man?’

Dandy chuckled, a deep richlaugh and her blackberry eyes danced.‘Oh aye,’ she said. ‘There’s a timewhen you cannot make a child, and atime when you will. There’s herbswhich will help you do it, and herbswhich will make it less likely. There’ssome nasty stuff which turns your gutshalf inside out but washes a baby out ifone is started. I know how to makesure I don’t get with child.’ Her blackeyes teased me. ‘And how to get abelly on me if I wish it,’ she said.

‘You would not wish it,’ I saidstiffly.

Dandy chuckled. ‘And let Katie

be the only one up on the high trapezein a pink stomacher, Meridon? Youmust be mad!’

13February was freezing and cold. Inearly March there was a thaw but thenit froze hard again. Robert made uswork in all weathers and we all fourgrew bored and rebellious, but we keptour complaints to ourselves. We all setto costume and harness making, MrsGreaves teaching Dandy and me tosew. We were less handy than eitherJack or Katie. He had been makingcostumes and harness all his life andshe had learned a speedy carelessstitch in the poorhouse. Only Dandyand I puckered up the cheap silk withgreat ungainly running stitches wherewe should have hemmed. Time andtime again Mrs Greaves made us rip itback and start at the beginning, until thefabric grew damp and grimy fromhandling.

‘It’ll wash,’ she said placidly

when I complained that the costumeswould be spoiled before we ever worethem.

Dandy and Jack had less time tobe alone but generally they would offerto water the horses last thing at nightand Katie and I would give them aclear half-hour to satisfy the horses’and their own needs before we pulledshawls over our heads and ran out intothe cold from the back door to thestable block.

I only asked Dandy about theprogress of her love affair once; shenever volunteered information. Ithought it unlikely she would hold Jackfor long, already he was flirting,furtive and roguish, with Katie whilewe sat around the kitchen table sewing.Dandy’s black eyes snapped at Katiebut her smile to Jack was steady andsweet. I only spoke to her once in thoselong cold ten weeks. It was when I was

tacking up the little ponies in the newharness and Dandy was there polishingthe bells and fitting them on for me.

‘You can’t love him,’ I saidpositively.

She brushed back a dark wave ofhair and smiled at me. ‘Nay,’ she said.‘I don’t think any of us has a lot of faithin love.’

‘Then why go on?’ I asked. I wasgenuinely mystified.

Dandy smiled a slow smile, shewas as sleek as a stroked cat thesedays. ‘Oh chilly little Meridon, you’llnever understand,’ she said. ‘I like it.If it was not Jack it would be anotherman. I like the touch of his hands andhis lips and his body inside me. Andthe feelings are getting better andbetter. I like it more and more.’

‘But you don’t like him more andmore,’ I argued. ‘You don’t like himgiving Katie the glad eye.’

Dandy grimaced. ‘I don’t,’ shesaid. ‘And if that little whore so muchas smiles at him she’ll feel the weightof my hand. But I want Jack still.’

‘For pleasure?’ I asked. One ofthe little ponies threw his head upbecause the harness was too tight. Iloosened it. It was new stiff leatherand my fingers were freezing. I cursedunder my breath.

Dandy passed the bell over to meand watched me screw it into thesocket at the crown of the headband.

‘He is part of my plans,’ she saidgrandly. Then she gave me a wink. ‘I’llbe wedded and mistress of this housebefore I’m done, Merry, I promiseyou.’

I flinched and the little bell rangshrilly like a warning.

‘Don’t count on winning Robert’sconsent,’ I said. ‘I spoke to him and hecalled us gypsy trash. He don’t want

Romany blood in his family, Dandy.Don’t count on his agreement. TakeJack for pleasure if you must. But lookforward too far and you’ll fail.’

I moved to the next pony andDandy handed me the bridle.

‘You always worry so,’ she saididly. ‘Leave be, Merry. I know whatI’m doing, and you know nothing aboutcourting and how it is between a ladand a lass then. Leave be. You don’tunderstand.’

I shrugged at that, feeling a littlesour. Then I tacked-up the rest of theponies and led them out into the boggyfield to practise their paces on themelting ground.

‘We’re going to do a gala,’ Robertannounced. He had dined in his diningroom with Jack, while Dandy, Katie,William, Mrs Greaves and I ate in thekitchen. Robert came through the door,

port glass in one hand, pipe in theother. Jack followed him and they bothseated themselves at the kitchen table.Mrs Greaves melted away, towards thestove. William went to fetch somemore wood and then hovered withinearshot with the wood-basket.

‘I’ll invite the mayor and thealdermen of Salisbury,’ Robert said.‘Aye and ladies too. Local gentry, theJPs. That sort of person. We’ll put on agala show for them. Proper chairswe’ll need,’ he said half to himself.‘That’s in the afternoon. In the morningwe’ll do a show for the village. Pennya time admittance. That’s our first andlast show here and you can count it asyour coming-out. After that we’re onthe road and working for real.’

I looked around the table and sawmy own anticipation mirrored in theother bright faces. We had allpractised for so long, we had all been

cooped up here for so long. For Jackand Katie it had been a long tediouswinter. But for Dandy and me it hadbeen unprecedented. We had neverbeen under a roof for so long before.We had never been in one place for solong before. We had never slept in thesame bed under the same roof for thewhole season. I was impatient to moveon.

‘Here’s the programme,’ Robertsaid, pulling a dog-eared black-backednotebook from his jacket pocket. Heflipped open the page and lit his pipe.We waited in silence.

‘Opening parade,’ he said.‘That’s you two girls in your flyingcostumes with your capes on. Meridonand Jack in breeches riding Snow andSea.’ He broke off and looked at me.‘D’you agree to ride Sea into the ring,Merry? He’d look fine alongsideSnow.’

I nodded and he went on.‘Followed by troop of little

ponies with full tack and bells, andMorris and Bluebell bringing up therear harnessed together.’

Jack and I nodded, thinking aboutthe horses.

‘First half is horses,’ Robert said.‘There’s to be no catch-net for the firsthalf.’ He glanced at me with a littlesmile. ‘Don’t look so white, you sillygirl. We put it up in the interval.’

I nodded and felt my colour comeback to my cheeks.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘First act on isMeridon with the little ponies dancing.Just turns and pirouettes. Meridon,you’re to wear a riding habit andjacket and a little hat with a feather.’He looked at me critically. ‘You’vefilled out,’ he said with some surprise.‘I’d not noticed, Meridon. You’ll bequite pretty in the ring.’

Everyone stared at me as if I werea not very welcome cuckoo.

‘You’ll fit Dandy’s riding habitfrom last summer,’ Robert said. ‘Andyou’ll look quite smart in it too.’

He looked at my hair. ‘No hat,’ hesaid. ‘And wear your hair loose andlong. It looks nice like it is. Don’t hackit about again.’

I nodded. I was gettingaccustomed to being dressed with asmuch care and as little emotion as if Iwere one of the ponies.

‘Next: Jack’s rosinback act withBluebell,’ Robert said returning to hislist. ‘You can wear your new blueshirt, Jack, and your breeches.’

‘Not Morris as well?’ I asked.Robert shook his head. ‘He’s not

ready,’ he said. ‘It takes years to get arosinback perfect, this season he’s justto get accustomed to working in frontof an audience. We’ll have him in the

opening parade and in the historicalfinale. But we won’t use him as arosinback in the ring yet.’

I nodded. Robert opened hisnotebook again.

‘Then me,’ he said, ‘with Snowdoing tricks. Counting and picking outflags. I’ll have him in his new harnessand a new ostrich plume on the top.Meridon, you see to the plume and histack.

‘Then Meridon does herrosinback act in her short red skirt andwhite shirt and Jack comes out theback dressed in his farmer costume.’He paused. ‘Make a little redwaistcoat to go with the skin, Merry.’He glanced at Mrs Greaves. ‘Easyenough to make isn’t it, ma’am?’ Shenodded.

Robert went on. ‘Then Merry andJack do the knockabout act, and last ofall we’ll have the Battle of Blenheim.

Dandy, you and Katie make sure theponies have flags instead of bells intheir harness. I’ll be in the ring for theBattle of Blenheim. Meridon, you’ll bechanging.’

‘Into what?’ I asked.‘Into your costume for the low

trapeze,’ Robert said. ‘White breechesand blue silk shirt,’ he turned anotherpage in the book.

‘Interval,’ he said. ‘During theinterval William and Jack and I rig thetrapeze frames and the catch-net.Dandy and Katie you sell drinks andsweetmeats and whatever. You’ll wearyour flying clothes but with your capeson top.’ A little puff came from the topof his pipe. ‘Capes fastened properly.No tarting around,’ he said firmly.‘You can take tips but remember youare artistes, not street walkers. All tipsare to be handed over to me.’

Katie and Dandy both looked

offended. Robert paid them no heed atall.

‘After the interval we haveMamselle Meridon on the low trapeze,doing your tricks, Merry.’ I nodded.‘And then we have the trapeze act.Finale with all of us taking a bowunder the catch-net.’ He paused. ‘Thatclear?’ he asked.

‘No historical tableau?’ Jackasked.

‘No rape?’ I asked him with alittle smile.

Robert puffed on his pipe. ‘Thisis a Quality show,’ he said sternly. ‘Norapes. When we get out into thevillages we’ll do the Rape of theSabine Women at the end of the firsthalf. Dandy and Katie are the Sabinewomen in their flying capes,unfastened. Maybe veils on theirheads. Jack and Merry are the rapistson Morris and Bluebell.’

All of us around the table nodded.‘It’s to be two weeks from now,’

he said. ‘Shrove Tuesday. I’ll want tosee all the costumes and all the tackready and laid out on the Friday.’

He looked at Mrs Greaves. ‘Thatgive you enough time, ma’am?’ heasked.

She nodded. ‘Can you make ussome buns and some sweetmeats andsome drinks on the day?’ he asked. Shenodded again.

‘That’s all then,’ Robert saidpleasantly. ‘We’ll work that Tuesdayhere, final practices and move out twodays later.’

‘Starting the tour in Lent?’ Jackasked raising an eyebrow at his father.

Robert grinned. ‘This tour isgoing to go through all high days andholidays,’ he said certainly. ‘This tourwill play Sundays. This tour is unlikeanything anyone has ever seen before.

Wherever we go we are going to drawcrowds. If the ground is too wet we’lldo a trapeze show. If we can hire abarn we’ll do horse shows. We won’tbe able to pack everyone in even if wewere to do shows all through the nightof Good Friday!’

Jack nodded. ‘Yes, Da,’ he saidwith his usual instant obedience. ‘Yes,Da.’

Robert nodded at the sewingbaskets on the welsh dresser. ‘Get onwith your sewing then,’ he said.‘You’ll need to have it all done in tendays’ time.’

He left the room and we all madea concerted dash to the costume boxesand set to work. Even my stitches wentbetter knowing that I would be wearingthe costume in a fortnight’s time. Thecloth which had seemed so intractablealready had some of the special circusmagic about it. We would be wearing

it in the ring. It would be packed up.We would be moving on.

I had never thought to see Katie, thathard-faced girl, in the vapours. But Ihad forgotten that she had neverworked before a crowd. She was coolas a lady-in-waiting in practice: on thehigh trapeze, throwing tricks to the net,reaching out to pass over to Jack. Butonce she knew an audience wascoming she started to miss her cue andfall.

She got well jolted for a lesson,and she started to get a red sore backfrom the number of tumbles she tookwrong into the catch-net.

‘I’ll never get it right,’ shemoaned as she bounced unwillinglyover to the ladder and went up again.

I had finished with the ponies forthe day and was watching thempractise by the light of their lanterns,

and warming my damp breeches on theback of their stove. I had not watchedthem much since David had gone and Iexpected to see Jack calling the timeand telling them what tricks theyshould throw.

He called the time for them, as Ihad thought he would. And he called‘Pret’ when he was ready to catchthem, and ‘Hup’ when he wanted themto swing from the board out to him. Butto my surprise he was not the teacheror leader of the three.

It was my sister, Dandy.‘Katie’s got to do the angel pass,’

she called across to him. And whenKatie murmured that she had done ittwice already she said firmly:

‘With a leg cocked like a pissingdog. You do it again Katie and stretchout this time, or you’ll do it over andover.’

I craned my neck to look up at this

new, authoritative Dandy. Katie did thepass and Jack took her by her leg andher foot and then tossed her up towardsthe trapeze. Katie snatched at it, andfell with a despairing wail to bounceharmlessly into the net.

Dandy called across to Jack.‘That was your fault Jack! She

was right as she came over, but you lether go too late. She needs to get awayat the crest of your swing or she can’treach out to get the trapeze.’

Jack nodded, his face dark withirritation. ‘That’s enough for oneevening,’ he said. ‘We’re bound tomake mistakes late in the day.’

‘We’re not wrapping up yet,’Dandy said briskly. ‘I’ll try the highpass to you. We’ll just touch hands tosee if we’re right.’

Jack nodded and readied himselfin his harness, stretching out towardsher.

I turned my back and heard butdid not look round when he called‘Pret’ and then later ‘Hup’, then Iheard the catch-net twang and I heardDandy say mischievously:

‘You can look now, Meridon, I’mdown in one piece.’

They finished their practice then;Dandy pushed her feet into her clogsand came over to me by the stove.

‘How come you decide thetricks?’ I asked. ‘I thought Jackwould.’

Dandy shrugged. ‘He couldn’t seewhat Katie was doing wrong. I do thetricks, Jack just catches, it’s easy forme to see what’s amiss.’ She shruggedher shoulders impatiently. ‘He’sdamned idle, Meridon. If he wascalling the tricks we’d be finished bynoon every day.’

I nodded, and Katie and Jackjoined us and we said no more.

Katie’s nerves got no better as thedate of the performance approached.When she laid out her costume forRobert’s inspection on the Fridayevening her hands were shaking somuch that the sequins rattled. Robertwas surprisingly sympathetic.

‘You’ll do,’ he said kindly to her.‘Just do it as it was in practice.’ Helooked at Jack. ‘Is she reliable inpractice?’

Dandy answered, not Jack. ‘She’sa bit lazy,’ she said. ‘But she can do itwhen she works at it. She’ll work at itin front of an audience. I should thinkshe’d be better then, than she is inpractice.’

Robert nodded. ‘Good,’ he said.He turned to me. ‘Nervous, littleMerry?’ he asked.

I shook my head. ‘No,’ I said.‘All I have to do is to let Jack knockme off Bluebell, and God knows I’ve

done that enough times.’Robert smiled. ‘Aye,’ he said,

‘I’m happy.’

He had reason. The takings added up topounds for the gala performance andthe pennies of the village people attheir show made the sack of money asheavy as a couple of saddles.

The ponies behaved well, eventhe three bought at Salisbury who hadnever been in front of an audiencebefore. Bluebell was as steady as shealways was, Morris threw his head upat the noise and the cheers, but I hadharnessed them so tight to Bluebell hevirtually had to breathe in time withher. People laughed till they cried atthe act Jack and I did when hepretended to be a drunk farmer. It hadnever gone better, and at the end whenwe cantered around the ring with mestanding high and Jack going around

under Bluebell’s neck the Qualityaudience got up from their benches andcheered as loud as common folk.

Dandy and Katie were welltipped during the break, but I sawDandy walk with her head as high as aqueen. She kept her eyes open for anylikely young bucks, but her mind wason her trapeze act and Robert had nogrounds for complaint when she cameback with an empty tray and a pursewhich chinked with pennies.

They cheered my trapeze tricks asif they were something prodigiouslyskilful and brave. I suppose to peoplewho had never seen such a thingbefore, the top of the swing when I wasabove their heads, seemed very high. Itdid not frighten me, even when I swungback and could see their faces belowme. I knew if I hung straight that mytoes were only a foot above theground. I felt safe enough.

The queasy chum of fear in mybelly was for Dandy’s flying act. I wassuch a fool I could not even stay in thebarn to watch her. I went out the backto where we had tethered the poniesand I put my arm around Sea’s warmneck and listened to the sounds andguessed what they were doing.

There was the rustle ofanticipation as Jack did handstands andchin-ups on his frame, and then amurmur of approval as Dandy andKatie posed at the top of their frame.Then I heard the gasp as either Dandyor Katie gripped the trapeze andswooped down off the pedestal. Iflexed my arms around Sea when Iheard that. And then there was a great‘ooh!’ from the audience and a burst ofclapping as one of them reached outfrom the trapeze to Jack’s hands. Thenthere was another gasp as he swung herout, made that little twist, and passed

her up to the swinging overhead bar. Agreat roar of applause told me that shewas safe on the pedestal again.

Four times I tightened my grip onSea’s neck, sweating even in the frostyair, listening for the gasp as Dandycame off the board, the ‘ooh!’ as sheswung, the ripple of applause as shewas caught and then the uproar whenshe was safely back on the board orsomersaulting down into the net. Seashifted uneasily. I was squeezing himso tight, and he could smell my fear.Then I heard a great scream from theaudience and my stomach churned bile.Dandy had finished her act by droppingfrom her bar so she was utterly free inthe air, into Jack’s hands and thensomersaulted down into the net. Therewas a roar of applause and anothershriek as Katie and then Jack tumbleddownwards and bounced safely up totheir feet. Then there was a roar of

applause as people called for the actagain and shouted, ‘Bravo!’ and then Iheard the chink of coins as peopletossed money into the ring.

Robert Gower called out into thedarkness from the barn door.

‘Meridon! It’s over! Come in andsee your sister! Come and take yourbow!’

They were cheering and cheeringas if they would never stop. I heard avolley of curses as a bench was tippedup and crashed down on someone’stoes.

Robert called for me moreurgently and then went in to take hisbow.

They had their finale without methat night. I was out at the back in thefield retching helplessly into the frostygrass. Even as I took care to vomitaway from my clean white breeches Icould have laughed at myself for my

stupid girlish nerves. But my laughwould have been bitter.

Two days later, as Robert had planned,we moved out. We started early, wehad packed the night before. All thenew gear was stowed in the fresh-painted wagons. There was therepainted picture of Snow rearingbefore the lady on the side of Robert’swagon. But he had ordered the sign-writer to paint her riding habit blueand her hair bright copper. She lookedlike me, so I had my portrait on theside of the wagon with ‘RobertGower’s Amazing Aerial andEquestrian Show’ written in red curlyletters all around. On the back of thewagon was a picture of the littleponies, and on the other long side therewas a picture of me and Jack inmatching blue shirts and whitebreeches standing side by side up high

on the back of Bluebell and Morris –both looking more noble and a gooddeal wilder than usual. At the top ofthe right-hand corner was anotherpicture of me in my short skirt jumpingthrough a hoop of fire – a trick whichexisted nowhere but in Robert’simagination at the moment. And there itsaid, in blue paint, ‘Mamselle Meridonthe horseback dancer!’

Katie and Dandy had lookedrather askance at all the ripplingcopper hair and long bare legs untilthey had seen the wagon with the flyingrig. In gold letters it said ‘RobertGower’s Amazing Aerial Show’ and ithad a wonderful painting of Katie withher blonde hair streaming out behindsoaring up to where a trapeze waspainted in the top right corner.‘Mamselle Katie!’ it said, the ‘e’ alittle squashed for space.

The other side of the wagon I

could not bear to look at. It was apicture of Dandy and I looked at it onlyonce. She was supposed to be flyingfrom the top left-hand corner down tothe net. But because the sign-writer hadbeen cramped for space it looked as ifshe were falling; falling down with herblack hair rippling and a smile on herface. It said ‘Mamselle Dandy! Theonly girl flyer in the world!’ in scarlet.Dandy liked the picture because itshowed her with long long legs and anenormously inflated chest. Alsobecause Katie was put out that Dandywas called the ‘only’ flyer.

‘You do more than swing out andgrab for him, and I’ll change thewriting,’ Robert said firmly. I did notsmile as Dandy did. I knew Robertwas thinking that flyers fall often andhurt themselves often. There would bemany a show in this long season whenhe would have only one girl flyer, and

he was taking no chances.The rig wagon was to be pulled

by Lofty and driven by William.Bluebell pulled the wagon for us girlsand we would take it in turns to drive.Even Katie could drive Bluebell. Thehorse was as steady on the road as shewas cantering around the ring. Morriswould pull the men’s sleeping wagonand the ponies would be split up andtied on in teams. Snow and Sea wouldbe ridden in the mornings but tied on inthe afternoons.

‘Have to take the chance,’ Robertsaid. ‘You and Jack won’t alwayswant to be riding. You’ll maybe needto rest on the road sometimes. And Seais steady enough now.’

I found I was sorry to saygoodbye to Mrs Greaves. She was thefirst woman I had ever known who hadspoken to me kindly, and on our lastevening I lingered in her kitchen as if it

had become some sort of refuge forme. Jack and Dandy had gone onahead. Katie was throwing the last bitsof rope and string into a bucket in thestable yard. I said a gruff farewell toMrs Greaves and she turned from theslate sink and held out her arms to me.

I stepped back. I still had my olddislike of being pulled about, and shesaw the gesture and the warmth wentfrom her face.

‘God bless you, Merry,’ she said,and I was ashamed of my pricklycoldness.

‘I am sorry,’ I said awkwardly,and I stepped forward and offered hermy forehead for her kiss.

She put her hands on myshoulders, gently, as I would handle atouchy young foal.

‘Keep safe, dear,’ she said softly.‘If you are ever in trouble and I canserve you, you should send for me.’

I stepped back and looked in herface. ‘How can I keep Dandy safe?’ Iasked her, demanding an answer as ifshe should know everything, justbecause she was a woman old enoughto be my mother who had put out herarms to me.

Her pale eyes fell before myurgent gaze.

‘You cannot,’ she said.

14We only travelled a short way, thatfirst day. I think Robert had plannedthe route to see how the journey went,to test the pace of the horses. We wentnorth from Warminster, a little chalk-white lane still sticky with winter wetwhich skirted the great slope ofWarminster Down on our right. Wewent slowly through the village ofWestbury, and past the mill where themiller’s wife sold us some fresh-bakedbread rolls which we ate as we rode.Robert had a hand-drawn map on hisknee and ignored the signpost toTrowbridge. Katie and Dandy lookedlongingly down the road as we wentpast but Robert’s wagon led the wayinto a bank of trees ahead called CastleWood. Jack and I were riding and weleft the lane and the swaying wagonsand rode ahead. Sea and Snow were

well matched but we did not race, wecantered side by side under thefretwork of bare branches. Deeper inthe wood to my left, a robin wassinging.

When the horses were sweatingand blowing we pulled them up andwalked slowly, waiting for the wagonsto catch us up. Robert’s wagon was inthe lead and I trotted back to him.

‘We’ll stay at Melksham tonight,’he said. He was back in his element onthe driving box of the wagon, his pipesending little contented puffs upwardsto the wintry white sky. ‘You can rideon ahead and pick somewhere for us topull in. Make sure there’s firewoodnear, we’ll need a good fire tonight.’

‘Cold?’ I challenged him.He grinned and hunched his coat

up around his shoulders. ‘It’s notmidsummer,’ he conceded.

‘You’re well served,’ I said

unsympathetically. ‘No one I know setsout in the middle of winter.’

‘Go ahead you hedge-bit,’ he saidunperturbed. ‘And get the fire goingbefore I pull in.’

Jack and I rode on and pulled inat the left of the road where there wassome common ground and a little brakeof woods with plenty of kindling. Jackhobbled the horses and rubbed themdown while I went into the woods tofetch sticks for the fire. We had it litand burning by the time the first wagonturned in.

William was handy at lining uphis wagon, but Dandy had to take overfrom Katie who could only drive in astraight line. Then while we weretaking the horses out of the shafts andfeeding and watering them, Dandystrolled quietly off deeper into thewood. Katie watched her go with ascowl and muttered in Robert’s

hearing that Dandy was skipping offwithout doing any work. Robertglanced at me as he was setting up thetrivet for the pot and I told Katie towait and see where Dandy had gone.Sure enough, she came back within thehour with three plump brown trout witha string through their gills swingingfrom her hand.

‘Tickled ‘em,’ she said toRobert’s glance of inquiry. ‘I knowthis stream, I’ve been here with Da andZima. The keeper’s old and the squiredon’t care about fish, he only caresabout his game. I’d never touch apheasant in these woods, not if itdropped dead at my feet I wouldn’t.’

She gutted the fish and washedthem. There was a little bacon in ourstores and she fried that and thentossed them into the smoking fat. Theysizzled and grew brown. Katie and Itook the bread from the crock and

unpacked the plates and the knives, andby the time Robert, William and Jackhad come from hobbling the ponies themeal was ready.

‘Damn,’ Robert said suddenly.‘Forgot the salt again.’ He smiled at usall, impartially. ‘There’s alwayssomething,’ he said. ‘I can’t think howmany years I’ve been on the road andyet there’s always something youforget. I made a list this time as welland Mrs Greaves packed every darnedthing on it. And then I forget the salt!’

‘We’ll buy some,’ Dandy said. ‘Icould go into Melksham this afternoonand get some. We’ll need some morebread too, and bacon.’

Robert nodded his approval. ‘Oneof you girls go too,’ he said. ‘OrWilliam. I don’t want any one of yougirls wandering around on your own.The show’s got to seem classy. Youlittle whores have got to be

chaperoned like young ladies.’Katie and Dandy giggled, I

smiled. There was no malice inRobert. He was miles away from thetown where respectability was hisambition. He was once more the manwho had sat in the sun and watched mework the little pony. Who had praisedme for a job well done and then boughtme in a job-lot from my cruel anddoltish stepfather. He could call me alittle whore if he chose. We were noneof us any better than we needed to bewhen we were working on the road.We were a team again, we belongedtogether.

The next day set the pattern for therest of the days of the tour. We got upat dawn, around five or six o’clock,and gave the horses water. Sea, Snowand the carriage horses got some oatsas well; Robert said the ponies wereas fat as butter and should make do

with the grass in the fields andwaysides. He liked early rising. Hewas always the first to wake, and itwas his knock on the side of our wagonwhich waked Dandy and me. When wetumbled out into the sharp morning airRobert would be stripped to the waistshaving in cold water and when hefinished he would ask one of us to tipthe bucket over his head and shoulders.He would burst out of the icy delugepuffing and blowing, ruddy with health.

Dandy would get the kettle on thefire and William and I would fetch drycrisp kindling for a quick blaze. Wealways carried some dry wood slungunder the wagons for wet days. Jacknever emerged until he heard the clinkof the tin cups then he would come out,frowsy-eyed with his blanket huddledaround his bare shoulders for his cupof tea – the last in the pot and as strongas it could be.

‘My God you’re an idle whelp,’Robert would say; and Jack wouldsmile apologetically and dip his faceinto the wide mug.

Katie was the worst of all. Shewould stay in her bunk until the lastpossible moment and not the hiss of theboiling kettle nor the smell of fryingbacon was enough to get her out. Notuntil we were starting to pack up toleave and Robert was hammering onthe side of the wagon and threateningto fetch her out would she come. Shewas a sight in the mornings! Her eyesred-rimmed and puffy, her hair in astraggly plait. Robert was at his mostdour when he saw Dandy and Katiebefore they had combed their hair andwashed their faces, and he oftenglanced over to Jack, convinced thathis son could not desire such girlshaving seen them at their sleep-dazedworst.

But Robert was blind. He missedall the clues. It was some snobbery inhim which made him oblivious to whatwas happening every day on the road.Dandy and Jack collecting kindling,Dandy and Jack fetching water fromthe stream, Dandy and Jack droppingbehind and then running, flushed andsweaty to catch up with the wagons.Robert was looking for something else,he was watching for signs oftenderness, for Jack seeking one of usout. He did not know that Jack waswell past the courtship time when hehad halloed up the stairs and watchedDandy in the firelight. Now he neededher to slake his thirst, but between therepetitive cycle of lust and sating theydid not seek each other out.

They were not companions.Dandy would always seek my companyfor choice. On the road once more wefell back into the casual

companionship of our childhood. WhenI drove she sat beside me, leaning backagainst my shoulder. When she drove Iwould deal imaginary hands of cardson the driving seat, stacking hands withall hearts, dealing off the bottom,dealing off the top, dealing out of themiddle.

‘Did ye see that, Dandy?’ I wouldask her over and over. Her eyes weresharp enough but I often fooled her.

When she went poaching shewould bring me back a little trophy – ablue feather shed by a jay, a singleearly white violet. When I rode Seaand she was driving I wouldsometimes rein him in to go alongsidethe wagon, glancing at her from time totime, watching her lazy absorption inher private dreams.

‘What are you thinking of,Dandy?’ I asked her once and shesmiled at me her sweet feckless smile.

‘Same as you,’ she said, noddingat the thick muddy road and the leadenwintry sky. ‘Of a warm hearth and agood meal which has been caught andcooked by someone else.’

When we settled for the night andKatie was out of the way, rolled uptight in blankets in her bunk, Dandywould hand me her comb withoutspeaking and I would comb and braidher hair as I had done since we werethe smallest of chavvies. Thensometimes, if I was not feeling pricklyand untouchable, I would let her tacklethe tangles in mine, comb it smooth andplait it for the night.

Then I would kiss her good-nightas she lay in her bunk. Her skinsmelled musky: the smell of femalesweat and warmth, hay and cheapperfume. The beloved familiar smell ofmy sister.

She and Jack were not friends.

When Jack wanted company, wanted towalk alongside someone on the road,wanted someone beside him on thedriving seat, he would crane his neckaround the side of his wagon andwhistle, ‘Hey! Merry!’

When he rode Snow I was oftenriding Sea and we sometimes left theroad for a canter across the fields or agallop to the top of a hill. If I waswalking behind the wagons he wouldfall into step beside me and we wouldchat – idly, easily. He would tell meabout the villages and towns he hadworked, I would tell him aboutbreaking horses, cheating gulls andsharping cards. He learned to leave mealone when I shook my head andstrayed away from the line of wagons.He learned to keep his hands out of mywind-blown curls and his arm fromaround my shoulders.

‘Don’t pull me about,’ I said

irritably, one evening when we werewatering the horses down by a streamand he had put a careless hand aroundmy waist.

He took his hand away. ‘I barelytouched you!’ he complained. ‘And Iwasn’t pulling, I was…’ he searchedfor a word. ‘Patting. Like I would ahorse.’

I giggled. ‘Well, don’t pat methen,’ I said. ‘I’m not a pony.’

He grinned back at me and kepthis hands to himself as I had bid him.Friendly-like.

He was a healthy young animal atthe pitch of fitness, hot for a mate. Hewould have flirted with me if I hadgiven him the smallest of welcomes.He eyed Katie when he thought no onewas watching. And Dandy and hestrayed off the road together to kiss andhump every day or so. Purely for lust, Ithink he did not even like her.

For Dandy he was the first manshe had ever had, and she revelled inthe pleasure he gave her. Jack was novirgin, but with Dandy he haddiscovered a passionate partner whosedesire matched his own. They werenever in love, but they were addicted.That spring, as we headed east into thesunrise every morning, they sought andfound each other, regular as a water-wheel turning over, every other day.Between times they were merely civil.

Katie watched them with herknowledgeable smile. She thought Jackwould tire of Dandy, and she wasright. She gave him not a word ofencouragement nor a smile – she hadher mind on my gold guinea. But I wassure that once the debt had been paidthe bargain would be off and shewould flirt and tease Jack until he tookher, in preference to Dandy. Whatwould happen then I could not imagine.

But I did turn it over and over in mymind, worrying whether Dandy wouldfly out at her, or whether she woulddisdain to struggle.

‘Mother Merry!’ Dandy saidlaughing as she saw my downcast face.

Least happy of us all wasWilliam. He did not complain but hisround face grew moonlike and his eyeswere sad. Robert asked him at the endof the second week what was troublinghim and he confessed that he did notlike travelling. He felt as if we ought toarrive somewhere; not just go on andon. Dandy and I stared at him in utterincomprehension but Katie nodded asif she understood.

‘I ‘specs he’s never been out ofWarminster in all his life until now,’she said. ‘Is that right, William?’

He nodded mournfully.Robert tossed his enamel plate on

the grass and leaned back, picking his

teeth with a grass stem.‘Well, if you dislike it so much I

daresay I can send you home,’ heoffered. ‘There’s work enough for youthere, lord knows. Mrs Greaves wouldhave had to take on a lad to do thegarden and the vegetables alone.’

William’s face lit up as ifsomeone had placed a candle behind around Chinese lantern.

Robert tapped his teeth with histhumbnail. ‘I’ll have to find a lad tocome in your place,’ he saidthoughtfully. ‘One that’s handy withhorses and knows how to travel.’

He said nothing more but whenwe stopped outside Winchester he puton his best brown coat and went intotown on Snow. He came back with askinny young lad in poorhousehomespun breeches behind him. Irecognized a gypsy as soon as I sawhim.

‘His whole family’ve beengaoled,’ Robert said by way ofintroduction. ‘His da’ll likely hang.His ma’ll be transported. And hisgrandparents will be in gaol for sevenyears apiece. They couldn’t prove he’dbeen in on it, so they just put him in thepoorhouse.’

‘In on what?’ I asked eyeing theblack-eyed vagrant askance.

‘Thieving with violence,’ Robertsaid. He swung the lad down fromSnow’s high back, and slid off himself.

‘It wasn’t as it sounds,’ the ladsaid and Dandy and I smiled as weheard the gentle burr of the Romaccent. ‘My grandma was telling afortune. A lady gave her a shilling totell her if her own true love wasfaithful. My gran has the Sight and shelooked into the lady’s palm and toldher “no”.’ He sighed. ‘The lady triedto take the shilling back and she was

rough with my gran. The old man wentto help her and the lady’s footman hithim. My da went in, and so did my ma.The lady’s coachman whipped us alland yelled for the watch. They took usall up for thieving with violencebecause a lady couldn’t believe thather man preferred another woman.’

Robert shook his head. Katie andDandy cooed in dismay and concern. Ilooked at the lad hard-eyed. I hadnothing against him and what he saidmight well be true. I cared nothing oneway or another. It was a world full ofbig thieves and little thieves. Littlethieves like his family unquestionablywere – for a shilling for a fortune is agull and a thievery. And big thieves –for the lady and her lord would be thethieving sort who say that the land istheirs, and put up fences; or that theanimals and birds which fly and runfreely are theirs, and put in man-traps.

I had no sympathy for him or hisraggle-taggle kin. But I was glad hehad joined us. He could do thepoaching instead of Dandy, and ifanyone hung to put meat in RobertGower’s stewpot it would not be mysister.

I cared only for her. I had no loveto waste on any other living humanbeing. Dandy and Sea were all I lovedin the whole world. One selfish younggirl and a horse. It was not very muchfor one person to love, I thought,watching the tear roll down the lad’sface for the father who would hang andthe mother who would go far, faraway, and the grandparents who wouldundoubtedly die in gaol. But the yearsin the wagon with Da and Zima hadsomehow shrunk my heart so that therewas no room in it for more than oneyoung woman and one horse.

‘Can you handle horses?’ I asked

him.His face brightened. ‘Yes,’ he

said. ‘I love horses. My da used totravel around training them in winter.’

I looked at Robert wryly. ‘So youhave another rider if you need one,’ Isaid. The boy was slighter than Jackand wiry; a perfect body for abareback rider.

Robert beamed back at me insatisfaction. ‘Aye,’ he said. Hechinked a purse of coins in his pocket.‘And they paid me to take him on,’ hesaid. He turned to William. ‘So youcan go home,’ he said. ‘We’ll send youoff first thing in the morning. I’ll showyou the direction and give you coppersfor your meals on the road. You canwalk and take lifts. It shouldn’t takeyou long.’

William’s simple face glowedlike a delighted child. ‘Thank you, MrGower,’ he said, heartfelt. ‘Thank you

very much.’‘Thank you very much indeed,’ I

thought to myself in silence, looking atWilliam’s boots which I thought wouldnot last the distance home and theroads he would have to walk waitingfor a passing wagon or cart. But I saidnothing. William was not my concerneither.

‘The lad can sleep in with yougirls tonight,’ Robert said. ‘Tomorrowhe’ll come into William’s bunk withus.’

‘Not till he’s washed he won’t,’ Isaid firmly. ‘He’ll have fleas and lice.I won’t have him sleeping in ourwagon until he’s stripped down andwashed and gone over his clothes.’

Robert nodded. ‘You’re very niceall of a sudden, Merry,’ he said mildly.‘I remember when I first saw you, youwere all over flea-bites then; aye andlice.’

I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That wasthe last time. I like to be clean now,and I’ll stay that way. William can takethe lad down to the river and makesure he washes clean.’

The lad clutched at the neck of hisshirt as if he were afraid I was going todip him in boiling oil as a cleansingmethod. I could not help but chuckle.

‘Don’t look like that, lad. What’syour name?’

‘Rea,’ he said sulkily. ‘What’syours?’

‘I’m Meridon, and this is mysister Dandy,’ I said. ‘We’re Rom too;and we survived washing. Go now andget clean. And if you see a rabbit or ahare on the way home you can bring itback with you.’

Robert could judge people like hecould judge horseflesh. Within days hehad Rea setting the rigging as well as

William ever did; and before the showhe had him practising standing onhorseback, and vaulting on and off. Hewas little, but he was wiry, and hewould get up early in the morning andwork all the day long without everseeming to get tired. He was excellentwith the ponies and even Sea, who stillhated most men, would allow histouch. I was glad, for working with thehorses and my little act on the trapezeat every show was tiring.

We kept the show much the sameas that first time when the Quality hadcome from as far away as Salisburyand stood to cheer and showered theflying act with coins.

When we had a barn we would dothe show indoors. It meant a smalleraudience but Robert charged twopencea head at the gate and people paidwillingly, aye, and came back for thesecond performance and paid all over

again. Very few people had even heardof a trapeze act. No one had ever seengirl flyers. We were as much a noveltyas if we had two heads apiece.

If Robert could not hire a barn wewould work in a field, with the A-frames for Jack and the girls fixeddeep into the wet ground and a mesh ofrigging pegging it down to hold it still.It was cold working on the outside butpeople huddled together and cheeredand did not seem to mind. I wasmortally tired at the end of a day withtwo shows, and it was worse when weworked in the open air because I waschilled by the end of the show as well.Preparing the ponies and showingthem, changing their harness, and thenmy two rosinback acts were hardwork. I could hand the horses over toRea for the second half but my trapezeact strained my tired muscles, andalways I stiffened in a frenzy of tension

while Dandy was working up high.Then I had to force a smile on my facefor the historical tableau at the endwhen Jack and I rode Snow and Seaaround the ring at a fast canter andsnatched Dandy and Katie up behind usto represent the rape of the Sabinewomen. The crowd loved that. Katieand Dandy wore their indecent trapezecostumes with a veil over their facesand screamed like banshees. Jack and Iwore our breeches and blue shirts withlittle fez hats. We tried it one time withburnt cork smeared on our faces and itwent even better.

We did three shows a day if wewere in a barn. Robert would hirelanterns and we would work until thelight was going. He would sometimeshire benches and do a gala show forinvited local gentry if we were in anarea of big houses. Katie and Dandywould be on their mettle then, catching

the eye of the local squire.I used to peep through the door of

the barn to see the clothes, to smell theclean perfume smell that came off fromthem. The clothes were so smooth, thecloth so silky. The colours of thewomen’s dresses were so pale and soregular – the dyes seemed never tohave run streaky. Their collars werealways white, and if it got hot in thebarn they brought out exquisite paintedfans and wafted them gently at theirnecks where you could not see a linewhere they had stopped washing.

I used to watch them and long tobe one of them. It was a dream asfoolish as Dandy’s thought of taking thefancy of one of the young squires. Butit was part of my old dream of Wideand I longed for clean sheets and aquiet room. The tick of a well-oiledclock and flowers in a vase. The smellof beeswax and the view from the

window of other people bent-backedworking on my land.

The dream of Wide which hadslipped away from me in Warminstercame back to me now we were on theroad again. Every day as we wenteastward into Hampshire and thentowards Sussex it grew stronger. I usedto close my eyes every night and knowthat I would see on my eyelids a highhorizon of green hills, a lane whitewith chalky mud, a straggle of cottagesdown one main lane. A vicarageopposite a church, a shoulder ofbracken-strewn brown commonreaching up behind the cottages and ablue sky overarching it all.

I would dream that I was a girljust like myself, with a tumble ofcopper hair and green eyes and a greatpassion for things she could scarcelyhope to have. Once I dreamed of herlying with a dark-haired lad and I

woke aching with a desire which I hadnever felt in real life. Once I awokewith a shriek for I dreamed that shehad ordered her father’s death and hadheld the great wooden door open andstared stony-faced as they carried himpast her on a hurdle with his headstove in. Dandy had shaken me awakeand asked me what was wrong andthen hugged me and shielded me fromKatie when I told her I had dreamed ofWide, and something awful. That Imust stop her, the girl who was me.That I must run to her and warn heragainst the death of her father.

Dandy had rocked me and heldme in her arms as if I were a baby andtold me that Wide was a place we hadnone of us seen, nor heard of. That thegirl was not me. That I was Meridon,Meridon the gypsy, the horse-trainer,the showgirl. And then I cried againand would not tell her why. But it was

because the gulf between me and thegirl in the dream was unbridgeable.

I had another dream too. Not onewhich woke me screaming, but onewhich made me long with a greatloneliness for the mother that Dandyand I had lost so young. I had somehowgot her muddled in my mind with thestory Jack had told us of the loss of hismother – of her calling and calling asthe wagon went away from her downthe road. I certainly knew that mymother had not run after any wagon.She was too ill, poor woman, to runafter anything. The memories I had ofher were of her lying in the bunk withher mass of black hair, Dandy’s thickblack hair, spread out on the pillow allaround her, saying to Da in an anxious,fretting voice, ‘You will burneverything when I die, won’t you?Everything. All my dresses and all mygoods? It is the way of my people. I

need to know you will burneverything.’

He had promised yes. But she hadknown, and he had known, and evenlittle Dandy and I had known that hewould not complete the ceremoniesand bury her as a Romany womanshould be treated. He took her body offon a handcart and tossed it in the openhole which served as a pauper’s grave.Then he sold her clothes, he did notburn them as he promised. He burned afew rags in an awkward shame-facedway, just things he could not sell. Andhe tried to tell Dandy and me, whowere watching him wide-eyed, that hewas keeping his promise to our deadmother. He was a liar through andthrough. The only promise he kept wasto give me my string and gold clasps.And he would have had that off me ifhe could.

But it was not that death that I

remembered. That was not the mother Igrieved for in my dream. I dreamed ofa thunderstorm, high overhead, a nightwhen no one who could close shutterswould venture out. But out in the windand the rain was a woman. The rainwas sluicing down on her head, herfeet were cut in many places from thesharp flints in the chalk soil and shelimped like a beggar come new to thetrade. The pain in her feet was verybad. But she was crying not for thatpain but because she had a baby underher arm and she was taking it to theriver to throw it away like an in-bredwhelp which should be drowned. Butthe little baby was so warm beneathher arm, hidden from the storm by hercape. And she loved it so dearly shedid not know how she could let it go,into the cold water, away into theflood. As she stumbled and sobbed shecould feel it nuzzling gently into her

armpit, trustingly.Then the dream melted as dreams

will and suddenly there was a wagon,like the one I live in now, like all thewagons I have lived in all my life. Anda woman leaning down from the scatby the driver and reaching out for thebaby, and taking the baby without aword.

And then – and this is the momentwhere I suppose the dreams becomemuddled with Robert Gower’s wifecalling after him on the road – then thewagon moved off and the woman wasleft behind. In one part of her heart shewas glad that the child was sent away,off the land, away from her home. Andin another part she longed for her childwith such a passion that she could notstop herself from running, running onher bleeding feet after the rockingwagon, and calling out, though thewind ripped her words away: ‘Her

name is Sarah! Sarah…’She called some more, but the

wind whipped her words away and thewoman on the box did not turn herhead. And I awoke, in the early, coldgrey light, with tears pouring down mycheeks as if I was grieving for amother who had loved me and givenme away; sent me away because therewas no safe place for me in my home.

15The dreams kept waking me at night,and even when I slept I woke weary.Robert looked at me askance aroundthe stem of his pipe and asked if I weresickening. I said, ‘No,’ but I felt tiredto my very bones.

I was sleeping poorly, and wewere in counties where they watchedfor their game and we were eatingsparingly. Bread, cheese and bacon;but no rich gamey stews. I wasworking hard. Harder than I had everworked for my da. At least my da hadtaken the odd day, sometimes days at atime, when he had done no work at all,disappearing to drink and gamble, andcoming home reeling and worthless.With Robert we worked in a steadyrhythm of work and moving, and therewas nothing else.

Katie kept going, working and

practice, doing her act. But she wasready to drop after the last show of anevening. Especially if we wereworking in a barn and she was doingthree shows a day. She would roll intoher bunk as soon as she had strippedher costume off. I often saw the two ofthem, her and Dandy, sleeping nakedunder the blankets, with their fineflyers’ cloaks spread out over theirbunks, when they had been too wearyto fold them and put them in the chest.Dandy was exhausted. She had to orderthe two of them into the rigging forextra practice when the tricks wentbadly, she had to watch the act, not justas a performer but as a trainer too. Andshe had to work and work at her ownskill. Long after Katie and Jack haddropped down, cursing with wearinessinto the nets, Dandy would be up therethrowing somersaults to an emptytrapeze, falling into the net, and going

heel-toe, heel-toe, up the ladder to gothrough the trick again.

I would be working the horses, orfetching them hay and water for thenight, and I would go into the barnwhen I heard the twang of the catch-netand ask Dandy to leave her practiceand come to bed. Sometimes I broughther a cup of mulled ale and she woulddrop from the net and drink it, sittingon one of the benches.

‘Shouldn’t eat nor drink in thering,’ she said to me once, her facewreathed in steam from the hot ale.

‘Shouldn’t swear either, and allof us do,’ I replied unrepentant. ‘Nowyou go to bed, Dandy. We’ve anotherthree shows to do tomorrow, you’ll betired out.’

She yawned and stretched herself.‘I will,’ she said. ‘You coming?’

I shook my head, though I achedfor sleep. ‘I’ve got to clean the

harness,’ I said. ‘It’s getting too dirty.I’ll not be long.’

She went without a backwardglance, and when I came to the wagontwo hours later she and Katie were fastasleep; Dandy on her back, her hair arumpled black mass on the pillow.

I crept into my own bunk andgathered the blankets around myshoulders in their comforting warmth.But as soon as I shut my eyes I starteddreaming again. I would dream I wasthe red-headed girl and the land wasturning against me. I would watch thefields grow ripe and yet know anabsolute fear of loss clutch cold at me.I would dream I was the woman whohad been out in the storm and I wouldache for the loss of the baby whosename was Sarah. Then I would hearher anguished call, and sometimes Iwould sit bolt upright in my bed,cracking my forehead on the roof of the

wagon, as if I were trying to answerher.

In the morning I would be heavy-eyed and pasty-faced. But still therewould be the horses to train and theponies to work. The hay and the waterto take around, the tack to be checked,and every single one of the twelveanimals to wash and groom.

Rea helped. But Robert wastraining him for rosinback riding andhe was tired and bruised from his falls.Jack helped. But he was training on thetrapeze and helping Rea learn to stand.Most of the work fell to me. I could notask Katie for help; she was afraid ofSnow and Sea and would only groomthe little ponies. I would not askDandy. I always wanted her to rest.

Our quietest time was aroundnoon. We ate early, and Katie andDandy did most of the cooking. Robertordered Jack and Rea to clear up the

plates and wash them. Sometimes wewould pile back into our bunks andsleep the early afternoon hours away.Sometimes, as it grew warmer, wewould find our way to the nearest riveror lake – going three-up on Morris orBluebell – and spend an hour splashingin the cool water. One time, when wewere playing in a field outside a littlefishing village called Selsey in westSussex, we all five of us went down tothe sea: Jack and Rea on Snow, Dandy,Katie and me on Sea. We rode themalong the pebbles of the beach down tothe hard sand at the water’s edge andthen urged them in. Sea jinked andfretted at the little waves and Katiecried to be let off. Dandy and I let hergo and Dandy held tight around mywaist while I urged Sea into the water.The waves came up to his knees and Istill pressed him on until he made alittle leap deeper into the sea and he

was swimming with great heavingmagical lunges. Dandy and I clung tohis mane, swam beside him, letting hisgreat heaving movement tug us throughthe water, buffeted by the waves. Jackand Rea were shouting with delight,trying to stay on Snow, and Katie losther fear and played at the water’sedge. We five became children againfor that little time, playing as we hadnever been allowed to play in ouroverworked childhoods. But then Jacklooked at the sun and nodded at me.

‘Time to head back,’ he said. Theothers wanted to stay for longer underthe warm sun, by the washing sea, butJack and I carried our way againstthem.

‘I’ve got to get these two clean,’ Isaid ruefully, looking at Sea’s coatwhich was matted with salt and hismane which was drying in tangles.

‘I’ll help,’ Dandy promised

lightly. ‘I’ll help and then we can allstay longer!’

‘No,’ I said, and Jack nodded hisagreement with me.

‘Come on,’ he said, vaulting upon to Snow. ‘Time to get back.’

Katie rode home between Jackand Rea. Dandy and I came alongbehind, slowly, on Sea.

It was only mid-April, but warmas Maytime. The sun was hot on ourheads.

‘You named him well when youcalled him Sea,’ Dandy said sleepily.‘Why did you call him that, Merry?’

She was riding before me and Ifelt happy and easy with her in myarms.

‘Because of Wide,’ I said. ‘I feltthat I had seen him before at Wide andthat he had a name there like Sea –something. I don’t know what. So Icalled him Sea.’

‘Oh, Wide!’ she said lazily.‘D’you still think of it, Merry? Ithought it only gave you nightmaresnow.’

‘I do,’ I said. The old longing wasstill calling me. ‘I think I always will,’I said.

Dandy leaned back against meand dozed, and when I kissed her hair,softly not to wake her, I tasted saltfrom the sea.

She stirred and glanced back overher shoulder at me, her dark eyessmiling. ‘I’ve got him at last,’ sheconfided.

‘Who?’ I asked. I was stupid withmy usual weariness and with the dizzydancing feeling behind my eyes frombeing out in the bright sunlight andwatching the sparkle on the waves. Iwas aching all over from myswimming and I knew I would be stifftomorrow. I was dozing like Dandy

had been. I did not think what she wassaying.

‘Got who?’ I asked.Dandy nodded her tousled head

towards the other horse which wasahead of us. Just a little way ahead,turning into the gate where the wagonswere pitched and the little ponieshobbled.

‘Jack,’ she said. Her voice was apurr of satisfaction. ‘I’ve got him sothat he won’t escape me, and the showwill be half ours as I promised.’

‘Dandy, what have you done?’ Iexclaimed, struggling to wake andunderstand what she was saying; butSea followed Snow into the field andRobert Gower was tumbling out of hiswagon, his face flushed and his eyesbright.

‘Where the hell have you been!’Robert exclaimed. ‘Meridon Cox,you’re going to have to work like a

sugar-island slave to get these horsesready for tonight! And tonight of allnights! Don’t you bodge it, m’girl.Either the first or the second showthere’s a man coming specially to seeus! I had a letter after you’d all gonejauntering off! If it’d come before youleft I’d have kept you back.’

‘What man?’ Dandy asked.Robert beamed at her. ‘Never you

mind, little Miss Nosey,’ he said. ‘Justyou remember that he’s coming toeither the first or the second show. Hecould make my fortune too if he likeswhat he sees.’ He nodded at all of us.‘If he makes me an offer for the showyou’ll all see the benefit of it,’ he said.‘A London season! A proper-built ring.Quality audience. Two shows a daybut never out of doors! No moretravelling! No end to what we coulddo!’

He broke off and looked around at

us. ‘My God, you look like a camp ofgypsies!’ he said irritably. ‘Meridon!Get to work on those horses! Rea!Help her! Jack! Check the rigging andthen come and see what Merry needsdoing.’

He rounded on Katie and Dandy.‘You two are supposed to be flyingangels! Belles of the ball!’ he saidangrily. ‘You look like a pair ofsluttish hedge-hoppers! Get under thetap both of you, and wash and braidyour hair. Check your costumes! I wantyou to look absolutely your best.’

He took Dandy by the arm and ledher away and I knew he was telling herto get hold of me after I had finishedwork on the horses and make sure myhair was brushed through. I smiledruefully. Robert always wantedeverything. Perfect horses and a prettylittle Miss to present them too.

The girls rushed off for water and

their combs. I got hold of a couple ofheavy iron buckets and set aboutwashing Sea while Rea dealt withSnow. Then there was Morris andBluebell to wash and brush down.Morris had been rolling in the mud andlush grass and it took me nearly anhour to get the green grass-stains offhis legs and haunches where hispatches were white.

Then Jack came over and rolledup his sleeves and helped me with thelittle ponies. Every one of them had tobe washed and brushed. Every one ofthem had to have their rumps wettedand combed criss-cross so that theylooked sparkling under the lanterns ofthe barn. Every one of them had tohave harness and bridle and keeper-reins on, every one of them had to havehay and water, and each one had tohave his little brass bell checked andquickly rubbed and laid carefully to

one side, ready to put on the momentbefore they went in.

Dandy came up while Jack and Iwere finishing grooming the last twoand getting ready to tack-up.

‘You’re to leave it,’ she saidabruptly. ‘Both of you. Robert says toleave Rea to finish and the two of youget ready.’

I straightened up and looked ather.

She was so lovely I could hardlybelieve that she and I were sisters. Shehad braided her hair into four littleflying plaits which fell each side of herface twisted with gilt and greenribbons. The rest of her black hair shehad brushed loose and it cascadedover her shoulders and down her back.She had rouged her lips and her cheeksand had put a bit of cork-black aroundher eyes. She looked like some Arabprincess. She looked strange and

lovely.‘Oh Dandy!’ I said. ‘You are so

beautiful!’She smiled. The sweet beguiling

smile of her childhood.‘Am I?’ she said with innocent

total vanity. ‘Am I beautiful, Jack?’He dropped the bell he was

polishing and put out his arms to her.‘Yes,’ he said, in the only tender

tone I had ever heard him use towardsher. ‘Yes, you are lovely.’

Dandy floated towards him with asigh, but then she suddenly saw the dirton his hands and stepped back, fendinghim off. ‘Don’t touch me, you’refilthy!’ she exclaimed. ‘Anyway,there’s no time! Robert says I’m tohelp you dress, Meridon, and washyour hair. Go to the pump and I’ll bringthe comb and a towel. Jack, you getwashed too. You’re hands are blackand they’re already waiting outside in

the lane. Your da’s on the gatealready.’

I ran to do her bidding, but out ofthe corner of my eye I caught sight of abrief resentful look which went acrossJack’s face. He did not like takingorders from Dandy. He had not liked iton the trapeze swings, he liked it evenless on the ground. And least of all didhe like it when he had just, for the firsttime ever, held open his arms to her,openly, in broad daylight. He turnedaway, as sulky as a spoilt child, andwent to his wagon. I watched theslouch of his back and thought how thatlittle gesture of desire from him wascurdling to resentment. I don’t thinkDandy noticed him at all.

The water from the pump was icyand it made me cold all through. Ishivered in my wet shift as Dandycombed my hair and pulled roughly atthe tangles.

‘If you combed it every day itwouldn’t tangle like this!’ she saidcrossly as I flinched and complained.‘Now I’m going to plait it like mine!’

‘Oh leave be, do, Dandy!’ Ibegged. ‘It will take you ages, and Ihate being fussed about.’

‘Robert wanted all us girls withthe same hair,’ she said. ‘Katie’swearing blue and gold ribbons in herplaits, me with green and gold, andyou’ll have red. Now kneel down,’ shesaid inexorably. ‘It will only takelonger if you fidget, Merry!’

I knelt. The grass under my kneesaround the pump was soaked and mademe cold. My wet hair hanging downmy back dripped chilly droplets downmy spine. The sun had lost its heat andI was shivering from the cold by thetime Dandy had finished.

‘What were you going to tell mewhen we came into the field?’ I asked

her. ‘What were you going to tell meabout Jack?’

The odd secretive look came overher face again. ‘Not now,’ she said.‘I’ll tell you after the show, whenwe’re not in such a rush.’

‘All right,’ I said, unwilling towait. ‘But it’s nothing bad is it,Dandy?’

She smiled at me, the warmcomplacent smile of a woman whoknows she has everything. ‘Nothingbad,’ she said. ‘And if this man likesthe flying act then that makes it betterand better.’

I would have pressed her formore, but Rea came running to tell usthat Robert had opened the gate andhad a full house already. Dandy andKatie must go quick and start sellingdrinks and sweetmeats.

‘And the man from London’shere,’ he said.

‘How d’you know?’ Dandydemanded, pausing in her flight. ‘Whatdoes he look like?’

‘Great driving coat,’ Rea said,very much awed. ‘Enormous buttons,huge capes, high high hat. And veryshiny boots.’

Dandy nodded. ‘I’m gone,’ shesaid and picked up her short skirts anddashed to our wagon for her cape.

‘You look nice, Merry,’ Rea saidawkwardly. I knew I did not. Dandyand Katie had chosen colours to suitthemselves. Neither of them hadthought how I would look with redribbons in my copper hair. The coloursscreamed at each other. Dandy hadscraped my curls roughly into plaits,and tied them too tight, so that the skinon my scalp and forehead was sore. Iwas scowling with the discomfort.

‘I know I don’t,’ I saidunhelpfully. ‘But it doesn’t matter.’

Rea grinned sympathetically.‘Shall I take them out for you again?’he offered.

I shook my sore head. ‘I don’tdare!’ I said. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to getready.’

I ran off to my wagon and Reawent back to watch the gate and collectthe pennies of latecomers.

As soon as I was dressed in myblue riding habit I went back out to thehorses with my working smock pulledover the top.

This was rich farming country,good flat land with a dark fertile soil.The barns here were huge, big enoughfor all of the horses to be inside at thesame time. As soon as he had seen theextra space in the corn-rich countiesRobert had put the little ponies in theopening parade and we had trainedthem to go two by two behind Snowridden by Jack. I came behind all of

them on Sea. Then Dandy and Katiecame riding in dressed in their flyingcapes, both sitting sideways barebackon Morris. Bluebell brought up the rearwith his steady reliable canter and twobillowing flags set in either side of hisharness. It was a good start to the showbut it meant that all the horses had tobe ready at once.

Jack was already behind the barnwith the ponies, screwing the bells intothe ponies’ headbands. Rea was tryingto put a plume into Sea’s headband,who was tossing his head and shyingaway from the bright feather althoughhe had seen it a hundred times before.Rea was cursing him in a soft gentlevoice, careful not to frighten him more.

‘I’ll do that,’ I said. ‘You put thecoats on Bluebell and Morris.’

Each of the rosinbacks now had alittle cape in the bright pink of thegirls’ flying capes. They should have

been in the box for the horses’ specialtack, with the plumes and the bells.

‘They’re not here!’ exclaimedRea.

We had a few moments ofwhispered rage. Jack blamed me, but Icould clearly remember folding themand putting them away the night before.Rea swore they had been there amoment ago and Jack cursed him andsaid he must have lifted them out andlaid them down somewhere. Readenied it, and I told Jack to stop tryingto swing the blame to one of us andhelp look. In the midst of all theconfusion and anger Dandy cameswaying up as lovely as an angel withher pink cape floating behind her, andthe horses’ capes over her arm. Shehad taken them to brush them clean.Jack cursed her roundly for not tellingus, and Dandy smiled back at him as ifnothing could touch her, as if she cared

nothing for his anger or for his likesand dislikes. I felt that same coldness Ihad felt when the water had run downmy back while she was washing myhair. I shuddered.

Robert opened the big doublebarn door and put his head out to seeus. Behind him I could hear the clatterof many people crowded into the smallspace.

‘Everyone ready?’ Robert asked.He was red with suppressedexcitement, but trying to be calm.‘Good audience tonight. Full up. Andthe man from London is here to see theshow.’

He had himself well undercontrol, but I could see that his hand onhis whip was shaking. ‘This could bethe making of us,’ he said softly. ‘Icannot tell you how important it is youwork your best tonight.’ His voice wasalmost imploring. He looked around.

‘Horses ready, Meridon?’‘Yes, Robert,’ I said, and I smiled

at him. He might have worked me untilI was weary through to my very boneswith tiredness, but he was a man withone goal in view and I could not helpbut smile with pleasure to see himcoming steadily and surely towards it.

‘Well, better start then!’ he said.He stepped back into the barn and Icould imagine him striding into thevery centre of the floor. We hadscattered fresh woodshavings downthat morning and Robert’s boots wouldlook as black and shiny as Qualityagainst the whiteness. We had putdown hay bales to mark out a ring forthe horses and all the little childrenwould be sitting on the other side ofthem, their faces wide-eyed, lookingover the top. Behind them would be thedouble row of benches reserved for theQuality and for those willing to pay

thruppence a seat. Behind them was arow of straw bales for the twopennyspectators, and behind them, andstanding in the doorway, and scarcelyable to see at all, were the people whocould afford nothing more than a pennybut who clapped the horses longest andloudest for they knew – as the frontbenches did not – how long and hardyou have to work with a horse to makehim mind a whisper.

‘My Lords, Ladies, Gentlemen;and Honoured Guest!’ Robert bawled.An immediate hush descended on thebarn. It was so quiet I could hear Jacktapping his thumbnail against his teeth.

‘Stop that Jack, it’s irritating,’Dandy said softly.

‘We are proud to present, tonight,and for three nights only, RobertGower’s Amazing Equestrian andAerial Show!’

That was our cue. Rea threw his

slight weight against the big doubledoors and thrust them open. Jackwiped the scowl off his face and rodeinto the ring, head up, smiling. Snowpicked up his feet and pranced when heheard them gasp at the size and thebeauty of him and tossed his head sothat the new ostrich plume waved.

I nodded at Rea who was holdingthe keeper-reins of the front pony andhe sent them in behind, their bellsjingling. There was an instant‘aaahhh!’ from the little children whichspread to the adults; as if none of themhad ever whipped a horse to death intheir lives. I slid a finger under Sea’sgirth to check it was tight enough andglanced behind me to see that Dandywas all right. She was up on Morris’sback already and she smiled at me, hersatisfied secretive smile.

‘Go on, Merry!’ Rea saidurgently, and I dragged my eyes away

from Dandy’s smooth inscrutable faceand rode into the ring and smiled at theripple of applause that greeted me. Iwas not won to vanity by that. Theywere clapping because I was slim anddainty and because the horse was talland moved with his head up as proudas a hunter. The lithe slimness of mybody gave me a claim to be a beauty inthe ring, and the blue riding habit didthe rest. Besides, as Robert had taughtme, they had paid their money to seebeautiful women and fine horses andthey would try to see nothing else. Ismiled and got another round ofapplause.

Any vanity I had nurtured wouldhave been put to flight by Dandy andKatie’s entrance. The audiencecheered and stamped their feet at thevery sight of the girl flyers on the backof the big horse. Katie and Dandynodded their heads as gracious as a

pair of queens. We all did two roundsof the ring before Jack led the way out.

Rea caught the ponies as theycame out and turned them around forme to take in. Jack took Sea from me,and led him and Snow to their hitchingposts. Dandy was responsible forMorris and Bluebell who knew wellenough to go to their place and standstill. Robert had stayed in the ring aswe had circled around and bowed tothe roar of applause as we went out.He waited a few seconds to give metime to tumble off Sea and stand at thehead of the ponies behind the closedbarn door. Then when the crowd washushed again, after the excitement ofthe opening parade, he cracked hiswhip and with much floweryintroduction presented MamselleMeridon and the Dancing Ponies!

The act went well. The ponieshad been getting better every day since

we had been on the road, they weregetting their exercise just by movingfrom one village to another. They hadslimmed down too, and they lookedbetter than when I had learned to trainthem in Robert’s field at Warminster.They watched me carefully enough andI made sure that I made my cues clearto them. Step forward, whips up: stop.Turn around whips held out sidewaysmeant circle round the ring. Whipstwirled meant pirouette. We finishedthe act with them all backing slowlytowards the barn door and thenkneeling down to take a bow. I stoodbefore them and smiled at the crowd,looking for the man from London.

He was not hard to spot. He sat inthe front row smoking a large cigarwith a fat glowing ember heldperilously close to the bale of strawbefore him. He was smiling at me, andhe put the cigar between his teeth to

slide his gloves off his large hands andclap hard: three times. I dipped anawkward little bow – I could neverlearn Dandy’s graceful sweep of acurtsey – and then I had the poniescircle the ring once more beforesending them out and taking anotherbow before going out myself.

Rea caught the ponies as theycame out and took them to theirhitching posts. I pulled my smock onover my riding habit as soon as I wasout of the ring, and went to help Jackwith Bluebell and Morris.

‘She’s gone to get some moredrinks and buns,’ Rea said seeing myglance around for Dandy. I nodded. Ipulled back the barn door for Jack ashe strolled into the ring when his fatherannounced him. Then Rea heaved backthe double door and I gave Bluebelland Morris a hearty slap each on therump and sent them in for Jack’s

bareback riding act.‘Did you need her?’ Rea asked. ‘I

could run and fetch her. You don’tneed me here.’

‘No,’ I said absently. ‘It’snothing.’

‘She has a shadow tonight,’ Reasaid suddenly.

I jerked up my head to look athim. His eyes were hazy, vague. Hesaw my stare and he met my eyes andsmiled at me. ‘Don’t look so scaredMeridon! It’s what my grandma used tosay. When she was dukerin – fortune-telling! I just thought that Dandy lookedas if she had a shadow.’

‘Is that bad luck?’ I demanded.‘Would it be bad luck for her to do thetrapeze tonight?’

‘It would be bad luck for anyonetrying to stop her!’ he said fairly. ‘No.I don’t have the Sight, Meridon. Andneither did my grandma, really. I don’t

know what made me say it.’‘Well, keep your mouth shut till

you do know,’ I said sharply. ‘And getready to catch the horses. Jack’sfinishing.’

I heard the roar of applause thatgreeted the end of Jack’s act and Reahauled the barn doors open and caughtBluebell and Morris as they canteredsteadily out. Jack ran after them, hisface shiny with sweat, his eyessparkling.

‘He likes me! He clapped me!’ hesaid. ‘Da is really pleased!’

‘Good,’ I said dryly, thinking ofthe measured three claps.

‘Three claps he gave me!’ Jacksaid as if it were a bouquet of flowersflung at his feet.

‘All three!’ I said sarcastically.Then I turned to get Snow, as I heardRobert inside the barn shout:

‘The amazing, the mind-reading,

the magical counting horse!’Snow went in and I went back to

my wagon, pulling off my workingsmock as I went. Dandy was unpackingfood into trays in the men’s wagon andI stripped off my riding habit withoutanyone to help me with the buttons atthe back. I shook out the little red skirtand put it on. The red waistcoat wassmart – close-fitting. Mrs Greaves hadtrimmed it with a little left-over goldbraid. It matched the gilt and red flyingribbons in my hair – even if my coppercurls clashed appallingly. I tugged myworking smock atop the lot and thenpushed my bare feet into a pair ofclogs and trotted back to the barn for Iheard the applause at the end ofRobert’s act with Snow.

Bluebell was ready for myrosinback act, with a warm blanketover her so she did not cool after herwork with Jack, and fresh rosin on his

broad rump.I kicked off my clogs and Rea

gave me a leg-up so I was sittingastride. I got to my feet as we heardRobert starting his patter, and stoodbalancing carefully on Bluebell’sback: ‘The graceful, the charming, thebrilliant Mamselle Meridon!’

There was a burst of applausefrom inside the barn, I took Bluebell’sstrap to steady me and nodded at Reaand he pulled back the door. I went inupright, standing high on Bluebell’sback, the top of my head just clearingthe barn door, and there was an‘oooohhh!’ from the audience asBluebell thundered into the ring andRobert cracked the whip. I tossed myhead and my hair streamed out behindme. I kept my balance, and I did notcome off, but I was tired and not readyto work my best, not even for the manfrom London. Three times we circled

the ring, as I got my balance steady andlet Bluebell establish her stride. ThenRea came darting out from a crack inthe doors with a little gilt stick. Hestood at the side of the ring and held itout at shoulder level as Bluebell wentcantering around. He dipped it downfor me to jump it, and I watched itcarefully and then bobbed over,landing solidly and surely onBluebell’s broad back.

Robert kept Bluebell’s pace goingwith a flick of his whip at her heels foranother circle of the ring while thepeople cheered that trick, and then Reareached up to me and handed me a giltrope and I skipped a few skips with it.It was a trick I still hated – I had toswing the rope myself and themovement of my arms put me offbalance. Robert in the middle of thering shouted, ‘Hurrah!’ at each skip butgave me a very hard look when he saw

how low I was skipping. I rememberedthe Honoured Guest again, and skippedhigher.

Robert’s whip cracked andBluebell threw up her head and went alittle faster. I kept my bright showsmile on my face but the look I shotRobert was pure green anger. He knewhow hard I found it to stay steady whenBluebell went faster, but he also knewthat it made the trick look far moreexciting. Rea disappeared through thebarn door and Robert talked-up thefinale of my act:

‘And now, honoured guest, ladiesand gentlemen, Mamselle Meridonwill perform for you her most daringand dangerous trick – a leap through apaper hoop! As performed beforeCountless Crowned Heads in Europeand Further Abroad!’

Everyone said ‘oooh!’ and I tookhalf a dozen nervous little steps on

Bluebell’s back and prayed Robertwould send her no faster.

Rea jumped up on one of the haybales at the ring’s edge and raised thehoop high above his head in readiness.At the next circuit he brought it down.Bluebell had seen it a thousand timesand kept steady, fast and steady. Ijumped into the paper centre, there wasa second’s blindness and then my feetwere solidly down on Bluebell’srolling rump and the barn was filledwith cheering.

People jumped to their feet andflung flowers and even a few coins,and I somersaulted off Bluebell’s backinto the centre of the ring and took abow with Robert holding my hand andsweeping his tall top hat down in abow to me. Then he put his hands onmy waist and I went up on toBluebell’s back again to take anotherbow. Just as the cheers quietened there

was a drunken yelling of, ‘Hurrah!wonderful!’ and Jack came weavingthrough the crowd.

I was watching the man fromLondon and he gave a start at theinterruption and looked to Robert tosee what he would do to stop thedrunkard ruining the show. Otherpeople shouted, ‘Sit down!’ and oneperson tried to stop Jack but he slidpast them and was into the ring and atthe horse’s side before anyone couldcatch him. I saw the London man lookanxiously at Robert and I smiledinwardly thinking that he was not asclever as he thought, that we couldcatch him with this trick to amuse thechildren. They were wide-eyed asever; and their parents too were utterlysilent, waiting to see what wouldhappen to this man who dared to breakinto the most exciting show which hadever come to their village.

Jack took four steps back andmade a little run at Bluebell andvaulted on her, facing her tail. Helooked owlishly at my feet, and then upto my face. People started laughing asthey saw the point of the joke and oneby one the little children’s faces lit upas Jack spun himself around and endedup lying across the horse forwards, andthen on his back. Robert clicked toBluebell and she moved to the ringedge and started her reliable canter.

All I had to do was to keep myface straight and my feet on her backand my head up. Jack did the rest andthere were gales of laughter as hescrambled from one side to another.We finished the act with him clingingaround under her neck as we canteredaround the ring. I glanced at the manfrom London. All his elegant townpoise had gone. His cigar was out, hewas rolling on his seat with laughter

and there were actual tears fromlaughing on his cheeks. Robert and Iexchanged one triumphant beam andBluebell left the ring to a standingovation and the welcome chink chinkof people throwing their coppers intothe ring and cheering me and Jack untilthey were hoarse.

16The ponies went past us in a ripple ofcoloured flags as Jack and I slidwearily from Bluebell’s back. Dandyand Katie were back with a tray ofbuns and toffee, and a big pitcher oflemonade. Dandy nodded her head atthe noise.

‘They liked your act, then,’ shesaid coolly.

Jack was triumphant. ‘They threwmoney and cheered!’ he said. ‘And theman from London was laughing andlaughing. Whatever he thinks of theflying act, me and Meridon are made!It’ll be London for us!’

Dandy looked at him from underher eyelashes. ‘I reckon it’ll be Londonfor all of us,’ she said. ‘I’ll go withyou, Jack.’

‘They cheered so loud!’ Jacksaid, not heeding her. ‘I’ve never

known it go so well.’‘You were the funniest you’ve

ever been,’ I said, giving credit whereit was due. ‘You really looked like adrunken farmhand. When you came outfrom the back everyone thought youwere a stranger. Even the man fromLondon did. I saw him look at Robertand wonder what he was going to do.’

Jack nodded. ‘I saw his facewhen I first vaulted up,’ he said. ‘Inearly laughed myself. He looked as ifhe could not believe what he had lethimself in for.’

I laughed. ‘But who exactly is he,Jack? Your da didn’t say.’

Jack glanced behind him butRobert was still in the ring doing theBattle of Blenheim with the ponies. Weheard the audience take the tune fromhim and then they started singing ‘TheRoast Beef of Old England!’ with therounded drawl of Sussex in their

voices.‘He runs a show he calls a circus

in London,’ Jack said in an undertone.Dandy and Katie were out of earshot,preening at the barn doors, ready to goin with their trays. ‘Da says he’slooking for acts that he can put oninside. He’s got a special-builtbuilding with a great ring and anentrance and an exit, and he chargespeople a shilling to go in!’

‘For one show?’ I asked.Jack nodded. ‘Aye. And the

money he is offering for an act isamazing! David knew him and told himabout us. He’s come all this way to seeus. My da is right, Merry; if he likesus, then our fortunes are made. Hehires by the season and he buys an acthe likes in gold for the season. Wecould make enough in one year to liveon for the rest of our lives if wewanted!’

I thought at once of Wide. Dandymight have forgotten it, but I hadspoken the truth when I said I neverwould. My dreams might befrightening, but they were clearer andclearer. The land of Wide could not befar from here, I knew it. I felt it everyday. Every time we moved I wonderedif the next day would bring me to aplace which I had looked for all mylife, as if someone might say: ‘Oh, thisis Wide-fell, or Wide-moor, or Wide-land.’ I knew it was close. Thelandscape was like this one. The treeswere the same, and the lightness of thesky. If Wide was near here and couldbe bought…I broke off my thoughts andturned to Jack.

‘How are you and Dandy?’ Iasked.

Jack glanced at her back at thebarn door. ‘All right,’ he said briefly.Then he shot me an imploring look.

‘Don’t ask me now, Meridon. Damnme, you do pick your times! My da’llcome out in a second and there’s a manfrom London in the front row! We’reas we always were. Hot as a pair ofstray dogs, and a deadly secret. Shehas seldom a civil word for me, and Ihate her as much as I want her. Nowhush, Meridon. Ask Dandy. Don’t askme. I try to not even think about it!’

Rea pulled back the doors and theponies came out in a rush. Jack caughtthe two first through the door, and Igrabbed the next. Rea got hold of twoas they trotted past him, and thesmallest followed on behind. We tookthem to their hitching posts and I leftRea to feed them and take their tack offthem while I went to my wagon tochange. Jack ran past me to his wagonto get into costume for his flying act.

I was back first. I wore ashimmery blue shirt and a pair of thin

white breeches, a scaled-down copy ofJack’s flying costume. I was notnervous of the low practise trapeze;and besides my job was only to whetthe appetite of the audience for themain trapeze act. But my feet were icyin my clogs as I trudged back to thebarn door. And I ached as if I hadfallen and been kicked hard in thebelly. Dandy and Katie’s elation attheir record sales, and the smile theman from London had given them whenhe had said, ‘No thank you,’ went overmy head. I hardly heard them. I had adeep dark feeling, as if I were a bucketgoing slowly down a deep well. Theothers’ voices came as an echo fromfar away.

‘You all right, Merry?’ Jack saidas he joined us. ‘You look sickly.’

I looked around for him. Myvision was slightly blurred and hisface kept coming and going.

‘I feel ill,’ I said. I thought for asecond and then recognised that coldfeeling in my belly. ‘I feel frightened,’I said.

Jack’s hand came on my shoulderand I held still and let him touch me.

‘Not that little practice trapeze!’Katie said scornfully. ‘You can’t bescared of that!’

I looked for her in the fog thatwas gathering around me. ‘No,’ I saiduncertainly. ‘I’m not scared of that.’

I was looking for Dandy. I couldnot see her. Robert came out andcalled for Jack to come and help finishrigging the catch-net with him and Rea.

I said: ‘Dandy!’ in sudden frightand then her beloved face was beforeme and she was saying kindly:

‘What’s the matter, Merry?You’re as white as if you’ve seen aboggart. It should be me that’s sickly!’

I could hear a distant rushing in

my ears as if there was a waterfall faraway pouring down a cliff. Somethingseemed to be coming towards us asfast as the tumbling water.

‘Why?’ I asked urgently. ‘Whyshould it be you who is sickly?’

Dandy threw back her head andlaughed. ‘I wanted to tell you later,’she said.

She paused and I heard Robertsay from the ring inside the barn:

‘And now, Ladies and Gentlemen,Honoured Guest, Welcome VisitorsAll, We Commence the Second Half ofour Nationally-Famous Show withRobert Gower’s Amazing AerialDisplay. First with Mamselle Meridonon the trapeze!’

‘You’re on!’ Katie said urgently,holding open the door for me.

Through the gap I could see Reaand Jack checking the stakes whichheld the catch-net taut. Jack had his

back to me, but I could see Rea’s facefurrowed with concentration. I had amoment of relief from worry. I knewRea would make sure the catch-netwas safe.

I could hear the clapping, thenoise an audience makes when they areexcited, waiting. They were waitingfor me in the barn, but my feet wouldsomehow not go forward. Jack wascoming out past me.

‘Go on Meridon!’ he said softly.‘You’re on.’ He went on past me tocheck the set of his shirt in a littlemirror Dandy had nailed up near thelantern.

I turned back to Dandy. ‘I won’tgo until you tell me!’ I said. It was as ifI were seeking for a light at the top ofthe deep well.

She gave me a little push in theback and her face was alight withtriumph and laughter.

‘Go on, Merry!’ she said. ‘You’restubborn as a mule! I’ll tell you it alllater.’ Then as my feet made nomovement, she gave me another littlepush and said, ‘Go on! It’s as I said itwould be! I’ve caught Jack and I’mgoing to tell his da. I’m breeding hischild so there’ll be a grandson Gowerto inherit all this! And I’ll be his ma. Itold you I’d win all this, and I havedone! I’ve caught him now and he’llnot get away. I’ll tell him after theshow.’

I spun around and caught herhands but Katie tore me away from herand pushed me through the barn door. Isaw Jack wheel around from themirror. I saw his stunned face, blankwith incomprehension at what he hadoverheard. Rea had one of the doorsand was pulling it shut behind me. Iknew that Jack had heard. I knew hehad caught Dandy’s exultant tone, I

knew he had heard the words. He hadturned in time to see her smile as shesaid: ‘I’ve caught him now, and he’llnot get away.’

I stood helplessly before theaudience as if I had forgotten what Iwas there for. I looked behind me. Thebarn door had stuck on some roughnesson the ground and Jack had comeforward to help Rea shut it, obedientas ever to the orders of his father whosaid that it must always be kept closedduring acts.

I walked over to the low trapezeslung underneath the girls’ frame andkicked off my clogs and held my armsabove my head. Robert lifted me upand I hung for a moment as if I hadforgotten what to do. Then I startedworking the trapeze and it seemed togo backwards and forwards like theclapper of a bell tolling inside myhead.

I could make no sense of whatDandy had said to me. I was too wearyand overworked to make any sense ofit at all. And the show had its owninexorable rhythm. I saw the man in thefront row look at me and I smiled myshallow unreal smile and turned andhooked my knees through the trapezebar and hung upside down. There wasa little ripple of clapping. I swung myhead up and leaned outwards, grippingthe trapeze with my hands behind myback, and held the bird’s nest pose.They clapped me again, more warmly.The trapeze seemed to go tick…tock…tick…tock in my head as I worked it topick up speed.

I felt as if a long way away therewas the red-haired woman in the bighouse waiting for her destiny to cometo her. And that here I was, a tickingclock, waiting for mine to come to me.I raised myself up and over the trapeze

in the pose that David called the kip,with the bar of the trapeze against myhips and my head up and smiling. Myred ribbons blew across my eyes but Idid not even blink. I was in a deepspiralling haze and I could not thinknor see.

I leaped down from the trapezewith a cheating half-somersault andlanded on my feet. They clapped mevery loudly, someone cheered from theback. I looked around for Dandy.

‘And now!’ Robert yelled as theapplause died down. ‘We Present. TheDaredevil, the Amazing…JackGower!’ Jack came in and took a bow.I saw he was white as his breeches, hiseyes dazed. He looked as if his lifewas about to collapse around him. Heshot one bewildered look at me as Istood, my upraised hand gesturingtowards him as David had taught us.His face was as puzzled and as scared

as a lost child.I tried to smile at him, he should

be thinking of nothing but the task ofcatching the girls as they swung outtowards him; but I found I could not.My lips were drawn back over dryinggums in a blank parody of a smile. Iwas baring my teeth at the audience,not smiling. Jack looked at me as if Icould help him. He looked at me as ifhe would ask me what he should do.He looked at me as if he was puzzled,disbelieving what he had heard.

My face was expressionless. Ihardly even saw him. We were far, faraway from each other. Somewheredeep down inside us we both knew thatafter the show there would be the endof this life. An end to the comfort andthe friendship, the quiet early morningsand the hard-working days. The senseof belonging, all of us, one to all theothers. There would be a row which

would mean the end of this life. All thelong months of training, and thisafternoon’s triumph, would count fornothing.

Robert Grower would not becaught by a slut like Dandy. Dandywould never let go. Jack would betrapped between their two conflictingwills. And I would have to take heraway, pregnant, idle, incapable ofearning money. She and me, a horseand a small purse of guineas. Jackgestured towards me with his hand,directing the applause towards me, andhis face was white and imploring. Hetook his bow as if all the thief-takers inLondon were after him and started toclimb his ladder slowly.

Robert watched him for a second,puzzled. Then he called: ‘AndPerforming. For Your Entertainment.Flying at incredible height and speed,the Only girl flyers in the World! The

Angels Without Wings: MamselleKatie –’ Katie strode into the ring,smirked all round especially towardsthe man from London, and startedclimbing the ladder. ‘And MamselleDandy.’

She walked in without a glance tome. I was standing before the trapezeat the foot of her ladder, like ascarecrow in a field, my hand outflung,gesturing towards the middle of thering where my sister took her bow withher green ribbons flying and her smilebright with the triumph at the trap shehad sprung. I went to hold the foot ofher ladder and her brilliant smile andher laughing eyes went past me as sheclimbed up.

‘Old misery!’ she whispered. ‘Iplanned this all along! You’ll see.’

I put my weight on the ladder tohold it steady for her and I waited untilI could feel she had stepped from the

ladder to the pedestal. I did not lookup. I never looked up. I left the ringwith my head up and my brightmeaningless smile stuck on my face,and my eyes down, and I pulled thedoor shut behind me and leaned myforehead against the hard woodenplanks and listened, as I alwayslistened. So that I should hear the gaspof the crowd when one of them wasstretching across to Jack, and then theroar when they were back on thepedestal. So that I should know thatDandy was safe.

I was so bone-weary I nearlydozed, standing upright, keeping myvigil for my sister with my facepressed against the rough wood plank.I heard the excited applause as theywatched Jack on his pedestal vault upinto a handstand, and the sudden rushof clapping when he swung right overto be standing upright again. Then there

was the rustle of deliciousapprehension as they watched Jackstrap himself into his belt, and shufflehis feet on the blocks. They saw himrub his hands together – as he alwaysdid – and then reach purposefully out.

That would make them look to theright, where the girls were, and then Iheard the great ‘oooh’ as Katie tookhold of the trapeze and stepped out intospace. She always went across first, Iknew. I heard the audience hold theirbreath and Jack’s, ‘Pret!’ was as clearas if I were in the front row. I pressedmy palms flat against the door. Thesense of sinking into the darkness wasso strong that I could scarcely keepfrom slumping against the door andletting it wash over me. I felt someonebeside me, and glanced quickly to oneside. It was Rea.

‘You all right?’ he asked.Inside the barn Jack yelled,

‘Hup!’ and there was a muted screamfrom the crowd as Katie swung herlegs forward. I heard the smack as Jackcaught her ankles and then the cry fromthe crowd as he swung her towards theback wall, and then twisted her aroundso she turned and caught the swingingbar, and then their burst of cheeringwhen she reached the pedestal andturned and held up her hand andsmiled.

I nodded at Rea’s worried face.He seemed to be wavering, the wholeworld around me seemed to be meltingand undulating.

‘You’re sweating and shivering,’he said. ‘And you look awful white.Are you ill, Meridon?’

I heard the crowd rustle as Dandyand Katie changed places on thepedestal board and Dandy took thetrapeze in her hands. I heard the littlegasp as Dandy made her characteristic

confident little leap downwards, and Iheard Jack wait as she built-up herswing. Then I heard him call, ‘Pret!’and I knew it would be Dandy he waswatching now, Dandy he was reachingout for. Dandy with her legs hookedover the trapeze bar so that she couldreach out for him with her hands. Thatlittle extra distance which made thetrick that little extra bit more difficult.She would be stretching towards himnow with her green ribbons flyingaway from her face and that triumphantdazzling smile on her face which Jackwould unerringly recognize as Dandy’sdelight that she had gulled him andtrapped him, and defeated him and hisfather.

‘You going to faint?’ Rea askedurgently. ‘Can you hear me, Meridon?’

Jack yelled, ‘Hup!’ and I heardsomething in his voice which I hadnever heard before.

The sinking feeling in my headsnapped, the planks of the door becamesuddenly clear. I scrabbled againstthem in sudden urgency.

‘Let me in!’ I shouted.The door gave way before me, I

looked up; for the first time, I lookedup. I saw their hands touch, I sawJack’s safe hard grip, then I saw himswing her, with the speed of her swingand all his own whipcord strength, heswung her out, and flung her towardsthe high flint and mortar wall at theback of the barn. And as she flewtowards it, her hands uselesslyplucking at air, she screamed a longterrified scream which I heard, andrecognized at once, as if I had beenwaiting to hear it for months. Thenthere was an awful thump as shesmashed head-first into the wall anddropped like a nestling to the ground,and an echo of the scream from

everyone in the crowd and a hundredvoices shouting.

I went in like a bolting horse.They were all on their feet, allcrowding round, mobbing her on theground by the back wall. I wentthrough the crowd like a weaselthrough a henhouse. I felt someonebrush me and I knocked them off theirfeet with my shoulders as I ran throughthem. I could see the edge of Dandy’spink skirt and her pale bare leg twistedaround.

Behind me Robert was yelling.‘Get back! Get away! Give the lass air!Is there a surgeon here? Or a barber?Anyone?’

I pushed a little child to one sideand heard him fall and whimper andthen I was at her side.

Everything was very slow andquiet then.

I put my hand to the tumbled mass

of black hair and the green and giltribbons and I gathered her up to me.Her shoulders were still warm andsweaty, but her head lolled back, herneck was broken. The top of her headwas a mess of blood, but it was notpumping out. Her eyes staredunseeingly at the wall behind her, theywere rolled back in her head so thewhites showed. Her face was frozen ina grimace of terror, the scream stillcaught in her throat.

I laid her down, gently back downon the ground and pulled the short skirtdown over her bare legs. She waslying all twisted, her head andshoulders one way, her legs and hipsthe other, so her back was broken aswell as her neck. There was a dribbleof blood at the corner of her gapingmouth but that was all. She looked likea precious china doll smashed by afeckless child.

She was dead, of course. She wasthe deadest thing I had ever seen.Dandy, my beloved, scheming, brilliantsister, was far far away – if she wasanywhere at all.

I looked up. Jack was strugglingto undo his belt, I guessed his handswere shaking so much that he could nothold the buckle. He looked down at mefrom the catcher frame and he met mygaze. His mouth was half open as if hewas appalled at what he had done. Asif he could not believe what he haddone. I nodded slowly to him, my eyesblank. It was unbelievable, but nonethe less he had done it.

I stood up.The crowd all around me had

fallen back. I saw their bright facesand their mouths moving but I could nothear anything.

Rea was beside me. I turned tohim and my voice was steady.

‘You’ll see she’s buried aright,’ Isaid. ‘In the manner of our people.’

He nodded, his face yellow withshock.

‘Her clothes burned, her platesmashed, her goods buried with her,’ Isaid.

He nodded.‘Not the wagon,’ I said. ‘The

wagon is Robert’s. But all the thingsshe wore, and her bedding, and herblankets.’

He nodded.‘And her comb,’ I said. ‘Her

ribbons. Her little pillow.’I turned away from the crumpled

body, and Rea standing beside it.I went two steps and Robert held

out his arms to me. I ignored him as if Ihad never loved him, nor anyone in allmy life. I turned back to Rea.

‘No one but you may touch her,’ Isaid. But then I was uncertain. ‘Is that

right Rea? Is that the way of ourpeople? I don’t know how it is done.’

Rea’s lips were trembling. ‘Itshall be done in our way,’ he said.

I nodded and I walked under thecatcher frame, where Jack’s handswere shaking so hard he could notundo his belt. I did not look up again. Iwalked past Robert and felt his handbrush my shoulder and I shrugged it offwithout looking at him. I went throughthe barn door where I had stood like afool when Dandy went laughing to herdeath, and I went out to where thehorses were tethered.

I heaved the saddle on to Sea’sback, and he dipped his head for thebridle. I could see the shine on themetal girth buckles and the bit, but Icould not hear them chink when theyrattled. I tightened the girth and led himacross the grass to our wagon.

Her bedding still smelled of her.

A warm smell like corn-flowers, likehay. The wagon was scattered with herclothes, her ribbons, her hairpins, amess of powder and an empty bottle ofperfume.

I stripped off my trapeze costumeand I pulled the ribbons out of my hair.It tumbled down in a sweep of coppercurls and I pushed it back. I pulled onmy shirt and my working smock and myriding breeches. I had a pair of oldboots of Jack’s and I pulled them onwithout a shiver. I reached under mymattress and pulled out my purse of tenguineas. I laid one on Katie’s pillow.She had kept her part of the bargainand left Dandy a free hand with Jack.She had earned her coin. I slipped thepurse inside my breeches and tied thestring to my belt. Then I reached intothe hole in my mattress and took out thestring with the two gold clasps. Ifastened it around my neck and tucked

it under my shirt, and I shrugged myselfinto an old worsted jacket which oncehad belonged to Robert and was warmand bulky. There was a flat cap stuffedin the pocket; I piled my hair into it andpulled it on my head.

Katie was at the door of thewagon.

‘Robert sent me,’ she saidbreathless. ‘He says you’re to go to hiswagon and lie down until he can cometo you. He’s getting the crowd out ofthe barn.’ She hesitated. ‘Rea’swatching over Dandy,’ she said. ‘He’scovered her up with her cape.’

She gave a little frightened soband put out her hands to me forcomfort.

I looked at her curiously. Icouldn’t for the life of me see what shehad to cry about.

I went past her, careful that sheshould not touch me, and stood for a

moment on the step of the wagon. Searaised his head at the sight of me and Iunhitched his reins.

‘What are you doing?’ Katie saidanxiously. ‘Robert said you were to…’

She tailed off into silence as Ijumped up into the saddle.

‘Meridon…’ she said.I looked at her and my face was

like a frozen stone.‘Where are you going?’ she

asked.I turned Sea’s head and rode

towards the edge of the field. Peoplemade way for me, their faces alightwith interest, watching me avidly,recognizing me even out of costume.They had enjoyed a fine show tonight.The best we had ever done. Certainlythe most exciting. It is not every dayyou see a girl flung across a barn into aflint wall. They should have paid extra.

They parted either side of me as I

rode towards the gate. Sea paused,looked down the road. South wastowards the beach where we hadridden together that morning and I hadtasted the salt on her hair when I hadkissed her. I turned Sea’s head northand his unshod feet sounded soft on themud of the lane. To our left the sun wassinking in a haze of pale saffron andapple-blossom clouds. Sea walkedquietly, I rode him on a loose rein.

I did not sob. I did not even weepinwardly. I rode carefully past thepeople walking back to their homesand talking in high excited voicesabout the accident and what they hadseen! and her face! and that awfulscream! I rode past them in silence andI kept Sea headed north until we werethrough the little village and headingfor the road towards London. Stillheading north, with Sea’s hoovesmaking little squelchy noises in the ruts

but quiet on the dried mud. North whilethe sun went lower and lower in thesky and the evening birds started totrill in the hedges which bordered thedarkening lane. North, and I did notsob, or rage. I scarcely took breath.

17I reached the road which plies alongthe line of the coast as it was growingdusky with the early grey twilight ofspring. Sea turned to the right and I lethim go where he would. It meant wewere travelling east and I was glad ofit for the sunset was now behind me. Idid not want to ride into the setting sun,the colour of it hurt my eyes and madethem sting as if I were going to cry. Iknew I was not going to cry. I knew Iwould never cry again. The littleisolated corner of affection which hadbeen my love for Dandy had gone asswiftly and completely as she hadgone. I did not expect to love anyone,ever again. I did not wish it.

A stage-coach went past us goingin the opposite direction towardsChichester and the guard on the backblew his horn merrily as he saw me. I

turned the collar of the jacket upagainst the cooler evening air. It wasnot cold, but I was icy inside. Thejacket could not warm me. I saw myhands were trembling slightly on thereins and I looked at them carefullyuntil they were steady. To our left, lowon the horizon, a single pinprick oflight shone very white and clear in theevening sky. I stared at it, and itseemed to stare back at me.

It mattered very little which way Itook. It suited my whim to turn Sea’shead towards the star which looked asicy and as cold as I felt inside. As itgrew darker I saw that the lane wasclimbing, up to the crest of a hill.There was a sweet light singing allaround us. Sea walked softly, his headup, snuffing at the air as if the chalkgrass smelled good to him. It was quietand dusky and he was unafraid, thoughhis ears raked our surroundings for

sounds of danger. I gave a solitarylittle chuckle at the thought of fear.Fear of living, fear of falling, fear ofdying.

All gone.I had achieved a state of absolute

confidence. At last I had nothing left tolose, and the little girl who had lookedat the ceiling above her bunk andknown herself to have only one goodthing in her life was now a womanwith nothing. I felt gutted of love, oflife, of tenderness. I felt clear andsimple. I was as clean and cold as afreezing stream or like a chalk rockface with a sheen of ice on it.

The road was heavily wooded;under the trees the blackness of theevening was thick and blinding. Seawalked as if he were balancing oneggshells, his ears went forward andback, his head turned so that he couldlook everywhere. I slumped in the

saddle as if I were a squire who hadbeen hunting all day. I was boneweary. I even dozed as we wentquietly up that lane; Sea’s hoovesmade no sound on the pine needles andthe mud. I only wakened when wecame out from under the trees at thecrest of the hill and found we were inthe light of the rising half-moon.

I rubbed my eyes. We hadclimbed to a great rolling sweep ofhills which had risen softly up from thecoast. Now we were clear of the darkpine and budding beech trees the grasswas short and sweet, cropped bysheep. Three or four of them scutteredout of our way as we came out of thewood. Little lambs scampering behind,butting at their mothers in theirnervousness.

I looked back. Behind me themoonlit sea glowed like silver. Thelittle islands of mud showed black in

the darkness like a model of alandscape, not the real thing. I couldsee the fist of the land around thevillage of Selsey as it stuck out into thesea, and further to the west were othersludgy promontories of land, littlepoints where we had halted in ourslow progress to this damned countywhere Dandy had gone up to fly oncetoo often, and I had been too slow andtoo great a fool to stop her. Sea turnedhis grey head to look down the roadwe had climbed and blew out throughhis nostrils as if he were impressed atthe distance we had already travelled.I did not know where he thought hewas going. I did not know where Ithought I was going. I had not theenergy or the ability to think of it. Duenorth seemed a good enough direction,and this lane was pleasant riding andthe countryside quiet. I clicked softlyto him and he turned his head and

walked on.We went along the crest of the hill

in a beautiful clear sweep and then thetrack started to drop down towards thevalley on the other side. It looped andturned in hairpin bends in an effort tomake the track easier for coach horses.I thought one might get a light coach upthe hill in summer, but nothing tooheavy. Nothing in winter at all. Iguessed the road would be a quagmireof pale chalky mud by then. Somethingin the idea of that colour of pale chalkymud made my mind stop still, andmade me think where I had seen thickcreamy mud before. But it was gonebefore I had time to catch at it.

Sea walked faster as we starteddown the steeper slopes, then he tossedhis head a bit and tried a few paces ofa trot, his back legs slipping andsliding. I steadied him with a touch onthe reins. I could not be troubled to

tighten the reins and rise for a trot. Icould not be bothered with his changeof pace. He slackened off when he feltmy unwillingness and walked steadilyin the moonlight again.

I thought it must be between sevenand eight of the clock, but I could notbe sure. It did not matter. If I wasanxious to see the time there would bea village church with a steeple and aclock soon enough, even on thisdeserted road. I was not hungry. I wasexhausted with fatigue but I did notcrave sleep. It did not matter to me ifthis night was just begun, or half done,or if it never ended at all. I slouched inthe saddle and let Sea make his ownway carefully down the hill, under theshadows of trees again, the reins looseon his neck.

We came to a village at the footof the hill. A pretty little place with astream running alongside a bigger

broader lane, and several of thecottages had little bridges over thewater so that the householders couldwalk dry-shod to the road even whenthe stream was in flood. There werecandles set at some of the windows tolight the way home for weary men whohad been out working late in the fields.I wondered idly what farm workersfound to do at this time of year,perhaps ploughing? or planting? I didnot know, I had never needed to know.I thought then, as Sea stepped like aghost of a horse through the eveningvillage, that there was precious little Idid know about ordinary life; aboutlife for people who did not dress upand dance on horseback. I thought thenthat I would have served Dandy a gooddeal better if I had worked on my skillat training horses for farmers andgentry rather than letting us be boundon the wheel of the show season. And

now broken by that wheel, too.The road went uphill out of the

village and Sea brightened his paceand I let him trot uphill. If it had beenlight I guessed there would have been agreat sweep of country on our left. Icould smell the fresh greenness of it,and the hint of meadow flowersclosing their little faces for the night.On our right was the high shoulder ofthe hill. The hill of the South Downs, Ithought. I considered for a momentwhere I was.

I could see a map in my mind’seye now. I was heading north fromSelsey, I had skirted the town ofChichester, and this road must surelybe the London road. That accounted forthe firmness of the going, and thewideness of the track which was broadenough for two passing carriages formuch of the way. That reminded me tokeep a careful look-out ahead of me for

toll cottages. I did not want to wastemy money paying for use of the roadwhen a little ride cross-country wouldsave me a penny. I watched out too forcoaches before or behind me. I did notwant to speak to anyone, I did not evenwant them to look on my face. I had asilly belief that my face was so set andso stony that anyone looking into myeyes would cry for me. That theywould see at once that I was a deadperson looking out of a live face. Thatthere was no one behind my eyes andmy mouth and my face at all. Ipractised a smile into the darkness andfound that my lips could curve and myface rise with no difficulty and with nodifference to the weight of ice insideme. I even tried a little laugh, aloneinto the darkness of the fields on the farside of the village. It sounded eerie,and Sea’s ears went back flat and heincreased his pace.

I checked him. I was so tired I didnot think I could bear the jolting of histrot, and I felt as if I would nevercanter again. I could hardly rememberthe girl who used to vault on to theback of a cantering horse and dancewith a hoop and a skipping rope. Sheseemed like a hopeful little child to menow, and I wondered idly why theyhad worked her so hard. Her and herpoor little sister…I broke off mythoughts. It was odd. I was speakingand feeling as if I were an old woman.An old woman tired and ready fordeath.

The girl who had played in thesea this morning was a lifetime awayfrom me now. I thought that I was morelike the woman who had seen thewagon go away from her in that awfuldream of the storm, and known that shewould never see her baby again. Thewoman who had called after the

wagon, ‘Her name is Sarah…’ I feltlike that woman now. I felt like anywoman feels when she has lost thelove and the saviour of her life. Old.Sick at heart. Ready for her own death.

I sighed and Sea took it as asignal and broke once more into a trotwhich brought us over the top of thehill and down to the village which layat its foot on the spring line.

It was getting later and the lightswere doused in this hamlet. Sea wentby in silence, not one man saw us pass.Only a little child looking from anupstairs window at the moon saw mego by. He raised his hand like a saluteand his eyes sought mine, and hesmiled a friendly, open little smile. Ineither smiled nor waved. I hardly sawhim, and I felt nothing when I saw hismouth turn down in disappointment thatthe stranger on the horse had notacknowledged him. I did not care. He

would be worse disappointed than thatbefore tomorrow was out. And I didnot wish to be kindly to little children.No one had ever had a kind word forme when I was his age. No one had akind word thereafter. Except she waskind to me. In her own light way, shehad loved me. But that was littlecomfort now.

Quite the contrary.It was a scattered little village

this one. A public house with a lanternin the window the last building alongthe road, a little fir tree nailed abovethe door. I thought idly that perhaps Ishould stop and go in and eat and takea drink. I thought wearily of a bed anda warm fire. But Sea kept on walkingand I did not care very much that I wascold and tired and hungry. Indeed I didnot care at all. Sea’s head pointed duenorth and he scanned the road ahead ofus with his shifting ears. I wondered

idly what he heard.What I could hear, what sung in

my ears so that I shook my headirritably, was a high singing noise. Toohigh for human voices, too sweet for asqueaking hinge. It had started as soonas I had got into the saddle thisafternoon, at Selsey. And it was callingme louder and clearer all along theroad. I stuck my finger in one ear andthen the other. I could not block it outand I could not clear it. I shrugged. Itwas all one with the clamminess of myskin and the cold inside my belly. Theway my hands trembled when I did notremember to watch them and keep themsteady. A singing in the air made littledifference either way.

Sea broke into a trot again and Isat down in the saddle and let him gowhat speed he wished. I was far awayin my thoughts. I was thinking of asummer years and years ago when she

and I had been little grimy urchins andwe had gone scrumping for apples in ahigh-walled orchard. I had been quiteunable to face the thought of climbingup the wall or jumping down the otherside and in the end had squeezedthrough a fence which had ripped halfof my ragged dress off me. She hadlaughed at my scratched face. ‘I don’tmind being high,’ she had said.

I wished now that I had made herfear heights as I do, that I hadsomehow insisted that she always stayon ground level. That I had turnedRobert against the idea of the trapezeas soon as he mentioned it. That I beenwarned by the barn owl. That I hadremembered in time that the oneunlucky colour in shows is alwaysgreen.

Sea suddenly wheeled sharply tothe right and nearly threw me offsideways. I clutched at his neck and

stared around me. For some reason,clear only to his horse’s brain, he hadturned off the main track and washeading down a little lane scarcelywider than a hay wagon. I stopped andthought to turn his head back towardsthe main road. But he was stubborn andI was too weary to be able to bend himto my will. Besides, it mattered solittle.

I listened. I could hear the rippleof a river ahead of us in the darknessand I thought that perhaps he wasthirsty and it was the noise of the clearwater which was drawing him awayfrom the road and down this little carttrack. I let him go where he would,obeying my training which said that thehorses must be fed and the horses mustbe watered. Whether you are hungry orthirsty or no. Whether you haveforgotten what it feels like to wantwater or food. Still the horses have to

be fed and watered.He went easily down the dark

slope towards the ford where I couldhear the river rippling. The singing inmy head was louder, clearer. It wasalmost as if it were coming from theriver. The night-time air blew gentlydown the valley and set the treessighing with the smell of new grass.There were tall pale flowers at theriverside and they glowed in themoonlight. Sea went out into mid-riverand bent his proud head and drank. Theendearing sound of the sweet watersucked in by his soft lips echoed loudaround the little valley. I sat still on hisback and felt the cool night air caressmy cheeks, as soft a touch as a lover’shand. An owl called softly to its mateone side of the river then the other, andas I sat there in silence, in the silverymoonlight, a nightingale began to sing afew clear notes which rippled like the

river and were as clear as the singingin my head.

The trees stood back a little fromthe river and the banks were grassywith great clumps of primroses andsweet-scented violets. There weresilver birches in a clump near a boggypatch of ground and their stiff catkinspointed spiky at the silvery sky. Seablew out softly and when he raised hishead from drinking it was so quiet thatI could hear the water drip from hischin. Down river, the banks overhungthe deep curves of water and therewere dark standing pools where Ithought one would find trout and maybeeven salmon. Sea raised his headagain, then lumbered awkwardly on thesandy river bed to the far side of thebank. I thought we should really turnback to the main road, but I was toodesolate to think clearly about inns andstabling and a bed for the night. I let

him have his head and he wentsmoothly and steadily on down thelittle track as confident as if he weregoing home, home to a warm stable forthe night.

I did not even check him when heturned sharply to the left, though it wasobviously a private drive. I could notfind it in me to care. We went past alittle lodge cottage and past the highwrought-iron gates. The cottagewindows were dark and the drive wassoft mud. We made no noise. We rodepast like a pair of ghosts, a ghost horseand a ghost rider, and I let Sea gowhere he wished. It was not just that Iwas so weary that I was dreamy withtiredness, but I also felt as if I were inthe grip of one of my dreams of Wide.As if all the dreams had been leadingme steadily here, till I had nothing leftof my real life at all, no ties, no loves,no past, no future. All there was for me

was Sea’s bobbing head and the rutteddrive, the woods and the smell ofviolets on the night air. Sea walkedcarefully up the drive and his earsflickered forward as the dark bulk of abuilding showed itself against thelighter sky.

It was a little square house, facingthe drive, overshadowed by the trees.There were no lights showing at any ofits windows, all the shutters werebolted as if it were deserted. I lookedat it curiously. I felt as if the front doorshould have been open for me. I felt asif I should have been expected.

I thought Sea might check and goaround to the stable block but hewalked past it, as steadily as if he hadsome destination in mind. As assuredas if we belonged somewhere, insteadof wandering around in circles under apale springtime sky. His ears wentforward as we went under the shadow

of a great spreading chestnut tree and Ismelled the flowers as fat and thick ascandelabra on the tree as he broke intoa trot.

We rounded the bend of the driveand I pushed the cap back on my head alittle, and leaned forward. After allthese years of dreaming and hoping, ofwaiting and being afraid to hope, Ithought I knew where I was at last. Ithought I had come home. I thought thiswas Wide.

The drive was right, the drivewhere the man I called Papa had takenthe little girl up on the horse and taughther how to ride. The trees were right,the smell of the air was right, and thecreamy mud beneath Sea’s hooves wasright. The horse was right as well.There had been other beautiful greyhunters here before. I knew it, withoutknowing how I knew. Sea’s stridelengthened and his ears were forward.

There was a great chestnut tree onthe corner of the drive and I recognizedit, I had seen it in my dreams for years.I knew the drive would bend around tothe left, and as Sea drew level and wewent around the corner I knew what Iwould see, and I did see it.

The rose garden was on my left,the bushes pruned down low and therose-beds intersected by little paths allleading to a white trellisedsummerhouse, a smooth-croppedpaddock behind it, and behind that adark wall of trees which were theparkland.

On my right was the wall of theterrace. It ran around the front of thehouse bordered by a low parapet witha balustrade and stone plant pots withbushy heads of flowers, dark againstthe darkness. In the middle of theterrace was a short flight of shallowsteps leading to the front door of the

house. I checked Sea then; he was onhis way around the house to where Iknew, and he seemed to know, therewas stabling and straw on the floor andhay in the manger; but I stopped him sothat I could look and look at the house.

It was a lovely house, with asmooth rounded tower at one side,overlooking the rose garden and theterrace. Set in the middle of the façadewas a double front door made of someplain pale wood, with a brass knockerand a large round ring door-handle. Itwas as if it spoke to me with easywords of invitation, as if to say thatthis was my house which I had beentravelling towards all the wearyjourneys of my life.

There were no lights in the house,it looked deserted, but in measurelessconfidence I slid from Sea’s back andwent stiffly up the steps and to the frontdoor.

Out the back, from the kitchenquarters, I heard a dog bark,insistently, anxiously. I turned aroundon the doorstep and looked outwardsover the terrace. I looked once more atthe rose garden and beyond it thepaddock, and beyond that the darkershadow of the woods, and high aboveit all the high rolling profile of theDowns which encircle and guard myhome.

I breathed in the smell of the nightair, the sweet clean smell of the windwhich blows from the sea, over theclean grass of the Downs. Then Iturned and put my small hand in thewide ring of the door, twisted thehandle around, and leaned against thedoor so it slowly swung inwards and Istepped into the hall.

The floor was wood, with dark-coloured rugs scattered on top of thepolished planks. There were four

doors leading off the hall and a greatsweep of stairs coming down into thehall. There was a newel-post at thefoot of the stairs, intricately carved.There was a smell of dried rose petalsand lavender. I knew the house. I knewthe hall. It was as if I had known it allmy life, as if I had known it for ever.

The dog from the kitchen at theback was barking louder and louder.Soon he would wake the householdand I should be in trouble if I wasfound trespassing, my old boots on thenew rugs. But I did not care. I did notcare what became of me; not tonight,not ever again. There was a great bowlof china raised on wooden legs and Iwent over to it curiously. It was filledwith dried rose petals and lavenderseeds, sprigs of herbs, and it smelledsweet. I took up a handful and sniffedat it, careless that it spilled on thefloor. It did not matter. I could not feel

that anything mattered at all. Then Iheard a noise outside on the terraceand the stone steps, and there was ashadow blocking the moonlight in thedoorway, and a kind voice said softly:

‘What d’you think you’re doing?’I turned and saw a working man

in the doorway, blocking themoonlight, his face half in shadow. Arugged, ordinary face, tanned withweather, smile-lines etched in whitearound the eyes. Brown eyes, broadmouth, a shock of brown hair, ordinaryhomespun clothes. A yeoman farmer,not Quality.

‘What are you doing here?’ Ireplied, as if it were my own houseand he a trespasser.

He did not challenge my right toask.

‘I was watching in the woods,’ hesaid politely. ‘There’ve been somepoachers, out from Petersfield I think.

Using gin traps. I hate gin traps. I waswaiting to catch them and see them offwhen I saw you riding down the drive.Why are you here?’

I shrugged, a helpless weary littlegesture. ‘I’m looking for Wide,’ I said,too tired to think of a better story. Toosick at heart to construct a clever lie.‘I’m looking for Wide, I belong there,’I said.

‘This is Wideacre,’ he replied.‘Wideacre estate, and this is WideacreHall. Is this the place you are lookingfor?’

My knees buckled a little underme, and I would have fallen but he wasat my side in one swift step, and hecaught me and carried me out to thenight air and dumped me gently on theterrace step and loosened my shirt atthe throat. The gleam of the gold claspon the string caught his eye and hetouched it gently with one stubby

forefinger.‘What’s that?’ he said.I unfastened it and drew it out. ‘It

was a necklace of rose pearls,’ I said.‘But all the pearls were sold. My maleft it to me when she died, I was toshow it when they came looking forme.’ I paused. ‘No one ever camelooking for me,’ I said desolately. ‘SoI kept it.’

He turned it over in his hands andheld it close so that he could read theinscription. ‘John and Celia,’ he said.He spoke the names like an incantation.As if he had known what theinscription would say before he lookedat it in the moonlight, as if he knew thatwas what he would see in the old worngold. ‘Who are they?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Maybe myma knew, but she never told me. Normy da. I was to keep it and show itwhen they came looking for me. But no

one ever came.’‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

His gaze under the ragged fringe ofhair was acute.

I was about to say ‘Meridon’, butthen I paused. I did not want to beMeridon any more. Mamselle Meridonthe bareback rider, Mamselle Meridonon that damned killer trapeze. I did notwant the news of Gower’s AmazingShow to reach me here, I wanted toleave that life far behind me as if it hadnever been. As if there had been noMeridon, and no Dandy. As if Meridonwere as dead as Dandy. As if neitherof them had ever been.

‘My name is Sarah,’ I said. I castabout in my mind for a surname. ‘SarahLacey.’

18The next few days were a blur, like adream you cannot remember onwaking. I remember that the man whohated gin traps picked me up in hisarms, and that I was so tired and soweary that I did not object to his touchbut was a little comforted by it, like ahurt animal. He took me inside thehouse and there were two other peoplethere, a man and a woman, and therewere a great many quick questions andanswers over my head as it rested onhis shoulder. The homespun tickled mycheek and felt warm and smelledreassuring, like hay. He carried meupstairs and the woman put me to bed,taking away my clothes and bringingme a nightgown of the finest lawn I hadever seen in my life with exquisitewhite thread embroidery on the cuffsand hem and around the neck. I was too

tired to object that I was a vagrant anda gypsy brat and that a corner of thestables would have suited me well. Itumbled into the great bed and sleptwithout dreams.

I was ill then for two days. Theman who hated gin traps brought adoctor from Chichester and he askedme how I felt, and why I would not eat.He asked me where I had come fromand I feigned forgetfulness and toldthem I could remember nothing exceptmy name and that I was looking forWide. He left a draught of some foulmedicine, which I took the precautionof throwing out of the windowwhenever it was brought to me, andadvised that I should be left to rest.

The man who hated gin traps toldme that Sea was safe in the stables andeating well. ‘A fine horse,’ he said, asif that might encourage me to tell ofhow I got him, how a dirty-faced,

stunned gypsy brat came to be riding afirst-class hunter.

‘Yes,’ I said, and I turned my faceaway from his piercing eyes andclosed my eyelids as if I would sleep.

I did sleep. I slept and woke tothe sunlight on the ceiling of thebedroom and the windows half openand the smell of early roses and thenoise of pigeons cooing. I dozed againand when I woke the woman broughtme some broth and a glass of port wineand some fruit. I ate the soup but leftthe rest and slept again. In all of thosedays I saw nothing but the light on theceiling of the bed chamber and atenothing but soup.

Then one morning I woke and didnot feel lazy and tired. I stretched, agreat cat-like stretch with my toespointing down to the very foot of thebed and my arms outflung, and then Ithrew back the fine linen sheets and

went over to the window and pushed itopen.

It had rained in the night and thesunlight was glinting on the wet leavesand flowers of the rose garden andmist was steaming off the paddock.Immediately below me the pavingstones of the terrace were dark yellowwhere they were damp, paler wherethey were drying. Beyond the terracewas the gravel of the drive where Seaand I had ridden that first night, beyondthat the rose garden with pretty shapedflower-beds and small paths runningbetween them. A delicate littlesummerhouse of white painted woodstood to my left; as I watched, aswallow swooped in through the opendoorway, beak full of mud, nest-building.

Beyond the rose garden was asmooth green paddock with Sea, veryconfident, cropping the grass with his

tail raised, a stream of silver behindhim. He looked well, perhaps even alittle plumper for his stay in a goodstable with fine hay and spring grass toeat. Behind the paddock was a darkmass of trees in fresh new foliage,copper beeches red as rose-shoots, oaktrees with leaves so fresh and greenthey were lime coloured, and sweetgreen beeches with branches likelayers of draper’s silk. And beyond thewoods, ringing the valley like aguardian wall, were the high clearslopes of the Downs, striped withwhite chalk at the dry stream beds, softwith green and lumpy with coppices onthe lower slopes. The sky above themwas a clear promising blue, rippledwith cloud. For the first time in my lifeI looked at the horizon and knew that Iwas home. I had arrived at Wide, atlast.

There was a clatter of horse’s

hooves and I looked along the driveand saw the man who hated gin trapsriding up towards the house, sittingeasily on an ungainly cob. A workinghorse, a farmer’s horse, able to pull acart or a plough or work as a hunter onhigh days and holidays. He scanned thewindows and pulled up the horse as hesaw me.

‘Good morning,’ he saidpleasantly, and doffed his cap. In themorning sunlight his hair showedgleams of bronze, his face young,smiling. I guessed he was abouttwenty-four; but a serious young manappears older. For a moment I thoughtof Jack, who would have been a childat forty as long as he was under hisfather’s thumb; but then I pushed thethought away from me. Jack was gone.Robert Gower was gone. Meridon andher sister were gone. I could remembernothing.

‘Good morning,’ I said. I leanedout of the window to see his horsebetter. He sat well, as if he spent muchof his day in the saddle. ‘A goodworking horse,’ I observed.

‘Nothing like your beauty,’ hereplied. ‘But he does well enough forme. Are you feeling better? Are youwell enough to dress and comedownstairs?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am quite better.But that woman took my clothes.’

‘That’s Becky Miles,’ he said.‘She took them and washed them andironed them. They’ll be in the chest inyour bedroom. I’ll send her up to you.’

He turned his horse and rode pastthe front door round to the back of thehouse to the stables. I shut the windowand opened the chest for my clothes.

There was warm water in a jugwith a bowl beside it in exquisitecream china with little flowers painted

on the outside, and a posy at the bottomof the jug. I splashed a little water onmy face and dried myself reluctantly ona linen towel. It was so fine I didn’tlike to dirty it.

I dressed and felt the luxury ofironed linen and clean breeches. Therewas a minute darn on the collar ofJack’s old shirt where I had torn itweeks ago. I shrugged on the old jacketas well – not that I would need thewarmth, but because I felt awkwardand vulnerable in this rich andbeautiful house in my shirtsleeves. Mybreasts showed very clear against thethin cotton of the shirt; I pulled thejacket over to hide them.

There was a comb, a silver-backed hairbrush, a small bottle ofperfume and some ribbons laid outbefore a mirror of the purest glass Ihad ever seen on the dressing-table andI stopped in front of it to brush my hair.

It was full of tangles as always, and theriot of copper curls sprang out from theribbon bow I tried to tie around them. Igave up the struggle after the third timeand just swept it back from my faceand left it loose. The man who hatedgin traps did not look as if he were aconnoisseur of female fashions. Helooked like a simple working man, andone who could be trusted to deal witha person fairly, however they looked.But the house, this rich and lovelyhouse, made me feel awkward in myboy’s clothes with my red hair alltumbled down my back. It was a finehouse, I somehow wanted to be fine tosuit it. I didn’t look right there, indarned linen and someone else’s boots.

There was a tap at my door and Iwent to open it. The woman he calledBecky Miles stood outside. She smiledat me. She was taller than me, a large-built woman running to plumpness, her

fair hair starting to turn grey at thetemples, a little sober cap on her head,a dark dress and a white apron.

‘Hello,’ she said kindly. ‘Good tosee you up. Will sent me up to bringyou down to the parlour when you’reready.’

‘I’m ready,’ I said.She walked ahead of me, talking

over her shoulder as she went towardsthe shallow curving staircase anddown the stairs to the hall.

‘I’m Becky Miles,’ she said. ‘MrFortescue put us in here, me and Sam,to work as housekeeper and caretaker.If there’s anything you want, you justring the bell and I’ll come.’

I nodded. There was too much totake in. I wanted to ask why theyshould wait on me, and who was MrFortescue but she led me across theshadowy hall, her heels clicking on thepolished wooden floor, silent on the

bright rugs, and opened a door at thefront of the house and gestured that Iwas to go in.

‘I’ll bring you some coffee,’ shesaid, and shut the door behind her.

The room was a parlour, thewalls lined with a silk so pale as to bealmost cream, but pink in the darkercorners. The window-seat, scatteredwith cushions of a deep rose colour,ran around the inside of the tower atthe corner of the room and overlookedthe terrace, the rose garden and thedrive in its circular sweep. The carpet,set square on the polished floorboardsin the main part of the room, wascream with a pattern of pink roses atthe border. The half-circular turret partof the room had its own circular rug indeep cherry. There was a harpsichordon the wall beside the fireplace, and anumber of occasional tables standingbeside comfortable rose-cushioned

chairs. In the middle of all thispinkness was the man who hated gintraps, with his brown cap clutched inhis big hands.

We smiled at each other in mutualunderstanding of each other’sdiscomfort.

‘It’s a lady’s room really,’ hesaid. ‘It’s the parlour.’

‘A bit pink,’ I said.‘Aye,’ he said. ‘It’ud suit some.’He paused and looked at me, as

awkward as himself in my hand-me-down boots and my plain ridingbreeches and my too-big jacket.

‘We could go into the diningroom,’ he suggested.

I nodded and he led the wayacross the hall and through handsomedouble doors into a dining roomdominated by a massive mahoganytable which would seat, I thought,sixteen people. On one side was a huge

sideboard gleaming with silver, onanother a table set with chafing dishes.The man who hated gin traps pulled outa chair for me at the head of the tableand sat by my side.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘We’ll wait themain business until Mr Fortescuecomes and I’m pledged to tell younothing till he arrives. He’s the trusteefor this estate. He came down from hisLondon offices when I sent word thatyou had come here. He’ll be in to takecoffee with us in a moment.’

‘Who is he?’ I asked. I wasnervous, but the man who hated gintraps gestured to me to sit in one of thehigh-backed chairs and I gainedconfidence from his ease.

‘He’s the trustee of the estate,’ hesaid. ‘The executor of the will. He’s astraight man. You can trust him.’

I nodded. I thought, ‘I can trustyou too,’ but I sat down in silence, and

put my hands together on the polishedtable as if we were about to start somebusiness.

The door opened and Miss Milescame in carrying a tray with a silvercoffee pot, some biscuits and threecups. Behind her came a tall mandressed like Quality, but he held thedoor for her. He made much of helpingher with the tray and setting thebiscuits on the table and the cupsbefore the three of us but I knew that hehad taken in my appearance in his firstquick glance as he came into the room,and that he was scanning me under hisdark eyelashes still.

He was about the age of RobertGower, with clothes cut so soberly andso well that I had never seen their like.He had an air of such authority that Ithought he must have been bornwealthy. His face was lined andsevere, as if he were sad. I thought that

he was being polite to Becky Miles tocover his searching survey of me butalso because he was always polite toher, to all servants.

He set the things to hissatisfaction and then he gave anassumed and unconvincing little startof surprise. ‘I’m not introducingmyself,’ he said to me. ‘I am JamesFortescue.’

He held out his hand and lookedat me inquiringly. The man who hatedgin traps said nothing, so into the littlesilence I volunteered my ownintroduction.

‘I’m Sarah,’ I said.The hand that clasped mine

tightened a little, and his sharp gazenarrowed. ‘Have you used that nameall your life?’ he asked me.

I hesitated for a moment. Ithought, with my quick tinker’s brain,about stringing some lie together; but

nothing came.‘No,’ I said. ‘I had a dream, like a

belief that it was my real name. But thepeople I lived with called me bysomething else.’

He nodded, let my hand go andgestured for me to sit down. In thesilence that followed the man whohated gin traps pulled the tray towardshimself and carefully poured threecups of coffee. When he handed one toJames Fortescue I could see that thegentleman’s hands were trembling.

He took a sip of coffee and thenlooked at me over the rim of the cup. ‘Ithink I would have known heranywhere,’ he said softly, almost tohimself.

‘You need to be sure,’ the manwho hated gin traps said in a levelvoice. ‘For your own sake, for all oursakes.’

I turned and looked at him. ‘What

are you talking about?’ I asked. Therewas an edge of irritation in my voiceand the man heard it. He gave me aslow reassuring smile.

‘You’ll know at once,’ he said.He nodded to James Fortescue, ‘He’lltell you in a moment.’

Mr Fortescue put down his cupand took some papers and a pen andink-pot out of a little case beside him.

‘I have to ask you somequestions,’ he said.

Ask he did! He asked meeverything about my life from myearliest memories until the time when Irode up the drive to Wideacre Hall.After two or three slips I dropped thepretence that I could not remember andtold him all he wanted to know: all thatI could remember of my ma, what herfamily name had been, where her gypsyfamily travelled and where they stayed.Then I shook my head.

‘She died when we were justlittle babbies,’ I said. ‘I can hardlyremember her at all.’

Then he asked me everything Icould remember of my early life. I toldhim about Da, and the travellingaround. The grand projects and the fewjobs. I glided over the bad horses andthe cheating at cards. And I found,although I tried to say her name once ortwice, that I could not say it at all.Even to think of her was likescratching at an unhealed scar on myheart.

I did not want them to know aboutGower’s Show and MamselleMeridon, so I told him only that I hadbeen apprenticed to a man who trainedhorses, that I had chosen to leave him,and found myself here. I came to astandstill and trailed into silence.James Fortescue looked at me over thetop of his coffee cup as if he were

waiting for more.‘There are things I do not want to

talk about,’ I said stubbornly. ‘Nothingcriminal. But private.’

He nodded at that, and then askedto see my string and clasps and askedme once more where I had got it. Helooked at it carefully through a speciallittle glass he took from his pocket, andthen finally he handed it back to me.

‘Do you have none of your babyclothes?’ he asked. ‘Did you never seethem?’

I screwed my eyes up with aneffort to remember. ‘I saw them,’ I saidhesitantly. ‘We shared them, of course.I saw a white lace shawl, very fine,trimmed in lace. Someone must havegiven it to us.’ The memory of thewhite lace shawl slipped away fromme as if it had disappeared intodarkness. ‘Everything was sold afterMa died,’ I said again.

Mr Fortescue nodded,consideringly. Then he said, verysoftly. ‘You say “us”. Who was thechild who shared your childhood?’

My chair scraped as I suddenlypushed it back. My hands on the tablehad started their trembling again. Ilooked at them carefully until theywere still. Then the man who hated gintraps leaned over and put his largecalloused hand over mine.

‘You don’t need to say,’ he saidsoftly.

I took a deep shuddering breath. ‘Iwon’t say more than this,’ I said. ‘Wewere raised together, we were sisters.She never dreamed of Wide as I did.We were twin sisters, but we lookeddifferent.’

‘And where is your sister, yourtwin sister, now?’ Mr Fortescue asked.

I heard a low cry like an animalin pain and I hunched up over the pain

which was like hunger-cramps in mybelly. I felt a thud of pain on myforehead, over my eyes, and I heard alow thumping sound. Then another, andthen another, and then someonegrabbed my shoulders and I realized Ihad been banging my head on that darkshiny table. The man who hated gintraps pulled me around and held myshoulders tight until I stopped shakingand that distant moaning noise stopped.

‘That’s enough,’ he said over myhead to James Fortescue. ‘We’ve gotenough. It’s her. She can’t bear to tellus more now.’

I heard footsteps cross the roomand the clink of a decanter on a glass.‘Drink this,’ Mr Fortescue said, and Iknocked back half a glass of cognac asif I were my da.

It hit me in the cold sad part of mybelly and spread a warmth all throughme. I rubbed my face with my hands,

my cheeks were dry and warm. I hadshed no tears, I felt as if I would nevercry again. My forehead was sore. I felta flicker of fear that I had been hurtingmyself so. But then the cold dullnesswas all around me and I did not carewhat they thought of me. I did not carewhat I did.

‘I’m all right now,’ I said. Theman who hated gin traps still had hishands on my shoulders. I shrugged himoff. ‘I’m all right now,’ I said again,irritably.

There was a silence in the darkroom. Outside in the stable yardsomeone was whistling.

‘I have enough,’ Mr Fortescuesaid. ‘I had enough as soon as I sawher. I won’t vex you with morequestions, Sarah. I shall tell you why Ineeded to ask you them.’

I nodded. I was still tremblingfrom that welling-up of pain, but I took

the cup of coffee for its warmth. Therewas a knack to balancing it on the littleplate which was under the cup. Iwatched it carefully until I had it safeup to my mouth, and then I blew on itcautiously and supped it. It was astrange taste, but hot and sweet andstrong. I thought about the taste of it, Iwatched the little plate under the cup, Icurled my toes up hard inside my bootsuntil I could get the picture of her, andmy pain at losing her, out of my mind.

Then I looked up and listened toMr Fortescue.

‘I believe that you are thedaughter of Julia and Richard Lacey,and the only heir to this estate,’ he saidsimply. ‘Your mother was in feverafter your birth and she gave you awayto the gypsies. Your father was killedby an escaped criminal who came backhere seeking his revenge. Your motherdied shortly after.’ He was silent for a

moment. When he spoke again hisvoice was even. ‘She wrote to mebefore her death,’ he said. ‘She had noclose relations and she entrusted to methe task of trying to find her daughterand to care for the estate until the childwas of age.’

He looked at me. ‘I am sorry Ifailed you so badly, Miss Lacey,’ hesaid. ‘I did indeed try, for all theseyears I have had men looking for you.We traced the gypsy family and thenmuch later your foster mother; but thenthe trail went cold. I never knew of theman you call your stepfather.’

I nodded, but I said nothing. Ifthey had found the two of us beforesome of the beatings I had taken. If theyhad only found us before Da sold us toRobert Gower. Or if they had found usjust yesterday, when we were a day’sride away and she had been playing inthe sea and her hair had tasted of salt

when I kissed her.I shrugged off the pain and took a

deep breath. In a few moments thepicture of her would be out of my mindand I would be able to hear MrFortescue’s voice again.

‘I’ve done better with the estate, Ithink,’ he said. ‘We restored it to theprofit-sharing scheme started by yourmother, and we have expanded. It isnow quite famous as a villagecorporation – an experiment incommunal planning and communalland-use. Will Tyacke here acts asforeman and keeps in touch with me inmy offices in London or Bristol. I onlysupervise. All of the decisions aremade here, by the people themselves.’

‘Is it a wealthy estate?’ I askedbluntly.

Mr Fortescue looked down at alittle case he had by his chair. ‘Run asa corporation it does not make a

profit,’ he said. ‘It pays you an annualshare of some £10,000. If you were towithdraw an economic rent you wouldearn some £40,000. I have the figureshere for you to see.’

He went to pick them up but Ichecked him.

‘I…I cannot read,’ I saidawkwardly.

He nodded as if there were noreason to think that anyone could. ‘Ofcourse,’ he said gently. ‘Then we cango over them together another time. Butyou may believe me that you have agood estate, run as a corporation, withthe people who live here sharing in thewealth. It is showing substantial andsteady profits.’

I thought of the nine guineas I hadin my little purse and the work I haddone to earn them. I thought of herdancing with her skirts up for pennies,and of Da selling us in a job lot with a

young pony. I thought of Jack, sofearful of his father’s ambition that hekilled to keep his favour, to inherit theshow. And I thought of myself, flint-hearted and hungry…and wealthybeyond anything I could ever havedreamed.

I blinked. ‘It is mine?’ I asked.Mr Fortescue nodded. ‘You are

the heir to the whole of the Wideacreestate,’ he said. ‘All the debts on theland are paid, you own it entire. Yourmother wanted it gifted to the village, Ihave a letter she wrote to me in whichshe makes clear that is her intention.She died before she could write it intoher will. She wanted you to have theHall as your home. The Hall, thegardens and parkland. We have set upa trust so that you could sign yourrights to the land over to the village assoon as you wish. But while you are aminor,’ he looked at my confused face,

‘until you are twenty-one or married,then you may draw an allowance fromme, and I shall act as your guardianand run the estate as I think fit. Whenyou are twenty-one or married it isyours.’

I rose slowly from the table andwent to look out over the cobbled yard.There was a man there mucking out astable, I watched him fork over thesoiled straw.

‘That man works for me,’ I saidslowly.

Mr Fortescue, in the room behindme cleared his throat and said, ‘Yes.’

‘And Becky Miles,’ I said.‘And Mistress Miles,’ he

repeated. ‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘if thevillage were run in the usual way withthe workers hired by the quarter andpaid wages instead of our profit-sharing scheme you would havesomething like a hundred people

working for you.’I leaned my head against the

coldness of the thick glass and thoughtwhat this sudden wealth, what thissudden power meant. I need never gohungry, I need never go cold, I neednever work in the wind or the rain orthe cold. I need never work again atall. I would have a meal on the table,set before me by someone else, aservant, my servant, more than once aday, four times a day! I had wonthrough to what I had always wanted,to what I had always thought wasimpossible. I had not had to whore, Ihad not had to trap someone intomarriage as Robert Gower hadforetold. I had inherited as easily andas naturally as if I were one of theQuality.

I stopped myself there. I was oneof the Quality. I was born Sarah Laceywith a silver spoon in my mouth and I

was now where I belonged. Where Ihad an absolute right to be. And thishouse, this huge beautiful house wasall mine, staffed with servants whowere mine to command. No one wouldever make me do their bidding again. Iheld that thought in my mind for a longmoment. And I thought what it meantfor me now.

‘It’s too late,’ I said desolately.‘What?’‘It’s too late,’ I said again.I turned back to the room; they

were both watching me, puzzled,uneasy. I looked at Mr Fortescue.

‘It’s too late for me, damn you fora fool!’ I exploded. ‘I wanted it for me,oh! yes, of course I did! I was hungry, Iwas beaten! I was tired all the timefrom working too hard and not enoughfood! But I wanted it for her! I wantedto give it to her! I wanted to bring herhere and make her safe!’

I could hear my voice rising into ascream. ‘And all the time you havebeen sitting here, you fat merchant,sitting here on my land while I was outthere, beaten and cold, and she was outthere too and I could not keep hersafe!’

‘Sarah…’ The man who hated gintraps was up from the table, comingtowards me, his hand held out, like youwould try to calm a frightened horse.

‘No!’ I screamed as loud as Icould and dodged past him towards thedoor.

‘Where were you three nightsago?’ I shouted at James Fortescue. ‘Iwas a day’s ride down the road! Youweren’t looking for me then! Youweren’t doing all you could then! I wasthere alone, not knowing what to do tokeep her safe! And she…and she…andshe…’

I turned to the door and scrabbled

at the panels in an agony of haste to getout of the room. I found the doorhandle and tore it open and ran up thestairs to the room they had given me,my own room in my own house, whileshe lay cold and still in the ground andall her little things burned andscattered.

I flung myself into a corner of thebedroom and sobbed, deep achinghopeless dry sobs which seemed totear me apart.

And when my throat was so sorethat I was hoarse with sobbing, so thatno more sound would come, the painhad not eased at all. It was still there,unslaked, as hot and hard andheartbroken as ever.

There was a knock at the door andJames Fortescue opened it softly andcame into the room.

He squatted down on the floorbeside me, careless of creasing his fine

breeches and coat, and he did not offerto touch me, nor did he say easyfoolish words of comfort. He lookedquickly at my red eyes which were stilldry after nigh on an hour of weeping,and then he looked down at the carpetunderneath his fine shoes.

‘You are right to blame me,’ hesaid softly. ‘I have failed you, and Ihave failed the woman I love. I knowthe grief you are feeling because I alsoloved a woman and I did not keep hersafe.’

I looked up a little.‘It was your mother,’ he said.

‘Her name was Julia Lacey and shewas the bravest, funniest, mostbeautiful girl I ever met.’ He pausedfor a moment, and then nodded. ‘Yes,’he said. ‘Those were the things that Iloved most about her. She was verybrave, and she used to tease me all thetime and make me laugh, and she was

very very lovely.’He took a little breath. ‘You are

very like her,’ he said. ‘Though shewas fair and your hair is copper. Hereyes were set aslant like yours, and herface was shaped like a flower, likeyours is; and her hair curled like yoursdoes.’

He paused for a moment. ‘Shewas forced into marrying her cousin,your father, and he destroyed the plansshe had made with the village,’ hesaid. ‘She wanted to send you away,off the land, so that you would be safe.And she wanted to end the line of thesquires here so that people could maketheir own lives in their own ways.’

‘I’ve dreamed it,’ I offered. Heturned quickly to look at me, as wesquatted side by side on my bedroomfloor, a foolish sight if there had beenanyone there to see.

‘Dreamed?’ he asked.

‘Aye,’ I said. ‘I used to dream ofWide, of here. And often I dreamed Iwas a woman going out in the rain todrown her baby. Then she saw thegypsies and gave them the babyinstead. She called after the wagon asit went away,’ I said. ‘She called afterthe baby. She said, “Her name isSarah”.’

James Fortescue rubbed his eyeswith the back of his hand.

‘I posted advertisements in all thelocal papers, I employed men to searchfor you,’ he said. ‘And I have gone ondoing that, Sarah. Every year I changedthe advertisements to show your rightage and appealed for anyone whoknew you to contact me. I offered areward as well.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s too late now,’ Isaid bitterly.

He got to his feet slowly, as if hewere very weary.

‘It is not too late,’ he said. ‘Youare young and you are the heir to a fineestate. There is a fine future ahead ofyou and I will find ways to make up toyou for the pains and sadnesses of yourchildhood, I promise it.’

I nodded, too sick at heart toargue with him.

‘You are home now,’ he saidwarmly. ‘Home on Wideacre; and Iwill love you like the father you neverhad, and you will be happy here intime.’

I looked at him and my face wasas hard as every street-fighting hungrylittle wretch which has ever had to begfor food and duck a blow.

‘You’re not my father,’ I said.‘He sounds like a real bad ‘un. You’renot my mother either. I had a woman Icalled Ma; and now you tell me I don’thave her either. I had a sister too…’My voice was going, I swallowed hard

on a dry throat. ‘I had a sister and nowyou tell me I never even had her.You’re no kin to me, and I don’t wantyour love. It’s too late for me.’

He waited for a moment longer,but when I said nothing more he gentlytouched the top of my head, as youwould carefully pat a sick dog. Thenhe went out of the room and left mealone.

19I had thought it would be awkwardspeaking to James Fortescue again butI had not understood Quality manners.It seemed that if you were Quality,someone could rage and shriek at youand you could be deaf to their angerand their sorrow. Quality mannersmean you only hear what suits you.Becky Miles called me to come downto drink a dish of tea with MrFortescue in the afternoon and he wasin the parlour waiting for me, as if Ihad never sworn at him and screamedat him and blamed him for failing me.

Becky poured the tea for us bothand handed me a cup. I kept a wary eyeon James Fortescue and saw that hedid not hold the plate under the cup anddrink like that. He held themseparately, one hand on each. I did notdare take a plate with a little cake on it

as well. I did not think I could balancethem all.

When he had finished, and Beckyhad cleared away he asked me to comewith him to the dining room.

He had spread out a map on thedining-room table.

‘I can’t read,’ I said again.He nodded. ‘I know that, Sarah,’

he said. ‘I can explain this to you. It’s amap of Wideacre, of the Wideacreestate.’

I stepped a little closer and saw itwas a picture of land, like you wouldsee if you were a buzzard, circling highabove it.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Wideacre is likea little bowl with the Downs on thesouth and west, and the Common to thenorth.’ His hand went a great sweeparound the map and I saw the land wascoloured green and brown.

‘Here we run a mixed farm,’ he

said. ‘Much more fruit and vegetablesthan our neighbours because we have askilled workforce who see the benefitsof good profits. But we also farmsheep for their wool and meat, and adairy herd.’

I nodded.‘We grow our own fodder for the

animals,’ he said. ‘As well as a lot ofwheat which we sell locally and in theLondon market for bread.’

I nodded again.‘It’s a most lovely country,’ he

said, warmth creeping into his voice.‘Here is Wideacre Hall, set in themiddle of the parkland, d’you seeSarah? At the back of it is theCommon: that’s free of fields forpeople to use for their own animals’grazing, and for walking and gatheringfirewood or brushwood, taking smallgame and putting out hives. It’sbracken and gorse, some small pine

trees, and in the valleys some beechesand oak trees and little streams.

‘Over here,’ he brushed the areasouth of the house, at the front, ‘here isthe ornamental garden you see from thefront window, a little rose garden, anda paddock. Then there is the woodlandwhich stretches along the drive andright up to the road. There are somefields new planted here; but we’vemostly kept it as a wood. This is yourproperty, your mother wanted theparkland kept with the Hall. Sheplayed here when she was a little girl,by the side of the Fenny which runsthrough these woods, in the little poolsand streams. She learned to tickle fortrout, and she learned to swim with oneof the village girls. In spring the woodsare full of wild daffodils andbluebells. In summer there are littleglades which are thick with purple andwhite violets.

‘Your boundary to the west is theHavering land.’ He pointed to a dottedline drawn on the map. ‘This mapdoesn’t show Havering Hall. It’sempty most of the year, the Haveringfamily lives in London. They aredistant kin to you,’ he said, ‘but theyare only here in summer.’

‘Is this the village?’ I asked,pointing to a mess of little squares onthe map on the right-hand side.

‘Yes,’ James Fortescue said. ‘Ifyou come out of Wideacre Hall driveand turn right you go along the lane tothe Chichester road, see? But if you goout of the drive and turn left you godown to Acre village.

‘Most of it is along the mainstreet. The church is here,’ he pointed.‘It was struck by lightning and has anew spire. The cottages on this side ofthe street were damaged in the samestorm and some of them are new. But

those on the other side of the street areolder. In need of repair, too. Oppositethe church is the vicarage – you’ll findthe vicar, Dr Reed, does not whollyapprove of the way Acre runs itself!And there are cottages down theselanes towards the common land. Thenthere are squatter houses, wherepeople have come to make their homesbut have not properly built yet.’

I nodded. I knew about squatters’rights. It was one of the reasons theparish wardens always moved Da on.They were always in a terror that hewould claim that he had been therelong enough to be a member of theparish and claim parish relief.

‘Don’t you move them on?’ Iasked shrewdly.

James shook his head. ‘No,’ hesaid. ‘We give them a chance to workand they can either take a wage – not avery big one – or take a share in the

profits of the estate. If they plan to staythen they join the corporation. Wedon’t have so many people that wecannot afford to take them on.’

‘And where does that man live?’ Iasked. ‘The manager?’

‘That’s Will Tyacke,’ James said.‘He comes from a very old family.They have been here longer than theLaceys. His cousin was the firstmanager here after your mother died.But he had an accident and Will cameover from another estate and took over.He lives in the manager’s cottage,’ hepointed to one of the little squares onthe map set a little back from the mainstreet. The blue wriggling line whichindicated the River Fenny went pastthe back of the cottage through a smallpaddock.

‘And south of the road and southof the village are fields,’ James said.‘Some of them are resting, we leave

them to grass every third year. Some ofthem are fruit fields – it’s very sunnythere. Most of them are wheat fields.This is a famous estate for high wheatproduction,’ he paused for a moment.‘There were battles about that in thepast,’ he said. ‘In the old days, beforeit was a corporation. There was a riot,and arson when the Laceys weresending wheat out of the country butstarving their workforce. But thatchanged when we started sharing thecrop, and sharing the profits. We havefields as high up the hill as the horsescan pull the plough. Above that theland is only good for sheep to graze.It’s very high land – up there on theDowns – covered with short sweetgrass, and in springtime there arethousands of little flowers and orchids.There are great flocks of butterflies upthere: tiny blue and yellow ones. Thelarks sing very loudly, and there are

curlews.’ He broke off.‘You love it here,’ I said. ‘Why

don’t you live here?’He shook his head. ‘I was going

to marry your mother and build a househere with her,’ he said. ‘Once she wasgone, I could not have lived herealone.’ He was silent for a moment.

‘I visit often,’ he said. ‘WillTyacke knows more about farming thanI will ever learn, but I like to comedown to keep an eye on things.’

I nodded, looking at my land,spread out over James’s map like apatchwork of rich fabrics.

‘You will need to learn the land,’he said quietly. ‘Now you are here,you will need to know your wayaround, and the crops that are planted,and the people who live and workhere.’

I stared down at the map. It wasas if it were my future laid out here,

not just fields.‘I suppose I will,’ I said.‘Perhaps you would like to ride

out, look round it,’ James suggested.‘Will Tyacke said he would come thisafternoon and take you out for a ride ifyou would like that. He is the best manto show you the land, and he knowseveryone.’

I looked up at James and he couldsee the emptiness in my face. ‘Allright,’ I said. ‘I’ll go.’

‘And Sarah…’ he said as I was atthe door.

I turned. ‘Yes?’‘You have wanted to be here, and

now you are here,’ he said gently. ‘Letyourself enjoy the things here whichare good. I won’t say forget the pastbecause that would be folly and itwould deny your previous life and thepeople you have loved. But openyourself up to Wideacre, Sarah. It is

only you who are hurt when you seethis place as something which hascome too late for you.’

I paused for a moment. He wasright. The hurt inside, the coldnessinside would not go away, would notbe healed by more grief and moredisappointment. But I was stubborn.And I was angry.

‘Is that all?’ I asked.‘Yes,’ he said, resigned.I waited in my room until I saw

the brown cob trot up the drive butwhen I got down to the stable yardWill was in one of the loose boxes,trying to get a bridle on Sea.

‘I told Sam not to worry him,’ he saidpleasantly over the half-stable door.‘He was having some difficulty withhim and the horse was gettingdistressed. He looked frightened. Hashe been ill-treated?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He don’t usuallylike men.’

Will smiled. ‘I don’t usually likehunters,’ he said. ‘We’ll both make anexception.’

He tightened the girth and led himout. ‘We’ve a lady’s saddlesomewhere,’ he offered. ‘Sam can huntit out for you if you prefer side-saddle.’

I shook my head and took Seafrom him. ‘Nay,’ I said. ‘I wear mybreeches so that I can ride astride. Ionly ever wore the habit…’ I broke offand cursed myself inwardly. ‘I don’thave a habit.’ I said. ‘I s’pose I’ll haveto get one and ride side-saddle all thetime.’

Will nodded, and held Sea’s headwhile I swung into the saddle.

‘I thought I’d take you up to theDowns,’ he said. ‘So you can get ahawk’s-eye view of the estate. It’s a

good day. We’ll be able to see clearacross Selsey to the Island lookingsouth.’

I flinched inside at the mention ofSelsey, but kept my face impassive.Will mounted his horse and led theway down the gravel of the drive, pastthe terrace with the rose garden on ourright and out into the rutted stony lane.

The track was so old it seemed tohave sunk into the soil and become partof the earth itself. The stones in the rutswere wet and shiny, yellow in colourand the little drainage ditches eitherside of the road were pale and yellowtoo, speckled with the black of peat.

‘Sandy soil,’ Will said, followingthe direction of my look. ‘Wonderfulfor farming in the valley.’

We were shaded from the springsunshine by a network of branchesover our heads. The new leaves wereshowing like a green mist and the

hedgerows and the woods looked as ifa light grey-green scarf of gauze hadbeen tossed over the black bones oftheir branches. Sea pricked his earsforward at the clip-clop noise of thehooves on the wet stones.

On our right were great old trees,growing thick right up to the verymargin of the drainage ditch and theroad. High grey-trunked beeches andthe broad knobbly trunks of oaks. Onthe first bend the massive chestnut treeswooped its branches low over thetrack, the leaves spreading like fingersin their tiny greenness, bursting out ofshells of buds as brown and sticky astoffee. Deeper in the woods, on littlehummocks, there were tall pine treesand the scent of their rising sap madethe spring air sweet, like a premonitionof summer warmth. The birds weresinging in the higher branches, as nearto the sun as they could get, and in the

depths below the trees was a rug of oldleaves and bright spots of primrosesand white violets.

‘These trees are all parkland,’Will said gesturing with his whip.‘Ornamental. They belong to thegrounds of the Hall, we only fell thetimber for clearing. But there’s game inthem. Rabbits and pheasants, hares,deer. Ever since the estate was madeinto a worker’s corporation we’ve hadno game laws here. The people fromAcre hunt as they wish for the pot. Wedon’t allow hunting for sale. A fewpoachers come over from Petersfieldor Chichester and we keep an eye outfor them. We take it in turns to watchfor them if it gets out of hand. Butgenerally we’re left well alone.’

I nodded. I had a passing sense ofbelonging, as sweet as cold water aftera day’s thirst. My mother – the womanwho had called after the cart – had

come here often. I could feel it. Andher mother, too.

We rode in silence, I was lookingaround at the woodland on one side ofthe road and the tidy fields on theother.

‘This is the Dower House,’ Willvolunteered. ‘Your family lived hereuntil the Hall was rebuilt. It was yourma’s childhood home.’

I nodded and looked at it.It was deserted but well secured.

The double door at the front was shuttight, all the windows barred withshutters. The front garden was tidy, aflood of golden crocus under the frontwindows.

‘No one lives there now?’ Iasked.

‘No,’ Will said. He gave me arueful little smile. ‘The way the estateis run does not attract the gentry,’ hesaid. ‘We’ve not been able to get a

tenant for it for some time.’I nodded. I did not understand

what he meant yet, but I was not readyon this ride to ask questions. I wantedto take the measure of this place, ofthese people. To see what this placewas in reality that I had been dreamingof for so long.

‘It’s a good estate,’ he saidtentatively. ‘Productive.’

I glanced at him sideways. Hewas watching the stony drive betweenhis horse’s ears.

‘It’s not what I was bred to,’ Isaid frankly. ‘I don’t know anythingabout it.’

‘Not too late to learn,’ he saidgently. I guessed he was thinking of myscream at James Fortescue that I hadcome to Wideacre too late. ‘If youwere the son of the house, a Lacey,you’d be coming home from school atyour age, ready to learn about the

land,’ he said.‘If I was coming home from

school I’d have had a gentry childhoodand I’d know how to read and write,’ Isaid.

‘Not the schools I’m thinking of!’Will said smiling. ‘Real Qualityschools teach lads to be as ignorant aspeasants!’ He shot a little smile at meas we rounded a curve of the drive andcame within sight of the little box ofthe gatehouse and the great iron gateswhich stood permanently open withwhite flowering bindweed entwined upthe hinges. Will nodded to the left.

‘That’s one of our new crops,’ hesaid. ‘Strawberries. We’re harrowingnow, to make the soil nice and soft.We’ll be planting later. I reckon we’llsell in Chichester. There’s a growingmarket for soft fruit. Wideacrestrawberries could be famous.’

I glanced over the hedge. Two

great shire horses were pulling aharrow, a little lad walking behindthem, yelling instructions, the earthturning sweetly under the tines.

‘We planted it when the land washanded over to the people,’ he said.‘It’s a crop which needs a lot ofcareful work. Weeding, and especiallypicking and packing. A casual paidworkforce could waste more than theyearned. But when people know theyare working for themselves, they takemore pride.’

I nodded. I was trying to get usedto the strangeness of it all. I waswondering if it were not really adream. I might wake up at any momentto the rocking caravan roof and thebitter hard life of my childhood; andlook over and see her…

I shook my head to clear mythoughts and saw that Will had pulledhis horse up at the end of the drive.

The door of the lodge house openedand a woman with a babby in her armscame down the garden path and dippedme a low curtsey when she reached hergarden gate.

‘Good day, Miss Sarah,’ she said.For a moment I did not smile. I

did not reply. She had called me MissSarah. Miss. Not the only other handleto my name I had ever had – MamselleMeridon the bareback rider – but MissSarah. As though I were gentry bornand bred. As though it were natural toher to call me thus, and natural to me torespond to it.

I nodded my head awkwardly ather.

‘This is Mrs Hodgett,’ WillTyacke said. ‘She is a Midhurstwoman who married the gate-keeper.The Hodgetts have always kept thisgate.’

I nodded again. ‘Good day,’ I

said. I found I could smile my showsmile, and I pinned it on my face. ThenWill clicked to his horse, and Sea fellinto pace beside it as we turned leftdown the drive to head towards thevillage of Acre.

‘Your village,’ he said half injest. ‘In the old days, when Beatriceand Squire Harry ran the land, theyowned outright every one of thecottages in the village, aye, and eventhe church and the parson’s house aswell.’ He paused. ‘I suppose you stilldo,’ he said, surprised. ‘We’ve beenwithout a squire for so long that we’veforgot how the deeds run. Of course itwould still be your village outright.The cottagers have not paid rent foryears. Not since Squire Richard – yourpapa – was killed. Mr Fortescueexcused all rents and fees so that wecould launch the land-sharing scheme.All he withdraws for the Lacey estate

is your share of the profits. We call thevillage Acre, you know,’ he said. ‘It’sa Saxon name, like mine. My familywere here in this village long beforethe Le Says came over with theConqueror and fought for it and won itfrom us.’

‘The who?’ I asked. I had neverheard of the Le Says. Nor of theconqueror. I had a vague idea that itmight be Bonnie Prince Charlie.

Will looked at me in somesurprise. ‘The Le Says were yourfamily,’ he said. ‘They were French.Their name was changed later toLacey.’

‘Oh,’ I said. Changing names wasnothing new to me. Everyone in myworld always changed their nameswhen they were running from debts orfrom thief-takers.

‘They came with the Normans.When William the Conqueror invaded

England,’ Will said.I kept my face blank and nodded. I

was ashamed of knowing nothing.‘They fought for the land?’ I

asked.‘Oh aye,’ Will said. ‘I can even

show you where. It’s called BattleField and the ploughboys still turn uphuman bones and bits of armour. Threedays they fought – the village againstthe Le Says – and the battle only endedwhen everyone was dead.’

‘Then where d’you come from?’ Iasked quickly.

Will smiled. ‘Everyone was deadexcept one man from my family,’ hesaid. There was a twinkle in his browneyes but his face was serious as if hewere telling me the truth. ‘He wasespecially saved to found a dynasty ofTyackes. Saved from the field of battlebecause of his great skill.’

‘In fighting?’ I asked.

‘In running away!’ Will said andchuckled. ‘It’s old history, Sarah,nobody really knows. Anyway, theLaceys won the land from the peopleand they have kept it for themselves.Up until now. But the Tyackes havealways lived here. And now it is myhome.’

I could hear the love and pride inhis voice and we halted the horses sothat I could see the place properly.

It was a broad street, cleanenough, with a few chickens scratchingin the dust of the road. A line ofcottages on the north side of the roadhad gardens bobbing with the fat greenbuds of daffodils and studded withprimroses and dark purple crocuses. Inone of them a young woman was sittingpeeling potatoes in a bowl on her lap,a little child toddling towards her witha scrap of leaf in her hand, her facebright with discovery.

The church stood at the end of therow. An old building with a spire ofnewer stone. Re-built, as James hadsaid. On the other side of the road thecottages had yards on to the lane.There was a carter’s yard with awagon being mended inside, acobbler’s house facing the street withthe cobbler cross-legged at hiswindow, head bowed. A smithy, and agreat shire horse tied outside waiting.A thatcher’s yard with piles of woodleft to season and stocks of reeds undera thatch of straw to keep them dry. Itlooked what it was, a hummingprosperous little village of some thirtyhouses.

‘Most of the people are outworking,’ Will said. ‘I thought you’drather take a glance at it now beforeeveryone wants to meet you.’

I looked down the street. Thecobbler was watching us, but when he

saw me look his way he waved a handand bent his head to his last again as ifhe did not want to seem prying. Thewoman in the front garden raised herhead and smiled but did not leave offher work.

‘I told them you’d come down andmeet them all after church on Sunday,’Will said. ‘I thought you’d want sometime to look about you and gather yourwits before you speak to everyone.’

I nodded. The place made meangry, though I wouldn’t show it. Theplace was so solid. It seemed as ifthese people had been here, planteddeep as trees for years. And I had beenblowing like a burr looking forsomewhere to catch on to, somewhereto root.

‘How many people?’ I asked.‘With the small farmers who own

their own fields and pay rent, and thesquatters who live on the Common and

claim squatters’ rights; it comes toabout three hundred,’ he said watchingmy face with a little smile. ‘But you’llrarely see them all together. Only afew of them come to church now theydon’t have to. You’ll just walk up theaisle of the church to the Lacey pew sothat everyone can get a good look atyou, and when you come out I’ll makeyou known to the people you want tomeet. The vicar will most likely inviteyou to Sunday dinner, so he’ll tell youabout the village as well.’

I nodded. Five new acquaintanceswould have terrified me, but walkingup the aisle of a church and beingstared at was just a performance likebareback riding. I thought if I had theright costume and a little training Icould act it.

Will saw the hardness in my face.‘You need not do it, you know,’ hesaid gently. ‘If you have friends

elsewhere that you would rather bewith, or a life you would rather lead,you can just go away again. MrFortescue can arrange to send you yourmoney. You need not live here if youdo not wish it. The estate has run wellin your absence, nothing need changeunless you want to be here.’

I looked down so that he shouldnot see the flame of anger in my face athis suggestion that I might goelsewhere. I had nowhere else to go. Ihad longed for this place for all of mylife. If I could not belong here then Iwas lost indeed. I no longer had her; ifI lost Wide I would be a vagrantindeed.

‘Which is your house?’ I asked.He gestured at a lane which ran

down to the right.‘That’s mine,’ he said. ‘Set back

off the main street, overlooking thewatermeadow and the river. I came to

live there with my aunt when mycousin Ted was hurt in a ploughingaccident, three years ago. She neededhelp with him. When he died I stayedon. That’s how I come to be in chargehere though I’m young for the job. Tedwas foreman for the village, and theydecided I could take over early. TheTyackes have always been animportant family in the village.They’ve a stone in the church wallwhich is the oldest in the church.’

I nooded. I could see the chimneyand the stone-tiled roof. It looked likethe best cottage in the village. Only thevicarage was bigger.

‘Where were you before?’ Iasked.

Will smiled. ‘Not far,’ he said.‘Just down the road on the Goodwoodestate. I was working in the bailiff’soffice there, so I was used to farmingand keeping the books too.’

‘Married?’ I asked.Will flushed a little. ‘Nay,’ he

said awkwardly. ‘I’m not courtingeither. I had a lass but she wouldn’tstay in the village. She wanted to gointo service and me go with her. I’mhandy with horses and she wanted meto try for a job as coachman with theHaverings. I wouldn’t leave Acre. I’dnot leave Acre for any lass, howeverbonny. So she went without me. Thatwas last summer. I’ve had no oneserious since then.

‘We go this way up to theDowns,’ he said, and turned his horseaway from the church up a little trackwhich climbed the hill.

The horses went shoulder toshoulder up the track, but I loosenedthe rein and let Sea increase his speedand go ahead of Will so that I couldride alone without him watching myface. The singing noise which I had

heard in my head from the very firsttime I had come to this land, throughthe dark and the cold, lit only by themoon, was now louder. I was riding upthe track which I had seen so manytimes in my dreams. We were clear ofthe planted fields and the tall quietbeech trees were crowding closearound us. The horses’ hooves weresilent on the damp earth and on theleafmould. Sea’s ears pointed forwardat the bright circle of light where thetrees ended and we would come out…out to what?

I knew how it would be and yet Iwas suddenly afraid that it would notbe as I thought it should. That so muchelse in this place was so different frommy dream. Instead of finding a warmhouse and a father and being a copper-headed beloved daughter I was a gypsywho had come in out of the darkness, astranger, an intruder. James Fortescue

might say he loved me for my mother’ssake, or because it was his duty, orbecause he felt guilty that he had failedto find me – but those things meantnothing. In my world none of thosethings would make a man lift his handto brush away a fly.

Will Tyacke might take anafternoon to show me around the estateand make me welcome – but I couldsee that this private little world hadrun perfectly well without me forsixteen years. They were used tohaving no one at the Hall. Theypreferred it that way. I was not awelcome heir, finding her way home atlast. I was an unwanted orphan. My so-called guardian and the foreman of myvillage had done well enough withoutme all this time.

If the land was not right, I thought,I should go away. Not as they hoped,not a ladylike organized departure,

telling people that I did not like thecountry, that I preferred to live in alittle town. If the land was not right Ishould run off tonight. I would hack myhair into a bob, I would steal the silverand the pretty miniature portraits on thesmall tables in the parlour, andanything else light enough to carry inmy pockets. I should ride until I founda hiring fair and hire myself out as agroom to a good stud farm where Icould work with young horses. I wasfit for nothing. I did not know the waysof the Rom – and besides, as the oldwoman in Salisbury had seen, I was noRom. I was not one of those specialpeople.

I could not go back to work with ashow. I would never work again in aring. I could not have smelled thewoodshavings and the horse sweatwithout freezing with horror. And I didnot belong here. Not in the Hall with

this difficult mannered life, not in thoserooms where you could scream atsomeone and then they would pour youtea, not in this mad village with thesepeculiar people who let squatters settleand paid them wages, and who paid apension to people too old to work

If the land was wrong I would goaway and try and find somewhere that Icould be myself. Another place.

Another place to search for again.Sea put his head down and

cantered towards the circle of light atthe head of the track and we scrambledup the last slope. Will had stayedbehind, letting me ride alone. The lightdazzled me, the sudden piercing soundof a lark singing up high was as sharpin my ears as the swelling singingwhich had come to me on this land.The spring grass was a bright mouth-watering green, the sky a pale paleblue streamered with white slight

clouds. Sea breathed deep and blewout. I turned his head towards thevalley and looked over Wideacre.

I could just see the house. Its palesandstone yellow colour was like goodbutter, a little pat among the green ofthe park. I could see the round turret ofthe parlour and the wedge of theterrace in front of it. The heads of thetrees were thick, like a sheep’s winterfleece, the pines standing out darkagainst the light spring green.

At the foot of the hill I could seethe village. My village. The village mymama had known. I saw it through myeyes, I saw it through her eyes. I saw itas I had dreamed it for one longingdream after another. I knew that it wasmy home. I had been coming towards itall of my life, for all of my life. I hadloved it and missed it and needed it,and now I was coming into the veryheart of it.

I breathed in a deep gasp of thewind which was blowing softly acrossthe top of the Downs. I wanted tobelong here. I wanted this place. Eventhough I knew it was too late for me, Ilonged for it as a man might long for awoman who left him long, long, ago.

Will’s horse came up behind meand he pulled it up. ‘That’s our land,beyond the village: that’s WideacreCommon land up as far as you can seenorth,’ he said, pointing with his whip.‘To the west that is the Haveringestate. These Downs are Wideacreestate too, twenty miles going north,ten miles to the west. Then it’sHavering land again. All of this valleyis Wideacre land.’

I breathed in the smell of it, youcould almost taste the chalk in the soil.The grass was fine as hair and short-cropped, studded with flowers and inthe hollows there were great clumps of

violets and the pale yellow ofprimroses.

‘Gets thick with cowslips lateron,’ Will said, following my gaze. ‘Wecome up and pick them to makecowslip wine. We come up here onMayday morning too. You’d like that.We come up and watch the sun rise.’

I nodded my head, not speaking. Ihad a distant memory of a dream ofstanding looking towards Acre andseeing the sun come up pale and pinkon a May morning.

‘It is as I always thought it wouldbe,’ I said speaking half to myself. ‘Ihave dreamed and dreamed of thisplace ever since I can remember. Ihave wanted to be here all my life.’

Will brought his horse closeralongside Sea and put his callousedhand over mine as I held the reins. Iflinched at the touch and Sea steppedto one side.

‘It will not be as you thought it,’he said gently. ‘It could not be. Nothingever is. And while you have beendreaming of us, things have beenchanging here, we have been workingtowards a dream of our own. We aretrying to do something here which isboth an example and a model to therest of the country. And it is part of along tradition. A forgotten traditionwhich people try to ignore. Ever sincethere have been landlords there havebeen ordinary men and womenclaiming the right to run the land intheir own way, of earning their ownbread, of living together as acommunity. It may seem strange to younow, Sarah, but I think we can be thefamily you don’t have.’

I shook my head. ‘I’ve got nofamily,’ I said coldly. ‘I dreamed of alandscape. I didn’t dream of you, or ofJames Fortescue. All the family I had

are dead, and now you two tell me theyweren’t even kin. And my real kin…well they’re dead too. I’ve got no one,and I need no one. It was the land Idreamed of; and it’s the land I want.’

Will shrugged his shoulders; anddid not try to touch me again. Hepulled his horse over to one side andlet me admire the view on my own.

‘Would you like a gallop over theDowns and then round by the Commonto your home?’ he asked, his voicecarefully polite. ‘Or do you want tosee more of the village?’

‘Common land and home,’ I said.I glanced at the sun. ‘What time do theyeat dinner?’

‘At six,’ he said coldly. ‘Butthey’ll wait till you are home beforethey serve dinner.’

I looked aghast. ‘That would beawful,’ I exclaimed.

The black look was wiped off his

face in a second. Will laughed aloud.‘If you think so,’ he said chuckling.‘I’ll get you home in plenty of time.Could your horse do with a gallop?’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. Sea had beenfretting ever since his hooves had beenon the soft turf.

‘This way then!’ said Will and hisbrown cob sprang forward, suprisinglyquickly for a horse that size. Sea wasafter him in a moment, and we chasedthem along the level track whicharrowed, straight as a die, along thetop of the Downs. We drew level in afew minutes and I heard Will laugh aswe forged past them, Sea put his earsforward at the thunder of the hoovesand then slackened his speed so thatthe brown cob inched forward again.They raced side by side, changing theleads as if they were enjoyingthemselves until Will called ‘Hulloa!Woah!’ and we slowed them down and

they dropped into a canter and then wepulled them up.

‘We’ll go down this little track,’Will said, and led the way down atrack which was sticky with whitecreamy mud. Sea blew out andfollowed the cob as it skidded andslipped. The ground levelled off at thebottom and the mud gave way to whitesand.

‘This is the Common,’ Will said.It was a different kind of

landscape entirely, but as familiar tome and as beloved as the Downlandand parkland of my home. It was wildcountryside, there were no hedges orfields or any sign of farming. As Ilistened I could hear the faint tinkle ofa cow-bell or goat-bell. The busyvillage of Acre and the well-tendedfields, away to the south, seemed milesaway.

The hills were covered in

heather, the fresh growth showing as apale mist around the dead whiteflowers and grey of the old plants. Allaround us young fronds of ferns weregrowing leggy and short, necks curledup towards the sky. Over to my rightthere was a little coppice of silverbirches, their trunks pale as paper.

‘Some of this has been enclosed,it is wonderful growing soil,’ Willsaid. ‘But most of it has been left as italways has been. A bit of awilderness.’

He turned his horse’s head andSea fell in beside the cob. The pathwas very wide, pure white sand, witha covering of black soil at the edges.

‘We keep this open for afirebreak,’ Will said.

‘It catches fire?’ I asked,bemused.

‘Sometimes in a very hot summer,but also we burn off the old heather

and bracken so that it stays fit forgrazing,’ he explained. ‘Even in the olddays, when the Laceys ruled the landas they wished, it was always a rightfor the people of Acre to graze theirown beasts up here. Cows mostly, butsome people keep goats or sheep.Quite a few pigs, too.’

I nodded.‘We’ll just go and look at the

orchard, and then cut across theCommon for home,’ he said. ‘Have Ilost you yet?’

I screwed up my face to think.‘No,’ I said. ‘The Downs curve aroundthe village and we came down thatpath so that we were north of thevillage. I reckon it’s that way…’ Igestured with my left hand.

Will nodded. ‘You’ve a goodsense of direction,’ he said. ‘But youwould have that with the travelling youmust have done.’

He waited in case I should tellhim something about my travelling but Isaid nothing and he trotted on ahead ofme along the firebreak, across amarshy little stream, where Sea jinkedand shied, and then in a long easycanter along a path and into a wood oftall beech trees and the occasionalpine. Ahead of us was the river and Ifollowed Will on the brown cob whenhe turned to the left and rode along itsbanks. The water was deep, darkbrown in the curves and bends by thebanks, but sparkling and bright in theshallows. We came out on to a carttrack and then Will pulled his horse upand said, ‘There.’

Ahead of us was a high andlovely fold of hills, capped by silverbirches and the ungainly growing headsof baby ferns. Over to our left the hillsran down to the river, brown with lastyear’s bracken but lightened with the

new growth. The old heather showedas dull pewter and old silver. Beforeus, in a huge sprawl of a field, werestraight well-planted rows of appletrees, the leaves green with soft silveryundersides as the wind rolled throughthem.

‘Your ma planted this,’ Will saidand his voice was filled with wonder.‘Before you were born. Your ma Juliaplanted it, and my cousin Ted Tyackewas here when she did it. He said ittook them all day to plant it and whenthey had finished they were so tiredthey could hardly walk home.’

I nodded. For a moment I forgotmy sadness and my anger as I looked atthe great fertile sweep of the land andsaw how the strong branches bobbedas the wind played through them.

Will’s voice was warm. ‘Tedtold me that none of them had everplanted apple trees before, it was a

new idea. To set the estate back on itsfeet after the fire and everything goingbad. He said that it was one of the firstthings Julia ever did on her own. Sheworked all day on her own down hereand she counted out all the trees andgot them set in straight rows.’

I looked again at the orchard. Ithought I could even tell that they hadplanted from left to right, the first tworows were a bit wobbly, as if they hadbeen learning how to keep to the line.After that they were straighter. Ithought of my mother, a young womanlittle older than me, trying to set theland right.

‘He said she was up and downeach row twenty times,’ Will said, alaugh in the back of his voice. ‘And atthe end of it, all the trees were in andshe looked around and there was oneleft on the cart! They laughed until theycried and she swore that she would

give the sapling to the village to keepso the children could have apples offit.’ He paused. ‘She planted it on thegreen,’ he said. ‘The tree is getting oldnow, but the apples are very sweet.’

I felt a rush of tenderness for themother I had never known, for the otherTyacke who had worked with her andlaughed when she ended with one treetoo many, for all the people she knewwho worked with her to set this landon its feet again so that it could growrich and fertile.

‘Thank you,’ I said, and for thatmoment I was simply grateful that hehad taken the time and the trouble tobring me down here, to show me theorchard, and to explain to me what theland had meant to my mother. How shehad been when she had been a younggirl with the rights and duties of asquire. How she had been when shehad loved and owned the land.

Will nodded and clicked to hishorse so that we rode on beside theriver, past the orchard. ‘She wanted toend the line of the Laceys,’ he saidgently. ‘She told them that in thevillage one day. When her husbandSquire Richard was bringing in daylabourers and paying only the poor-rate wages. She said there should beno more squires.’

I felt myself stiffen, and the coldhardness which had been around me allmy life came back to me.

‘Then she should have drownedme in the river as she planned, and notgiven me away,’ I said. ‘She shouldhave had the courage to do the thingproperly, or not at all. She gave meaway and I was lost for all those years.So now I do not understand the land,and the village is used to having nosquire.’

Will looked very attentively at the

path ahead of us, at the stream movingso sweetly and easily across the land.

‘We could become accustomed,’he said. ‘We will both have to changea little. We will become accustomed tohaving a Lacey in the Hall again. Youwill learn how to be Quality. Perhapsthis is the best way. For she did notend the squires, but here you are, asquire who knows what it is to bepoor. It is different for you, becauseyou were not bred to it. You’ve seenboth sides. You’ve not been trained inQuality ways, you’ve not learned tolook away when you see beggars. Yourheart is not hard in the way they learn.’

He kept his eyes straight ahead sothat he was not looking at my clothes,hand-me-downs, of a cheaper qualitythan his own. There was a hole in oneof the boots. ‘You know what it is likefor poor people,’ he said discreetly.‘You would not make their lives hard

for them if you could choose.’I thought about that as I rode. And

I knew it was not so. Nothing in my lifehad taught me tenderness or charity.Nothing had taught me to share, to thinkof others. I had only ever shared withone person. I had only ever had athought for one person. Will’s beliefthat my knowing the underside of acruel and greedy world would makeme gentle could not have been morewrong.

We rode without speaking,listening to the river which flowedclattering on stones and whirlpoolingaround twigs beside us. In the distanceI could hear the regular slap slap andcreak of a mill wheel. Then werounded a little bend and I saw it onthe opposite side of the river, ahandsome plain square building in thefamiliar yellow stone.

‘That’s the new mill,’ Will said

with satisfaction. ‘The Green familyrun it as their own business. They grindWideacre corn for free but they alsotake in corn from the other farmers andcharge them a fee for grinding.’

‘Who owns it?’ I asked.Will looked surprised. ‘I suppose

you do,’ he said. ‘Your mother got itrunning again, but it was built by theLaceys. The Green family came astenants, long ago. But they’ve paid norent since the corporation wasestablished.’

I nodded. I looked at the trim littlebuilding and at the bright white andpurple violets in the windowboxes. Ilooked at the pretty curtains in thewindows, and the mill wheel turningaround. On the roof there were whitedoves cooing. I thought of the times Ihad gone hungry, and she had beenhungry too. I thought of the times wehad been cold, and how very often Da

had beaten me. I thought of her sittingon gentlemen’s laps for a penny, andme being thrown from horse after horsefor ha’pence. And I thought that all thetime, for all of that time, these peoplehad been living here in comfort andplenty, beside this quiet river.

Will set his horse to a trot andthen we went alongside the strawberryfield I had seen in the morning. The ladhad nearly finished the harrowing andhe waved to us as we rode by. Therewas a little track between two fieldsand it brought us out on the drivewaytowards the Hall.

‘You’ve never been poor haveyou?’ I said shrewdly. ‘You’ve alwaysworked, wherever you said it was –Goodwood – and here. But you’venever gone short.’

The horses walked shoulder toshoulder up the drive. The birds stillsang in the treetops but I could not hear

them. The sweet singing noise hadgone from my head, too. ‘You’d neverhave such hopes of me if you had beenpoor, hard poor. You would know thenthat the only lesson anyone learns frompoverty is to take as much as you cannow, for fear that there will be nothingfor you later. And don’t share withanyone, for certainly they’ll nevershare with you.’

Will kept his eyes on the lanebefore his cob. He never turned hishead.

‘In all my life I only ever sharedwith one person,’ I said, my voice verylow. ‘I only ever gave anything to oneperson. And now she is gone. I shallnever share nor give to anyone else.’

I thought for a moment. ‘Andexcept for her,’ I said consideringly,‘no one ever gave me a damned thing.Every penny I saw I worked for. Everycrust I ate I earned. I don’t think I’m

the squire you hoped for, Will Tyacke.I don’t think I’m capable of gentrycharity. I’ve been poor myself, and Ihate being poor, and I don’t care forpoor dirty people. If I’m rich now, I’llstay that way. I don’t ever want to bepoor again.’

20Mr Fortescue was waiting for us in thestable yard. He asked Will to stay fordinner but Will said he had to go. Hewaited while I slid down from thesaddle and then nodded to MrFortescue and to me.

‘I’ll come back this evening,’ hesaid. ‘When I finish work at dark.’

Then he gave me a friendly smilewhich also seemed somehowforgiving. Then he rode away.

‘I had better wash,’ I said. I put ahand to my cheek and felt the grimefrom the dust of the road.

‘Becky Miles has put someclothes in your room,’ Mr Fortescueoffered, his voice carefully neutral.‘They belonged to your mother, but shethinks they would fit you if you caredto try them.’

I could tell he was trying hard to

pass no comment on my eccentricity ofboys’ clothes. I looked down at theshabby breeches and jacket and Ilaughed.

‘It’s all right, Mr Fortescue,’ Isaid. ‘I know I cannot dress like astable lad for the rest of my life. I waswanting to ask you about clothes. I alsoneed to ask you about all sorts of otherthings which I will have to learn.’

Mr Fortescue brightened. ‘I onlyhope I can help you,’ he said. ‘We’lltalk over dinner.’

I nodded and went indoors and upto my room.

For the thousandth time that day Ihad a pang of pain and anger that shecould not be with me, when I saw whatwas laid out on the bed.

It was the finest riding habit ofplum velvet, edged with silky violetribbon in a great double border. Therewas a matching tricorne hat to go with

it, and dark leather boots with silkytassels and even cream-colouredstockings with plum clocks on the side.

I thought of how she would haveflown at them and how ravishing shewould have looked in them and I had tolean back against the panels of the doorand take a deep breath to ease thesudden pain which thudded, as hard asa blow into my belly, at the thought thatshe would never see them. That in allher beauty-seeking life she had neverknown anything better than rags andtrumpery.

So there was little delight for mein the thick smooth feel of the cloth,nor the fineness of the linen shirt andstock that went underneath. But when Ihad slipped on the skirt and gone to themirror in the smart little boots I couldsmile with some pleasure at myreflection.

It was a half-mirror so I could not

see the hem of the gown nor the bootswithout dragging over a chair andstanding high on it to admire them.Then I slowly got down and saw howmy linen shirt looked white against theneat purple waistband of the skirt, andhow I looked somehow taller andolder and quite strange and unlikemyself. I stared at my face. The hazygreen eyes looked back, the lines of mycheek, of my throat above the tumble oflace as clear as a drawn line.

My hair was still hopeless. Imade a few half-hearted passes at itwith the silver-backed brush but thesoft bristles slid over the curls and thetangles and hardly straightened them atall. It remained an obstinate tumble ofcopper curls half-way down my back,and only the memory of the raggedmess of a bob stopped me from ringingfor Becky Miles to bring me somescissors and hacking it all off again.

I turned from the glass and wentdown to dinner, feeling alreadystronger and more confident in bootswhich clicked on the floorboards of thehall and did not clump.

Mr Fortescue was waiting for mein the dining room and when he sawme his jaw dropped and he gaped likea country child at mummers.

‘Good God!’ he said.Becky Miles who was setting a

soup tureen on the table swung aroundand nearly dropped it in her surprise.

‘Miss Sarah!’ she said. ‘You lookbeautiful!’

I felt myself flush as vain and assilly as a market-day slut.

‘Thank you,’ I said steadily andtook my seat at the head of the table.

Mr Fortescue sat at my right-handside and Becky Miles loaded the restof the expanse of mahogany with asmany dishes as she could, to conceal

the fact that there were just the two ofus, camped out at one end of the table.

‘Did you enjoy your ride?’ MrFortescue asked politely as he startedto eat his soup.

I watched him. He did not bendover his bowl and spoon directly frombowl to mouth with as little distance aspossible. Nor had he crumbled hisbread up into hearty bits to float in thesoup as I had already done. I flushedagain, this time with annoyance. Hehad kept his bread on his plate andevery now and then broke off a littlepiece and buttered it. I tried to sitstraighter but it seemed to put me along way off from the table. I was suremy hand would shake as I was liftingthe soup to my lips and then I woulddrop soup on my new dress. Iremembered the small cloth and spreadit on my lap. It all seemed designed tomake it harder to eat. But if this was

the way it had to be done I thought Icould pick it up in time.

‘Yes, it was a nice ride,’ I agreedinattentively. When Mr Fortescuefinished his soup he did not wipearound his bowl with a piece of bread.He left the bowl dirty, he left nigh on awhole spoonful spread around thebottom. I followed his example thoughI watched the wasted soup longingly asBecky Miles took the bowl away.

She set a great silver salver witha rib of beef on it before Mr Fortescueand he started carving into wafer-thinslices which he laid in a fan on a platefor me and Becky Miles walkedaround the table and placed it beforeme. The smell of the roast beef, darkon the outside and pinky in the middle,made me lean forward and sniff, waterrushing into my mouth. Becky Milesbrought me roast potatoes, crunchy andbrown, new potatoes glazed with

butter, tiny young carrots and new peasand half a dozen things which lookedlike green miniature bulrushes.

‘Do you like asparagus, Sarah?’Mr Fortescue said, pointing at them.

‘I don’t know,’ I said honestly.‘I’ve never had them before.’

‘Try one or two then,’ herecommended. ‘We grow them on theHome Farm here under glass. WillTyacke has it in mind to put some moreglass houses up and grow more of it.’

I nodded and Becky Miles puttwo of the green slivers on my plate.

She held out a great sauce boat ofdeep red shiny gravy and poured itthickly over the meat.

I was so hungry I could havegrabbed my knife and cut up the biggerbits at once and shovelled the rest intomy mouth with the spoon. But I forcedmyself to wait and watch MrFortescue.

He took an age, while I sat thereand my nostrils flared at the scent ofthe food and I ached to begin. First hewas served with all the vegetables,then Becky Miles brought wine for himand water and wine for me. I wouldrather have had small beer, but I didnot feel able to say so. Then finally,after he had made a little pile of salt atthe edge of his plate he picked up hisknife and his fork, at once, in bothhands and cut and prodded, andmanaged to talk at the same timewithout showing what he was chewing.

It was beyond me. I ate as daintilyas I could but when I was trying to cutthe meat some gravy slopped over theside of my plate and stained thetablecloth. And the asparagus drippedbutter into my lap so the napkin wassoiled. If I had not been so starvinghungry I should have lost my appetiteat the discomfort of sitting opposite

such a neat feeder as Mr Fortescue.But I had been hungry once, and he hadnot, and I was sure that the differencebetween us went deeper than manners.He could see food as something hecould leave or take, as he pleased,with the knowledge that there wereother meals if he wished for them. I ateas if I might never see food again, and Ithought I should never learn to treatmeal times lightly.

After the meat there was applepie and a creamy kind of dish whichBecky Miles served in a glass. Afterthat came some cheeses and biscuitsand port for Mr Fortescue and a glassof sweet yellowy ratafia for me. Ithought of Robert Gower offeringDavid a glass of port after dinner, thattime. It seemed like another lifetime. Itseemed as if they were years awayfrom me.

‘Now Sarah,’ Mr Fortescue said

gently as Becky Miles cleared awayeverything but a bowl of fruit on thetable and the two decanters. ‘If thiswere a proper household you wouldwithdraw to the parlour and leave meto my port and my cigar. But since it isjust the two of us will you sit withme?’

‘Yes,’ I said.He seemed to be waiting. He gave

me a little smile. ‘And may I smoke?’he asked. ‘I know it is a disgustinghabit, but…’

I looked at him in utterincredulity. ‘Why d’you ask me?’ Idemanded.

‘Because you’re a lady,’ he said.‘A gentleman cannot smoke in a lady’spresence without her specificpermission.’

I was still blank. ‘Whyever not?’I asked. ‘What’s it to do with her?’

Mr Fortescue could not seem to

explain. ‘I suppose it is about showingrespect,’ he offered.

We looked at each other in mutualincomprehension.

‘I’m never going to understandthis,’ I said miserably. ‘I’ll need tohave someone to teach me.’

Mr Fortescue brought out a littlesilver pair of scissors and snipped atthe end of his cigar, then he lit it, andblew out thoughtfully, watching thesmoke curling off the glowing ember.

‘I’ve had some thoughts on that,’he offered. ‘There’s something I cansuggest. What you are going to need isthe education of a country lady.’ Hestopped and smiled. ‘Nothing verysophisticated! Your mother wasbrought up here with only the teachingof her mother. She never saw a citybigger than Chichester until she went toBath. She never went to London at all.’

He glanced at me. I kept my face

still.‘I spoke with my sister Marianne,

as soon as I heard you had come home.Marianne was a special friend of yourmother’s and she suggested to me thatas soon as you are settled here youwill need a companion. Fortunately sheknows someone who might do. It is alady who used to be a governess. She’sa friendly lady, the widow of a navalofficer and the daughter of a countrysquire herself so she would understandthe life you are going to lead. She’d beprepared to come here and to teach youthe things you need to know. To read,and to write. How to run a house andhow to engage servants. What yourduties are in the house and what churchand charitable works you should do.’

He paused, waiting for a responsefrom me. ‘It’s not all dull,’ he saidencouragingly. ‘She’ll teach you howto dance and how to play the piano and

sing and paint. She’ll teach you how toride side-saddle, and you can gohunting. She’ll chaperone you intocountry society and advise you aboutthe people who you can visit and thoseyou should not meet.’

Still I said nothing. Mr Fortescuepoured himself another glass of port. Iknew he was uncomfortable with mysilence. He could not judge for himselfwhat it meant.

‘Sarah,’ he said gently. ‘If youmislike any of these plans you needonly say. All I want to do is the bestfor you. I am your guardian until yourmarriage or until you are twenty-onebut I know you are no ordinary younglady. You have special needs andspecial abilities. Please tell me whatyou would like, and I will try andprovide it for you.’

‘I am not sure yet,’ I said. And Ispoke the truth although certainty was

gathering around me all the time. ‘I’vebeen angry since I came here, butneither you nor that Will Tyacke payme any mind at all.’

James Fortescue smiled at methrough the cigar smoke.

‘I don’t know enough about thislife to be able to say what I want,’ Isaid. ‘It’s clear you don’t plan that Ishould run the estate like my motherdid. I saw her apple orchard today andWill told me that she supervised theplanting of it herself.’

‘No,’ Mr Fortescue saiddefinitely. ‘I don’t want you workingdirectly on the land. It would becontrary to your mother’s wishes andquite contrary to the way the estate isnow run. For the past sixteen years,ever since your birth and your mama’sdeath, the estate has been developed bythe people who work here, forthemselves.

‘There is no place now for asquire of the old sort to run the land.The time when a Lacey squire wasneeded to keep the village together haslong gone. It is run now as a jointventure by the labourers themselvesand that is what your mother wishedfor it. She specifically told me that shedid not want her daughter to be anotherLacey squire. She wanted you to havethe house and the gardens and theparkland – and you will see foryourself that is a handsome legacy –but she wanted the farming land, theCommon land and the Downs to beowned legally and entirely by thevillage.’

I nodded. That was what I hadthought he would say.

‘So the life you think I should liveis mostly idle?’ I asked. I was carefulto keep my voice neutral so that hecould not shape his answer to please

me.‘As you wish,’ he said agreeably.

‘My sister Marianne works long hoursand gets much pleasure out of acharitable school she set up all on herown for the education of young orphansor children abandoned by their parents.Her husband is an alderman of Londonand she saw much poverty andhardship. She works longer hours thanI do! Yet she is unpaid. She leads amost worthwhile life. There are manygood causes you could work for here,Sarah.’

I kept my lashes lowered over thegleam in my green eyes. I knew whathis sister Marianne was like. When Iwas little we used to pick the pocketsof her sort most successfully. One of uswould sit on a lady’s silken lap andcry and say our da beat her, and one ofus would take a sharp little knife andcut the strings which tied her purse to

her belt and run off with the booty. Wewere caught only once and when weburst into floods of tears the lady madeus promise never never to do it againor Baby Jesus would not be able tosave us from hell. We promisedreadily and she gave us a shilling outof her recovered purse. A simpleton.

‘Or you could pursue interests ofyour own,’ Mr Fortescue went on. ‘Ifyou found you had a talent for music orsinging or painting you could work atthat. Or if that horse of yours isanything to go by, you could find agood manager and have him set up astud of horses.’

I nodded. ‘And there are peoplewho could teach me everything I needto know?’ I asked. ‘Music teachers anddance teachers and manners teachers? Icould learn everything?’

He smiled as if I was beingengagingly eager. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Mrs

Redwold could teach you everythingyou need to know. She could teach youto be a young country lady.’

‘How long?’ I asked.‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.‘How long?’ I asked. ‘How long

would it take for me to learneverything about being a young lady.’

He smiled at that as if thequestion were funny. ‘I think one learnsgood manners all one’s life,’ he said.‘But I should think you would becomfortable in good society within ayear.’

A year! I thought to myself. It hadtaken me less than that to learn to be abareback rider with my own act. It hadtaken her two months to learn tricks onthe trapeze. Either gentry skills werevery difficult – or else they were fullof nonsense and idiocy, like eatingthings while sitting so far away thatyou were certain to drop them.

I said nothing and Mr Fortescueleaned forward and poured me anotherglass of ratafia.

‘It’s a lot to take in,’ he saidgently. ‘And you must be tired, this isyour first day up after your illness.Would you like to go to your bedroomnow? Or sit in the parlour?’

I nodded. I was learning some ofthe gentry rules already. He did notmean he thought I was tired, he meanthe did not want to talk to me any more.I felt a bad taste in my mouth and Iwent to spit but caught myself in time.‘I am tired,’ I said. ‘I think I shall go tomy room. Good-night, Mr Fortescue.’

He got to his feet as I wenttowards the door and he went past meand opened it for me. I hesitated,thinking he meant to go out too but thenI realized he had opened it for me forpoliteness’ sake. He took my right handand raised it to his lips and kissed it.

Without thinking what I was doing Iwhipped it away and put it behind myback.

‘I beg your pardon!’ he said,surprised. ‘I just meant to say good-night.’

I flushed scarlet withembarrassment. ‘I am sorry,’ I saidgruffly. ‘I don’t like people touchingme, I never have.’

He nodded as if he understood;but I wagered he didn’t.

‘Good-night, Sarah,’ he said.‘Please ring the bell if there is anythingyou want. Shall I ask Becky Miles tobring you up a cup of tea later?’

‘Yes please,’ I said. Having a cupof tea in bed would be comfortinglylike eating dinner in my bunk, in theold days when it was too cold to eatout of doors, or when we were so tiredwe took our dinners into our bunkswith us and dropped the tin plates

down on the floor when we had done.I had never thought then that I

would look back on those times withany of this lonely longing I had now.

‘And you may call me James ifyou wish,’ he said. ‘Uncle James, ifyou prefer.’

‘I have no family,’ I said dully. ‘Iwon’t pretend to an uncle I don’t have.I’ll call you James.’

He made a little bow with a smilebut he took care not to take my handagain.

‘James,’ I said as I turned toleave, ‘how often do you come downto the estate?’

He looked surprised. ‘Once aquarter,’ he said. ‘I come down to meetwith Will and I make up the books forthe quarter.’

I nodded. ‘How do you know heis not cheating you?’ I asked bluntly.

He looked deeply shocked.

‘Sarah!’ he exclaimed, as if it werewrong to even think such a thing. Butthen he recollected himself and he gaveme a rueful smile.

‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘Thisevening you look so like a demureyoung lady it is hard to remember thatyou have been brought up in a quitedifferent world. I know he is notcheating me because he brings me billsof sale for all his purchases for theestate and we agree what the mainexpenses are to be each quarter beforehe buys them. I know he is not cheatingme because I see the wage bills of theestate. I know he is not cheating mebecause the village is on a profit-sharing system with the estate and hesees that we all get good profits andthus a good share. And finally, butmost important to me, I know he is notcheating me because, although he is soyoung, he is an honest man. I trusted his

cousin and I trust him.’I nodded. The trust based on bills

of sale and agreed expenditure Iunderstood but ignored. I don’t believeI had ever seen a straight reckoning inall my life. Bills of sale meant nothing.Same for the wages bill. The trustbased on Will Tyacke as an honest manwas worth a good deal. It also told mesomething that I needed to know abouthow the estate was run.

‘Does the corn mill pay rent?’ Iasked.

James Fortescue’s look ofsurprise that I was thinking of such athing turned into a smile. ‘Now Sarah,’he remonstrated. ‘You need not puzzleyour head with such detail. The cornmill has paid no rent since the settingup of the Acre corporation. The cornmill was obviously a separate businessand is run in the same way as theblacksmith’s forge or the cartering

business. They charge special rates, orno rates to Acre people and they maketheir profits with outside customers.They take a share in the profits of thevillage when they work as labourers,otherwise they are independent. Whenthe village was getting back to workWill’s cousin Ted Tyacke and Idecided that the mill should pay no rentso that it could work for free for Acre.Things have stayed that way.’

I nodded. ‘I see,’ I said quietly,then I half concealed a pretendedyawn. ‘Oh! I’m tired,’ I said. ‘I’ll go tobed.’

‘Sleep well,’ he said gently. ‘Ifyou are interested in business you canhave your first lesson on how to readthe estate books in the morning. Butyou will need a night’s rest for that.Sleep well, Sarah.’

I smiled at him, a smile I hadlearned long ago from her when she

was trying to be charming, anendearing childlike sleepy smile. ThenI went slowly towards the staircase.

I had heard enough for one night.James Fortescue might be an astuteman of business in Bristol and London– though I frankly doubted that – but inthe country here he could have beencheated every day for sixteen years. Hetrusted entirely in one man who actedas clerk, manager and foreman. WillTyacke decided what was to be spentand what was to be declared as profit.Will Tyacke decided what shareindividuals in the village could claimfrom the common fund. Will Tyackedecided on my share of the profits.And Will Tyacke was Acre born andbred and had no wish to see the Laceystaking a fortune from the village, oreven claiming their own again.

My fingers touched the carvednewel-post at the foot of the stairs and

I heard a cool voice in my head whichsaid, ‘This is mine.’

It was mine. The newel-post, theshadowy sweet-smelling hall, the landoutside stretching up to the slopes ofthe Downs and the Downs themselvesstretching up to the horizon. It wasmine and I had not come all this wayhome to learn to be a pretty parlourMiss in that sickly pink room. I hadcome here to claim my rights and tokeep my land, and to carve out aninheritance of my own whatever it costme, whatever it cost others.

I was not the milk-and-waterpauper they thought me. I was arogue’s stepdaughter and a gypsy’sfoster child. We had been thieves andvagrants all our lives, for every day ofour lives. My own horse I had won in abet, the only money I had ever earnedhad been for trick riding and cardsharping. I was not one of these soft

Sussex people. I was not even liketheir paupers. I was no grateful villagemaid, I was a baby abandoned by itsmother, raised by a gypsy, sold by astepfather and wise in every gull andcheat that can be learned on the road. Iwould learn to read the estate books sothat I would know how much this fancyprofit-sharing scheme had cost, andwho were the rogues who werecheating me. I would take my place inthe Hall as a working squire, not as theidle milksop they hoped I would be. Ihad not come home to sit on a sofa andtake tea. I had come through heartbreakand loneliness and despair forsomething more than that.

I walked lightly up the stairs andsat for a while on the window-seat inmy bedroom looking out over the sunlitgarden, watching the pale cloudsgather away to my right and turn palestpink as the sun sank towards them.

‘This is mine,’ I said to myself, as coldas if it were mid-winter. ‘This ismine.’

21I woke at dawn, circus-hours, gypsy-hours: and I said into the grey palelight of the room, ‘Dandy? are youawake?’ and then I heard my voicegroan as if I were mortally injured as Iremembered that she would not answerme, that I would never hear her voiceagain.

The pain in my heart was sointense that I doubled up, lying in bedas if I had the hunger-cramps. ‘OhDandy,’ I said.

Saying her name made it worse,infinitely worse. I threw back thecovers and got out of bed as if I werefleeing from my love for her, and frommy loss. I had sworn I would not cryagain as long as I lived, and the ache inmy belly was too great for tears. Mygrief was like a sickly growth insideme. I believed that I could die of it.

I went to the window; it would bea fine day today. Before me was theprospect of another day of gentlelessons from Mr Fortescue, and asedate ride with Will. Both of themwatching me, both of them seeking tocontrol me so that I would not threatenthis cosy little life they had made herein this warm green hollow of the hills.Both of them wanting me to be thesquire my mama had promised I shouldbe – the one to hand back the land tothe people. I grimaced like the uglylittle vagrant I was. They would belucky, they would be damnably lucky ifI did not turn this place upside down ina year. You do not send a baby out intothe world with a dying foster motherand a drunken stepfather and expect herto come home a benefactoress to thepoor. I had seen greedy rich peopleand wondered at them. But I neverquestioned hunger.

Robert Gower was hungry forland and for wealth because he had feltthe coldness of poverty. I was afriendless orphan with nothing left tome but my land. It was hardly likely Iwould give it away because the motherI had never known had once thought ita good idea.

It was early, perhaps about five ofthe clock. They kept Quality hours inthis household, not even the servantsrose till six. I went to the chest for myclothes and put on my old breeches andmy shirt and swept my tangled red hairunder Robert’s dirty old cap. I took myboots in my hand, and in my stockingedfeet I crept out of my room and downthe stairs and across the floor to thefront door. I had expected there to be aheavy bolt and chains but as on the dayI arrived, the door handle yielded tomy touch. They did not lock their doorson Wideacre. I shrugged; that was their

business, not mine. But I thought of therugs and the paintings on the walls andthe silver on the sideboard and thoughtthey should be grateful that somefriends of Da had never got to hear ofit.

Out on the terrace I paused andpulled on my boots. The air was assweet as white wine, clear and cleanas water. The sky was brightening fast,the sun was coming up. It was going tobe a hot day. If I had been travellingtoday we would have started now, oreven earlier, and gone as far as wecould before noon. Then we wouldhave found a shady atchin-tan to campand hobbled the horses and cookedsome food. Then she and I would haveidled off into the woods, looking for ariver to swim or paddle, looking forgame or for fruit or for a pond to fish.Always restless, always idle, wewould not get home until the sun

started to cool and then we would cookand eat again, and maybe – if we had afair to go to, or a meeting ahead of us –we would travel on again in the longcooling afternoon and evening until thesun had quite gone and the darknesswas getting thicker.

But there was no travelling for metoday. I had found the place I had beenseeking all my life. I was at my home.My travelling days, when the road hadbeen a grey ribbon unfolding beforeme, and there was always another fairahead, another new horse to train,were ended before my girlhood wasover. I had arrived at a place I couldcall my own, a place which would bemine in a way those two raggle-headedlittle girls had never owned anything.Odd, that morning, that it should havegiven me so little joy.

I went around the house towardsthe stables. The tack room was

unlocked too and Sea’s saddle andbridle were cleaned and hung up. Ireached up and pulled down the saddleand held it before me, over my arm,and slung the bridle over my shoulder.I put my hand down to keep the bit stillso that it did not chink and wakeanyone. I could not have borne tospeak civilly to anyone that morning.

That was odd, too. I don’t thinkever in my life before had I pined to bealone, and I had always slept four to acaravan, and sometimes five. But whenyou live close you learn to leave eachother alone. In this great house with allthese rooms we seemed to live in eachother’s pockets. Dining together,talking and talking and talking, andeveryone always wanting to know ifthere was anything I wanted. If therewas anything I wanted to have, if therewas anything I wanted to do.

I walked through the rose garden,

the buds of roses splitting pink as thepetals warmed in the early sunshine,and I opened the gate at the end of thegarden. Sea’s head jerked up as henoticed me, and he trotted towards me,his ears forward. He dipped his proudlovely head for the reins as I passedthem over his neck and stood rock-stillas I adjusted his bridle and then put hissaddle on. For old time’s sake I couldhave vaulted on him, but the heavinessin my heart seemed to have got downto my boots, and I took him to themounting block near the steps of theterrace as if I were an old woman;tired, and longing for my death.

Sea was as bright as the morningsky, his ears swivelling in alldirections, his nostrils flared, snuffingin the scents of the morning as the sunburned off the dew. He had forgottenhow to walk, his slowest pace was abouncy stride as near to a trot as he

thought I would allow. I held him to itwhile we were on the noisy stones infront of the house, but once we were onthe tamped-down mud of the driveitself I let him break into a trot, andthen into a fast edgy canter.

At the end of the drive I checkedhim. I did not want to go into Acre.Working people rise early whatevertheir jobs, and I knew that farmingpeople would wake with the light justas I did. I did not want them to see me,I was weary of being on show. And Iwas sick of being told things. Taughtand cajoled and persuaded as if I werean infant in dame school. If one moreperson told me how well Wideacrewas being run – as if I should bepleased that they were throwing myinheritance away every hour of the day– I should tell them what I truly thoughtof their sharing scheme nonsense. AndI had pledged myself to hold my tongue

until I really knew what this newworld, this Quality world, was like.

I turned Sea instead towards theLondon road, the way we had come allthose nights ago, fleeing from whatnow seemed like another world. Theway we had come slowly, slowly, inthe darkness up an unfamiliar road,drawn as if by a magnet to the onlyplace in the world where we would besafe. Where they had prepared ahomecoming for me – only by the timeI got there, I was not the girl they hadwanted. It struck me then, as Seastepped lightly down the road, that Iwas as bitter a disappointment to them,too. They had been waiting all theseyears for a new squire set in the mouldof my real mother: caring for thepeople, wanting to set them free fromthe burden of working all their livesfor another man’s fields. Instead theyhad found on their doorstep a hard-

faced boyish vagrant who could noteven stand the touch of a hand on herarm, and who had been taught to carefor no one but herself.

I shrugged. I could not help theirdreams. I had my own dream of Wide,and it had not been a place where I hadstared suspiciously at gentlemen andwondered if they were cheating me.My dream of Wide had been a placewhere the land was smiling and whereI recognized my home. We had all beenfoolish dreamers. We all deserveddisappointment.

I clicked to Sea and he threw hishead up and broke into his smooth easycanter. We soon came to the Londonroad and I checked him, wonderingwhether to turn north towards Londonor south towards the sea. While Iconsidered a man came into sight,leading a horse.

I looked at the horse first. It was a

bay gelding, prime bred. Arab stock init somewhere, I thought. A beautifularched-necked wide-eyed proudanimal. It was dead lame, the nearsideforeleg was so tender the animal couldhardly place it down; and I lookedwith surprise at the man who wasleading it. A man who could chooseand buy a near-perfect animal and thenwork it so ill that it could be injured sobadly.

I caught my breath as soon as Ilooked at him. I had seen drawings ofangels, drawings that people had donelong ago in great churches in farawaycountries, and he was as beautiful asany drawing I had ever seen. He wasbareheaded and his hair was as curlyas a statue of Cupid. He was watchingthe road beneath his well-shined ridingboots and his perfect mouth wasdownturned in an endearing pout. Thecast of his face, the bones, the nose,

were drawn as fine as if he were aclean line on paper. But just now allthe lines were downturned, the eyeswith the curving line of the light brownbrows, the mouth, the gaze which wasdown to the ground. He had not evenheard Sea, he did not see me until hewas nearly upon me.

‘Morning, sir,’ I said confidently.I was sure he would not have heard ofme, he did not look like a young manwho would be familiar with the likesof Will Tyacke. I had the old cappulled low over my revealing mass ofred hair, I had my coat jacket turnedup. I knew I would pass as a lad andfor some reason, I wanted to see hisface upturned towards me as I sat onmy horse, high above him.

He jumped at the sound of myvoice, and his feet weaved in the whitechalk dust. I guessed then that he hadbeen drunk some time ago and was not

yet sober. He had hazy blue eyes and Isaw him screw them up as he tried tofocus on me.

‘Good morning,’ he said blearily.‘Damme, I suppose it is morning?’ Hegiggled slightly and his feet took twomore unbidden converging steps.‘Listen here, fellow,’ he saidpleasantly. ‘Where the devil am I?D’you know? Am I far from HaveringHall, eh?’

‘I’m a stranger to these partsmyself,’ I said. ‘This is the lane whichleads to the village of Acre on theestate of Wideacre. Havering Hall issomewhere near here, but I am notcertain of its direction.’

He put a hand on his horse’s neckto steady himself.

‘This is Acre lane?’ he saiddelightedly. ‘By all that’s wonderful –I believe I’ve won!’

His beaming smile was so

delighted that I found I was smilingtoo.

‘D’you know,’ he said owlishly.‘I bet Tommy Harrap three hundredpounds that I could get home before hecould get home. And he’s not herenow!’

‘Is this his home?’ I asked,bewildered.

‘No!’ the young man saidimpatiently. ‘Petworth! Petworth. Wewere both in the Brighton BelleTavern. He took the bet. Because hehad further to go than I, I let him gofirst. But now I’ve won! Three hundredpounds!’

‘How d’you know he isn’t home?’I asked. I knew this was drunken follyof the first order, but I could not helpsmiling into that laughing careless face.

He looked suddenly serious.‘Parson!’ he said. ‘You’re quite

right, lad. That was part of the wager. I

have to get the parson to witness whattime it was when I got home. Goodthinking, lad! Here’s a shilling.’

He dived into the deep pocket ofhis jacket and fumbled around while Iwaited.

‘Gone,’ he said sepulchrally.‘Gone. I know I didn’t spend it. Youknow I didn’t spend it. But it’s gone allthe same.’

I nodded.‘I’ll write you an IOU,’ he said,

suddenly brightening. ‘I’ll pay it whenI get next quarter’s allowance.’ Hepaused. ‘No I won’t,’ he correctedhimself. ‘I’ve had that and spent italready. I’ll pay you out of the quarterafter that.’ He paused and leanedagainst his horse’s high shoulder. ‘Itgets very confusing,’ he said inbafflement. ‘I think I’m into thetwentieth century already.’

I laughed aloud at that, an

irresistible giggle which made himlook up at me, very ready to takeoffence.

‘Sniggering, are you?’ hedemanded.

I shook my head, straight-faced.‘Because if you are, you can feel

the flat of my sword,’ he threatened.He fumbled among the wide skirts ofhis coat and failed to find his sword.

‘In hock,’ he said to me andnodded confidentially. ‘Likeeverything else.’

‘Who are you?’ I asked,wondering if I should take him toHavering Hall or send him on his way.

He drew himself up to his slightheight and made me a flourishing bow.

‘I’m Peregrine Havering,’ hesaid. ‘Heir to the Havering estate andgreat name. I’m Lord PeregrineHavering if you really want to know.Three sheets to the wind, and not a

feather to fly with.’‘Shall I escort you home, my

lord?’ I asked politely, a half-smile onmy face.

He looked up at me and somethingin the childlike blue eyes made mehappy to be of service to him, drunkardand wastrel though he might well be.

‘I should like to buy your horse,’he said with immense dignity. ‘Or atany rate, I shall swop you for it. Youmay have mine. I will have yours.’

I did not even glance at the bay.‘No, my lord,’ I said politely. ‘I

am accustomed to this horse and Iwould do badly with any other. But ifyou would deign to come up behindme, we can ride to Havering Hall andlead your horse.’

‘Right,’ he said with the suddendecisiveness of the very drunk. ‘Rightyou are, young lad.’

He stopped then and looked up at

me. ‘Who are you anyway?’ he asked.‘You’re not one of our people are you?One of our stable lads or something?’

‘No my lord,’ I said. ‘I’m fromWideacre. I am new there.’

He nodded, well satisfied withmy half-truth; and I let it go at that. Hewas too drunk to understand anythingbut the most simple of explanations,and anyway, I wanted to take himhome. I was sure that he was quiteincapable of finding his way withoutme. I knew that he had no money, but ifhe carried on roaming around thehighways in this state someone wouldrob him of his fine linen and lace. Forsome reason, which I did not pause toconsider, I did not mind him riding Seabehind me with his hands on my waist.His touch did not make me shrinkaway. He mounted behind megracefully and his hands on my waistwere warm and steady. Sea did not

mind the extra load but stepped out inan extended walk. The fine bay hunterlimped alongside.

‘I am not sure of the direction, mylord,’ I said.

‘I’ll tell you,’ he said confidently.Then the next minute I felt the weight ofhis head as he slumped forwards andleaned against me. Fast asleep.

Havering Hall has two entrances,though I did not know it then. The mainone is on the London road which LordPeregrine had already trotted blithelypast; but there is another way, a littlebridleway which leads to the hall offthe Acre lane. I should have missed it,and ended up taking Lord Peregrine tobreakfast at Wideacre if I had not metWill Tyacke riding towards us, goingto Midhurst to see if he could beg orborrow a spare harrow. He stared insurprise when he saw the double loadon Sea, and then recognized me with

Lord Peregrine at my back.‘Sarah!’ he said. ‘What are you

doing here? And with Lord Peregrinetoo!’

I shot him a level look. ‘He’sdrunk,’ I said briefly. ‘He’d never gethome on his own. What would youhave had me do? Leave him where hedropped in the road?’

Will hesitated. ‘As you wish,Sarah,’ he said politely. It was obviousthat he thought that would have been areasonable, even a desirable thing todo. ‘Where are you taking him?’

‘To Havering Hall,’ I said. ‘Buthe went off before he could tell me theway. Can I find it alone, is it nearhere?’

Will nodded, stiff withdisapproval. ‘It’s a track which runsoff to your left, just before the ford,’ hesaid. ‘If you follow the track you willcome out at the hall. His mother, the

Dowager Lady Clara, is at home. Butthey keep town hours there, Sarah.They’ll all be still asleep. The onlypeople awake will be servants.’

‘They’ll do,’ I said. ‘They can puthim to bed and stable his horse. Haveyou seen how lame it is?’

‘I saw at once,’ Will said. ‘Looksas if it lost a shoe and he rode it likethat for miles. It’s to be hoped the soleof the hoof isn’t damaged. Can thatgrey of yours carry the weight of two?’Will asked. ‘I can take him up behindme if you wish me to take him home.’

I was about to answer when thewords stuck in my throat as Iremembered riding home from the seawith her up before me and her hairblowing in my face as we cantered onthe soft grass at the verges of the road.I could remember the smell of her, andthe taste of salt on her hair, and thewarm afternoon breeze blowing in my

face. When Sea had last ridden withtwo on his back.

Instinctively I tightened his griparound my waist, as if I were holdingher safely on behind me. ‘The horsecan manage two, he’s done it before,’ Isaid gruffly, and I touched his sides tomake him start.

‘I’ll come to Wideacre Hall later,when I’ve run this errand,’ Will calledafter me as I rode away. ‘I’ll ride withyou this afternoon.’

I nodded. I did not want to speak.The thought of that afternoon had setthe pain working again in my belly asif I had swallowed some burningpoison. Without thinking I leaned backa little for the comfort of LordPeregrine’s nodding head on myshoulder, as if he could comfort mewith his drunken feckless warmth.

Will was right, Havering Hallwas easily found. The track to it was

more overgrown than the drive toWideacre, few people used it.Carriage folk took the main drive offthe London road, only logging cartsand poachers came this way. The trackwas deeply rutted and I took Seaslowly and steadily. The bay alongsideus stumbled once or twice, boneweary. Lord Peregrine was foolish toneglect such a good horse, I thought. Ishrugged. I had known minor gentry atfairs and shows. They seldom caredfor their possessions, even for thethings they loved. This dazzling idlerwas of better breeding than any I hadever seen. I did not doubt he would beeven more careless.

A pheasant suddenly exploded outof the bushes on our right and Seashied sideways in alarm. The bird shotaway through the trees scolding, and Iput a hand backwards to steady LordPeregrine. He had moved with the

horse as if he were born to the saddle,even in his sleep. I heard his lazychuckle and I felt myself smile as if hehad told me some jest.

‘I was dreaming,’ he said asdelighted as a child. ‘I was dreaming Iwas home in my bed. Where the devilare we?’

‘I’m taking you home, sir,’ I saidpolitely. ‘I think you dozed off.’

‘Oh yes, I remember,’ he saidwith quiet satisfaction. ‘Good lad. I’llgive you a shilling. That’s two I oweyou. Don’t forget.’

I smiled. ‘I won’t,’ I said.‘When we get there, if it’s early

morning…’ he broke off. ‘Is it earlymorning?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘About six I shouldthink.’

‘Still?’ he said interestedly.‘When we get there, you shall comeround to the kitchen with me and we

can have breakfast together. You’lllike the kitchen at my house.’ Hepaused. ‘Because I am a lord,’ he saidconfidently, ‘I can eat anything I like!’

‘Gracious,’ I said.‘I haven’t always been a lord,’ he

said thoughtfully. ‘When Papa wasalive and George was alive I was onlya second son. That was a dead bore.But then George died of the typhusfever and Papa was drowned on hisway to the Americas. So then therewas just Mama and me and the girls.That made me a lord and since then Ihave always done whatever I wanted.’

I nodded, but said nothing.‘What about you?’ he asked,

demanding some information in return.I shrugged. ‘I think we are some

sort of cousin,’ I offered. ‘I’m not astable lad, I’m Sarah Lacey ofWideacre Hall. I’ve come home. I wasjust wearing these clothes because I

haven’t got my new ones yet.’‘You’re a girl?’ he asked.I nodded. He leaned to one side

and tapped me on the shoulder so Iturned my head so that he could see myface.

‘Stop,’ he commanded. ‘Getdown.’

I shrugged and checked Sea andwe both dismounted. He put his handup to my hat and I let him take it andpull it from my head. My hair tumbleddown in a shower of red and bronzeand I laughed at the amazement on hisface as he saw me properly for the firsttime.

‘Then you can’t come to thekitchen,’ was all he said. ‘You’ll haveto come into the parlour. And I thoughtwe could have been friends.’

The disappointment on his facewas so great that I could have laughed.

‘I’ll put my cap back on and come

to the kitchen,’ I offered. ‘No one needever know I’m Sarah. Or you could gointo the larder and bring some foodout. I am hungry.’

He brightened at once. ‘I’ll dothat!’ he said. ‘You wait here. I won’tbe long. It won’t take a moment. Godown that way – ’ he waved to where Icould hear the sound of water, the riverwhere Sea had stopped the first night,‘go and find us somewhere nice to sitand I’ll bring back a picnic!’

He took the reins of his horsefrom me and set off down the path, thedappled bars of sunlight shifting overthem as they walked, making his hairgleam like gold and then brass.

22I found a patch of sunlight where theold beech leaves were warm and dryand smelled nutty. I took Sea to theriver bank and he leaned over anddrank some sweet water and then Ihitched him to a nearby tree. I sat andwatched the flow of the river over thesandy yellow stones, and once or twiceI saw the mottled brown shadow of atrout moving slowly upstream.

Lord Peregrine was so long that Ithought he had forgotten, or taken hishorse into a stable and fallen asleep onthe hay bale. But then I heard footstepsand a voice calling, ‘Halloo! Halloo!’like an unseasonal huntsman and Ijumped to my feet and called, ‘Overhere!’

He came crashing through woods,ducking beneath the low branches,carrying a large wickerwork picnic-

box.‘Look what I’ve got!’ he said

proudly. ‘It’s later than we thought,about seven o’clock. Most of thekitchenmaids were up and they mademe this. Our housekeeper was there aswell and Mama asked to be wakenedearly this morning for she’s going toChichester today. They told Mama Ihad met you and you’re to come andsee her when we’ve had our breakfastand she’s dressed.’

‘I can’t,’ I said, suddenly fearfulof another person who would watchme like Will and James Fortescuewatched me. My sense of holiday fromthose two drained away from me at thethought of having to face LordPeregrine’s mother.

He grinned. ‘Oh you’ll be allright, don’t worry,’ he said bracingly.‘She’s got her eye on you all right. Youcould walk in there stark naked and she

would tell you how pretty you werelooking. We’ve all been waiting to seewhat would happen to the estate. Mypapa had a mind to buy it years ago,but your guardians or whatever wouldnever sell. As soon as I said in thekitchen that I had met you, old MrsBluett our housekeeper was up thefront stairs like a whirlwind to tellMama that the mystery heiress hadcome home.’

He lifted the lid of the picnic boxand suddenly checked. ‘I say, it isn’tall a hum is it?’ he asked. ‘Youweren’t making a fool of me? Youreally are her?’

I nodded. ‘I am,’ I said. ‘It’s not agame I would play if I had a freechoice, I am her.’

‘That’s all right then,’ he said,uninterested in anything else. ‘Here,have some chicken.’

He heaved the picnic basket

between us and laid aside the naperyand the silverware, the fine china withthe crest on it and chose instead to eatwith his fingers. I hesitated for amoment, unable to believe that LordPeregrine himself could eat like agypsy brat; and then weak with reliefand hunger I tore a drumstick off theperfectly roasted chicken and settleddown into the leaves to eat the firstmeal I had enjoyed since coming toWideacre.

We were like children, LordPeregrine and I in the equal uncriticalsunshine. We were like children of thechildhood I should have had. I wasonly sixteen, I guessed he was littleolder; and we sat in the warmth of theearly day and ate greedily and messilyuntil there was nothing left but chickenbones sucked clean and a handful ofcrumbs. I leaned over the stream anddrank deeply of the sweet chalk-clean

water until the bones of my face achedwith its icy touch. I dipped my faceright in and washed in the coldness. Icame up with dripping bedraggled hairand Lord Peregrine carelessly tossed afine linen napkin to me and I wipedmyself dry.

‘There should have been wine,’he said, lying on his back and lookingup at the sky. In the tops of the trees acuckoo was calling and wood-pigeonscooed. ‘Or champagne would havebeen nice.’ He put both hands behindhis head, his profile a line as clear as astatue against the darkness of the woodbehind him, the wind lifting his faircurls off his forehead. ‘They keeptrying to stop me drinking,’ he saidsulkily. ‘They even suggested I hadcome home inebriated!’

‘You were drunk as a lord,’ I saidplainly, watching the droop of his lazyeyelids.

They flashed open at that but theblue eyes were merry. ‘I say, that’srather good!’ he said with a chuckle.‘And yes, I was! But what else is achap supposed to do? Anyone wouldthink it was a household of Methodiststhe way my sisters go on. Mama is allright most of the time. But even shescolds a bit. And now I’m down fromOxford it’ll be even worse.’

‘Down?’ I asked, notunderstanding him.

‘Thrown out,’ he explained. Hegrinned at me, his white teeth even andstraight. ‘I never did any work – notthat they cared for that – but I kickedup a few larks as well. I think it wasthe hole in the dean’s punt whichfinished me off!’

I stretched out beside him, lyingon my belly so I could watch his quick,fluid face.

‘Candlewax!’ he said. ‘I made a

hole and then filled it with candlewax.It took ages to do, and a good deal ofplanning. It went perfectly as well! Itdidn’t sink till he was well out in theriver. It was a wonderful sight,’ hesighed, a smile haunting his mouth.‘Everyone knew it was me, of course.He never could take a joke.’

‘What will you do now then?’ Iasked.

Lord Peregrine frowned a little.‘Where are we?’ he asked vaguely.‘Not July yet is it?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Nearly May.’His face cleared at once. ‘Oh

well then,’ he said. ‘London for theend of the season if Mama will giveme some money that will take me tillJune. Then I’ll be here and Brightonfor the summer, as well as going tosome house parties. I go to Scotlandfor the shooting in August, every year,and then to Leicestershire for the fox-

hunting. That sort of thing.’I nodded. I had not known that the

Quality had a seasonal movement asclear as that of travelling folk. It wasonly the respectable middling sort,from the yeoman farmers like WillTyacke up to city folk like JamesFortescue, who stayed in the sameplace and could tell you what theywere doing year in, year out with nochanges for any seasons.

‘It sounds fun,’ I said cautiously.Lord Peregrine closed his smiling

eyes. ‘It is,’ he said with deepsatisfaction. ‘If there were more moneyin my pockets I should think myself inheaven. And if I don’t have to go backto university in September I shall be inheaven indeed.’

He stretched out and dozed and Irested on one elbow and watched hisface. The trees sighed over our heads,the river babbled softly. We were so

still that a kingfisher came out of itshole a little further upstream anddarted away, a fat little dart ofturquoise, past us. Then he stirred andsat up and yawned.

‘Come and meet my mama then,’he said. He got to his feet and put ahand out to me and pulled me up. Iwent unwillingly and unhitched Sea.

‘I had better go home and changeand come back in my riding habit,’ Isaid. ‘And I should tell Mr Fortescuewhere I am.’

Lord Peregrine laughed. ‘Don’tyou dare!’ he said. ‘She’s delighted tocatch you before anyone has a chanceto warn you off. She and Mr Fortescuehave been daggers drawn for years.She doesn’t like the way he runs Acre,she thinks he keeps wages up andwheat prices down. She’ll love youjust as you are, and if it upsets MrFortescue – all the better!’

I led Sea out through the woodand Lord Peregrine came behindswinging the basket.

‘Does she really dislike him,Lord Peregrine?’ I asked. A seed of anidea was in my mind. If Lady Haveringknew anything about wages and wheatprices she might be the very person Ineeded to give me an outsider’s viewof what was talking place on my land.

‘Call me Perry,’ he saidnegligently. ‘They were on good termsat first, she approached him aboutbuying the Wideacre estate. Papa wasalive then and there was some moneyaround, we would have mortgaged it ofcourse, and rented it out. Probablybuilt some houses on the farmland, orplanted more wheat. Your MrFortescue read her a lecture onprofiteering and refused outright tosell. They didn’t like that much ofcourse. But then when the whole estate

went over to this Levellers’ republicboth Mama and Papa thought that MrFortescue was simply insane! Playingducks and drakes with your money,too!’

I nodded. ‘Did she ever tacklehim with it?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes! He told her,’ Perry’seyes sparkled. ‘He told her that therewere more important things than anextra percentage on investment! Hetold her that there were more importantthings in life than a quick return oncapital!’ He laughed aloud, a joyousinnocent laugh. ‘My papa had died bythen and my mama would say that therewas nothing more important thanmoney. Especially if you don’t haveenough of it!’

I nodded and said nothing. I likedthe sound of her ladyship more andmore.

‘Does she run this estate or do

you?’ I asked.Lord Peregrine looked at me as if

I had suggested an impossibility.‘Well I can’t yet,’ he said. ‘Not

while I’m at university. My mama doesit all with her bailiff. When I’mmarried and take over I shall run itthen, I suppose. Or I’ll keep the bailiffon and he’ll do it all.’

‘So she does it now?’ Iconfirmed.

‘She does it,’ he said. ‘Until Imarry or come of age.’ He broke offand looked at the trees consideringly.‘It’s a plaguey long time to wait,’ hecomplained. ‘I’m only seventeen nowand I never get enough money. I shallowe the place a thousand times over bythe time I get hold of the full income.’

The track we were following tookus to the side of the house and LordPeregrine led the way around the backof a tall-walled garden. ‘Formal

garden,’ he said nodding at onesection. ‘Kitchen garden,’ he saidwhere the pale greying stone turned tosoft red brick. He opened a littlegateway into a cobbled stable yard andshowed me the loose-box where Icould leave Sea. I went in with himand took off his saddle and bridle.Lord Peregrine watched me over thehalf-door, not offering to help.

‘Why are you dressed like that?’he asked, as if it had just occurred tohim.

I glanced up. The sunlight behindhim was glinting on his fair hair so thatit gave him a halo around his perfectface. The world of the show and thetravelling life and the noise and thehardship was unspeakably distant.

‘I was working before I camehere,’ I said briefly. ‘These were myworking clothes. I haven’t any newones yet.’

He nodded and opened the stabledoor. He leaned towards meconfidentially. I could smell the warmhint of brandy on his breath, he hadtaken a drink in the house while theywere packing the picnic.

‘It’s awfully improper,’ he saidowlishly. ‘Thought you should know. Idon’t mind. Mama won’t mind,because it’s you. But there’s no pointin setting other people’s backs up fornothing. Much the best thing to weargirls’ clothes.’

I nodded, ‘I will,’ I said asserious as he.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘Mama.’He took me in through the stable

door across a marble floor patternedwith black and white tiles where myboots sounded common and loud andwhere Lord Peregrine’s footstepsweaved noticeably from the directpath. He led me up a shallow graceful

flight of stone steps. I had a confusedimpression of another floor and a hugearched window making the wholeplace coldly bright. Then up anotherflight of stairs, dark noisy woodenones this time and along a gallery linedwith pictures of forbidding ladies andgentlemen who looked down on LordPeregrine as he tacked from side toside, narrowly missing the occasionalarmchair and table. Then we wentalong a carpeted corridor and hetapped on a large double door set inthe middle of the wall.

‘Enter,’ said a voice, and LordPeregrine made a funny face at me, andwe went in.

The Dowager Lady Clara wassitting up in a massive fourposter bed,holding a delicate scarlet cup in onehand, swathed in impressive folds ofpale blue silk. Her hair was hidden bya blue silken cap, very grand and high

with many bows; her face was smoothand pink and smiling, her eyes were assharp as gimlets.

‘Here she is,’ Lord Peregrineannounced. His mother shot one coollook at him and Lord Peregrine swunginto a deep bow. ‘Mama, may I presentMiss Sarah Lacey of Wideacre Hall?Miss Lacey this is my mama, theDowager Lady Clara Havering.’

I made a little bow, as if I were inthe ring. A curtsey did not suitbreeches, and anyway I was tooawkward to move.

Lady Havering reached out herhand, heavy with large-stoned rings.

‘You may kiss me, my dear,’ shesaid. Her voice was lowpitched andstrong. ‘I think I must be your aunt.Certainly your nearest relation.Welcome home at last.’

I stepped forward awkwardly andbrushed my lips against her cheek. She

smelled heavenly, of flowers. I hadnever smelled such perfume before.Her cheek was cool and dry under myreluctant lips and she let my hand go atonce, before I had time to feeluncomfortable.

‘Peregrine, you may go,’ she said.‘Tell someone to bring a fresh pot ofchocolate and two cups. You should goand bathe and change your linen. MissLacey will stay here with me, sendsomeone over to Wideacre Hall to tellthem where she is.’ She turned her faceto me. ‘Will you keep us company forthe day, Sarah?’

I flushed. ‘I cannot,’ I saidstumbling. ‘I thank you, I should liketo, but I cannot. Mr Fortescue willexpect me home and there are businessaffairs to attend to…’

‘Well thank the Lord you are ableto attend to them yourself at last!’ shesaid waspishly. ‘And thank the Lord

there are any business affairs left onthat estate!’ She smiled at me again.‘Very well, not today. But within theweek you must come to us for the day.’She gave a rich deep chuckle. ‘I shouldthink you would be glad to escape fromthat awful Bristol merchant, won’t you,my dear?’

She turned to Lord Peregrine. ‘Gothen, dear,’ she said sweetly. ‘Youmay come back when you havechanged.’

Lord Peregrine smiled at me andwavered out through the double door. Iturned back to his mother with sometrepidation. She was openly staring atme.

‘Tell me then,’ she saidinvitingly. ‘Where in the world did youspring from? And where have you beenall this while?’

I hesitated. Meridon of Gower’sEquestrian Show was dead and gone. I

would never bring her back.‘I was given away to gypsies,’ I

said evasively. ‘I had to work for myliving. I was travelling with them.’

She nodded. ‘Poor?’ she said. Itwas hardly a question.

‘Very,’ I replied.She nodded. ‘But now you are

poor no longer,’ she said. ‘Now youare one of the Quality, and wealthy.How do you think you will like it?’

I looked away from her towardsher bedroom window. The Hall facedwest and I could see some of theDowns away to the left. ‘I shallaccustom myself,’ I said steadily.

She laughed, a rich deep throatychuckle at that. ‘Any dependants?’ sheasked and at my shake of the head shepursued her theme: ‘No cousins? Noraunts? Foster brothers and sisters? Nosweethearts? No friends? No younghusband? No secret babies?’

‘No one,’ I said.She looked at me narrowly,

looking past my young face, past myold tired eyes, past my clothes, into myheart. ‘Are you a virgin?’ she asked.

I flushed scarlet. ‘Yes,’ I saidawkwardly, and when she said nothingbut merely raised her beautifullycurved eyebrows in surprise, I said: ‘Idon’t like being touched.’

She nodded as if she understood.‘And the people who brought you up?’she asked. ‘Those that you have beenliving with, you’ve ditched them all?’

I met her bright look withoutwavering. ‘All of them,’ I said.

There was a tap on the door and adark-gowned maid came in with asilver tray and a pot of chocolate. LadyHavering threw back the bedcoversand rose from her bed and swishedover to take her seat at the window.She gestured me into the seat before

her so that I faced her and the clearlight.

‘What will you do?’ she asked.‘You’re rather alone. Unless you havetaken a fancy to the little Bristoltrader.’

‘I haven’t,’ I said. I felt amoment’s discomfort at my disloyalty.But then I remembered the quiet houseand the noise of my drinking soup andmy heart hardened. ‘I don’t know whatto do. Mr Fortescue talks of teachers ofelocution and dancing, and tells me Ishould have a lady companion.’ Igrimaced. ‘Then there’s the land,’ Isaid. ‘I need to know what’s beingdone on it and yet there is no one to askbut Mr Fortescue and Will Tyacke.’

Lady Havering poured thechocolate and then sat back and lookedat me again. ‘Do you disapprove of hisguardianship of your land?’ she asked,her voice very neutral.

‘Yes I do,’ I said firmly. ‘It isbeing run for the gain of the workingpeople, that means the Hall makes aloss every time we sow and reap. Thevillage is doing well out of it, but theestate gets a share of what it ought tohave entire.’

Lady Havering nodded grimly.‘I’ve not seen the estate books,’ shesaid. ‘But I have eyes in my head and Ihave seen them undersell me in theMidhurst market for season afterseason until the price of food has beenforced down and held down. It’srevolutionary! It destroys the value ofproperty.’

I nodded.‘How old are you?’ she asked.‘Sixteen or thereabouts,’ I said.She nodded and tapped her teeth

with her long fingernail. ‘Five yearsuntil you can run the estate foryourself,’ she said softly. ‘A long time

to have to endure Mr Fortescue’samateur farming.’

‘A long time to live with a ladycompanion,’ I said with feeling. ‘Lifewith a lady companion in that house,with Mr Fortescue coming to stay.’

Lady Havering nodded, as if shehad come to some decision. ‘Not to beborne,’ she said briskly. ‘Drink yourchocolate up, child, and I will comewith you to see Mr Fortescue. I’ll takeyou under my wing, you need not fearthe lady companion. I’ve launched onedaughter successfully into the worldand I can certainly do it again withyou. And you won’t shock me. Yourlady companion would probably popoff with spasms within a week!’

I obediently raised my cup but Idid not drink, I looked at her over therim.

‘What do you mean, “take meunder your wing”?’ I asked.

She gave me one of her raresweet smiles. ‘I will look after you,’she said pleasantly. ‘You can comeand stay here and I will teach you thethings you need to know to be a lady insociety. When the Season starts again Iwill bring you out, introduce you to thepeople you need to know. I willchoose your dresses for you and teachyou how to dance, how to eat, how tobehave. You are my cousin, you haveno family but me. It is fitting.’

I did not stop to think that LadyHavering did not look like a womanwho was burdened with a sense ofduty. I put my cup down with a clatter.

‘Would you do that for me?’ Idemanded. ‘For me?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will.’I said nothing for a moment and

she was silent too. Then I spoke, andthe delight had gone from my voice.

‘What for?’ I said shrewdly.

‘What d’you get out of this?’She poured herself a fresh cup

and she chuckled. ‘Very good, Sarah,’she said. ‘Yes, I do “get something outof this”. Firstly, I irritate your preciousMr Fortescue which will be a greatdelight to me. Secondly, while I amchaperoning you I shall charge mydress bills to your estate which canvery well afford them, whereas Icannot. Thirdly, by doing this I ammaking it more likely that you are notinfected with Wideacre Jacobinismwhich is something I cannot afford tohave on my doorstep. The more MrFortescue leaves you well alone, thesooner you can get the estate back intoorder.’

‘You would teach me to read theaccounts and understand what is goingon?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘You can hire mymanager yourself and use him to check

this madness on Wideacre. You canstop it going any further by refusing tohand over the land to the village asthey want. And as soon as you are ofage you can turn it into the profitableplace it by rights should be.’

I spat in my palm and reached itout to her across the little table.‘Done,’ I said.

The pleasant smile on her facenever flickered. She spat in her ownand shook hands. ‘Done,’ she repeated.Then her face changed and she turnedmy hand over, palm up, so that shecould see the deep hard lines and thecallouses and rope burns.

‘Gracious me,’ she said. ‘Turningyou into a young lady will be nosinecure. We will start with yourhands! Whatever have you been doingto get them into this state? I doubtwe’ll ever get them soft.’

I looked at my palms for a

moment. The bulge at the thumb and atthe base of the fingers was as tough asold leather. I thought of the reins I hadheld and the ropes I had pulled and thetrapeze bar.

‘I was working,’ I said, taciturn.She nodded. ‘You needn’t tell

me,’ she said. ‘As long as no one fromyour past comes pestering me, then it isnone of my affair and it can stay thatway. But tell me one thing: Is thereanyone who would recognize you orfollow you?’

‘No,’ I said. Robert Gowerwould let me go. Jack would run amile rather than face me.

‘Did you commit any crimes?’ sheasked bluntly.

I reviewed the poaching and thegambling, the horse-breaking and thelittle cheats. I looked up and her eyeswere on me.

‘Nothing spectacular,’ I said.

She threw back her head andlaughed at that and the bows on her capbobbed.

‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Nothingspectacular. I shall ask no more. Haveyou told Mr Fortescue all this?’

I shrugged. ‘A little,’ I said.‘Enough to prove to him who I am.Nothing more.’

She nodded as if she werepleased. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘As yourduenna I shall make rules for yourbehaviour. The first is that you willwear gloves all the time, and the otheris even more important.’

I waited.‘You’ll speak of your past to no

one,’ she said bluntly. ‘What you havetold me you will tell no one else. Whenyou move in society we shall saymerely that you were living quietly inthe country with humble people beforeyou were found by the trustees. Your

background will be obscure but deeplyrespectable. Have you got that?’

I nodded. ‘Obscure but deeplyrespectable,’ I said turning the wordsover in my mouth. ‘Yes, I’ve got that.’

She shot a sideways smile at me.‘Good,’ she said.

There was a tap at the door andshe turned her head and called:‘Enter!’

Lord Peregrine put his headtentatively around the door. ‘It’s me,Mama,’ he said.

‘Excellent, you can come in,’ shesaid briskly.

Bathed and dressed he wasradiantly beautiful, as lovely as a girl.He was wearing a dark blue ridingcoat with pale tight breeches and highpatent-leather hessian boots. His blondhair was tightly curled and still wetfrom his bath. His eyes were a limpidblue and only the violet shadows under

them showed that he had missed anight’s sleep. His mother looked at himcoolly.

‘You’ll do,’ she said.Lord Peregrine flashed an

engaging smile at her. ‘Why, thank you,Mama!’ he said as if at a greatcompliment and then he stood quitestill, as if he were awaiting orders.

He soon had them. He was toescort me back to Wideacre Hall andto take his mama’s card to announcethat she would visit Mr Fortescue thatafternoon. He was to await a reply butto stay no longer than twenty minutes,and he was to drink nothing but tea orcoffee.

‘I don’t know what sort of tableyou think he keeps there, Mama,’ LordPeregrine said pleasantly. ‘But hedoesn’t look to me like the sort of chapwho offers you champagne at ten in themorning.’

She smiled grimly. ‘I don’t doubtit,’ she said. ‘And then you’ll comestraight home.’

‘Yes, Mama,’ he said, his smileunblemished.

I took it that I was dismissed and Irose to leave. Lady Clara shot a quickmeasuring glance at me.

‘Properly dressed, you would bebeautiful,’ she said. ‘I’ll have theChichester dressmaker come outtomorrow. You will come to me thenand be fitted for new clothes.’

I nodded. ‘Thank you, LadyClara,’ I said politely.

She held out her hand to me andraised her cheek for a kiss and then Imanaged to get myself past the delicatelittle table and over the pale-colouredrugs without accident. I don’t think Ibreathed easy until the door was shutbehind us, and Lord Peregrine wasleading the way back down the gallery.

‘Taking you in hand, is she?’ heasked.

‘Aye,’ I said.He nodded, and paused at the top

of the wooden staircase to look at me.‘Well that’s good,’ he saidencouragingly. ‘She’ll get you a girl’sdress. I was thinking about it while Iwas having my bath and I couldn’tthink where to get one. I’m glad aboutthat.’

I chuckled. ‘I’m glad too,’ I said.‘And you’ll be coming here

again!’ he said. ‘That’s grand. I wasafraid it was going to be awfully slowuntil I went to London, but you and Ican ride together and I can show youaround.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.‘No trouble at all,’ he said

cordially and then he took my arm andwe strolled across the marble hall as ifwe were young brothers, as if I had

been born and bred in such a place, asif we were best friends.

23Peregrine escorted me home riding ashowy hunter from his mama’s stables.Mr Fortescue came out on the terracewhen he saw us riding up the drive andI saw by his face that he was notpleased to see me with Perry.

He invited him inside and offeredhim a dish of tea. Perry rolled his eyesat me and graciously accepted. He satin the parlour with one eye on theclock, delivered his mama’s message –word-perfect – and then left as theclock ticked precisely to the twentyminutes.

Mr Fortescue looked gravely atme.

‘You have attracted the attentionof Lady Clara,’ he said. ‘She isn’t thewoman I would have chosen to be youradviser.’

I looked back at him, my face as

insolent as when I used to face my da.‘I daresay,’ I said. ‘But then you

wanted me locked up here with somecountry widow for five years.’

James half gasped and shook hishead. He strode over to the windowand jerked back the curtain to look out.I wondered why he did not yell at me,then I remembered Quality manners.He was waiting until he could speak tome civilly.

I thought him a fool.‘You are trying to misunderstand

me,’ he said in a soft voice when heturned back to the room again. ‘I do notwant to lock you up here, I do not wantto dictate how you should live. Youmay have the friends you please. But Iwould not be doing my duty if I did nottell you that Lady Clara has areputation in the wider world for beinga spendthrift, a gambler and a womanof the world. Her son, Lord Perry, is

still at university but even so he has thereputation of gambling and heavydrinking.’

I looked at James and my facewas hard. ‘You are saying they are notwell-behaved people,’ I said blankly.

James nodded. ‘I am sorry tospeak ill of them and I would notgossip. But you do not know the worldthey move in and I have to tell you theyare not suitable company for a younglady.’

I smiled. ‘Then they’ll do well forme,’ I said. ‘There’s a lot I’ve not toldyou, Mr Fortescue, for I see no needfor you to know. But hear now that myfather was a drunkard and a gambler,that I made my living by horse-breaking and bad trading and bystacking the card decks for him. I amnot the young lady you want me to be,and I’ll never learn to be. I’m too oldand too wild and too hard to be made

into that mould now. The Haveringswill do well enough for me.’

He was about to answer whenBecky tapped at the door and asked if Iwas riding with Will Tyacke, for hewas waiting for me in the yard.

I nodded at James and it was mewho ended the little scrap this time. Iwent out into the yard feeling elatedwith my victory. I had gone some wayto even a score that was runningbetween us; between him who wastrying to make me the child I shouldhave been if he had found me andbrought me here in time – and the realhard-hearted vagrant I was.

Will was in the yard, high on hishorse. He smiled to see me.

‘You got Lord Perry home safethen, I see,’ he said.

‘Aye,’ I said. I didn’t choose totell him any more.

‘He’s a pleasant enough

youngster,’ Will said, invitingly.‘Aye,’ I said. I swung up into the

saddle, and bent my head to tighten thegirth.

The horses moved off, Will waswaiting for me to say more.

‘Bit wild,’ he offered.‘Aye,’ I said. I had the girth to my

liking and I leaned forward and flickedSea’s mane all over to the right side ofhis neck.

‘Still, there’s many a youngwoman who finds him handsome,’ Willsaid judicially.

‘Aye,’ I assented.‘Some of the lasses don’t see him

drunk, don’t see that he’s a lad whocares for no one but himself,’ Will saidpompously.

I nodded.‘Then they think he’s a fine young

gentleman, they’re mad for a smilefrom him.’

‘Oh aye,’ I said by way ofvariation.

Will surrendered. ‘Do you likehim, Sarah?’ he asked.

I checked Sea and looked straightat him. His face was serious, I knewthat this question mattered very muchto him. He wanted an honest answer.

‘Nowt to do with you,’ I saidblankly and shut my mouth on mysilence.

We rode without speaking downthe drive to the lane, and then turnedleft to the village. I was looking aroundme as we went, at the greening hedgeon either side of the lane and the rustlewhere birds were feeding their youngin hidden nests. Will was scowling atthe road between his horse’s ears.

‘I thought I’d take you to see thevillage schoolmaster today,’ he said aswe came within sight of the firstcottages. ‘He was away the other day

when we were riding through. We’rerather proud of our school.’

He led the way down the villagestreet. The cobbler was at his lastagain in the little window. He wavedat me and I waved back. The cartershouted ‘G’day’ from his wagon wherehe was hammering a loose board. Ismiled my bright meaningless showsmile and he beamed back at me – gladof false coin.

Will rode past the church and pastthe track up to the Downs to a longsquare barn which stood parallel withthe lane. From inside I could hear thehum of children chanting a song or apoem or some rhyme.

Will whistled, a long sharp soundand after a few minutes the door at theside opened and a young man came out,blinking in the bright sunlight after theshade of the classroom.

He was dressed very oddly! He

was all in green. Baggy green breechestucked into sound leather boots, and abaggy green jerkin with a wide leatherbelt. His straight black hair wascropped short and parted in the middlein a way which made his face lookbroad and strong and ugly butsomehow nice at the same time.

‘This is Michael Fry,’ Will said.‘Michael, this is Sarah Lacey.’

‘Hello, sister,’ the man said. ‘I donot call you by any title because I callno one by any title. I believe that wewere all created equal and I show thesame respect to you as I do to anyoneelse. You may call me Michael or youmay call me brother.’

Sixteen years on the road hadprepared me for all sorts of people. Ihad met men like Michael before.

‘Hello Michael,’ I said. ‘Are youthe teacher here?’

He smiled and his dark face

suddenly lightened. ‘I am the teacher ofthe young citizens,’ he said. ‘And in theevenings I read and talk with theirparents. We study together to prepareourselves for our work here, and ourplans to expand this community so thatit is an example for the rest of thecountry and a mission to them!’

‘Oh,’ I said.‘Michael came to us three years

ago from a community in Wales,’ Willsaid. There was laughter in the back ofhis voice, but it was not directed atMichael. ‘He has served thecorporation very greatly in his adviceto us, and by working with thechildren.’

Michael smiled at Will. ‘They arethe future,’ he said. ‘They must beprepared for it.’

Will nodded. ‘This was set up asa school by your mother’s mother,’ hesaid. ‘When they started setting the

place to rights and handing over to theworkers. Before that it was a tithebarn.’ He looked at the height andlength of it. ‘It makes you realize howcostly are the benefits of a spirituallife,’ he said wryly.

‘I don’t understand,’ I said.Michael flashed a smile up at me.

‘This was a barn where they stored theshare of the crop they had to give to thechurch and to the vicar,’ he said. ‘Westill have a vicar but he is supportedby a small fee from the estate. We donot allow him to take his share ofwealth when he has neither ploughednor sown.’

I nodded. ‘He’ll like that,’ I said.Michael choked on a little crow

of laughter and Will grinned at me.‘Yes,’ he said. ‘He does.’‘Anyway, now it is a school in

this end of it, and the other half islodging for Michael and for the

children whose parents are dead or runaway. We have three at the moment.’

I nodded. I knew enough aboutvillage life to know this was unheardof. Orphans and pauper childrenshould be taken to the local poorhousewhere they dragged out a miserablechildhood and were sold to employersas soon as possible. Rea and Katie hadagreed that the poorhouse was worsethan anything. ‘They hit me all thetime,’ Rea had once told me, surprisedat violence which was not done inanger but as routine. ‘Every morningbefore breakfast. For being a Rom.’

‘And in the middle section,’ Willwent on, ‘is where the old peoplework who are no longer fit for outsidework. They spin together, they mind thebabbies when the mothers are away inthe fields, they do some carving, theymake up herbs. And we pay them alittle for their work and sell the goods

for the Wideacre corporation.’An idea struck him. ‘You were

brought up gypsy, weren’t you, Sarah?Could you show them how to carvethose wooden flowers and dye themthe pretty colours? We could sell themat Midhurst fair.’

I chuckled. ‘The only skills Ilearned were thieving and gambling,’ Isaid. ‘You don’t want me teaching aload of old women how to sharpencards.’

Will laughed as well. ‘Nay,’ hesaid. ‘I don’t want you sharing thoseskills.’

‘And here,’ Michael said,gesturing to the open doorway, ‘this ismy model school. When I came herethere was a dame-school, it taught thechildren to be servants, to be farm-hands. Only a few learned to read,hardly any to write. They taught thegirls to be house-servants and the boys

to be ploughboys.‘I changed that!’ he exclaimed.

‘They learn the same lessons with me:boys and girls. I will not have themtaught differently. They all know howto steer a plough, they all know how toshoe a horse, they all know how tocook a meal for a family of four.Everyone should know these things andthen the stamp of servitude and theidleness of the rich would be at anend!’

‘Oh,’ I said again.Will was openly smiling at my

bemused face.‘But I also teach them skills

which they would learn nowhere else,’Michael said. ‘Here they learn to read,so that all the knowledge of the worldis open to them. They learn to write, sothat they can speak with one anothereven when they are apart. And I teachthem the study of geography so they

know where they are, and history, sothey understand how it is that they arepoor but the victors of the struggle arerich. And I teach them French so thatthey can talk with their brothers andsisters in the glorious republic ofFrance.’

‘Oh,’ I said again. I closed mymouth because my jaw was gaping.

Will laughed aloud. ‘You willfrighten Sarah with your Jacobinism,’he said cheerfully. ‘She will think youwant to cut off her head at least.’

Michael looked quickly upwards,and smiled. He had an endearingcrooked smile, one of his front teethwas quite gone. I saw now that he wasyounger than I had thought. And hisface was not ugly at all but somehowcrumpled. His clothes were not as oddas they had first appeared. I hadthought he was in costume, but I nowunderstood that his clothes must mean

something. That everything must meansomething.

‘I do not want to guillotine mysister,’ he said simply. ‘How could I?She has been a poor girl and lived asimple life as we do. I am glad towelcome you to your home, sister. Ihope you will find much worthy labourto undertake here.’

My mouth twisted a little wryly atthe thought of my ‘simple life’ whichhad been all deceit and costume andmagic and cheating; and as for worthylabour – I did not think I had done aday of what this man would considerworthy, or even honest, labour since Iwas born. But I did not want to explainthis to him.

‘You cannot be glad I have comehome,’ I said baldly.

He smiled at me again, that sweetsmile which had so much confidence init.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Therewould have been a squire come to thisvillage sooner or later, I am very gladit is you. You have lived among poorgood people, you will have seen theirsufferings. You will help us here tolead a better life. I do welcome you,sister.’

I stared at him suspiciously.Either he was an utter rogue or else asimpleton. It was not possible that hecould be glad I had come home.

He turned to Will. ‘Would youlike to come in, brother?’ he asked.‘The young citizens would like to seetheir new sister.’

Will glanced at me. ‘No,’ he said,guessing rightly that I did not want tomeet the children before I had time tothink about their extraordinary teacherin this odd village. ‘Sarah is lookingaround today. She needs to get herbearings before she meets any more of

us. Take them her greetings.’Michael nodded. ‘Fraternal

greetings,’ he said.Will chuckled. ‘Aye,’ he said.

‘Take them her fraternal greetings andtell them she will see them later,tomorrow or the next day.’

Michael smiled at us both, andwent back towards the school. Wewaited until we had seen the schooldoor close and heard the rhythm of therhyme break up into many high voicesall asking questions, and then weturned our horses back towards theway we had come and past the churchtowards the Common.

‘He’s a great find,’ Will said.‘You may think him odd at first but hehas done more to help this village thananyone else. He has had experience ofhalf a dozen corporations andcommunes and experimental farms andeverything else. He was over in France

in the early days of the republic. He isa member of every legal society youcan think of – and a good deal morewhich would be called illegal, Iimagine. We’re lucky to have him withus. It took a deal of persuading.’

‘You asked him here?’ I asked insurprise. I had thought him an idiotwho had come here because he couldnot find work elsewhere.

‘I nearly had to go on my knees,only that would have been old-fashioned servility,’ Will said. ‘He isa dedicated and brilliant teacher with acommitment to a new world. Evenafter all the work he has put in here Ido not think we can be sure of keepinghim for ever. There are othercommunities who would badly likehim, and I think in his heart he wouldrather be in the Americas thananywhere else. This country offersnothing for a man of his talents, they

persecute him when they should seehow urgently he is trying to make thelives of working people better.’

‘Is he safe?’ I asked. I had a dimawareness of people in France and aking toppled from his throne and a riot.

Will smiled. ‘He is a man ofpeace,’ he said. ‘I never met his like.He will not even eat meat because ananimal will have met its death for hispleasure. When I think of him, and Ithink of the vicar!’ He broke off andsighed.

‘Now!’ he said. ‘I’ll guarantee towin a race against that racehorse ofyours on this going!’

I looked down at the path underthe horses’ hooves. It was deep sand,dusty on top and thick. Very heavygoing. A horse would have to havestrong legs and sound wind to gallopfar and fast on that.

‘A wager?’ I asked.

Will laughed. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Ibet you a side-saddle (for I’ve found italready but it’ll have to be repaired foryou) against,’ he paused – ‘now, whatdo I want?’

His eyes twinkled at me. I found Iwas smiling back.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I don’tknow what you want.’

His eyes were suddenly a littledarker. ‘If you were an ordinary girl,’he said, suddenly serious. ‘I’d ride arace against you for a kiss. That’s whatI want from you!’

There was a silence between usfor a moment which was no longerplayful, and I was not smiling.

I was about to say: ‘But I am notan ordinary girl…’ when Willinterrupted me before I could speak.

‘But since you’re not an ordinarygirl,’ he said. ‘I don’t want a kiss fromyou at all. I’ll ask instead that you let

me read you a pamphlet oncorporations and corporation farming.’

I choked on a laugh. Will was arogue and a cheat – I suddenly thoughthow Dandy would have loved him andthe familiar pain thudded into my belly.

‘What’s the matter?’ he askedquickly as he saw my face fall.‘What’s the matter, Sarah? It’s only ajest.’

‘It’s not that,’ I said. I struggled tofind my show smile which can go onmy face and hide everything, meaningnothing. ‘It’s nothing. A little pain inmy belly.’

His face was very gentle. Hewent to put a hand out to me but then hechecked himself as he remembered thatI did not like to be touched.

‘Well enough to ride?’ he asked.‘Oh aye,’ I said, reining Sea in.

‘It’ll pass. And the bet’s on!’He said, ‘One two three and

away!’ and I gave Sea his head.The race track was a wide white

sand firebreak which wound for milesacross the Common. I was in the leadas we broke out of the trees but thehorses were neck and neck as weforged up towards a steady slope.

Sea was panting, he hated heavygoing, but the cob had a steady rollingstride which ate up the ground. As thehill got steeper the cob went ahead bya nose, and then by a little more.

I raised myself up in the saddleand bawled at Sea, over the noise ofthe creaking leather and the thuddinghooves and the flying sand, and he puthis head down and went that extra bitfaster. I guided him to the side of thepath where the greening heather was abetter foothold and his strong whitelegs reached forward, he put his heartinto his speed and we forged aheadwith a yell of triumph.

‘You win!’ Will shouted as thehill levelled out, and I pulled Sea up.He was panting, his flanks dark withsweat. ‘You win!’ Will said again.‘And I’ll pay up, though riding on theedge of the firebreak is cheating.’

I beamed at him. ‘I always cheat,’I said. ‘Especially if the stakes arehigh.’

Will nodded. ‘I should haveknown. What’s your game, Sarah? Thebones?’

I shook my head. ‘Cards,’ I said.Will chuckled and we turned the

horses for home. ‘Where did youlearn?’ he asked, entertained.

The sun was warm on my backand I was happy to be out on the land.A cuckoo was calling loudly andcontentedly away over to our right andsome early gorse was making the airsmell sweet. Will pulled his cobalongside Sea and we went along

companionably side by side and I toldhim about Da and his cheating atwayside inns. I told him how I wastaught, when I was just a little child, togo around the back of the card playersand to see what cards they had and tosignal it to my da. I told him how Dawould tell me to fetch a fresh deck ofcards from the landlord and how Ilearned to stack them in the right orderto suit Da, whoever had the deal.

‘And did they never spot you?’Will asked, amazed.

I laughed at him for being a gull.‘Of course they did, sometimes!’ Isaid. ‘I was only a little girl, my handsweren’t big enough to hide the stack.Mostly they didn’t. She was theretoo…’

I broke off. I had been about tosay that she was there too and shewould sing, or do a little dance withher skirts held out, and that the men

who were fools enough to play withDa were also fool enough to take theireyes off him when a woman, even alittle girl, was up on a table where theycould see up her skirt.

I lost the thread of what I wassaying and my face went bitter.

‘I can’t remember what I wassaying…’ I said.

‘Never mind,’ Will said.‘Perhaps you’ll tell me another time.’

‘Perhaps,’ I said. I knew I neverwould.

Will glanced at the sky. ‘Aboutnoon,’ he said. ‘I have to go up to theDowns later to check on the sheep. Thelambs are with the ewes – would youlike to ride up with me? They’re apretty sight.’

I was about to say yes, but then Iremembered Lady Clara.

‘I cannot,’ I said. ‘Lady Clara iscoming to see us this afternoon and I

should change into the riding habit.’Will nodded equably. ‘I’ll take

you home then,’ he said turning hishorse’s head. ‘Can’t keep the Qualitywaiting.’

‘I’ll ride alone,’ I said. ‘I knowthe way.’

Will paused, looked at me. ‘Painbad?’ he asked, knowing with hisquick cleverness that it had not passedas I said it would. He did not know, asI did, that this was a pain that wouldnever pass. It was not a share of badmeat which was tearing my belly, itwas the loss of her which hit meafresh, every time I laughed, everytime I saw something which wouldhave given her joy.

‘No,’ I said, denying his insight,and denying the comfort he might havegiven me. ‘I’ve no pain. But I can ridehome alone and you can go to yourwork.’

He nodded and held his horse stillas I rode away. I felt his eyes on myback and I straightened in the saddleand even sang a little song which thewind would blow back to him and tellhim that I was light-hearted. It was thesong Robert used to order when hecould get a fiddler to play the poniesin. It was a song from the show. Mylife was still all show.

I rode home slowly, watching the highgreen horizon of the Downs and thelittle shapes of white which wereWill’s flock of sheep moving slowlyacross it. The Downs were like a wallaround this little village, they held itlike you might cup your hand onsomething rare and strange like abutterfly or a tiny bright beetle.

I passed some people on theCommon, gathering brushwood andfurze. They waved as I went past and

called: ‘Good day, Sarah!’ and Ismiled my empty smile back at them,and called back: ‘Good day,’ andthought that I had come a damned longway still to have no handle to myname.

The path led me down to the backof the house and there was a littledrystone wall which Sea popped over,hardly breaking his stride. A track ledme to the back of the stables and I puthim in his loose-box myself, he stilldid not like Sam. I was surprised thathe let Will touch him.

I was rubbing him down, hissingat him between my teeth, and he wasturning his head and nibbling the top ofmy curls as I worked when I heard thenoise of wheels on the gravel of thedrive and peeped over the door to seea carriage turning in the gate.

‘Damme, it’s her la’ship,’ I saidto Sea. ‘I hoped to be in a dress before

she came.’I came out of the stables and

watched the carriage draw up. Inoticed the horses first. A pair ofmatching bays, very fine animals, wellfed and with glossy coats. Theirharness could have been better cleanedbut the brass bits were shiny andbright. I nodded. I thought they hadbeen made ready for a woman wholiked the look of things to be right. Thestraps would wear out quicker for notbeing properly oiled but maybe shedidn’t care for that.

On the box was a driver in abright ornate uniform, and behind theopen carriage, looking like a pair ofpouter pigeons, were a couple offootmen in the same livery. Thecarriage stopped at the terrace stepsand they flung themselves off the box,opened the door – showing the liningsof the carriage of pale blue silk – let

down the steps and put out a respectfulhand for Lady Clara.

She took her time. I came out intothe yard to watch her. It was as goodas a play. First she snapped her blueparasol shut, the footmen waiting likestatues all the time. Then she loosenedthe veil which had gone over her hat toprotect her from dust and pushed itback a little, then she stood up in thecarriage, gave her skirts a little shake,and put out her hand to the footmanwho had been standing waiting, as if hecould be there all day if she had a mindto it.

At her first gesture towards himhe leaped closer to the carriage andtook her gloved hand on his arm as ifhe were honoured at the touch. LadyClara took two tiny steps down thesteps of the carriage and then paused atthe foot of the terrace.

Both footmen fell in behind her as

she walked, slowly, slowly, like amountebank preparing some trickery,up to the front door. Then she stoodbefore the door in absolute stillness.

The footmen waited. I waited.Sam, who had come out from the tackroom, waited beside me. Then sheslightly nodded her head and one of thefootmen stepped forward andhammered at the front door as if hewere going to beat it down for herladyship to step over the ruins.

It swung open at once and MrFortescue stepped out.

‘Lady Clara!’ he said pleasantly.‘What a time it took you to manage thesteps. Don’t tell me you are troubledwith rheumatism? Come in out of thedraught, do!’

I gave a muffled shriek andducked back into the loose-box to yellwith laughter against Sea’s side. Ithought James was no match for her

ladyship, but as an opening attack itcouldn’t be faulted.

Sam looked at me dourly over thehalf-door as I snorted for breath.

‘Quality,’ he said, and spat on thecobbles of the yard.

I made haste then and got indoors andup the back stairs and into the purpleriding habit, then I went half-waydown the stairs, thinking to join them.The parlour door was shut. I hovered,uneasy, on the stairs and then I heardLady Clara’s tinkling empty laugh. Idid not think I could interrupt them, andI didn’t know if they wished me there.In the end I waited in my room until Ishould be sent for.

Becky came up after a while andasked would I go down and take a dishof tea with Lady Clara and James.

I glanced at myself in the mirror. Ihad spent some time tying my hair

back. The purple ribbon was twistedand looked like string, but at least myhair was not tumbling around myshoulders. I straightened my back andwent down the stairs.

Lady Clara was sitting at her easein one of the parlour chairs with hertea cup and a little cake on the tablebeside her. She smiled at me as I camein, the smile of a woman who haseverything she wants. I looked acrossat James. He looked irritable.

‘Ah Sarah!’ she said. ‘Yourguardian and I have been discussingyour education and prospects. Comeand give me a kiss.’

I went carefully over and pressedmy warm cheek against her coolpowdery one.

She gestured to the chair besideher.

‘Your guardian fears I am aboutto kidnap you!’ she said smiling. ‘I

have assured him we just want yourcompany.’

James nodded. ‘Miss Lacey has alot to learn on her estate,’ he said. ‘Shehas been riding with her manager andshe needs to learn to read the estatebooks.’

‘Certainly, certainly!’ Lady Clarasaid easily. ‘But she also needsdresses, hats, gloves, a hairdresser, anumber of teachers, all manner ofthings so that she can be a Miss Laceyof Wideacre!’

James stirred his tea and made alittle clatter with the teaspoon in hiscup. Becky passed me a cup and wentout, closing the door softly behind her.I wondered if she was listening in thehall. I knew I would have.

‘Wideacre is not an ordinaryestate,’ he said gently. ‘And MissLacey is not an ordinary young lady.She needs to learn and approve the

plans for the land before anything else.There will be plenty of time forfashionable trifles later on.’

Lady Clara raised her archedeyebrows in surprise. ‘Plenty of time?’she exclaimed. ‘But the child issixteen! When do you propose sheshould be presented at Court?’

James blinked. ‘Court?’ he asked,and his surprise was real. ‘Whatshould she want to go to Court for?’

Lady Clara put her cup down andflirted her fan open. ‘For her Londonseason, of course,’ she saidreasonably. ‘She must have a LondonSeason, and who is to present her?’

James ran his hand through hishair. ‘I had not thought of a Season,’ hesaid. ‘It is hardly something whichmatters. The most important thing is toteach Sarah how to go along in thecountry, to learn her way around, tounderstand what is being done here on

her land, and to prepare her for whenshe is twenty-one and comes into herown fortune.’

Lady Clara laughed a delicioustinkling laugh.

‘The most important thing!’ sheexclaimed. ‘Mucking about on a littlefarm!’ She broke off. ‘Oh! forgive me!I did not mean to be rude! But whospends all their life in the countryexcept working people? You wouldhardly condemn Sarah to being stuckdown here with some dreary littlecompanion, I daresay, when she couldbe living the life of a young lady inLondon.’

‘It is hardly incarceration!’ Jamessaid heatedly. ‘She will come to loveliving here.’

‘You don’t live here,’ I observed.‘You live in London!’

Lady Clara flirted her fan to hideher face for a second and behind the

shelter of it shot me a wink.James got to his feet and took a

turn about the room. ‘Sarah!’ heappealed to me. ‘Surely you don’t wanta life with the Quality in London. It’snot what you were bred to, you cannotwish it?’

I looked at him thoughtfully. Hehad run my estate to favour the workersand to profit them. He had not claimedmy rents as he should have done. Hehad not sought for me, and he had notfound me. By the time I came here shewas gone; and all the benefits of thelife here could not help her.

‘I want the best,’ I said, and therewas no softness in my voice at all. ‘Ihave not travelled this far and workedthis hard to live a life which is second-best. I want the best there is. If that isLondon then that is what I want.’

There was silence in the pinkelegant parlour. James was looking at

me as if I had taken some long-beloveddream away from him.

‘I thought that this would be thebest for you,’ he said gently. ‘It wouldhave been your mother’s first choice.’

Lady Clara snapped her fan shutwith a little click, got to her feet andshook out her skirts.

‘Well then,’ she said. ‘I must go,and we are agreed. Sarah may comeand visit me while she continueslearning her way around her estate, andI will advise her as to clothes andbehaviour and how to go on. When youare ready to go back to London, MrFortescue, then Sarah can stay with meuntil the start of the Season. Mylawyers will contact you with detailsof how her allowance should be paid.’

She moved towards the door butJames Fortescue made no move toopen it for her.

‘Is this your wish, Sarah?’ he

asked me again.I flared up. ‘For God’s sake!’ I

exclaimed. ‘Haven’t I just said so?’Lady Clara tapped her fan sticks

on her hand with a little click and Iturned to her. ‘Don’t swear,’ she said.‘Don’t raise your voice. Don’t answera question with a question. Now tryagain.’

I looked at her, my eyes blazingwith temper at her, and at JamesFortescue and at this whole world ofchoices and decisions where there wasnothing and no one I could trust.

Lady Clara looked back at me,her blue eyes limpid. She reminded meof Robert Gower, and how he trainedme to his trade. Then I saw how shehad got her way with James withoutraising her voice. You could useQuality manners as sharp and as hardas a honed knife blade. She raised hereyebrows at me, reminding me she was

waiting.I turned to James and I smiled at

him with no warmth in my face. ‘It ismy wish to go to London for a Season,’I said. ‘It is where I belong, I want tobe there.’

Lady Clara put her hand out to meand I walked with her to the carriage.‘Well done,’ she said, when we wereout in the hall, ‘You’re a quick learner.I’ll send Perry around with thecarriage and he can take you for adrive this evening, then you can rideover to the Hall tomorrow and I willhave a dressmaker from Chichestercome to fit you. Perry will come andfetch you.’ She paused. ‘I think you andPerry will enjoy each other’scompany,’ she said. Then she got intoher carriage, spread her blue parasol,and was gone.

24She was right. In the days thatfollowed, Perry and I found an easy,undemanding friendship together, andthe instant liking I had felt for himwhen he had come weaving down theroad at his lame horse’s head grewalmost without my knowing. He wasthe easiest man or boy I had everknown. He was never sour, he wasnever impatient. I never saw himanything but smiling and happy.

His mother encouraged ourfriendship. When she wanted me tocome to Havering Hall she sent Perryover to fetch me, rather than one of thefootmen. When it grew late and I had togo home she would let me go onhorseback if Perry was with me, shedid not make me take a carriage. Whenshe wanted to show me how to curtseywhen a man bowed it was Perry who

stood opposite me with his hand on hisheart.

He was seldom drunk as I hadseen him on that first day. He wasrarely unsteady on his feet, and if hehad taken too much port after we hadleft him for dinner he was clever atconcealing the fact that the floor waswavering at every step. If his motherwas in the room he would leannonchalantly against a chair, or sit at astool at my feet. Only if he had to riseand walk would his look of owlishconcentration betray him.

I was not sure if she noticed. Shewas an inscrutable combination ofmanners and frankness. SometimesPerry would say something whichwould amuse her and she would throwback her head and laugh. Other timesher eyes, as blue as his but never aswarm, would be veiled and she wouldlook at us under her lashes as if she

were measuring me. I did not think shemissed much, and yet she seldomchecked Perry, and I never heard hercaution him against drinking.

But they were Quality – a Qualityfamily as I had never seen before. Theylived by different rules entirely, in aworld apart. Lady Clara would laughtill she wept over her letters fromLondon and read aloud titbits ofscandal about the royal dukes and thesociety ladies. The Quality behaved inways which we would never havedared, even on a showground. Therewas no one to gainsay them. There wasno one to watch them, order them.There were no parish authorities, orjustices, or vicars or beadles watchingthem. No wonder they were lovely andfeckless and wicked. The whole worldbelonged to them.

But Lady Clara was no fool. Icould not take her measure because she

had lived a life I could not imagine.She was born the daughter of an Irishpeer, married young and beautiful toLord Havering who had been rich andgouty and cross. I had a few glimpsesinto that marriage from Perry whospoke of long lonely years for his main the country, while his lordship drankand gambled in town. She knew she’dbeen bought and she did her duty, stonyfaced. While he was alive she gavehim the sons he needed. When heallowed her up to town she spent asmuch of his fortune as she could. Iguessed she must have waited, waitedand longed, for his death. When shewould still be young, and still belovely, and rich and free. But when hewas gone it was not as she had thought.There was money, but less than she hadhoped. It must have been bitter for herthen, to have waited all those years andfind the old lord had cheated her at the

end.But it took a lot to beat Lady

Clara. She got in a bailiff and told himshe wanted profits off the land. Sherack-rented the tenants – they had topay a fee to keep their leases, they hadto pay a fee to marry. They even had topay a fee if they died. She plantedwheat everywhere and she kept themon barley bread. She brought in pauperlabour – and she even paid them lessthan she should. She was a sharp, hardmaster on the land, and she had made itpay its way until she had the sort ofmoney she wanted. It was not enough –a king’s ransom would not have beenenough for Lady Clara, she had a lifeof resentment to repay – but she had afully-staffed Hall in the country, abeautiful London town house, awardrobe full of dresses and a stablefull of horses.

I watched her, and I learned from

her. I did not like her, and no one couldhave loved her. But I understood her. Iknew hunger and that hardness formyself. And I liked the thought of howshe had taken an estate and made itpay.

I could not have chosen a morevivid contrast to my quiet dutifulguardian James Fortescue if I hadransacked the whole of England. Weboth knew it. I think it hurt him.

At the end of the second weekwhen I had spent nearly every day atHavering Hall he asked me to wait afew moments before I went upstairs tobed. I went with him into the parlourand smoothed one of my new silkgowns over my knees.

‘It is time I prepared to return toBristol and to my business, Sarah,’ hestarted cautiously. ‘I have given youthis time to become acquainted withthe Haverings and to take their

measure. Lady Havering is a beautifulwoman and Lord Peregrine anattractive young man; whatever theirfaults they are engaging people. Iwanted you to see them for a little timebefore I asked you to decide whetheror no you wanted to have LadyHavering as your sponsor in society.’

‘You don’t like her,’ I saidbluntly.

He hesitated, then he smiled. ‘It’sbetter if I am frank,’ he said. ‘You areright, I do not like her. Her reputationwas not good either as a wife or awidow. More importantly, I do not likehow she farms. The tenants on her landare rack-rented down to the level ofutter poverty and live in greathardship. She plants field after field ofwheat and allows them no grazing fortheir animals, and nowhere to growtheir own crops. Every time the priceof bread goes up there are people who

starve to death on that estate, die ofhunger in ditches that run alongsidewheatfield after wheatfield. Somepeople blame it on her bailiff, but shehas told me herself that he obeys herorders. She may be charming in theparlour, Sarah, but if you were to seeher as her servants or her workers seeher she would not look so pretty.’

I nodded. ‘What do you think shewants with me?’ I asked.

Mr Fortescue shrugged. ‘She hasdone well for gowns and hats whileshe has been dressing you,’ he said.‘She enjoys moving in the best societyand it would be no hardship for her totake you around with her next Season. Ihad thought that you may be a diversionfor her – she must find it dull in thecountry.’ He hesitated. ‘She may wellenjoy thinking that I do not like herinfluence.’

‘But you can do nothing,’ I

confirmed bluntly.He nodded. ‘I can do nothing,’ he

said. ‘I am a trustee of the estate only;you are not my ward. I can control yourfinances until you are of age or untilyou are married. I can advise you, but Imay not order you.’

‘You could refuse to let me haveany money,’ I pointed out to him.

James Fortescue smiled. ‘I wouldnot so coerce you,’ he said gently. ‘Imay seem very dull compared with theHaverings but I am not a little shopmantyrant, Sarah. I loved your mother verymuch and for her sake I wish only foryour happiness. If a society lady likeLady Clara pleases you, then I am gladyou have her company. Certainly shecan do a better job of introducing youinto Quality society than anyone Iwould have known.’

I was suddenly impatient. ‘I wantthe best!’ I exclaimed. ‘The lady you

spoke of, the one who would havecome and lived with me, she wassecond-rate! I knew it as soon as Iheard of her! She would have taughtme how to live here, quietly in thecountry, and be grateful for a cardparty in Chichester! I don’t want that!There’s no point in me coming all thisway from the gypsy wagon to here, if atthe end of it I don’t get the best, thevery best there is!’

James Fortescue looked steadilyat me and his smile was very weary.‘And do you think Lady Clara is thebest?’ he asked. ‘And LordPeregrine?’

I hesitated. One part of my mindknew full well that Lady Clara was anadventuress as tough and as wily asmyself. That she was as hard and sharpand cunning as any old huckster sellingshort measure. And her son was alovely child, nothing but a weak and

lovely child, with nothing torecommend him but blond curls andblue eyes and a nature sweetened withdrink.

But they made me laugh, and theyhad made me welcome, and they hadpromised to help me win my fortuneback from the villagers and the land-shearers of Wideacre.

‘Yes I do,’ I said lyingstubbornly. Lying to James Fortescue’sdisappointed face. Lying to myself. ‘Ithink they are the best of the Quality,and I want to be part of their world.’

He nodded. ‘Very well then,’ hesaid. ‘I have written you and LadyClara a note to tell you how much youcan spend a quarter, and the bank youcan draw on for funds, and my Londonand Bristol offices. I shall like to seeyou every month or so wherever youare, whether London or here. And ifyou should change your mind about the

Haverings you must write to me atonce and I shall come and take youaway.’

I nodded, ignoring the feeling thatI was making a rather serious mistake.‘All right,’ I said tightly.

‘If you should change your mind,Sarah,’ he said kindly, ‘if you shouldchange your mind after a little of thatlife and want to come back toWideacre, your home is always herefor you, remember. We can findsomeone you would enjoy living withhere. You do not have to go to theHaverings.’

I shook my head. ‘I like them,’ Isaid defiantly. ‘I am not your sort ofperson, Mr Fortescue. You would notunderstand. Their life, their societylife, will suit me very well.’

‘I am sorry for it,’ he said gently,then he gave a little bow. He did notoffer to kiss my hand as he had done

once before, and he left the room.I sat in silence for a while. I

supposed I should feel triumphant for Ihad taken on a powerful man, and themanager of my fortune, and come outbest, come out with my own way. Butit did not feel like a victory. It feltinstead as if I had been offered a littlegold but had preferred to take falsecoin. I felt around my neck where I stillwore, out of habit, the string with thegold clasps. And I wondered whatCelia would have made of me, avagrant granddaughter. And what mylong-dead mama Julia would think ifshe could see me rejecting the man shehad loved and turning my back on theland she called home.

*I was silent and blue-devilled for thatnight only. The very next day, LadyClara swept down on to WideacreHall, exchanged documents and

addresses with Mr Fortescue, orderedmy bags packed, and took me away. Ionly saw James Fortescue once more,when he rode over to bid me farewellthe day before he went back to Bristol.He did not even cross the threshold butheld his horse and stood on the terracetill I went out to join him.

‘Will Tyacke will call on youtomorrow and take you out riding,’ hesaid as we stood on the terrace. ‘It ismy wish, Sarah, that you ride with himand learn all you can about the estate. Iknow your heart is set on London andyour Season but Lady Clara herselfwill tell you that you can be in the bestof society and still know what isgrown in your fields.’

I nodded. ‘I want to learn,’ I said.I did not say, ‘So when I am of age Ican make changes,’ but that thoughthung in the air between us.

‘Maybe when you have seen how

things are run on Wideacre and howthings are run here, you will come tosee things my way,’ Mr Fortescue saidgently.

‘Maybe,’ I said.He put out his hand and I held out

mine, in the way I had been taught. Ihad already learned not to pull away.Lady Clara had scolded me for beingmissish about another person’s touch,and had forced me to stand still whileshe circled me and patted my cheeks,my shoulders, my arms, and messed myhair. ‘There!’ she had said at the end ofthe circuit. ‘I don’t expect you to drapeyourself over your friends but you area girl, and girls must be available forpetting.’

So it was no hardship to stepclose to Mr Fortescue and wait for hiskiss on my forehead, or even on myhand. But he did neither. He shookhands with me as if I were a young

gentleman, and his grip was very firmand friendly.

‘You have my address,’ he saidturning his back and getting on hishorse. ‘And whatever you think of mytrusteeship you should remember that Iam your friend and I have tried to dothe best I can, for both you and theland. If you are in any need at all youshould send for me and I will come atonce.’

I smiled wryly at that, thinking ofthe years when I had gone hungry. NowI was being offered help when I livedin a house with twenty servants andhad four meals a day.

‘I think I can care for myself,’ Isaid.

He settled his reins and lookeddown at me. ‘We differ on that, too,’he said gently. ‘I think you have triedto care for yourself for too long. I thinkthat you have tried so hard to care for

yourself that you have shut up all yourpain inside you, so that no one can easeit for you, or comfort you. I shoulddearly have loved to see you settledhere where you were cared for, whereyou could have had something of thechildhood you missed.’

He tipped his hat to me, and toLady Clara who waved a lacetrimmedhandkerchief to him from the parlourwindow, and then he clicked to hishorse and rode away down the drive.

I watched him go, his squareshoulders and slightly bowed head. Iwatched him go and knew that if myreal mama Julia had been able tochoose, he would have been herhusband. If she had lived, he wouldhave been my papa. I watched him rideaway and leave me with the Haveringsand I refused to hear what he saidabout shutting my pain inside myself. Iwould not acknowledge any loss. I

would not feel the loss of him. Irefused to feel bereft.

‘Now,’ Lady Clara said as shejoined me on the terrace and wewatched his departing back. ‘Now, mygirl, you are going to start work.’

I laughed at that, for I had knownwork that Lady Clara could never havedreamed of. But I laughed a good dealless once the work started.

Of course it was never hard, notlike trapeze work or horsetraining. Butit was wearying in a way that thoseskills had not been. I found I was astired in the evenings as if I had beenworking hard each day, and I could notthink what ailed me. Lady Clara neverstopped watching me, she had me walkacross the room a dozen times, she hadme sit in a chair and get up again, overand over. She ordered the carriage outinto the yard, and a phaeton and acurricle, and sent me up and down the

steps into each of them time after time,until I could engage not to tread on thehem of my gown, or bang my bonnet onthe carriage roof.

At mealtimes we dined quitealone. Not even Perry ate with us; theservants laid the table and were thendismissed. Then patiently, like awarder with an idiot, she taught mehow to hold my knife and, at the sametime, to hold my fork, how to put themdown on the plate between mouthfuls,how to drink from my glass only whenmy mouth was empty so there was nogreasy stain left on the rim. How totalk while I ate, and how to cope withchicken wings and chop bones withoutseizing them up and gnawing andsucking at them. She taught me to wipethe tips of my fingers on my napkin, shetaught me to balance it on my knees sothat it did not slide to the floor. Howmuch wine to drink, and when it was

polite to refuse or polite to accept.All the time, every minute of the

day, she corrected my speech. By justraising one of her arched eyebrows shewarned me that I was talking Rom,talking rough, or talking bawdy. Overand over again I would try to tell hersomething and she would make me trythe phrase, like a horse at a difficultjump, until I could get it out with theright words and the right inflexion.

‘Fortunately, some of the bestladies in society talk like farm-hands,’she said acidly. ‘And a good few canread and write no more than you. Butstill you will learn, Sarah. You arecoming along fast.’

I could not help but respect her.She never so much as flickered one ofher long-lashed eyes, whatever I did.Whatever the mistakes I made – and Iwas too ignorant even to know howmuch she must be offended – she never

even looked surprised. One evening,after an especially hard day when shehad been trying to teach me to pickflowers in the garden and arrange themin a glass, I had burst out:

‘Lady Clara, this is hopeless. It isdriving me half mad, and you must befashed to death of me. I’ll never learnit. I’ve started too late. You are tryingto school me in tricks I should’velearned when I was learning to walk. Iam too old for them now. I’ll go backto my own place and I’ll get MrFortescue’s old lady to live with me.I’ll never learn all I ought, and youmust have had a bellyful of teachingme.’

‘Don’t say bellyful,’ she saidinstantly. ‘Or fashed.’ Then shepaused. ‘No, my dear,’ she said. ‘I amnot weary of it, and I think you arelearning well. I am not disposed togive it all up. I think you will be a

credit to me, to all of us. I want us togo on. I am pleased with yourprogress.’

‘But Lady Clara,’ I said. ‘TheSeason starts in autumn. I shall neverbe ready in time.’

She leaned back her head on theparlour chair. We were in the BlueParlour and the colour of theupholstery matched her eyes as if it hadbeen chosen with her colouring inmind. It probably had.

‘You must leave that decision tome,’ she said. ‘I am your sponsor intothis new world, you have to trust myjudgement. I shall tell you what is bestfor you, and I shall tell you when youare ready.’

‘And then what?’ I asked baldly.‘When I am ready, when I amintroduced into your society? Whathappens then? What do you thinkhappens then?’

She raised her eyebrows, her blueeyes were very distant, very cold.‘Why, you amuse yourself,’ she said.‘You are the heiress to a considerableestate. You are sponsored by a womanof immaculate credentials (that’s me)and you will be squired by the best-looking young man in London, a peerof the realm himself (that, God help us,is Perry). If you want to be in Society,you will have reached the pinnacle ofyour ambitions.’

‘And then what?’ I pressed her.She gave me a weary cold smile.

‘Then you decide, my dear,’ she said.‘Most young women marry the bestoffer, the highest bidder. Their parentsjudge for them, their elders advise. Butyou have no parents to judge for you,and the circles where I will take youwould never receive Mr Fortescue.You are your own mistress. If you fallhead over heels in love I suppose you

could marry your choice, whether he isfootman or groom. No one would stopyou.’

I looked back at her, and my greeneyes were as hard as her blue ones.‘You know as well as I do, that willnot happen,’ I said blankly. ‘I am notthe sort for that kind of love affair. Idon’t like it.’

‘Then I suggest a marriage ofconvenience,’ she said. ‘Once you aremarried you can take control of yourown estates and you need no longerapply to Mr Fortescue for yourallowance. You can run your land asyou wish and send these land-sharersand profit-stealers packing. You canmake Wideacre a highly profitableplace again and live as you please. Ifyou choose a husband who will nottrouble you, you can pay him anincome to stay away from you and youcan live the life you wish.’

I looked at her, and suddenly Iunderstood. ‘Peregrine,’ I said flatly.

She did not even flinch.‘Peregrine if you wish,’ she conceded.‘Or any other. The choice is yours, mydear. I should never coerce you.’

I nodded. I had been waiting along time to discover what Lady Clarawas after. I knew a pitch for a gullwhen I saw one, she had been patientwith me, she had played me on a longline. But I understood now what shewas after. And I admired her for notdenying it.

‘I am sorry,’ I said flatly. ‘Ishould never want to marry. NotPeregrine, not anyone. I am ready to gohome at once. Mr Fortescue willarrange a companion for me. I amgrateful to you for your kindness. Butyou need teach me no more.’

The languid movement of her fanwaved me back into my chair.

‘I said it should be as you wish,’she said gently. ‘If you do not wish tomarry Perry then you need not. I wouldhave thought you would have liked toget your hands on your own land andon your own wealth; and if you do notmarry Perry it will be a long andwearisome wait for you – five longyears, Sarah! – but the choice is yours.Wideacre is yours, whatever happens.And I am happy to teach you andpresent you at Court – whateverhappens.’

I dipped my head. Once again, ashappened nearly every day, she hadshown me the elegance and generositywhich came so easy to those that hadnever been hungry, who had neverbeen short of space, who were neverpressed for time. She had thegenerosity of a woman who had neverknown hunger. It came easily to her. Ilonged to learn that same casual, easy

nonchalance.‘Thank you,’ I said gruffly.‘Voice,’ she said, without a

change in her tone.I lifted my head and spoke more

clearly. ‘Thank you,’ I said.She smiled at me, her eyes an

impenetrable blue. ‘Don’t mention it,’she said charmingly.

25I did not like Mr Fortescue being gone.I did not like it that Wideacre Hall waslived in only by Becky and Sam. I didnot like it that there was no smokecoming out of the front chimneys whenI rode along the Common behind thehouse and looked down on it. I did notlike it that the front door was alwaysshut.

It had been comforting, in someway, to know that though I had defiedhim and left him for the Haverings,James Fortescue was still there if I hadwanted to go back. But now thefurniture in the parlour and the diningrooms, and all the front part of thehouse was under dust sheets and Jameswas gone.

It made me glad to see Will. Onlyhe knew about Wideacre, only heloved the place as my mother had

done. And he came to ride with meevery day – as James had asked him todo – and he took me over every field,explaining what was being ploughedand planted and what was being leftfallow.

Lady Clara raised no objection atall. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You have toknow every inch of it if you are ever toargue against your trustee and hismanager. You will have some difficultbattles ahead of you over the next fiveyears. Your only chance of winningsome of them is if you know the land aswell as Will Tyacke.’

So, included in my schooling as aconventional young lady was anafternoon ride every day with Will. Inever wore my breeches now. Instead Ihad a choice of two new riding habits– a pale green one to show off thecolour of my eyes, and a slate-coloured grey one. I always waited to

be called, as a young lady should, inthe parlour. So it was he who waitedin the stable yard while I pinned on myhat and took up my gloves and whip.

‘No need to rush, Sarah,’ LadyClara said looking at me over the topof a journal she was reading. ‘Movemore slowly and you will move moresmoothly.’

I nodded and went as smoothly asI could over to the mirror and adjustedmy hat a careful half-inch.

‘Better,’ she said approvingly.I looked at myself. I could not see

a fraction of difference. But it was notmy trade. She no doubt thought she sawan improvement.

‘It’s a hot day,’ she saidlanguidly. ‘Do try and keep your faceshaded, Sarah, you are already far toobrown.’

‘Yes, Lady Clara,’ I said.‘When you come back from your

ride you can offer Will Tyacke a glassof small beer in the kitchen,’ she said.

I hesitated. ‘I don’t think he’d likethat,’ I said.

She raised her arched eyebrows.‘Why not?’ she asked. ‘Don’t tell mehe’s a water drinker as well! Thatwould be too too ridiculous!’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen him drinkbeer and wine. But he’s a proud man. Idon’t think he’d like being offered beerin the kitchen when I go into theparlour.’

Lady Clara put the journal facedown on the little table beside her andtook up her fan. I knew her wellenough now to note the little signswhich showed that she was thinkingcarefully about what I was saying. Iwas on my guard at once.

‘Would you regard him assomeone suitable for my parlour?’ sheasked carefully.

‘No,’ I said. ‘He does not evenlike the parlour at Wideacre. Wealways talked in the dining room.’

She nodded. ‘Are you suitable formy parlour?’ she asked.

I hesitated.‘Are you?’ she asked me again.‘No,’ I said blankly. ‘I know you

have taught me how to walk across thefloor and how to sit on a chair withoutflinging myself into it. But in my heart Iam still not Sarah Lacey a young lady.Inside me I am still…’ I broke off. Ihad been about to say ‘Meridon thebareback rider’ but I never wanted thatname spoken in this house. I neverwanted Lady Clara to know how lowmy life had been before I found myway here.

She gave me a cool little smile.‘Sometimes in my heart I am a naughtylittle girl who would not wash her faceuntil her father beat her, who liked to

play with the peasant children outsidethe castle in Ireland,’ she said. ‘We areall other people in secret, Sarah. Thereis nothing unusual in that. But I learnedto be a lady of the first Quality inLondon. You will learn that too. It iswhat you want, is it not?’

‘Yes,’ I said. It was. I wanted toleave the old life, and the old loves,far behind me. It was too great a painin my heart even to think of them. I hadto be far far away from them, andnever go back again.

‘Then you come into my parlourand Will does not,’ she said. ‘I instructyou to offer him a small beer in thekitchen at the end of your ride. It iscorrect to be thoughtful towards one’sservants, Sarah. You should offer hima cool drink after he has escorted youin this heat.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, Lady Clara,’ Isaid, and then I left the room opening

the door with my right hand andclosing it carefully behind my backwith my left.

Will was sitting, patient as a treestump, in the afternoon sunlight in thestable yard. He was holding Sea’sreins. Sea turned his head andwhickered when he saw me, Willsmiled too.

‘Quite sure you’re ready now?’he asked with his warm easy smile.

‘Aye,’ I said. ‘I was delayed onmy way out. I’m sorry I kept you.’

‘I’m in no hurry,’ he saidpleasantly. ‘Shall I get you up?’

There was no need. I could havevaulted up as easily as ever but therewere two grooms and a stable lad whoall appeared out of the shade to lift meup.

‘He’s fresh,’ one of the oldergrooms warned me, pulling hisforelock. ‘Begging your pardon, Miss

Lacey.’‘She’ll handle him,’ Will said

with quiet confidence, and we turnedaway down the woodland track whichled out to Wideacre land.

‘Where today, Sarah? Up to theDowns to gallop the fidgets out first?You’ve not seen the sheep for a fewdays, we’re about ready to startshearing.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘And I’d like tocome out when shearing starts. Is it alot of extra work?’

‘We use travelling shearers, orextra men from Midhurst,’ Will said,his long-legged cob falling into stridebeside Sea’s dancing steps. ‘Weusually get it over and done within aweek. We set up shearing pens besidethe barns on the Downs, and send thefleeces to London to be sold. This yearwe have a contract with some woollenmills in Hampshire so we’re selling

direct at an agreed price. Once theshearing is over there’s a bit of a partyfor the shepherds and their familiesand the shearers in the barns.’

I nodded. We were trotting downthe woodland track, the way I hadcome the first time I had brought Perryto Havering Hall. The sunlight wasdappled on the track, the sound of theRiver Fenny low and musical. Thebirds were singing in the upperbranches of the trees and the airsmelled sweet and warm and summery.

‘Oh,’ I said in longing. ‘I’d loveto sleep outdoors again.’

‘Tired of Quality living already?’Will said with a wry little smile.‘There’s always a bed for you inAcre.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t gobackwards. But this summer is so fine,and I seem to spend all my daysindoors.’

‘Aye,’ he said gently. ‘You don’tget out and about much, do you? It’dirk me badly. We’ve not been bred tothe indoors life, you and me. I’d gohalf mad cooped up all day in aparlour like that.’

‘I am learning things,’ I saiddefensively. ‘Things I need to know.’

Will nodded, tolerant. ‘Good,’ hesaid. ‘If you are sure you need them.’

‘I do,’ I said firmly, and henodded and said no more.

We rode together as old friends,talking when we wanted, silent most ofthe time. He rode well. His horse Beaucould never match the speed andstamina of Sea who was a full-bredhunter. But he could give us a goodrace and if we gave them a ten- ortwenty-yard start we were sometimeshard-pressed to catch them before thewinning post.

Will said little, but we never

passed working people or a newlyplanted field without him ensuring thatI knew exactly what they were doing.Whenever we passed anyone in thelane, or working on a hedgerow ordigging a ditch, we would pull up andWill would introduce them by name, orremind me when I had met them before.Watching him with these people Icould tell he was well liked and,despite his youth, respected. The oldermen deferred to his judgement andreported to him, the younger men werepleasant and easy with him. I guessedthat they teased him about his rideswith me; but when I was there theywere respectful and easy. The youngwomen stared at me, taking in everydetail of my clothes and boots andgloves. I did not mind. I had stood inthe centre of a show ring when coinsand flowers were thrown in at my feet.I was hardly likely to blush because

half a dozen girls could not take theireyes from the golden fringe on myjacket. I saw more than one of themglance at Will with an intimate specialsmile and I guessed he was popularwith the young women too.

We passed two girls on the lanewho called, ‘Good day,’ to me andflicked smiling eyes at Will.

‘You’re a favourite,’ I said dryly.‘You know those two,

remember?’ he asked. ‘They’re theSmith girls. They live in the cottageopposite the forge. The Smith’sdaughters, they call him Littl’un.’

‘Yes,’ I said diverted. ‘Why doeseveryone call him that? He’s hardlylittle!’

Will smiled. ‘His real name’sHenry,’ he said. ‘His ma died whileshe was giving birth to him and he wasreal small and puny when he was achild, always ailing. No one thought

he’d live, so no one took the trouble togive him a name of his own. Theycalled him for his brother. Then, whenJulia Lacey started setting the villageto rights again, her Uncle John thedoctor took special care of him and hegrew strong. He survived but thenickname stuck.’

I nodded. Even in the names ofpeople you could trace the power thatthe owners of the land had over thepeople who worked it. There was thecompliment that women of twenty andolder were named Julia, after mymother, and there were severalRichards in the village and a little cropof Johns. But the blacker side was thechildren who had not been named at allduring the hungry years when myfamily had ruined the village with theirgreed. During those years childrenwere given nicknames or the samenames as their brothers and sisters. It

was so unlikely that they would allsurvive. And the graveyard had manylittle mounds with blank headboards ofwood, where there had been no moneyto have stone carved or, in the despairof hunger, nothing anyone wanted tosay.

‘Very few children die in Acrenow,’ Will said, accurately reading mythoughts. ‘Very few. Of course they getill, and of course there are accidents.But no one dies of hunger on your land,Sarah. The way we run the estatemeans that everyone has a share of thewealth, and that is enough to feedeveryone.’

We turned the horses up the littlelane which leads up to the top of theDowns. I could ride it now withconfident familiarity.

‘It will have to change,’ I saidevenly. ‘When I am of age, I willchange it.’

Will smiled at me, and reinedback so that I could go ahead of him upthe narrow track. ‘Maybe you’llchange first,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’llcome to see that to live on a landwhere people are well fed and wherethey have responsibility for their ownwork is a greater pleasure than a littleextra money. The land is farmed well,Sarah, don’t forget that. But it is notfarmed at the expense of the peoplewho work it.’

‘I’ve no time for passengers,’ Isaid. I was glad Lady Clara could nothear my voice which was harsh andflat. ‘In this new century it is adifferent world. There are greatmarkets overseas, there are hugefortunes to be won or lost. Every farmin the country has to compete withevery other one. If you give in to yourworkforce you are fighting with onehand tied behind your back.’

I drew up to let him comealongside and I saw the sudden heat ofanger go across his face.

‘I know you have been taught tospeak how the landlords speak,’ hesaid and his voice was verycontrolled. ‘But all of you will have tolearn that the wealth of a country is itspeople. You won’t be able to producemuch wealth with a half-starvedworkforce. You won’t be able to makemachines and tools with a workforcewhich cannot read or write. You willmake a little profit for a short time byworking everyone as hard as you canand paying them a little. But who willbuy the goods if the working peoplehave no money?’

‘We’ll sell abroad,’ I said. Wehad reached the top of the Downs and Ipointed to where the sea was a slab ofclear blue, shading to violet at thehorizon. ‘We’ll sell to native

countries, all around the world.’Will shook his head. ‘You’ll do

the same things there as you do here,’he said. ‘You and your new-foundfriends. You’ll buy cheap and you’llsell dear. You’ll overwork them andyou’ll underpay them. When they revoltyou’ll bring in the army and tell themit’s for their own good. You’ll refuseto educate them and then you’ll saythey can’t be trusted because they’re soignorant. You’ll keep them underfedand ignorant and dirty and thencomplain that they smell different orthat they cannot talk properly. You’lldo to them what you’ve done toworking people in this country!’

He paused. I said nothing.‘It won’t work,’ he said quietly.

‘You’ll never be able to keep it up.The native countries will throw youout – oh yes, and your cheap whiskyand bad cottons with you. The working

people of this country will insist ontheir rights – a vote, a right to decidewho governs them. Then it will beestates like Wideacre which will showpeople the way ahead. Places like thiswhich have tried sharing the wealth.’

‘It’s my wealth,’ I saidstubbornly. ‘It’s not the wealth.’

‘Your land?’ he asked. I nodded.‘Your people?’ he asked.I hesitated, uncertain.‘Your skies? Your rain? Your

birds? Your winds? Your sunshine?’I turned my head away from him

in sudden irritation.‘It doesn’t work,’ he said. ‘Your

idea of ownership makes no sense,Sarah. And you should know that. Youhave lived on the very edge of thesociety right on the borderlines ofownership. You know that out there theworld is full of things which nobodyowns.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s because I was outthere that I’ll call it my land,’ I saidsourly. ‘You don’t know becauseyou’ve never been that poor. You’veslept soft and ate well all your life,Will Tyacke. Don’t tell me abouthardship.’

He nodded at that. ‘I forgot,’ hesaid spitefully. ‘We are all to bepunished for your misfortune.’

Then he turned his horse and ledthe way across the top of the Downs ina day so sweet and sunny and fine that Iwas angry with myself for calling upthe old feelings of being robbed andabused, even now; when I should beglad that I had won through.

He let it go, he was too kind toharangue me when I looked as I didthen: hurt, and angry and confused.Instead he demanded an outrageouslong start in a race, claiming, with nocause, that Beau was threatening to

cast a shoe and would be slower.Instead he took off like a whirlwindand I had to bend low over Sea’s neckand urge him on to his top gallop tocatch Beau before he reached the thorntree which acted as our winning post atthe top of the Downs.

We reached there neck and neckand we pulled up with a shout – Seajust a nose ahead.

‘I think he’s getting faster!’ I said,all breathless with my hair tumblingdown and my hat askew.

‘It’s the practice he’s getting,’ hesaid, smiling at me. ‘I never rode racesbefore.’

‘I wish you could have seenSnow,’ I said, careless for a moment.‘I wish you could have seen Snow. Heis an Arab stallion, an absolutelywonderful white colour and Robert cando anything with him. He can count,and choose coloured flags out of a jar.

And he can rear and dance on his hindlegs. Robert is teaching him to carrythings in his mouth like a dog!’

‘Robert?’ Will said, his voicecarefully neutral.

‘A friend I once had,’ I saidflatly. Something in my voice told himI would say no more so he merelysmiled.

‘I wish I had seen him too,’ hesaid. ‘I love good horses. But I’venever seen a grey to match this one.Where did you get him, Sarah? Did youhave him from a foal?’

I hesitated then, wary. But the daywas too warm, and the song of thelarks was beguiling. Far below me Icould see the little village of Acre assnug as a toy village on a green carpet.The patchwork of fields, green andyellow with their different crops toldof the easy wealth of my estate. Thethick clumps of darker green were the

trees of the parkland around my home,my house, Wideacre.

I smiled. ‘I won him!’ I said, andas Will listened I told him how I hadfirst seen Sea and how he had beencalled unridable. How I had persuadedmy master to let me ride him (a horse-trader he was, I said), how he hadstarted the book and made hundreds ofguineas from the bet. Will laughed andlaughed, a great open-hearted bellow,at the thought of me hitching up myhousemaid skirts and getting astrideSea. But he went quiet when I told himhow Sea reared and plunged at the endand threw me down.

‘You must have had many falls,’he said gently.

I nodded, smiling at the memoryof that day in Salisbury, uncaring aboutpast pains.

‘Is that how you banged yourface?’ he asked. ‘Falling off horses?

Your nose is a little bit crooked.’I stroked it, self-conscious. ‘No,’

I said. I was about to tell him of thefall from the trapeze but the thought ofit called her, my sister, from the quietsilent place where I had buried her inmy mind. I could feel my grief swellingup in my throat, as if I were about tochoke on a sorrow too big to liveinside my chest.

‘No,’ I said husky, and turned myface away so that he should not see thatmy mouth was turning downwards inan ugly grimace of pain, and my eyeswere going red and hot. I dared notstart crying. I knew that if I started Iwould never stop. A lifetime wouldnot be long enough to have my cry outfor the loss of her and the loneliness Iwas left with.

‘No,’ I said again.‘We’ll go back over the

Common,’ he said suddenly, as if he

had forgotten what we had been talkingabout. ‘There’s some land there whichcould take trees. I want you to tell mewhat you think about it. They’re mininga lot of coal quite deep in Kent thesedays and there’s a good market forsmall straight timber to prop up theceilings of the galleries where they digfor coal. We could plant pine trees andthey would be ready for cutting in aslittle as ten years’ time.’

‘Oh,’ I said. My throat was stilltight.

‘And you can have a look at thenorth side of the Common and theHavering estate,’ he went on. He wastalking faster, louder than usual, givingme time to pack my heartbreak awayagain, where no one could see it.‘You’ve never been around that side, Idon’t think, unless you’ve been withLord Peregrine. D’you ride much withhim?’

‘Hardly at all,’ I said huskily, butI had myself back in hand.

Will glanced at me, gave me oneof his fleeting sweet smiles. ‘He’ll beoff to town soon, I daresay. Orwherever else they go in summer.’

‘No,’ I replied. ‘He’s stayingwith us for a while longer.’

We were riding side by side in aneasy walk, eastwards along the crest ofthe Downs, following an old drovers’road which goes all the way into Kent.Will looked sideways at me, his browneyes questioning.

‘He’s never stayed in the countryso long before,’ he said. ‘Why’s hestopping now?’

I gave him a clear look back. Iwould never trouble to mince wordsfor Will Tyacke. ‘He likes me,’ I saidblankly.

‘His ma’d have something to sayabout that,’ he said.

‘She likes me,’ I said with a littlesmile.

He saw my smile and scowled atme. ‘Is that what you’re after?’ heasked. ‘With all you could have? Isthat what you want?’

I grinned at him, it was funny tosee him so vexed. ‘I’m not wedding,’ Isaid. ‘I’m not the type. I’ll nevermarry, I don’t burn for a husband, Inever have.’

Will nodded, as if what I had saidconfirmed a thought of his. Hissatisfied expression rubbed me wrong.‘But if I were husband-hunting, I can’tthink of a better-looking man,’ I said,my deceitful voice clear. ‘He’s aslovely as an angel, and never out oftemper. He’s fun to be with, he makesme laugh. And he’s gentle with me, assweet as a lover.’

Will lost the smile from his faceas if I had slapped him. ‘Don’t bring

him here as squire,’ he warned mewith sudden impatience. ‘We’d none ofus stand for Havering ways on thisland.’

‘Oh, leave be,’ I said, suddenlyirritable myself. ‘I get sick of hearingwhat you will and won’t have onWideacre. I spoke so to vex you, Idon’t expect to hear threats forsomething that’ll never happen.’

I dug my heel into Sea’s side andlet him have his head along the smoothtrack so that we raced ahead of Willand Beau and increased our lead untilthey were just a toy-sized horse andrider far away down a grassy track. Ipulled up then and waited for him tocome alongside me, my temper blownaway with the gallop. And when hethundered up, Beau blowing hard, hisgrin was rueful. He leaned across andslapped me on the shoulder, like hewould another lad to mend a quarrel.

‘I’m done,’ he said with his open,friendly grin. ‘I know you don’t wanthim. He sets my teeth on edge with hisways, but I’m glad he’s good companyfor you. I’d begrudge you nothing,Sarah, you know that. I’m sorry I spokehard to you.’

I smiled back, and then we rodetogether over the Common, and lookedat the place where we might plant pinetrees, and then checked the blossom inthe apple orchard where the petalswere falling like snow, before we rodeside by side homeward.

That was the last cross word betweenus that afternoon, and it was a typicalafternoon with laughter and temper.We never bored each other, we neverrode in a sullen silence. We might ridequietly through fields, looking allaround us, or through hushedwoodlands, or stand motionless

looking up at the sky where a rarebuzzard circled; but we never stayedsilent for lack of things to say.

We often flared up; Will had aknack of igniting my temper, and as Iknew him better I grew more and moreable to fire up at him and then makefriends. He was like a traveller, awagon dweller. You could flare up inutter and absolute anger and tenminutes later it was forgotten. Therewas nothing to remember. Everyonehad said all they wanted to say, thescene was closed. Only in houses,where people have to keep their voicesdown and to keep smiles pinned ontheir faces did quarrels rumble on andon in sweet voices and range overevery thing.

When we clattered in to the stableyard I remembered my instruction andturned to Will with a considering lookon my face.

‘Would you like a drink of ale,Will? It’s a hot day,’ I said.

He was about to accept but hechecked and looked more closely atme. ‘You have a voice,’ he saidpleasantly, ‘and a look in your greeneyes which always warns me whensomething comes from these new-foundairs and graces of yours. I suppose if Isay “yes” then you tell me I may go tothe kitchen?’

I felt myself flush up.‘Gracious of you,’ he said with

irony. ‘I’ll go to the kitchen for a drinkof small beer gladly. You’ll come withme?’

I hesitated, and his face suddenlycleared and he smiled at me with allhis heart in his eyes.

‘Oh Sarah!’ he said, and hejumped off his horse and came aroundto me and lifted me down from theside-saddle. ‘Come and have an ale,

Sarah!’ he said his voice warm withthe invitation. ‘Come with me into thekitchen and have an ale and stoppretending to be what you’re not.’

I let him hold me, his arms werewarm and safe around me, and Isuddenly wanted to go with him to theclean kitchen and sit at the scrubbedtable and drink a great deep draught ofcold ale and watch the cook peelingthe vegetables for my dinner.

His hands on my waist were firm,and he kept one hand around my waistas we turned for the kitchen door. I didnot pull away from his touch.

‘Sarah!’ the voice was LadyClara’s, she was standing on the end ofthe terrace which overlooks the stableyard. I flushed and pulled away fromWill. I knew very well she had beenwatching me.

‘Come in out of the sun, Sarah!’she said. Her voice was low but it

carried clearly to me in the stable yard,the Quality voice which does not haveto be raised to give orders and beobeyed. ‘You will get as tanned as afield labourer standing there!’

I moved in unthinking obediencetowards her, then I turned back to Will.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘You can see Ihave to go, I’ll ride with youtomorrow.’

His face was as black as thunder.He turned back to his horse and swunghimself up high on his back.

‘No,’ he said curtly. ‘Tomorrow Iam busy. You may go up to the Downsbarn on Thursday if you want to seesome shearing. They will start atseven.’

‘Will?’ I called him, but he rodepast me without another word. He wentso close that Beau’s flicking tail stungme in the face.

‘Will?’ I said again, hardly

crediting that the warm smile had gonefrom his face as quickly as a summerstorm blows up, just because I hadturned to do Lady Clara’s bidding.

He did not hear me or he chosenot to hear me. He hunched low overBeau’s neck and he set him to a canteras soon as he was past the terrace. Hewent past Lady Clara without a nod orsalute. As soon as Beau’s hoovestouched the earth of the track towardsWideacre he gave him his head andthey went as if all the fiends in hellwere after them.

I turned slowly, and went up theterrace steps to Lady Clara. She smiledat me as if she had seen somethingwhich had amused her very much andthen she drew me into the parlourwhere there was a jug of icedlemonade waiting with two chilledsugar-rimmed glasses.

26I saw Will Tyacke hardly at all for therest of the summer. He held to hispromise to James to teach me about theland, but that was the last ride we tookwhen he teased me and harangued meand quarrelled with me and let me rideaway and then caught up with me sothat we were the best of friends afterall.

From that day onwards it wasmuch more like work. He would makeme known to the leaders of thehaymaking gang or tell me the name ofthe shepherd and leave me with them,riding off as if always there wassomething more important to be doneelsewhere. I thought the peoplechanged towards me too. They nolonger smiled slyly when they sawWill and me riding close. Somehowthey knew we were no longer easy

friends, and they were morebusinesslike with me. They would tellme what they were doing clear enough,well enough, but they did not smile andwave at me when I rode past a field.

I went down to the haymaking andwatched them scything the crop under apale warm sky, and tossing the sweet-smelling green grass to dry in thesummer wind. The girls with the rakessmiled and called, ‘Good day,’ to Willwith a note of affection, but to me theynodded and said nothing.

I knew what was happening and Idid not blame Will for blabbing aboutour breach. I did not think he was thetattling sort and I did not think hewould take every village slut into hisconfidence. But they knew that I wasstaying with the Haverings to learn tobecome a young lady. They knew that Iwas riding with Will to learn all Icould about my land to strengthen my

hand against them when the time camefor me to make changes. They knewthat although I had come home I wasnot at ease on the land, I was stillrootless, hopeless in my heart. And sothey wasted neither love nor words onme. They knew I did not belong. Theyknew I did not want to belong. Iwanted to own the land. I did not careabout loving it.

Every day that I rode with Will hebecame more like a clerk, or a bailiffor some middling sort of servant. Hestopped calling me Sarah and speakingdirectly to me. Then one day he calledme Miss Lacey and I knew myself tobe set at a distance indeed. I couldhave summoned him back. I could haverecalled the affection which had beengrowing between us. But…but I wasdamned if I would. When I saw hisstiff back and his proudly held headtrotting away from me I could have

sworn and slung a flint under hishorse’s hooves for being a stubbornfool. But I was learning to be a lady;and ladies do not swear and throwthings.

I thought he was foolish andproud and I decided to ignore him. So Imade no effort either to challenge orreconcile with him. Instead I was ashaughty and as ill-tempered as hethrough all the hot summer days whenthe birds called for their mates and theswallows dipped and dived in thelingering lonely twilights. When I wasalone at the top of the Downs, with Seacropping the grass around me, I knewthat I was missing my friends – not justher, but James Fortescue whom I hadsent away, Will whom I had put at adistance, and all the people of Acrewho had welcomed me with smilesand bright curious faces, and who hadthen learned that I would not live at

Wideacre Hall, that I would not staywith them, that I was hard set onchanging things, on changingeverything.

I knew myself then to be bereft,but I had been so lonely and so hungryfor so long that I did not jump up onSea and ride down to Acre to seekWill out and make things clear withhim. Instead I hunched up my shouldersand hugged my knees and watched thesun set redly in the sky, and huddledmy feelings of loneliness and sadnesswithin me, as a familiar longing.

In Will’s absence I rode withPerry, and sometimes Lady Clara tookme around her own fields, or orderedher bailiff to drive out with me in herpale-blue lined-landau. He was asharp hard-faced man; I could not likehim. But I could recognize his abilityto price a crop while it showed justinches above the soil, or to adjust a

rent in his mind during the walk fromthe gate to the back door.

Will was right about the hardshipon the Havering land. I saw it on everydrive. Havering village was more likea campsite than a village. The houseswere ready to tumble down and halfwere down already with their tenantssheltering in the lee of a wall with ahalf-thatched roof over their heads.The slops were thrown out in thevillage street, the stink under the hotsummer sun was enough to turn yourstomach. The people worked fromdawn to dusk for wages which were aslow as Lady Clara and Mr Briggscould keep them. More and more workwas being done by the wretchesbrought in by a jolting wagon dailyfrom Midhurst poorhouse. ‘It’s aservice to the community to save themfrom idleness,’ Mr Briggs explained tome, smiling.

They planned to clear the villageof Havering altogether. Lady Clarawas sick of the dirt of it and thecontinual complaints which not all ofMr Briggs’s smiling threats could keepfrom her ears. The villagers who livedin the dirt and the squalor believed thatif she really knew of their poverty shewould pity them, she would dosomething.

‘All I’m likely to do is to set thesoldiers on them and burn them out,’she said grimly. ‘It’s disgusting howthey live! They must lack all sense ofshame!’

I said nothing. Will’s angrydenunciations of the Quality wereechoing in my head: ‘You leave themignorant and then you complain theyknow nothing,’ he had said. I kept myeyes blank and I said nothing whenLady Clara threatened to clear thevillage.

I had thought she was threateningidly something that would never takeplace. But one day I came down to theparlour in my riding habit pulling onmy gloves and she looked at me veryhard and bright, and said: ‘Don’t go toHavering village today, Sarah, it’sbeing cleared.’

‘Cleared?’ I asked.She nodded grimly. ‘I’ve had

enough of them,’ she said. ‘Theircomplaints, their needs, their dirt andtheir diseases. There’s a case of thetyphus fever been reported down thereas well. I won’t have sickly people onmy land.’

‘What will they do?’ I asked.She shrugged. She was wearing a

peach silk morning gown and thatelegant movement of her shouldersmade the pattern of the gown shimmer.

‘They’ll go to the Midhurstpoorhouse I suppose,’ she said. ‘Any

of them who can claim rights in otherparishes will go to where they can, ifthey have money for the fare. I don’tcare, it’s none of my concern. I won’thave them on my land any more.’

I hesitated. This blankruthlessness was not new to me. I hadbeen sold from a stepfather whodespised me, to a master who lovedme only when I earned him money. Isaw no reason why I should worryover the fate of a dozen dirty villagerswho were not even my tenants. Andyet, in some part of my mind, I didworry. I did not feel comfortable to besitting here in the sunny parlourlooking at the sheen of Lady Clara’speach silk while three miles awaythere were people arguing with bailiffsand begging them not to evict. I knewwhat it was to have nothing. I knewwhat it was to be homeless. Iwondered what the people would do,

those with young children who wouldbe separated from them in thepoorhouse. Those young women withhusbands who would lose their homesand have to sleep apart.

‘I’ll ride the other way,’ I saiduncertainly. ‘Towards Wideacre.’

She put both hands up andcarefully smoothed her cheeks as if shewould stroke away the faint fretworkof lines from under her eyes.

‘Certainly my dear,’ she saidpleasantly. ‘If you see any of theevicted tenants don’t go too near. Theymay be carrying the fever and they willcertainly be ill natured. They did havefair warning of my intentions, youknow. Mr Briggs told them a day ago.’

I nodded, thinking that a day’swarning was perhaps not enough if youhad been born and bred in a cottageand lived all your life there.

‘Perry can ride with you,’ she

said. ‘Pull the bell.’I did. At Havering we all did

what Lady Clara wished. Within thehour Perry and I were obedientlyriding together up towards theCommon at the back of the Haveringestate.

The path wound through a littlecoppice of silver birches, their heart-shaped leaves shivering in the summerair. It was another hot day, the scent ofthe thick bracken heavy and sweet.When the path came out on a little hillPerry drew rein and we looked back.

There was little trouble in thevillage. We could see from where wewatched a couple of soldiers standingwith Mr Briggs at the end of the villagestreet while half a dozen men wentworkmanlike down one side, pullingoff rotting doors and knocking axesthrough old dusty thatch. Drawn up inthe street, ahead of the wreckers, was a

large cart with a handsome shire horsebetween the shafts. The Haveringpeople were loading their few goodson to the cart, a man standing on thecart helping them. I screwed my eyesagainst the glare of the sunlight but Ihardly needed to see him to know itwas Will Tyacke.

‘Who’s that?’ Perry asked me.‘I don’t know,’ I said. I lied

before I had even considered the lie.‘Perhaps someone from thepoorhouse.’

‘Oh,’ Perry said innocently, andwe stood for a little while, watching insilence.

The wreckers reached anotherhouse and there was a moment’shesitation. We were too far to hear orsee anything clearly but I guessed thatsomeone inside had refused to leave. Ishrugged. It was not my land andanyway Lady Clara was probably in

the right. Since she was not going tospend money on making the cottageshabitable they were better pulleddown. The tenants would have to makelives for themselves elsewhere. Therewas no reason why Lady Clara shouldbe responsible for each and every oneof them.

‘What d’you think is happening?’Perry asked. ‘The sun is so bright I canhardly see.’

I shaded my eyes with my hand.Sea stirred restlessly as he felt myweight move on the saddle.

‘Someone, I think a woman,’ Isaid. I could just make out a littlefigure standing in the dark doorway ofone of the hovels. As I watched, thewreckers made a rush for her and shegrabbed the post which propped thethatched porch. In a ludicrous pose,like a comical print, one of the men gothold of her legs while she clung to the

post of her house.I sniggered, and Perry laughed

beside me. ‘She’ll pull it down herselfif she doesn’t watch out,’ he observed.

We watched together smiling, butthere was no sport. Will Tyacke wentquickly to her and made the man puther on her feet. He bent over her and Isaw she was quite a small woman. Heput his arm around her and he led herto the cart. Out of the cottage behindher came three little children, thesmallest a baby, lugged by the others.

Will lifted all of them one by one,into the cart and then went back intothe cottage for their goods: a cookingpot, one stool, a clutter of plates andbedding. Not much. Even less than wehad in the old days in the wagon.

‘Poor sport,’ Perry said in suddendistaste.

‘Aye,’ I said. I had a bad taste inmy mouth and I went to spit but then I

remembered that ladies do not spit.‘Let’s ride!’ I said and touched Seawith my heels and turned his head.

We cantered along the crest of ahill until we came to the stone postwhich marked the start of my land. Atonce the path was wider, it had beencut back as a firebreak and there was awide track as good as a race-course ofthe pure white sand bordered with theblack peat of the Common.

‘Race?’ Perry called, and Inodded and held Sea back so that wedrew level and then let him have hishead.

We thundered along the tracktogether, Sea going faster than I hadever known him go at the challengefrom another high-bred horse. Perry’shorse was probably the better, but Seawas fitter from my daily rides. He wascarrying a lighter rider too and wemanaged to pull ahead before the

firebreak crested up a hill and I pulledup at the top.

Perry and his hunter were half alength behind us and Perry came upsmiling and jumped from the saddle.

‘Lost my hat,’ he said with a grin.‘We’ll have to go back that way.’

Without his hat his golden curlshad tumbled into a blond mop. Hisblue eyes were clear and shining, hiscolour bright. Any girl in the worldwould have fallen in love with him atfirst sight.

I put my hand down and touchedthe top of his head. He looked up atme, and reached up to lift me downfrom Sea’s back, his hands on mywaist for a brief moment. Then hereleased me as soon as my feet touchedthe ground.

‘I didn’t like seeing that at thevillage,’ he said.

I shook my head. ‘Me neither,’ I

replied.Perry turned from me and swung

his jacket down on the heather. We satside by side looking down into theFenny valley. Havering Hall woodlandwas a dark mass to our right, Acre wasover to our left. My home, the home Ihad longed for but seldom even visitedwas below us, hidden in the trees at theback of the house.

‘It’s Mr Briggs’s doing,’ he said.‘I have no say in how the place is rununtil I am married, or reach mymajority.’

‘Twenty-one?’ I asked.He nodded. ‘Four years,’ he said.‘It’s even longer for me,’ I said.

‘I’m only sixteen now. I’ll have to waitfive years.’

Perry looked sideways at me. ‘Iknow it is what my mama wants,’ hesaid carefully. ‘And to be honest,Sarah, she told me to ask you. In fact,’

he said with scrupulous honesty, ‘shesaid she’d pay my gambling debts if Iasked you.’

‘Asked me what?’ I said. But Iknew.

‘Asked you to marry me,’ he saidwithout any heat at all. ‘I tell you why Isaid I would.’ He lay on his back, asidle and as lovely as a fallen angel,and counted his white fingers up at theclear sky.

‘One, I would get hold of my landand capital. Two, you would get holdof your land and capital. Three, wecould run them together and we couldmake sure that Wideacre is runsensibly but that people are not treatedso badly as they have been onHavering. Four, we would not have tomarry anyone else, or court, or go toLondon parties unless we wanted.’

I stretched alongside him andleaned my head on one hand so that I

could watch his face.‘Why don’t you want to court

girls?’ I asked. ‘I’ve lived with you formonths now and I’ve never even seenyou sneak out late at night except to getdrunk. Don’t you like girls, Perry?’

He turned his head to face me andhis eyes were clear and untroubled.

‘That’s point five,’ he said. ‘Weneither of us like being touched likethat. I don’t mind my sisters, and Idon’t mind you. But I cannot standbeing pulled about by girls. I don’t likehow they look at me. I don’t like howthey stroke my sleeve or find ways oftouching my shoulder or standing closeto me. I just don’t like it. And I knowI’ll never get married if I have to courtsomeone and kiss them and pull themabout.’

I nodded. I understood wellenough. It was my own pricklyindependence but perhaps a little

worse for a young man who would beexpected to fondle and fumble and gethis face slapped for his pains.

‘If we married we’d have to getan heir,’ he said bluntly. ‘But once wehad a son we could live as friends. Ithought you’d like that, Sarah.’

I drew my knees up to the ache inmy chest and hugged myself forcomfort.

‘I don’t know,’ I said softly.Perry closed his eyes and turned

his face up to the sunshine. ‘I thought itwould be a way out for both of us,’ hesaid. ‘I know you’re afraid of goinginto Society, even with Mama there.This way, you’d be known as myaffianced bride. You’d not have to goaround so much. Men wouldn’t troubleyou. My mama or my sisters couldalways be with you. And you couldalways have me there.’

I nodded. Deep inside myself I

had been dreading the London Season,and cursing the obstinacy in myselfwhich had insisted on moving in thebest of circles when I was no morefined for it than any bareback dancer.

‘I’d like that,’ I conceded.‘And you could run your own

estate,’ Perry pointed out. ‘As youwanted, without having to wait all thattime.’

I nodded. Five years was anunimaginable lifetime from my sixteen-year-old viewpoint. I could notimagine waiting until I was twenty-one. And the shrewd business streak inme warned me that five years was along time to leave Will Tyacke andJames Fortescue in charge of myfortune.

‘And we’re neighbours,’ Perrysaid. ‘If you marry anyone else they’lltake you away to live in their house.They could live anywhere. You’d only

be able to get back to see Wideacrewhen they let you.’

‘Oh no!’ I said suddenly. ‘I hadn’tthought of that!’

‘You’d have to,’ he said. ‘Andyour husband would put his manager inand he might do it even worse than it’sbeing done already.’

I put my hand out and turned hisface towards me. He opened his eyes.

‘Kiss me,’ I said.The kiss was as gentle and as

cool as the brush of his mother’sfingertips on my cheek. His lips barelytouched mine, and then he pulled backand looked at me.

‘I do like you,’ he said. ‘I do wantus to be friends. Mama wants us tomarry and I think she is right. But I dowant us to be friends anyway.’

The loneliness and sadness Icarried with me always suddenlyswelled and choked me as he offered

his friendship. The kiss had been aslight and as cool as Dandy’s good-night pecks and I suddenly thought howlong it had been since I had beentouched by someone who liked me. Igave a little moan and buried my facein my hands and lay face down on theheather.

I did not cry. I had promisedmyself that day that I would never cryagain. I just lay, stiff as a board andheard myself give three or four littlemoans as if my heart were breakingwith loneliness.

Perry did nothing. He sat therelike a beautiful flower, waiting for meto have done. When I ceased and laystill he put out a hand and rested it onthe nape of my neck. His hand was ascool and as soft-skinned as a woman’s.

‘I’m unhappy, too,’ he saidquietly. ‘That’s why I keep drinking.I’m not the son Mama wants. That was

George. She’ll never love me like sheloved him. I thought that if you and Icould marry we could both be lesslonely. We could be friends.’

I turned around. My eyes weresore with unshed tears, as sore as if Ihad grit from the road blown into them.I rubbed them with the back of mygloved hand.

‘Yes,’ I said. I spoke from thedepths of my loneliness and from mydespair in knowing that I would neverlove anyone again. ‘Yes, it might work.I’ll think about it,’ I said.

Nothing could be worse than thisarid waiting for the pain to pass. Perryand I were children who had been leftbehind. My sister had gone, histalented, brilliant brother George hadgone. We two were left to inherit allthe wealth and the land and the houses.We might be able to help each otherfeel more at home with them all. ‘Yes,’

I said.‘All right then,’ Perry said. We

got to our feet and he shook his jacketcarefully and put it back on, pullingdown the coat-tail and smoothing thesleeves down. ‘Mama will pay mygambling debts now,’ he said pleased.‘Shall we tell her at dinner?’

‘Yes,’ I said. It seemed like yearssince someone had shared a decisionwith me and asked for my help. It wasgood to be part of an ‘us’ again, even ifit were only poor silly Perry and me.

‘We can marry when the contractshave been drawn up,’ Perry said. ‘InLondon if you like, or here.’

‘I don’t mind,’ I said. ‘It doesn’tmatter to me.’

Perry nodded, and cupped hishand to throw me up into the saddle.

‘Mama will be really pleasedwith me,’ he said and smiled up at me.He feared his mama at least as much as

he loved her, probably more.‘She’ll be pleased with both of

us,’ I said, and I felt glad to be part ofa family, even a cold-blooded Qualityfamily like the Haverings. I smiled fora moment, thinking of her and herhopes of a Quality marriage, of nettingsome flash young squire. Who’d havethought in those days that plain dirtylittle Meridon would be saying ‘yes’ tomarriage with a lord! My smile turnedinto a little rueful grimace, and then Iclicked to Sea to follow Perry’s horseback down the slope. And who’d havethought that I’d say yes to a marriagenot for need, nor for desire, nor in anyhope. But because need and desire andhope were gone and I was insteadlooking for power and wealth andcontrol over my land.

Love I did not think of at all.

We told Lady Clara that night at

dinner. I think if she had shown theleast gleam of satisfaction I wouldhave been on my guard. As it was shelooked at me steadily across the tableand said:

‘You are very young, Sarah, thisis a big step. Do you think you had notbetter wait until you see what Londonsociety has to offer you?’

I hesitated. ‘I thought this wasyour wish, Lady Clara?’ I said.

The door behind me opened andthe butler came to clear the table. LadyClara made one of her gracefulgestures and he bowed at once andwithdrew. I knew I would never in amillion years learn how to do that.

‘Certainly it is my wish that theestates be run together, and I can thinkof no two more suitable young people,’she said. ‘Your upbringing has beenunusual, Sarah, but Perry is the onlyyoung man of Quality that I know who

is entirely free from any snobbery. Heis informal to a fault, and you two areclearly very fond of each other.’ Shepaused and smiled slightly at Perrywho was sitting on her right, betweenus. ‘And you two are well suited intemperament,’ she said delicately.

Perry looked glumly down at hisplate and I nearly snorted withsuppressed laughter at the thought ofLady Clara recommending him to mebecause he was cold and I wasunwomanly.

‘But I do not know what MrFortescue will say,’ she said. ‘It willmean that you can take the running ofthe estate away from him at once.’

‘There is nothing he can say,’ Isaid brusquely. ‘The matter will be outof his hands. He cannot control mychoice of husband, and in any case, noone could object to me marrying Perrywho is a lord, and a neighbour, and a

cousin.’‘Voice,’ said Lady Clara.‘Sorry,’ I said.She raised her eyebrow at me.‘I mean, I beg your pardon,’ I

amended.She smiled.Perry kept his head down and

poured himself another glass of port.‘If you are so determined then

there is nothing I can say,’ Lady Clarasaid with a fair show of helplessness.‘The engagement can be announced atonce. Then Perry can be with you at allthe balls and parties of the Season andwhen the Season is over we can comeback here and perhaps have a weddingnext spring at Chichester cathedral.’

I nodded and Perry said nothing.‘You should write to Mr

Fortescue at once to tell him of yourdecision,’ Lady Clara said. ‘Andinform him that I will be notifying my

solicitors to draw up a marriagecontract. They will contact hissolicitors for sight of the deeds ofWideacre, of course.’

‘Wideacre will still be mine,’ Isaid. ‘It is entailed upon the oldestchild, whether male or female.’

Lady Clara smiled. ‘Of course,Sarah,’ she said. ‘It will be entailedupon your first-born. Havering isentailed upon the first-born son. Thereshould be enough meat in that to keepthe lawyers occupied all summer andautumn.’

‘But Wideacre will still be mine,’I repeated.

Lady Clara paused. ‘Marriedwomen cannot own property, Sarah,’she said gently. ‘You know that.Wideacre will become Peregrine’swhen you marry. Any husband of yourswould own Wideacre.’

I frowned. ‘Even though it is me

that inherited it?’ I asked.‘Even though it is I who…’ Lady

Clara amended.‘There’s nothing I can do about

that?’ I queried.‘It is the law of the land,’ she said

dryly. ‘Wealthier women than you havehad to hand over bigger fortunes. Butyou could consult your lawyer or MrFortescue if you wish. You’ll still bebetter off with the estate properly rununder Peregrine’s name, than held foryou by Mr Fortescue and his band ofJacobins.’

I nodded. ‘I know that,’ I saidcertainly.

‘Anyway, Sarah can run itherself,’ Peregrine said. He had takenanother glass of port and his cheekswere pink. He smiled at me verysweetly. ‘No reason why not,’ he said.‘She’s been riding all around learningabout the fields. If she doesn’t want a

bailiff she could run it herself.’Lady Clara nodded and picked up

her fan. ‘Certainly,’ she said. ‘That isfor the two of you to decide. How niceto have another wedding in the family!’

Peregrine rose steadily enoughand took his mother’s arm as she wenttowards the door. He opened it andheld it wide for her and me to passthrough. As I went by he gave me agrin as brotherly and warm as anurchin who has scraped out of anadventure.

‘Pretty fair,’ he said under hisbreath, and went back to the table.

27I went to bed early that night, and drewback my heavy curtains from thewindow. After years of sleeping in awagon I should have rejoiced in thespace and the comfort of having awhole room to myself, of being able tosee the moon through clear clean glass.But I was a silly, ungrateful drab. Afterall my pining for the gentry life I waslow that night and missed the wagonand the noise of other people snoring,breathing, dreaming all around me. Imissed the warm dirty smell of theplace. I missed the sight of Da’srumpled head and Zima’s dirty locks. Imissed the little snorting breaths of thebaby. I made sure I did not think aboutthe bunk opposite from where I used tosee her dark head and her slow lazywaking smile.

Robert Gower had been good to

me, by his lights. He had paid me myten guineas and he had cared for Seawithout charge. When I came off thetrapeze he had me nursed in his ownhouse and I never paid him a penny outof my wages for the doctor’s bill. Ithought of the little house offWarminster High Street, I thought ofthe wagon with the painting and thecurly writing on the side and how,somewhere, it would be parked up forthe night, the fire burned down toembers outside the steps, a pan ofwater nearby for Robert to wash in themorning. On the side of the wagonthere was my likeness and my name.My old name. The one I would neveruse again from the life I had left.

It seemed that all my life therewere departures. The one I had onlyseen in my dream, when the little babywas held to a strange breast and didnot hear her mother call after her. The

crude sale when Da handed us overand drove out of town too quick for usto change our minds. And the eveningwhen I took my horse and my gold andmy string and gold clasps and wentaway from Robert Gower as if he hadbeen my enemy. I thought now thatperhaps he had been a good friend andI could have stayed there, and that hewould have helped me with my grief.Here I could not speak of it, could notbe seen to be grieving. Here I had tolock it up in some cold part of my heartand never let anyone know, never letanyone see, that I was cold and agedand as dead as a smashed doll inside.

I leaned my head against the coldglass of the window and looked out.The sky was cloudy tonight, the moonthree-quarters full, misty and shadedby ribbons and lumps of clouds overits face. My room faced east, over thepaddock at the back of the house,

towards the Common. I lookedtowards the skyline where a littleclump of firs showed black against thesky. I had wanted to sleep and wakewith this view all my life. I was home.It was foolish to find that it gave me nojoy at all.

I turned from the window anddrew the curtains. The room seemedtoo big, too full of echoes and ghostsand longing without the cold light ofthe moon showing a bed far too big forme, in a room far too big for me. Witha little sigh I slipped off my costlydress and laid it carefully over a chair.I kept on my chemise and petticoat andwrapped myself in the coverlet fromthe bed and lay down on the hardcarpet without a pillow. I knew tonightwould be one of the nights when Iwould get no rest unless I slept hardand woke cold. Sometimes the life wastoo soft for me, I could not bear that it

should be so easy for me when the onewho would have loved it, who wouldhave been extravagant and playful andlaughing and spendthrift, she – and Istill could not say her name – she hadgone.

If I had been the crying sort Iwould have wept that night. But I wasnot. I lay wrapped tight in the coverleton my back. When I woke in the nightmy face was wet and the carpet undermy head was damp as if all the tearsfrom the day, and from all the days,had crept out from under my eyelidswhen I was asleep. I got up then, stiffand chilled, and slid between thesheets. It was about three o’clock inthe morning. I wished very much that ithad been me who had died and not her.

I woke early, and I looked at thecool light on the white ceiling, and thenI said it. I said the words that had gonewith me all my life, which I had hoped

to escape here: ‘I don’t belong here,’ Isaid.

I lay still then for a few moments,listening to the desolation of that voiceinside me which told me that I wasalone, that I was lonely, that I belongednowhere now, that I had neverbelonged anywhere, that I never wouldbelong anywhere. I knew it was true.

I was keeping travellers’ hoursand I was as restless as a stable catshut indoors. There was no noise fromthe kitchen nor the sound of the maidcleaning the fires, it was too early evenfor her.. I trod softly over to thewardrobe and looked for my ridinghabits. One was being washed and theother was not there. I had torn a seamthe day before and Lady Clara’s maidhad taken it away to mend it. Shewould bring it back at breakfast time,but I needed to be out now. At thebottom of the wardrobe, pushed well

back, were my old clothes. Jack’s oldbreeches, his boots, Robert’s thickjacket. I pulled them out and dressedmyself quickly. I pulled my good ridingboots on and they fitted me a deal morecomfortably than ever had Jack’s hand-me-downs. I went soft-footed to thedoor and opened it a crack to listen.

I had been right, it was too earlyfor anyone to be stirring. As I creptdown the wooden stairs I heard theclock in the hall strike the quarter-hour. I looked at it in the pale light. Itwas only a quarter past five. I steppedas delicately as a mare on an icy roadover the black and white tiles of thehall and through the baize door to thekitchen. All was clean and tidied awayand quiet. A red eye of embers glowedinside the kitchen stove, a black catasleep on the flat top.

I shot the bolts on the kitchen doorand let myself out into the cold dawn

air. Robert’s jacket was warm andrough against my cheek. It smelled ofthe earlier life: of his pipe tobacco, offried bacon, of horse sweat, of oats.The smells of my childhood, whichwas no childhood at all.

Sea was turned out in the paddockwearing just a headcollar. There was aspare rope by the water pump, Ineeded nothing else to ride him. I wentto the gate and whistled for him (a ladynever whistles) and he raised his headand pricked his ears and came blithelytowards me as if he were glad to seeme in my old familiar clothes. As if Iwere about to take him back to the oldlife. I clipped the rope on hisheadcollar and led him through thelittle white gate. I had forgotten howhigh he was. I had been lifted into thesaddle as if I were a child or an oldlady for months. I had nearly forgottenhow to vault.

I said, ‘Stand,’ to him and found Ihad lost none of my skill. I was on hisback in one clear leap and his earswent forward as he felt me astride himas I had always ridden him before wecame here. I touched him gently with asoft squeeze of both legs on his warmflanks, and he stepped out gently downthe drive towards the old woodlandtrack through the parkland toWideacre.

A blackbird had started singing,his voice sounded surprised to beawake this early, but all the other birdswere still silent. The sun was not yetup, the morning was cool and grey. Seaand I were like ghosts of ourselves,leaving in dawnlight as we had comein moonlight. I put my hand in mypocket and felt the golden guineaswere still there safe. We could go aswe had come and disappear into theworld of the common people. The

world of wagons and travellers andshows, and no one would ever be ableto find us again. Wideacre could stayas it was – fair, fruitful, generous.Nothing need change if I was not there,demanding my rights like a late-hatched greedy cuckoo chick. Perrycould drink and play, annoy his motherand seek her forgiveness without me.He would come to his fortune at theend. It would make no difference toLady Clara.

I could sink from the sight of thisnew life and no one would grieve forme. Within three months they wouldhave forgotten all about me again.

Sea’s hooves rang as he came outof the woods on to the stones of thelane towards Acre and I turned hishead east towards my land. I had half awill to look at it once more and then togo, to leave it for ever. I belongedneither there on the land, nor in my old

life without her. I belonged nowhereand I had nowhere to go and no ideawhat I should do. I rode as I had riddenthat night, without direction and Seastopped at the little stream, as he hadstopped that night and dipped his headto drink while I smelled the cold mistoff the water.

‘Sarah,’ a voice said, and Ilooked up. My eyes were blurred –they had been watering as I rode – andI blinked to clear them. It was WillTyacke standing under the trees on theother side of the stream.

‘You,’ I said.Sea put his ears forward and went

out of the stream towards Will and puthis great head down for a pat. He likedWill; he was the only man he did like.

‘Sarah, in your old clothes,’ Willsaid.

‘My riding habit’s being mended,’I said. ‘I wanted to ride early.’

‘Sleepless?’ he asked.I nodded and he gave me a little

smile. ‘Too soft for you at Havering?’he asked.

The months of our quarrel slidaway from us both. ‘Too soft, too big,too grand,’ I said in a little voice. ‘It’snot my place.’

‘Where is your place?’ he asked.He patted Sea’s neck and came closeto stand at his shoulder so that he couldlook up into my face.

‘Nowhere, as far as I know,’ Isaid. ‘I’ve come too late for this life,and I don’t care to go back to the oldone. I’ll never learn to be a lady asLady Clara. I suppose now I couldn’tbe happy with the work I used to do.I’m betwixt and between. I don’t knowwhere I should be.’

He reached up to me and restedhis hand on my leg. I stayed still, I didnot mind his touch. ‘Could you be

here?’ he asked very low. ‘Could yoube with us in Acre? Not up at the Hallas gentry, but in the village with theordinary people? Living with us andworking with us, making the land growand feeding the people, selling in themarket and working and planning?’

I looked down at his face and sawhis brown eyes were full of love. Hewanted me to say yes. He wanted me tosay yes more than he wanted anythingelse in the world. Despite our quarrel,despite my turning from him to go toLady Clara’s parlour, he wanted me tosay yes and to go to Acre with him, ashis equal.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t waste yourhopes on me. Will Tyacke. I am deadinside. There is no place for me to behappy, not in the Hall, not in thevillage, not at Havering nor Wideacre.Don’t look like that and don’t talk likethat. You are wasting your time: I have

nothing for you and nothing for thevillage either.’

He dropped his hand and heturned away. I thought he was going towalk from me in a rage but he tookonly a few steps and then he turned toface the stream and dropped down tohis haunches and watched the flow of itgo past us. Sea had stirred up the mudof the river bed and as we watched itgrew clearer and then flowed cleanagain.

‘I’ve just walked back fromHavering village,’ he said. ‘Some ofthem have moved into Acre, sharingcottages. One lass wanted me to see ifI could find something she had leftbehind, but they have burned it out.’

I said nothing.‘They even carted the stones

away,’ he said wonderingly. ‘In a fewmonths’ time you won’t be able to tellthere ever was a village there. They

have wiped the land clean of thepeople who lived there for hundreds ofyears.’

‘Were you there with the cart?’ Iasked.

Will looked quickly up at me.‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I didn’t see you.’

‘I was riding, up on the Commonbehind,’ I said. I suddenly rememberedthat I had been with Perry and that wehad laughed at the woman who clung tothe doorpost. ‘I wasn’t allowed tocome near,’ I said. It was a weakexcuse. ‘They had the typhus fever.’

Will shook his head. ‘Nay,’ hesaid. He was angry but his voice wasso low and soft no one but me couldhave guessed it. ‘There was a womanthere who was feverish and deliriousthrough hunger. She didn’t have typhus,she was dying in a fever. She had beengiving her smallest child the breast totry and keep her alive and so when

there was no food to be begged orbought it hit her the hardest.’

‘Did she cling to the doorpost?’ Iasked.

‘You saw that, did you?’ Willasked. His voice was thick withcondemnation of someone who couldsee that naked need of a woman andleave her to the mercies of paidwreckers. ‘Aye, she clung to thedoorpost. She had nowhere to go. Shewas afraid of going to the poorhouseand the babbies being taken off her.I’ve taken her into my cottage and herthree children. It’ll do for them for awhile.’

‘Will you play nursemaid to threelittle babies?’ I said laughing. I wantedto hurt him, I wanted him to flare up atme since he thought I was so much inthe wrong. I was angry with him fortaking the woman and her children in. Idid not like the thought of him living

there, like a husband and a father witha sickly wife and three babies.

‘I’d rather live with three babbiesthan up at the Hall with one great babyand his ma,’ Will said, scowling at me.

‘You mean Lord Peregrine?’ Isaid in a tone as near to Lady Clara’sdisdainful drawl as I could manage.

Will got to his feet and met myeye squarely. ‘Don’t speak to me likethat, you silly slut,’ he said. ‘I’ve heardyou learn to talk like that and I’mdamned if I know why you want to turnyourself into something you’re not. I’veheard Ted Tyacke talk about your ma,Lady Lacey she was, and she oncerolled in the mud cat-fighting with oneof the Dench girls. Her best friend wasa village girl and she was in love withJames Fortescue. She’d never havetalked like that! And your grandmaBeatrice swore like a plough boy andwould have tanned your backside for

talking to a working man like that.’I dug my heels in Sea and turned

him so sharply that he nearly reared.He plunged down the bank into mid-stream again and from there I turnedand yelled at Will: ‘You’re sacked,Will Tyacke!’ I shouted. ‘Sacked andyou can get off my land and go to hell!You’ll pack up today, you and yourcottage-full of drabs. Get off my landall of you, and don’t you dare comeback.’

He put his fists on his waist andshouted back at me. ‘You don’t ownthis place or run it, Sarah Lacey.You’re a minor still, you can signnothing, you can appoint no one, youcan sack no one. I takes my ordersfrom James Fortescue and I will do foranother five years. So take that back toLord Perry with the compliments of hisneighbour.’

‘I’ll have you off the land in a

twelvemonth,’ I shrieked back at him,all my grief and anger and frustrationboiling over at once like a pot with alid forced on too tight. ‘I’m marryingLord Peregrine as soon as the deedsare drawn and the Season over! Thenhe and I will own all the land fromMidhurst to Cocking and we’ll see thenwho gives orders and who takes them,and whether you can ever find work inwest Sussex again.’

He leaped down the bank in onefluid movement, faster than I wouldhave thought he could move. He was inthe water and at my side in an instantand Sea shied sideways with a snort offright. He laid hold of my knee and mywaist and then my arm and pulled meoff Sea’s back and down so that Itumbled into the stream beside him andmy best new riding boots were knee-high in water. He grabbed me by theshoulders and shook me so that my

head rocked on my neck.‘What?’ he shouted. ‘What are

you saying? What are you saying?’I blazed back at him, angry and

unafraid of his violence. ‘That I’mmarrying Lord Peregrine,’ I said. ‘Hismother knows. It’s to be announced.It’s true.’

His brown eyes burned at me forone moment longer then he flung meaway from him so that I stumbledbackwards against Sea. He wadeddownstream to the shallow part of thebank and stumbled up it, his bootsheavy with water. I turned and vaultedon to Sea’s back as easy as if I were inthe ring and I wheeled him around likea triumphant cavalryman.

The look on Will’s face wipedthe smile off my face with the shock.He looked as if I had stabbed him inthe heart. I gasped when his eyes metmine, his gaze was so intent.

‘You will marry him?’ he asked.‘Yes,’ I said low. All the anger

had gone, there was nothing in theworld except his brown eyes, dark andnarrowed as if he was hurting inside.

‘You’ve told James Fortescue?’‘I will write today.’‘This is your wish, Sarah?’‘Yes,’ I said. I wanted so much to

tell him that it was my wish because Idid not know who I was nor where Ishould go. Because I had to have somefamily, some place where I belonged.Because Perry and I were two of akind: both lost, both unloved, bothunlovable.

‘I’ll leave on your wedding day,’he said coldly. ‘And I’ll warn thevillage that everything – all our hopesand plans for the future, all thepromises made by the Laceys –everything is all over for us.’

He turned and walked away from

the stream. Sea and I looked after him.His waterlogged boots squelched atevery step. His shoulders were bowed.I tried to laugh at the picture hepresented, but I could not laugh. I satvery still on Sea’s back and watchedhim walk away from me. I let him go.Then I turned Sea’s head and rodeback to Havering Hall.

I did as I had said I would, andeverything followed on from thatalmost without my choosing. I wroteand told Mr Fortescue of my decisionand I waited and read his reply withoutemotion. He was concerned andunhappy but there was nothing that hecould do. His honest, anxious,stumbling reply made me feel that Iwas running very fast in the wrongdirection, but Lady Clara insisted onseeing it, and read passages aloud, androcked with laughter.

She composed for me a cold-hearted rejoinder which thanked himfor his advice but said that my mindwas made up. It referred him to theHavering lawyers if he had anyqueries.

‘You had best remind him that heis a little late in the day breaking hisheart over your happiness. He nevermade much effort to find you in all thesixteen years when you were lost, byall accounts. Too busy re-creatingEden at Wideacre, I daresay.’

That made me angry and resentful,and the letter I sent to Mr Fortescuewas cold and ungenerous. I did nothear from him again.

I heard no more from Will, either.I often seemed to see his face lookingat me with that especial sharp anger.Once I dreamed of him trudging awayfrom me, heavy-footed with wet boots.In my dream I called out to him and

when he turned around he was smilingin a way I had never seen him look.But when I woke I knew that I had notcalled out to him, that I never wouldcall out to him. That a gulf had openedbetween us which was too deep formere liking and sympathy to bridge.

Perry and I grew closer, he wasmy only comfort in the late summerdays while Lady Clara taught me howto pour tea and how to deal cards likea lady and not like a card-sharper.Perry would sit with me now duringmy lessons and when his mama praisedme for doing well he would beam atme like a generous incapable studentwatching some bright friend do better.

‘You will be the toast of theSeason,’ he said to me idly, as hewatched his mama and me take a handof picquet.

‘I don’t know about that, but shewill be the gambler of the Season,’

Lady Clara said, discarding cards andfinally conceding the game to me.‘Sarah, whatever hell you learned toplay in must sorely miss you.’

I smiled and said nothing, thinkingfor a moment of Da and his seductivepack of greasy cards on an upturnedbeer-keg outside a country inn.

‘Anyone fancy a game?’ he wouldoffer. ‘Playing for beer only, I don’twant to be taken for a ride, I just wanta fair game, a bit of sport.’ One afteranother they would come. Plumpfarmers with rents in their pocket.Middling tenants with their wives’butter money burning a hole in theirjackets. One after another Da wouldpluck them. Drunk or sober it was oneof the things, perhaps the only thing,that he did quite well.

‘Sarah will restore the familyfortunes in cash as well as in land,’Peregrine said lazily with a smile at

me. He did not see the sharp look hismama shot at him. I did. It warned himto be silent about the Havering debts.

She was wrong to fear meknowing, I was no fool. I would tellmy lawyers to ascertain how much theHaverings owed before I honoured mypromise to marry. Mr Fortescue was acareful man and would make sure thatthe capital of the land was entailedupon my children in such a way that nohusband, however spendthrift, couldwaste it on gambling. Perry and Ismiled at each other with easyknowledge. We needed each other, weliked each other, we trusted each other.We neither of us wanted very muchmore.

We walked that evening in thegarden. It was getting colder atnightfall and he put his silkembroidered evening jacket around myshoulders and offered me his arm. I

took it. We must have made a prettysight, the two of us, my auburn ringletsbrushing his shoulder and my head heldhigh. My green gown hushing the grassand Perry as golden and as lovely asan angel. We walked together in thetwilit garden and we talked of moneyand friendship. We did not talk of love.It never entered our heads. When Perrysaw me to my bedroom door at night hestooped and kissed me on the lips andhis touch was as cool as his mama’ssocial pecks.

I stopped him as he turned toleave. ‘Will you never feel desire,Perry?’ I asked.

He looked frankly alarmed. ‘Idoubt it, Sarah,’ he saiduncomfortably. ‘Would you ever wantme to?’

I paused. It was as if there weretwo people inside me: one the girl whocould not bear to be touched except by

one other person, the girl who had seentoo much and heard too much at tooyoung an age to ever think that lovecould have anything to do with aheaving bunk and a rocking wagon.The other was a girl growing intowomanhood who had seen a man lookat her as if she had murdered him byleaving him. A man who looked at herwith passion and love and then turnedand walked away.

‘No Perry,’ I said honestly. ‘Iwould never want desire from you.’

He smiled at that, his blue eyes alittle blurred for he was a little drunkas usual. ‘That’s fine,’ he saidencouragingly. ‘For I do like youawfully, you know.’

I smiled wryly. ‘I know,’ I said.‘It is all I want from you.’

I opened the heavy panelled doorand slipped inside. I paused and heardhis footsteps go waveringly down the

long corridor. There was a suddenclash and clatter as he stumbled intothe suit of armour which stood at thecorner and his owlish, ‘I beg yourpardon,’ to it. Then I heard his feetscrabble on the stairs and step oneafter another, until he reached the topand was gone to his room.

28I went over to the window to drawback the curtains. It was still early andthe moon was coming up. As I stood,looking out towards the moonlitCommon, I saw a horseman comeriding down the silvery track towardsthe back garden of Havering Hall. Isaw him ride under the lee of the walland then I lost sight of him. He musthave left his horse tied up, because in afew moments the figure appeared onthe top of the wall, swung a leg overand dropped down into the informalgarden at the back of the house. Iwatched in silence. I would haveknown Will Tyacke from fifty milesaway.

He walked across the lawn as ifhe did not care who saw himtrespassing in darkness, and then hestopped before the house, scantling the

windows as if he owned the place. Alow laugh escaped me and I leanedforward and pulled up the sashwindow and stuck my head out. Heraised a hand in greeting and cameunhurriedly to the flower bed beneathmy window and for a moment I thoughtof some other Lacey girl, and someother young man, who had whisperedtogether on the night air and knownthey were talking of love.

‘What is it?’ I said peremptorily.Will’s face was in shadow. ‘It’s

this,’ he said. He had something whitein his hand. I could not see what itwas. He stooped to the path at his feet,and straightened up, wrapping thepaper around a stone.

‘I thought you would want toknow,’ he said. He was almostapologetic. ‘From something you oncesaid, earlier this summer, when wewere friends.’

He made as if to throw it, and Istepped back before I could ask if wemight still be friends. His aim wassure, the stone came sailing through thewindow wrapped in the white paper.By the time I picked it up and was atthe window again he was walkingacross the lawn and scaling the wall. Iwatched him go. I did not call himback.

Instead I unwrapped the stone hehad thrown for me and smoothed outthe paper. The white was the wrongside, the blank side. On the inside,very creased as if half a dozen peoplehad pored over it, spelling out thewords, was a bright scarlet picturewith a white horse in the middle andtwo trapeze flyers going over the top: aman and two girls. In curly letters ofgold it said: Robert Gower’s AmazingEquestrian and Aerial Show.

It was them. Their tour had

brought them here. I should haveexpected them earlier if I’d had mywits about me. Selsey to Wideacrewas just a little way, they must havegone on down the coast, or perhapsthey stopped for a while after buryingher. Somewhere they must have foundanother fool for the trapeze. They weregoing on as if nothing had happened.

For a moment there was a rage sohot and so burning that I could seenothing, not even the garish poster, forthe red mist which was in my head andbehind my eyes. It had made nodifference to them…the thing whichhad happened. Robert was stillworking and planning, Jack was stillstanding on the catcher frame, stillsmiling his lazy nervous smile. Katiewas as vapid and as pretty as ever.They were still touring, they were stilltaking good gates. It had made nodifference to them. It had killed her, it

had killed me. It had made nodifference to them at all.

I dropped the handbill andwalked to the window and threw itopen again to breathe in the cold nightair to try to slow the rapid thudding ofmy heart. I was so angry. If I couldhave killed every one of them I would.I wanted to punish them. They werefeeling nothing; although her life wasover, and mine was an empty shell. Istood there for a long time in the coldbut then I steadied and I turned back tothe room, picked up the paper,smoothed it out again and looked to seewhere they were working.

They were playing outsideMidhurst. They were doing threeshows, the last one a late, lantern-litshow in an empty barn just a little waydown the road. If I had wanted I couldhave gone and seen them tonight.

I gave a deep shuddering sigh. I

could let them go. I could let themwork my neighbouring village. I couldlet Rea poach the odd rabbit from myCommon. I could let them pass withinfour miles of me. They did not know Iwas here. I had no need to tell them.They could go on into the high roadsand byways of travellers, of gypsies.These people were my people nolonger. Their ways were not my ways.We would never meet. I would neverhave to see them. They were a life Ihad left behind. I could cut myself intwo and say, ‘That was the old life, theold life with her; it is gone now, allgone.’

I smoothed out the handbill andput my finger under the words, spellingthem out, looking at the pictures again.There were the clues which had madeWill bring it to me. ‘Robert Gower’ itsaid in curly letters. I had told him Iworked for a man called ‘Robert’ and

beside the picture of the white stallionit said ‘Snow the AmazingArithmetical Horse’. I had told him ofa horse called Snow which could dotricks. I knew that he rememberedthings I said to him, even light, sillythings. He perhaps thought that thesefriends, these old friends from anotherlife might help me look at theHaverings and at Perry with new eyes.He knew that he had lost me, thatWideacre had lost me, that I belongednowhere now. Perhaps he had thoughtthat the old life might call me back,might help me to find myself again.

He did not know that to think ofthe old life made me more carelessabout myself, more feckless about myfuture than anything else could havedone. For they, and I, were still alive.But she was dead.

I sat in the window-seat andwatched the moon for a while, but I

was uneasy and could not settle. Ilooked at the little ormolu clock on themantelpiece, there was still time. If Iwished, I could ride and see the show,see how it was for them without her,without me. I could go and beconcealed by the crowd, watch them insilence and secrecy, satisfy mycuriosity. I could watch them and learnhow it was for them, now we two weregone. Then leave among the crowd,and come slowly home.

Or I could go and be among themlike an avenging fury, my eyes blackwith unsatisfied anger. This was myland here, I was the squire. I couldname Jack as a killer, call Rea as awitness and no one could gainsay me.With my word against his, I could getJack hanged. Not even Robert couldstand against the squire of Wideacre onWideacre land. I could confiscate thehorses, send Katie back to the

Warminster poorhouse, Rea back to theWinchester Guardians, send Robert toWarminster to die of shame. I wasgentry now, I could settle my scores asgentry do – with the law and the powerof the law. I could break them all withmy squire’s law.

Or I could run now, from thepower and from the boredom of theQuality life. I could put on my oldclothes – their clothes, which they hadgiven me – and tuck up my hair undermy cap and go back to them. I knewhow they would receive me, theywould welcome me as a long-lostdaughter, the ponies would whinny tosee me. They would hug me and weepwith me – easy, feckless tears. Thenthey would teach me how the acts hadchanged now she was gone, and whereI could fit in the new work. I couldwalk away from my life here and leavethe special loneliness and emptiness of

Quality life. I could leave here withpockets as light as when I had arrived;and the man who hated gin traps andMr Fortescue could run the land asthey wished, and need never troublethemselves about me again.

I did not know what I wanted tosee, what I wanted to feel. It seemedlike a lifetime since I had walked awayfrom them and said to myself that I wasnever going back. But I had not knownthen what it was to be lost.

After half an hour I could stand itno longer. I trod softly over to thewardrobe and pulled out my ridinghabit. Perry would be drinking alone inhis room, perhaps humming quietly tohimself, deaf to the rest of the house.Lady Clara would be writing letters inthe parlour or perhaps reading in thelibrary. Neither of them would hear mysteps on the servants’ stairs. Nohousemaid that I might chance to meet

would have the courage to interruptLady Clara to tell her that Miss Laceyhad ridden out into the twilight. I couldcome and go as I wished in secret.

I dressed quickly, familiar nowwith the intricate buttons at the back,with the way to quickly smooth mygloves and pin the grey hat. It had aveil of net which I had never used butnow I pulled it down. I glanced atmyself in the mirror. My eyes glowedgreen behind the veil, but my betrayingcopper hair was hidden by the hat. Ihad eaten well all summer and my facewas plumper. I was no longer a half-starved gypsy brat with a bruised face.If someone did not know who I reallywas, if someone thought I was gentry,they would have called me beautiful.My mouth pulled down at the thought.In my head I saw her dark glossy hairand her rosy smiling face, I thoughthow she would have looked in these

clothes and there was no pleasure forme in them. I turned from the mirrorand crept down the servants’ stairswhich led straight down to the stableyard.

Sea had been brought in now thatnights were getting colder and I wentfirst to the tack room and then to hisloose-box. Both were unlocked, theywould water-up at twilight and lock upthen. The light was only fading now. Ihumped his saddle myself and helowered his head so that I could put onhis bridle. As I tightened his girth andled him out, a stable lad came out ofthe hay loft and looked warily at me.

‘I’m going for a ride,’ I said, andmy voice was no longer the mutedtones of the young lady. I was Meridonagain, Meridon who had ordered Rea,who could shout down a drunkenfather. ‘I’m going alone and I don’twant them told. Them, up at the house.

D’you understand me?’He nodded, his eyes round, saying

nothing.‘When they come to feed and

water the horses and they find Seagone you can tell them that it is allright. That I have taken him out and thatI will bring him back later,’ I said.

He nodded again, boggle-eyed.‘All right?’ I asked, and I smiled

at him.As if my smile had made the sun

come out he beamed at me.‘All right, Miss Sarah!’ he said,

suddenly finding his tongue. ‘Aye! Allright! And I won’t tell nobody whereyou’ve gone an’ all. Aye! an’ theywon’t even know you’ve gone for theyall went off to the ‘orses show and leftme here on my own. They went thisafternoon and they’ll have stopped atthe Bull on the way back. Only I knowyou’re out, Miss Sarah. An’ I won’t

tell nobody.’‘Thank you,’ I said, a little

surprised. Then I led Sea to themounting block, got myself into theside-saddle and walked out of theyard.

I took the main drive to Midhurst,I thought Gower’s show would be onthe south side of the town, quite near,and I was right. I could see thelamplight glinting from the half-openbarn door from a while away. In theroad, tethered, were a handful ofhorses belonging to farmers and theirwives who had ridden over to see theshow. There were even a few gigswith the horses tied to the fence towait.

I checked Sea and looked at thebarn. There was no one on the door sothey were all working around the back.I thought my fine clothes and my hatwith the veil would serve to disguise

me, especially if they were all in thering and I kept to the back of thecrowd. I took Sea over to the side ofthe road and tied him alongside thefarmers’ nags in the hedgerow. Then Ipicked up the swooping extra length ofmy riding habit skirt and strode up thepath to the barn door.

I heard a great ‘oooh!’ as Ientered and I slid in along the wall,steadying myself with the wall againstmy back. I feared I was going to besick.

Jack was there. Jack the devil,Jack the child, Jack the smiling killer.Jack was standing on the catcher framewhere he had been before. And it wasas I had feared and as I had dreamedand as I had sworn it could not be. Itwas the same. It was the same. It wasthe same as it had always been. As ifshe had never been there, as slight asan angel on the pedestal board, as

trusting as a child flying towards himwith her arms out. Smiling her naughtytriumphant smile because she had beenso certain that she had won a greatwager and earned herself safety andhappiness for the rest of her life. It wasthe same as if he had not done it. It wasjust as if she, and I, had never been.

I shut my eyes. I heard him call,‘Pret!’ as I had heard him call it athousand times, a hundred thousandtimes. I heard him call, ‘Hup!’ and Iheard the horrid nauseous ‘oooh!’ ofthe crowd and then the slap of firmgrip on moving flesh as he caught theflyer, and then the ecstatic explosion ofapplause.

I should not have come. I turnedand pushed my way past a man,heading back towards the door, theback of my hand tight against mymouth, vomit wet against it. As soon asI was outside, I clung to the wall and

retched. I was sick as a wet puppy.And between each bout of sickness Iheard again, Jack’s gay call of, ‘Pret!’and then, ‘Hup!’ as if he had nevercalled a girl off the pedestal bar tofling her…to fling her…

‘And so my lords, ladies andgentlemen, that concludes the showtonight. We are here until Tuesday!Please come again and tell your friendsthat you will always command a warmwelcome from Robert Gower’sAmazing Aerial and Equestrian Show!’

The voice from inside the barnwas Robert’s. Confident showgroundbawl. I would have known itanywhere. The braggish joy in his tonehit my belly like neat gin. I wiped mygloved hand around my mouth andwent to the doorway and looked in.

People were coming out, wellpleased with the show. One womanjostled me and then saw the cut and

cloth of my riding habit and bobbed acurtsey and begged my pardon. I didnot even see her. My eyes were fixedon the ring, a small circle of whitewood shavings inside a circle of haybales. In the plumb centre was RobertGower, arms outstretched after hisbow, dressed as I had seen him at thatfirst show, in his smart red jacket andhis brilliant white breeches, his linenfine, his boots polished. His face redand beaming in the lantern light, as ifhe had never ordered a girl to be taughtto go to her death with a smile on herface and her hair in ribbons.

I pushed through the outgoingcrowd and went, blind to their looks,towards the ring fence. I stepped overthe bales and went on, right to thecentre of the ring where in my ownright I had stood and taken a call.Robert turned as I came towards him,his professional smile fading, his face

beginning to look wary. He did notrecognize me, in my fine riding habitwith my long hair piled up under myhat. But he saw the quality of myclothes, and he gave a half-smilewondering what this lady might wantof him. I stopped directly before him,and without warning raised my ridingcrop and slashed him – right cheek, leftcheek – and stepped back. His handswere in fists at once, he was comingfor me when he suddenly hesitated andlooked more closely.

‘Meridon!’ he said. ‘It isMeridon, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I said through my teeth. Icould feel the anger and the grief risinglike bile in my throat. ‘That blow wasfor Dandy.’

He blinked. I could see the wealsfrom the whip growing red on hischeek. The people in the crowd behindme were murmuring, those at the

doorway had turned back, trying tohear our low-voiced exchange.

Robert looked quickly around,fearing scandal. ‘What the devil iswith you?’ he demanded, angry at theblow, his hand to his cheek. ‘Andwhere the hell have you been? Whoseclothes are they? And how dare youstrike me?’

‘Dare?’ I spat out at him. ‘I darestrike you. When you killed her, whenyou let your whoreson murdering sonkill her? And then you go on as ifnothing had happened at all?’

Robert’s hand went from his redcheek to his forehead. ‘Dandy?’ hesaid wonderingly.

At her name something brokeinside me. The tears tumbled out of myeyes and my voice choked as thewords spilled out. ‘She did as she wastold!’ I shouted. ‘David told her. “Letthe catcher to his job,” he said. “You

trust him to catch you. You throw thetrick, let the catcher do the catching.”’

Robert nodded, his hand on thelong ponies’ whip was shaking. ‘Aye,Meridon,’ he said. ‘Aye, I know. Butwhat’s this to anything? An accidentcan happen. He caught her on that trick,we both saw him catch her. Then sheslipped out of his hands.’

‘He threw her,’ I shouted.He gasped and the blood drained

from his face until the marks of theriding crop were livid streaks on hisyellowish cheeks.

‘He threw her against the wall,’ Isaid, sparing him nothing. ‘He caughther perfectly and then as they swungback he threw her. He threw her out,beyond the safety net, against the backwall and broke her neck. She smashedinto that wall, and was dead before Icould hold her. She was dead while Istill heard her scream. She was dead

like a broken doll. He broke her.’Robert looked like a man struck

dumb of apoplexy, his eyes started, hismouth was blue.

‘My Jack…’ he whispered tohimself. Then he looked at me again.‘Why?’ he asked, and his voice waslike a little whipped child.

‘She was pregnant,’ I saidwearily. ‘She hoped to catch him,carrying his baby, your grandson. Hedid no worse than you, when you leftyour wife on the road. He’s your sonright enough.’

Robert blinked rapidly, severaltimes. I saw him choke a little andswallow down the sour taste in hismouth.

‘He killed her,’ he said softly.‘She was carrying his child, and she’sdead.’

I looked at him and felt no pity forhim as his plans and his pride tumbled

around him. I looked at him with hothatred, staring out of eyes which weredry again. ‘Oh aye,’ I said. ‘She isdead. And I’m dead too.’

I turned on my heel and left him,left him alone in the ring under thegently swinging trapeze, with the twomarks of a whip cut on his pale faceand his mouth trembling. I walkedthrough the crowd which had gatheredat the doorway, craning their necks tosee the scene. They were pointing likethat crowd had pointed in Selsey, allthose lifetimes ago. I found Sea wherehe was tethered and looked around fora gate to use as a mounting block.

‘Here,’ a voice said and I blinkedthe haze from my eyes and saw twocalloused hands clasped ready for myboot. It was Will Tyacke, standingbeside Sea, waiting for my return.

I nodded and let him throw me upinto the saddle. I turned Sea’s head for

home and rode off without waiting forhim. In a few seconds I heard his horsetrotting and he came alongside me,without a word. I glanced at him. Hisface was impassive, I did not know ifhe had seen me in the ring – but I couldbe sure he would hear all about it nextmarket-day. I did not know if he hadbeen in earshot of my anguished shoutat Robert, if he had heard her name, ifhe had heard my name of Meridon.

But no one ever knew anything bylooking at Will. The glance he gave meback was as discrete as stone. But hisbrown eyes were filled with pity.

‘Back to Havering?’ he asked.‘Yes,’ I said. I was as desolate as

a chrysallis after the butterfly hasflown. A little dry dessicated thingwhich has outlived its time and cantumble over and over and crumble todust. ‘Nowhere else for me to go,’ Isaid quietly.

He did not drop behind me, like agroom guarding his mistress as hemight have done, given that he was asangry with me as he had ever beenwith anybody in his life; but he rodebeside me as if we were equals. Andin the empty heartbroken hollows ofmyself I was glad of his company andfelt less alone as we rode up the driveto Havering Hall and the stars cameout unseen above the dark canopy ofthe trees.

‘Thank you,’ I said as we reachedthe stables and the lad came out to takeSea. My throat was sore. I must havescreamed at Robert, back there in thering.

He turned his gaze on me as darkas a magician. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Don’tmarry him. It won’t hurt to wait alittle.’

The yard was very quiet, the ladat my horse’s head stood still, stroking

Sea’s white nose.Will nodded. ‘The pain will

fade,’ he said. ‘You will be lessdesolate in time.’

I shook my head, I even found aslight unconvincing smile. ‘No,’ I saidhuskily. ‘I never was very happy, evenbefore I lost her. I don’t expect muchjoy now.’

He leaned forward and with hishardened dirty hand he touched mycheek, and my forehead, smoothing thetense hot skin, rubbing at my templeswith roughened gentle fingers. Then,before I knew what he was doing hetook my face in both his hands andkissed me, one soft kiss, full on the lipsas confident as an acknowledgedlover.

‘Good luck then, Sarah,’ he said.‘You can always walk away from themall, you know.’

I didn’t pull away from his touch.

I closed my eyes and let him do as hewould with me. It made no differenceat all. I put my hands up and closed myfingers around his wrists and held him,held his hands against my cheeks andlooked into his eyes.

‘I wish to God I was dead,’ I saidto him.

We stood there for a moment, insilence. Then Sea shifted restlessly andour grip broke. The lad at Sea’s headreached up for me and jumped medown from the saddle. Will stayedunmoving on his horse, watched mewalk across the yard, the water troughshining like ice in the moonlight,watched the yellow lamplight from thehouse spill out in a square on thecobbles as I opened the back door, andthen watched me close the door behindme and heard me shoot the bolts.

The next day we left for London, so

Lady Clara’s spies had not time to tellher of the show, and of the young ladywho looked like me, but who answeredto another name.

We travelled heavy. I thought ofthe old days, of one wagon carryingeverything a family of five would need.Of the first season when we travelledwith bedding for four, costumechanges, saddlery and a scenerybackdrop all loaded in two wagons.Lady Clara and I travelled in theHavering carriage, Lord Peregrinerode alongside for his own amusement.Behind us came the baggage coachwith all our clothes and with LordPeregrine’s valet and two maids.Behind that came a wagon with variousessentials necessary to Lady Clara’scomfort: everything from sheets to thedoor-knocker, and either side of thislittle cavalcade ranged outriders –stable lads and footmen, armed for this

journey with blunderbuss and bludgeonin case highwaymen might stop us androb us. By the end of the first hour,bored and restless, I heartily hopedthey would.

I was a bad travelling companionfor Lady Clara. She had a book to readbut I was still unable to read anythingbut the simplest of stories and thejogging of the chaise meant I could notput my finger under a line and followit. I had with me some of the accountsof Wideacre in the days of my mamaJulia, but I could not read hercopperplate script and Lady Clarawould not trouble herself to help me.And to my surprise, and thenincreasing discomfort, I found I wassickly with the movement of thecarriage.

I did not believe it when I startedto feel headachy and dizzy. Me, whohad spent all my life on the driver’s

seat of a wagon, or eating or dozingbehind! But it was true. The chaisewas slung on thick leather straps and itbounced like a landlady’s bubbies, andit swayed from side to side too. Agreat lolloping pig of a chaise, linedwith sickly blue. I would have blessedthe highway-man who stopped us. Iwould have been out of the chaise in amoment and begged him a ride on hishorse.

‘You’re pale,’ Lady Claracommented, looking up from her book.

‘I’m sickly,’ I said. ‘The chaisemakes me feel ill.’

She nodded. ‘Don’t say “sickly”,say “unwell”,’ she said, and reachedfor her reticule. She pulled out a littlebottle of smelling salts and handed itover to me. I had never seen such athing before.

‘Is it drink?’ I asked, holding it tothe light and trying to see.

‘No!’ said Lady Clara with herrippling laugh. ‘It’s smelling salts. Youhold it under your nose and smell it.’

I took the stopper off and held thelittle bottle under my nose. I gave ahearty sniff and then gasped with theshock of it. My head reeled, mynostrils stung.

Lady Clara rocked on her seat.‘Oh, Sarah!’ she said. ‘You are a littlesavage! You wave it under your noseand breathe normally. I thought it mighthelp.’

I stoppered the bottle again andhanded it back to her. I fumbled in mypocket for my handkerchief and rubbedmy sore nose and mopped my eyes.

‘I should feel better if I couldride,’ I said.

‘Out of the question,’ Lady Clarasaid, and that was the end of theconversation.

I shut my eyes against the swaying

dizziness of the movement, and after alittle while I must have slept, for thenext thing I knew the wheels of thecoach were squeaking and banging oncobblestones. I woke with a jump ofshock and all round me was the bustleof the city and the shouts of the porters.The smell was appalling and the noisewas as bad as Salisbury on market day,and it went on for mile after mile. Icould not believe there were so manypeople in the world, so manycarriages, so many paupers, beggars,hucksters, tradesmen.

‘London!’ Lady Clara said with asigh of relief which showed how hardher stay in the country had been for her.

I nodded but instead of excitementI felt only dread. I would rather havedone anything in the world than bewhere I was, Miss Sarah Lacey, cometo town for my first Season as a younglady, driving up to the Haverings’ town

house with little Miss Juliet in thenursery and the newly wedded LadyMaria de Montrey coming to see hermama in the morning.

‘You will not dislike mydaughters,’ Lady Clara said to me, herblue eyes veiled as if she could guessmy thoughts as I grew paler andquieter.

‘No,’ I said without conviction.‘You will not dislike them,

because they will mean nothing toyou,’ she said equably. ‘Juliet is anignorant schoolgirl, a little forward forher age, quite pretty. Maria is a littlevixen. I married her well before herhusband discovered the sharpness ofher tongue. She ought to thank me forthat but she will not.’ Lady Claragleamed over the top of her fan. ‘Shewill hate you,’ she said candidly, witha smile.

I hesitated. Sarah Lacey the young

lady was in conflict with Meridon thegypsy. Meridon won. ‘I hate cat fights,’I said bluntly. ‘I don’t want herscratching at me. It will be bad enoughwithout that.’

Lady Clara smiled mischievously.‘Don’t say “cat fights”, Sarah,’ shesaid. ‘And don’t be dull. It will not bebad. It is your coming-out into yourrightful society. And you may rely onme to curb the worst excesses of mydaughter’s malice.’

I hesitated. ‘You won’t always bethere,’ I said. ‘And Perry…’

Lady Clara’s fan flicked the dustyair. ‘Perry is as afraid of Maria as heis of me,’ she said. ‘He’ll be no help toyou, my dear. So I will always bethere. Maria is selfish enough andconceited enough to try to make a foolof you in public. I shan’t permit that.You will do well enough with me.’

‘I’m grateful,’ I said. There was a

world of irony in my voice but LadyClara chose not to hear it.

Instead she leaned forward.‘We’re nearly here,’ she said. ‘This isGrosvenor Street, and here is ourstreet, Brook Street, and here, on thecorner, is our house.’

She spoke with pride, I stared insurprise at it. It was a handsome whitehouse with a flight of four shallowsteps down to the pavement, a greatarmy of black iron railings around it,and a heavy triangular carving of stoneover the doorway. They must havebeen waiting for us, for as the carriagedrew up the double doors were flungopen and two footmen in livery andhalf a dozen maids in black dressesand white aprons came out and stoodin a row up the steps. Lady Clara puther hand to her bonnet and cast a swiftlook over me.

‘Straighten your cape, Sarah,’ she

said abruptly. ‘And don’t smile atthem.’

I nodded and tried to look ashaughty and as disdainful as she did.Then they opened the carriage doorand let down the steps and Lady Claraglided into the house nodding as themaids rippled down in a curtsey oneither side of her, and I followed herin.

I was not awkward then. I was notgawkish. I had stood in a show ringbefore now and been stared at till thecrowds had their full pennyworth. Arow of housemaids would notdiscomfort me. I nodded impartially attheir bowed capped heads, andfollowed Lady Clara indoors.

It was a grand lovely hall. If LadyClara had not shot me a quick frown Ishould have gasped. The stairs camecurling down the wall on our right,broad and shallow with a fancy curved

banister. The wall behind it was crustywith plasterwork making pictureframes and niches for white statues –indecent, I thought they were, but Ibarely had time for more than aglimpse. Inside the square gilt plasterframes were painted pictures of peoplewrapped up in coloured sheets androlling in waves or lying about inwoods. There was a door on our left toa room which would overlook thestreet but Lady Clara walked past itand followed the butler up the stairs toa parlour immediately above it, facingthe street.

He threw open the door. ‘We lit afire in the parlour, my lady, thinkingyou might be chilled or tired from yourdrive,’ he said. ‘Would you like sometea m’lady? Or mulled wine?’

I stepped into the room behindher. It was the most extraordinary roomI had ever seen in my life. Every wall

was done up fancy with greatmouldings and painted so that everywall was like a frame for a picture, orfor the four tall windows. Thefireplace was so covered with swagsand curls and ribbons that youwondered they could ever find whereto light it in the mornings. It was verygrand. It was very imposing. I missedthe simple comfort of Wideacre themoment I was over the threshold.

‘Dust,’ Lady Clara said walkinginto the parlour stripping off her glovesand handing them to the waiting maid.

The butler, the Havering man whohad set off early yesterday night fromSussex to be here to greet us, shot afurious glance at the housekeeper, aLondon woman I had not seen before.

Lady Clara sat down before thefire and put her feet up on the brassfender. She held out her hands to theblaze and looked at them all,

parlourmaid, housekeeper, butler,without a smile.

‘Dust on the outsidewindowsills,’ she said. ‘Get themscrubbed. And bring me my post and acup of mulled wine at once. And bringa cup for Miss Lacey and Lord Perryas well.’

The butler murmured an apologyand backed from the room. Thehousekeeper and the maid flicked outshutting the door behind them. LadyClara gleamed her malicious smile atme.

‘There’s never any call to bepleasant to servants, Sarah,’ she said.‘There are thousands who would givetheir right arms for a good place in aLondon household. Treat them firmlyand sack them when you need to.There’s no profit in doing more.’

‘Yes, Lady Clara,’ I said, and Ipulled out a chair from the fireside and

sat down beside her.The door opened and Perry came

in with the parlourmaid behind himcarrying a tray.

‘’Llo, Mama,’ he said pleasantly.‘Sarah!’ He waved the maid to thetable and flapped her from the roomand handed us our cups himself.

‘Load of letters,’ he saidthoughtfully. ‘Mostly for you, Mama.Half a dozen for me. Bills, I suppose.’

He handed the tray of LadyClara’s letters over to her and watchedher as she sipped her drink and startedto slit them open with an ivory paperknife. While her attention wasdistracted he reached deep into aninside pocket of his jacket and broughtout a dark little flask and slopped ameasure of some clear liquid into hisdrink. He winked at me, as roguish as alad, and then sipped at his mulled winewith greater appetite.

‘Invitations,’ Lady Clara saidwith pleasure. ‘Look, Sarah, your nameon a gilt engraved card!’

She handed me a stiff white cardand I put my fingers under the wordsand spelled out slowly: ‘The Hon. MrsThaverley requests the pleasure of theDowager Lady Clara Havering andMiss Sarah Lacey to a ball…’

‘Lord! She mustn’t do that inpublic, Mama!’ Perry said, suddenlyalarmed.

Lady Clara looked up from herletters and saw me, tortuously spellingout words.

‘Good God no!’ she said. ‘Sarah,you must never try to read in publicuntil you can do so without putting yourfinger under the words and movingyour lips.’

I looked from one to the other ofthem. I had been so proud that I hadbeen able to make out at all what the

invitation said. But it was not a skill Ihad learned, it was a socialembarrassment. Whatever I did it wasnever good enough for high society.

‘I won’t,’ I promised tightly.‘Lady Clara, may I go to my room andtake my hat off?’

She looked sharply at me and thenher gaze softened. ‘Yes, of course,’ shesaid. ‘I had forgotten you felt ill. Goand lie down and I will send your maidto call you in time for you to dress fordinner.’

She nodded me to pull the bellrope by the mantelpiece, and I lookedat the clock. It said three o’clock.

‘We will not dine for hours yet!’Lady Clara said airily. ‘We keep townhours now! We will dine at six today,even later when we start entertaining.Mrs Gilroy can bring a slice of breadand cake up to you in your room.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. Peregrine

held the door for me and then followedme out. The parlourmaid appearedfrom the back of the long corridorwhere I guessed the servants’ stairswere, dipped a curtsey to both of usand waited. Perry’s gaze was blurred,he had been drinking as he rode and thegin in the mulled wine had added to hishaziness.

‘I’ll fetch the cake,’ he offered.‘We’ll have a little picnic. It can belike it was in the woods that first daywhen I thought you were a stable lad,and we said we’d be friends.’

‘All right,’ I said desolately.I followed the maid down the

corridor trailing my new bonnet by theribbons so that the flowers on the sidebrushed on the thick pile of the carpet.The maid threw open a panelled doorand stood to one side. It was aspacious pretty bedroom which Iguessed had belonged to the vixen

Maria before her marriage. There wasa white and gold bed and matchingdressing-table with a mirror atop and astool before it. There was a hangingcupboard for dresses and cloaks.There was a window which waspainted tight shut and looked out overthe street where carriages went to andfro and errand boys and footmensauntered. It smelled of indoors as ifclean winds never blew in London. Iwrinkled my nose at the stale scent ofperfume and hair-powder. I could notimagine how I would ever manage tosleep there. It would be like living in aprison.

There was a great crash outsidemy door as Perry stumbled against it,tray in hands. I crossed the room andopened it and he weaved unsteadily in.The open bottle of wine had tippedover and was rolling on the tray, winestreaming out over plum cake, fairy

cakes, little biscuits and slices ofbread and butter. The little dish of jamhad skidded to the back of the tray andwas sticking, unnoticed, to hiswaistcoat. The tray was awash withred wine, the food sodden.

Perry dumped the lot on thehearthrug before the fire, quiteunaware.

‘Now we can be comfortable,’ hesaid with satisfaction.

I giggled. ‘Yes we can,’ I said.And we toasted each other in theremainder of the wine and we atesoggy plum cake and redstainedbiscuits, and then we curled uptogether like drunken puppies anddozed before the fire until the maidtapped on the door and told me it wastime to dress for dinner.

29Lady Clara had told me that I was fitfor London society and I had doubtedher when every move I made in Sussexwas somehow subtly wrong. But oncewe were in London she criticized mevery little, and I remembered with awry smile how Robert Gower wouldnever criticize a performance in thering. It was the rehearsals where hewas an inveterate taskmaster. In thering he smiled encouragement.

Lady Clara was like that, and mylife in London was like one longperformance where I showed the tricksshe had taught me and relied on her toskim over the errors I made. Shecovered for me wonderfully. When ayoung lady went to the piano to playand turned to me and said, ‘Do yousing, Miss Lacey?’ it was Lady Clarawho said that I was training with one

of the best masters and he insisted thatI rest my voice between lessons.

They all nodded with a great dealof respect at that, and only the younglady at the piano looked at all put out.

Dancing I was excused until wehad been to Almacks, some sort of clubwhere I should dance my first dancewith Perry.

Sketches were loaned to me fromthe schoolroom and Lady Clarainsisted that I squiggle my initials atthe foot of them, and had them framed.They attracted much praise and Ithought my modesty was particularlybecoming. The embroidery which wascobbled together by the governess inthe schoolroom as an extra unpaid dutyI left scattered around the drawingroom, and Lady Clara would sweetlyscold me in front of visitors for notputting it away. My flowerarrangements were done by one of the

parlourmaids who had once beenapprenticed to a flower-seller. Onlymy horse riding and my card-playingwere entirely my own and they wereskills from my old life.

‘Far too good for a young lady,’Lady Clara said. She wanted me toride a quiet lady’s mount and offeredme a bay from her stables. But I heldtrue to Sea and she sent down toSussex for him. The stables werearound the back of the house, down acobbled street. Some afternoons, whenLady Clara was resting, I would weara hat with a veil pulled down andsneak round to the stables to see him. Iwas not supposed to walk out withouta footman, the horses should bebrought to the door. But I did not trustthe London stable lads to keep his tackproperly clean. I was not sure theywere reliable about his feeds and hiswater. To tell the truth, I simply longed

to be with him and to smell him and totouch the living warmth of him.

Lady Clara would have knownwithin a few days what I was doing.She said nothing. I think she knew,with her cunning common sense, thatthere was only so much I could bear tobe without. If I had to live without theland, without travelling, and withoutthe girl who had been my constantcompanion since the day I was born, Ihad to find things which would makeme feel as if I touched earthsomewhere. Sea, and sometimes Perry,were the only things in London whichseemed real at all.

I was allowed out riding earlyevery morning, provided I took agroom as a chaperone and did notgallop. When the clocks were strikingseven we would trot through the streetswhich were busy even then. DownDavies Street, across Grosvenor

Square which was dusty from thebuilding work, and along Upper BrookStreet to the park where the greenleaves were looking dry and tired, andsome of the bushes were yellowing attheir edges. Sometimes the gate-keeperat the Grosvenor Gate lodge would beup, and tip his hat to me, more oftenonly the groom and I were the onlypeople in the park. There were duckssilent beside the still pond, there weregreat flocks of pigeons which wheeledaround us. One morning I heard a lowrushing creaky noise and looked up tosee a pair of white swans circling thewater and landing with a great greenbow-wave of stagnant water crestingagainst their broad white breasts.

On Wideacre at this time of year Ithought the berries would be verybright and ripe in the bushes. The nutswould be in thick clusters on the trees.In the London park there was fruiting

and nutting going on, but it seemedmore like a diversion. It hardly seemeda matter of hunger, of life or death. Thesquirrels in the trees and the ducks bythe reservoir seemed like stuffed pets,not like live hungry animals.

The groom rode behind me at halfa dozen paces, but I was as aware ofhim watching me as if he had been agaol keeper. Sea longed for a gallopbut I had to keep him on a tight rein.The noises of the city puzzled andfretted him, his ears went back all thetime as we rode home through thecrowded streets. When I rode himdown the cobbled mews and left him inhis stables I thought he looked at mereproachfully with his great dark eyesas if to say that the place he had foundfor us, that night when we had beenquite lost, had been better than this. Iwould shrug as I walked home, as if Iwere trying to explain in my head that

we had to be here. He had to live in astreet filled with other stables whererich carriages and beautiful horsesawaited their owners’ commands.Among all that wealth and elegance Icould not understand why I did not feeltriumphant. I had wanted the best, thevery best. And now I had it.

Perry would never ride with mein the early mornings. He was out toolate every night of the week.Sometimes he went to gambling hells,sometimes he went to cock pits orboxing rings. Once he went to a ridingshow and offered to take me. I said Idid not want to go, that his mamawould not approve of me going, and hewent alone. I did not even ask him whowere the riders and what tricks theydid.

He did not rise until midday andwould sometimes take breakfast withus dressed in a brilliant-coloured

dressing gown. When his head wasaching badly he would take strongblack coffee cut with brandy. When hewas well he would drink strong ale orwine and water. Whether he ate well,or whether his hands were shaking andhis face white, his mama never seemedto notice. She read her letters, shechatted to me. One time he wasswaying in his chair and I thought hemight faint, but Lady Clara never saidone word. She never tried to check hisdrinking. She seldom asked him wherehe had been the night before. He grewpaler and paler every week of theSeason, but Lady Clara seemed to seenothing but her own pretty reflection inthe mirror over the mantelpiece; shewatched no one but me.

I met Juliet and her governess thatfirst evening. She came downstairs tobe introduced before dinner, but shedid not stay to dine with her mama. She

made her curtsey to me without raisingher eyes, and when she was told thatPerry and I were to marry and that sheand I would be sisters she gave me acold kiss on the cheek and wished mevery happy.

I made no effort to get on closerterms with her. I did not want a sister.

Lady Maria arrived in a flurry ofostrich plumes the first morning afterour arrival.

‘Expensive,’ her mama saidcoolly as she fluttered into the room.Maria kissed her and then stood backand twirled around so that Lady Claramight see the full effect of a bluevelvet walking gown, blue jacket, bluehat and blue feathers with a dark furcape thrown over the shoulders.

‘Vulgar,’ Lady Clara said simply.Maria laughed, not at all abashed.

‘Where’s the pauper-heiress?’ shedemanded.

Lady Clara frowned and affecteddeafness. ‘Sarah, may I present to youmy daughter, Lady de Monterey. Mariathis is Miss Sarah Lacey.’

Maria gave me a gloved hand anda look as cold as ice. ‘I hear you andPerry are to be married,’ she saidcoolly. ‘I hope you will be very happyI am sure.’

I smiled, as cold as her. ‘I amsure we will,’ I said. ‘I believe youare newly wed aren’t you? I’m sure Iwish you very happy.’

We stood smiling at each other asif we had lemon slices in our mouths.Lady Clara stood back as if enjoyingthe spectacle.

‘How is Basil?’ she askedbriskly, pulling the bell pull formorning coffee.

Maria unpinned her hat before themirror and patted the tightly crimpedblonde curls into place. She turned and

made a face at her mother.‘Just the same,’ she said. ‘Still

working, working, all the time; justlike a tradesman.’

‘A rather successful tradesman,’Lady Clara said wryly. ‘He did notquibble about the price of that ballgown which you wrote to me about?’

Maria beamed. ‘I slipped it inalong with a whole lot of bills from hisestate,’ she said. ‘Compared to a forestof trees which he is planting I ampositively paltry.’

Lady Clara smiled. ‘It would beas well not to play that trick too often,’she warned. ‘You’ve only beenmarried a quarter.’

The maid set the coffee traybefore me and then waited to pass thecups around when I had poured them.My hand was as steady as a rock and Idid not spill a drop. Lady Clara waswatching me from the corner of her

eyes. Maria had forgotten I was there.‘I’m flush now,’ she said airily. ‘I

had this quarter’s dress allowance andI doubled it last night playing vingt-et-un at Lady Barmain’s. I had such a runof luck, Mama, I vow you would nothave believed it! Four hundred poundsI won clear! You should have seen herladyship’s face! She was nearly sickwhen I rose from the tables a winner.They say she rents her house on herwinnings at the table, you know. I musthave cost her a month at least!’

Lady Clara laughed her sharpLondon laugh, and Maria told her somemore gossip about people whosenames I did not know, but whose vicesand sorrows, drink or gambling orunfulfilled desire, were the same inhigh society as in a showground.

I was surprised at that. In my firstmonth in London my greatest lessonwas that there was less difference than

I had seen when I had been at thebottom, the very bottom of the heap ofsociety looking up. I had been dazzledthen by the cleanliness and the foodthey ate, at the fineness of the gownsand the way the ladies were so dainty,and dressed so bright. But now I toowas washed and fed, and could talk ina high light voice as they did. I couldcurtsey to the right depth, I couldspread a fan and smile behind it. Icould mince across a room, not stride.They were all signals, secret code-words, as impenetrable as the signs ofthe road which tell you where it is safeto camp and where you can poach.Once I had learned them, I had the keyto a society which was the same as thatof a fairground: nothing more andnothing less. They were drunkards andgamblers, wife-beaters and lovers,friends, parents and children; just thesame. The greatest difference between

the world of the gentry and those of thelandless was just that: land. When Ihad been on the bottom of the heap Iowned nothing and they had taught meto think the worse of myself for that.The only thing which had brought me tothe top of the world was land andmoney, they would forgive meeverything if I remained rich. I wouldnever have got beyond the area railingsif I had stayed poor.

And while I rode Sea on mylonely way in the park in the mornings,or watched dancers swirl around onthe floor while the clock struckmidnight and footmen yawned behindgloved hands, I recognized more andmore that the wealth of the ballroomand the poverty of the farmyard werealike unjust. There was no logic to it.There was no reason. The wealthywere rich because they had won theirmoney by fair means and foul. The

poor were poor because they were toostupid, too weak, or too kindly tostruggle to have more and to hold itagainst all challenges. Of the people Imet every day, only a few had beenrich for many years, the vast majoritywere quick-wined merchants, slavers,soldiers, sailors, farmers or tradersonly a generation ago. They hadsucceeded in the very enterpriseswhere Da had failed. And so Da hadgrown poorer and more miserable,while they had grown rich.

I did not become a Jacobin withthese observations! Oh no! If anythingit hardened my heart to Da and thoselike him. It strengthened me. I wasnever going to fall out of the charmedcircle of the rich. I was never going tobe poor again. But I saw the richclearly, as once I had not. I saw themat last as lucky adventurers in a worldwith few prizes.

And, by the way, for all theextravagant profits they made, thewealth they earned, not one of themworked half as hard as we had donefor Robert’s show. Indeed few of themworked as hard as feckless, idle Da.

It took me only a month to seethrough the Quality life and thereafter Iwas not afraid of them. I had seen LadyClara condemn a woman for hopelessvulgarity and cite her bad connections,and yet include her on the guest list fora party. I learned that a great manymistakes would be forgiven me if Icould keep my wealth. And all thelittle obstacles which they liked toinvent: the vouchers for Almacks, theproper costume for presentation, thesponsor at court – all these things werejust pretend-obstacles to weed outthose with insufficient capital or land,to challenge those who did not haveenough money for three tall ostrich-

plumes to be worn once, for half anhour of an evening only, to completethe formal court gown.

But I had enough money. I hadenough land. And if I forgot how tohold my knife once or twice when Icame across a new dish at dinner, or ifI spoke a word out of place, it wasquickly forgotten and forgiven to thebeautiful rich Miss Lacey of Wideacre.

They thought I was beautiful, itwas not just the money. It was the fineclothes, and how I rode Sea in thepark. The young men liked how Iwalked with them, long easy stridesand not the hobbled minces of usualyoung ladies. They called me a ‘Diana’after some old Greek lady. They sentme housefuls of flowers and asked meto dance. One of them, actually abaronet, asked me to break myengagement with Perry and becomeengaged to him. He took me into a

private room as he led me back fromthe ballroom and flung himself at myfeet swearing eternal love.

I said, ‘No,’ brusquely enoughand turned to leave but he jumped tohis feet and grabbed me and wouldhave kissed me. I brought my knee upsharply and I heard the hem of mygown rip before I had time to stop andthink what a young lady should do.Lady Clara came spinning into the littlelobby room in time to see him gaspingand heaving on a sofa.

‘Sir Rupert! what is this?’ shedemanded. Sir Rupert was white as asheet and could only gasp and clutchhis breeches.

Lady Clara turned on me.‘Sarah?’ she said. ‘I saw Sir Ruperttake you from the supper room, heshould have brought you back to theballroom. What are you doing here?’

‘Nothing, Lady Clara,’ I said. I

was scarlet up to the eyebrows.‘Nothing happened.’

She took me by the elbow anddragged me over to the window.‘Sarah! Quick! Tell me what tookplace,’ she hissed.

‘He grabbed me and tried to kissme,’ I said. I hesitated. I did not knowhow to tell her what had happened ingenteel language.

‘And then?’ Lady Clara promptedurgently. ‘Sarah! The man is one of therichest gentlemen in England and he isrolling on the sofa in his mama’shouse! What the devil has happened?’She clutched my arm hard and her eyessuddenly widened. ‘Don’t say you hithim!’ she moaned.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I kneed him in theballs. He’ll recover.’

Lady Clara let out a shriek oflaughter and clapped her gloved handover her mouth at once. ‘Never say that

again,’ she said through her fingers.‘We are leaving at once.’

She tucked my hand under her armand swept me from the room withoutpausing to say a word to Sir Rupert.She nodded regally to his mama fromthe other side of the ballroom but didnot deign to bid her farewell. Asurprised link boy was sent flying forour carriage. Lady Clara would not letme speak until we were in our ownhouse with the door closed behind us,then she sank down into a chair in thehallway and laughed until she gaspedfor breath. When she lifted her head Isaw her eyes were streaming.

‘Oh Sarah!’ she said. ‘I would nothave missed tonight for the world!Never do that again Sarah! Scream orfaint or have the vapours. But don’t dothat,’ she paused. ‘Unless it’s acommon man of course. But neverattack anyone over the level of a

squire.’‘No, Lady Clara,’ I said

obediently.She looked at me keenly and

stripped off her evening gloves andsmoothed the skin under her eyes. ‘Didhe offer to marry you?’ she askedacutely.

‘Before he grabbed me,’ I said.‘Yes, he did.’

‘But you are betrothed,’ she said.‘I didn’t forget it,’ I said. ‘He

asked me to break my promise to Perryand I said I would not.’

‘You prefer Perry,’ her ladyshipstated.

‘Yes,’ I said truthfully. ‘I do.’‘Even though Sir Rupert is good-

looking and pleasant,’ she said.I paused. ‘He is,’ I agreed. ‘But I

think Perry suits me better.’I would have said nothing more,

but Lady Clara was curious.

‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Why Perryrather than Sir Rupert?’

‘Sir Rupert is passionate,’ I said.‘He thinks he is in love with me. Hewould want his passionate lovereturned. I cannot do that.’

‘And Perry is content withnothing,’ Lady Clara said, her lipcurled slightly.

‘Perry and I are friends,’ I saiddefensively.

‘You have never kissed, he hasnever touched you?’ Lady Clara asked.

I felt myself blush slightly. ‘Weneither of us want that,’ I said. ‘It isour decision.’

She nodded. ‘Does he have awoman?’ she asked. She rose from thechair and slung her fur wrap down andwent to the stairs.

‘No!’ I said, surprised. I hadthought of Perry for so long as a manquite without desire that I was almost

shocked that his mother – whose viewof him was so acute – should havethought him capable of having amistress.

She paused, one delicate satin-shod foot on the lower step. ‘I supposehe can get an heir?’ she asked crudely.‘He’s not impotent, d’you think,Sarah?’

My face was as hard as hers. ‘Heknows his duty,’ I said. ‘He knows hehas to.’

Her face softened and she smiled.‘That’s all right then,’ she said, as ifthe inheritance were all that mattered.‘Good-night, my dear.’

I said good-night and watched heras she went lightly up the stairs to herroom and shut her door.

I thought of the show and of thewomen I had seen with Da. Of Zimaand of Katie the whore. And I thoughtthat never in my life had I seen a

woman as beautiful and as cold-hearted as the woman who was to bemy new mama, when I married her son.

The late nights did not make me weary.I woke every morning when the clatterof the street outside my bedroomstarted, and the day after the ball wassunny and I was glad to be up early andtake Sea out to the park.

The weather was getting colder. Ishivered as Sea trotted down thecobbled road towards the park. Thegroom beside me had a blue muffleraround a blue chin and looked as if hewould have preferred another hour inhis bed.

Sea’s ears were back, as theyalways were when we were riding intown, but they suddenly went forwardand he gave a ringing neigh ofwelcome as a square figure on a heavybay horse pulled up as if waiting for us

at the end of the road.‘Will Tyacke!’ I declared, and my

heart lifted with delight.He was beaming, his face bright

with joy at seeing me, and I reachedout my hand to shake his. If we had notbeen on horseback I would have flungmy arms around his neck and huggedhim.

‘How are you?’ he said at once.‘How are they treating you here? Youlook pale, are you happy here?’

I laughed and put my hand on hisshoulder. ‘Stop!’ I said. ‘I am quitewell. I was out late last night soperhaps I do look tired, but I am happyenough. Is everything all right onWideacre?’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Well enough.We’ve ploughed and planted wintercrops. The apples did well, and theplums. We’ve enough feed and wheatto get through the winter. Things are

well at home.’I swallowed a lump in my throat.

Will seemed like a messenger fromanother world, I could almost smell thecold autumn air of Wideacre on him. Ithought of the house nestling in theparkland and the trees turning yellowand gold. I thought of the beech treesgoing purple and dark and the animalscoming down from the higher fields.

‘Does the land look nice?’ Iasked. It was a foolish question but Idid not have the right words.

Will’s smile was understanding.‘Aye,’ he said. ‘The roses at the Hallare still flowering though it’s gettinglate in the year. The Fenny is high,you’d hardly recognize it. The trees areturning colour and all the swallows aregone. The owls call very loud atnights. The moon has been very brightand yellow. I miss you.’

I drew my breath in with a little

hiss and froze. Will’s gaze droppedfrom my face to his horse’s mane. ‘I’vecome to town on business of my own,’he said. ‘But I promised myself I couldcome and find you and tell you this. Iunderstand that you wanted yourSeason, that you wanted to see whatthe Quality life was like.’

He paused and then went onsoftly, persuasively. ‘You’ve seen itnow, you’ve seen it all. You’ve beento balls and danced with lords. Nowyou should come home. I’m come totell you that, and I’ll escort you home ifyou’ve had enough of being here. Yourbedroom is ready at the Hall. Youcould be home by nightfall. We’d allbe glad to see you back.’

A cart loaded with milk churnscame noisily down the street and Seaflinched and I had to steady him.‘Come to the park with me,’ I said.‘Sea needs exercise.’

Will nodded at the groom. ‘I’lltake her,’ he said. ‘Away and getyourself something to eat. You lookhalf clemmed.’

‘I am that,’ the man said gratefullyand pulled his dirty cap in mydirection. ‘Shall I come round to thehouse for the horse when you’vefinished your ride, Miss Lacey?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I’ll bring him back.’He wheeled his horse and trotted

down the street back to the stables, andWill and I turned towards the park,riding abreast.

Will told me other news ofWideacre, a baby had been born andwas to be called ‘Sarah’, the vicar hadbeen away for a week and was greatlyput out on his return to find no one hadattended church for the curate he hadinstalled in his absence. A vagrant hadcome through the village begging andhad stolen all the linen off the washing

lines. The gypsies were back on theCommon where they always camped.They were early which was the sign ofa hard winter.

‘Everything the same as ever,’Will said with a smile.

We rode side by side in a sedatecanter. Sea remembered the races onDownland and Common and threw uphis head and wanted to gallop but Iheld him back.

‘And you?’ Will asked. ‘Is it howyou expected?’

I shrugged. ‘It passes the time,’ Isaid. I shot a sideways look at him andthen I told him how it was in truth. Itold him about the pleasures of the newlife: the dresses, the hats, the morningrides. I told him about theextraordinary people who wereaccepted as normal in this odd newworld. I told him about the young men,and I made him laugh until he had to

cling to his horse’s mane when I toldhim about Sir Rupert left gasping onthe sofa clutching his balls.

‘And Lady Havering? And LordPeregrine?’ Will asked. ‘Are theygood to you?’

I hesitated. ‘As much as they canbe,’ I said. ‘Lady Clara is as cold asice. I’ve met kindlier women laying-out paupers. She cares for nothing butthe Havering estate and thesuccession.’

Will nodded. ‘I heard she caredfor her oldest son well enough,’ hesaid. ‘The one that died.’

‘Aye,’ I said crudely. ‘Men arealways more lovable when they’redead!’

Will laughed at that. ‘But LordPeregrine,’ he said and his voice wascarefully bright. ‘Do you see much ofhim now? Is the engagement still on?’

I nodded. I did not look at him.

‘The contracts are with the lawyers,’ Isaid. ‘I will marry him, you know.’

Will was looking straight ahead,down a little avenue where the paleyellow fronds of the chestnut treesmade an archway over our heads. Wewere quite alone and the clatter of thetown in the early morning seemed faraway.

‘I thought you might meetsomeone you fancied better,’ he said.‘I thought you were using him to getyourself comfortable in London – thatyou’d throw him over when you weresettled.’

I smiled a little wry smile. ‘Youthink highly of me, don’t you?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘It won’t be the firsttime a girl’s jilted a milksop,’ he said.‘I thought when you had a chance tolook around you’d see someone youfancied more.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’ll

ever have a fancy for a man.’‘Hard luck on the man who loves

you,’ Will offered neutrally.‘Very,’ I said. I shot a sideways

look at him. ‘A disaster for the manwho loves me,’ I repeated. ‘If hemarried me he would find me alwayscold. If he did not he could waste hislife in loving me and I would neverreturn it.’

‘Because you loved her, and nowshe is dead?’ he asked very quietly.

I flinched as soon as he evenneared the pain that was as sharp andfresh inside me as the evening shedied.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Perhaps because ofthat. But even before, long before that,I think it was already spoiled for me.’

‘Lord Peregrine gets shortmeasure then,’ Will said.

I smiled. ‘He gets what he wants,’I said. ‘He’s cold. He doesn’t like

women much. He’s mortal feared ofhis ma, he likes me because I don’tfuss him and want petting.’

‘He’s an odd one,’ Willsuggested.

I frowned. ‘He’s a drunkard, Ithink,’ I said. ‘And I think he’s agambler. He was well enough in thecountry, but now he is out every nightand I think gambling has a hold onhim.’

I paused, thinking of men I hadseen at fairgrounds losing everythingthey owned on the turn of a card. ‘I amafraid it might get to him,’ I said. ‘Ishould like to take him away.’

There was an open stretch ofgrass before us. We let the horses’stride lengthen and then Sea threw hishead up. I caught his wildness in amoment and in my mind, my gypsy-bratvoice said, ‘Damn the rules,’ and I letSea go. The ground seemed to leap

from under us, and I heard Will yellwith pleasure behind us as his horsegave chase. We were in the lead, andSea was going as if he wanted togallop all the way to Sussex. I had tosteady him, I had to pull him up. Wewere nearly by the road whichintersects the park. It would havecaused talk if I had been seengalloping, and that with a workingman.

Sea blew out softly, but he wasnot winded. He could have gone on forhours. I could tell by the feel of himthat he was puzzled that we hadstopped so soon.

Will’s big bay thundered up to usand spattered us with mud as Willpulled him up.

‘That’s better!’ Will said. ‘That’sthe first real smile I’ve seen on yourface since I’ve been here! You shouldgallop more often, Sarah.’

I shook my head, still smiling.‘I’m not allowed,’ I said.

Will said something under hisbreath which sounded like an oath.‘Not allowed!’ he said. ‘You’re thesquire of Wideacre. Why take thesedamned rules? Why take this hopelessman? You say yourself he’s a drunkardand a gambler. Haven’t you had enoughsorrow and trouble without taking on afool as well?’

I turned Sea’s head homeward,and I bit back a quick and angry reply.

‘I need to run my own land,’ Isaid carefully. ‘I need a husband so Ican live as I please without MrFortescue’s old chaperone, or anyonebothering me.’

Will nodded, but looked like hewanted to interrupt.

‘I can’t marry an ordinary man,’ Isaid. ‘You know why. I’d drive anordinary man mad within a week. I’ve

no love to give, and I want none. I canmanage Perry. I can keep him fromgambling and from the drink when welive in the country. It doesn’t matterthat he is a weak fool. He’s kind-hearted enough, he’s gentle with me. Ican manage him. He is the onlyhusband I could deal with.’

Will looked at me carefully. ‘Hemight like lads,’ he said bluntly. ‘Hadyou thought of that?’

‘What?’ I asked. I pulled Sea upand stared blankly at Will. ‘Lads?’

Will cleared his throat inembarrassment. ‘Don’t be so daft,Sarah, for the Lord’s sake,’ he beggedme. ‘I just thought you should thinkabout it. He might like lads. You know.He might be a gentleman of the backdoor. You know!’

I exploded in a shout of laughter.‘A what? A gentleman of the what?’

Will was scarlet with

embarrassment. ‘Now have done,Sarah,’ he said. ‘You should thinkabout this. You’re going to marry himand you won’t always have his mathere to keep him in order. If he getsdrunk he might ill-treat you. If he likeslads he could fill the house with themand there’s no one to say him nay. Hecould get the pox and give it to you.Think about it, for God’s sake!’

I sobered then, and nodded.‘Thank you,’ I said frankly. ‘Thank youfor thinking of me. I had not thoughtthat Perry might like lads. I willconsider it. But for me it is no greatdisadvantage. I don’t want a normalhusband, I want one that will leave mealone. He’s told me we have to get anheir and then we will not bed togetheragain. That’s a bargain for me in returnfor a gentry husband and an estate nextdoor to Wideacre.’

‘And you’ll use the Havering

power and knowledge to break theWideacre corporation,’ Will saidfrankly.

I sighed. I looked into his honestbrown eyes. ‘Yes,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘Thought so,’ he said.We turned the horses and walked on.

‘What have you come to Londonfor?’ I asked. ‘You said you hadbusiness here.’

‘I have,’ he said. ‘Though Icouldn’t have left the town withoutseeing you. I’ve come for a meeting ofa society of corporations. There’s afew other places trying to farm the landtogether, and we all meet togetherevery six months or so to see howthings are going. There’s talk of anewspaper as well. Wideacre is one ofthe more successful corporations.There’s lots who want to know howwe do it. I’m to give a speech to apublic meeting tonight.’

I nodded, rather impressed. ‘Whatwill you say?’ I asked.

Will smiled. ‘You’d not like it,’he said. ‘I’ll tell them how Wideacresuffered most harshly from enclosures– that was your grandmother, BeatriceLacey. Then the estate went into ruinafter the riot. Then I’ll tell them aboutthe rebuilding of the estate and runningit as a sharing scheme with thelandlord during your ma’s lifetime,when Ralph Megson was manager.And then I’ll tell them that when theestate was run by the Trust we set upthe corporation.’

‘And what will you tell themabout me?’ I asked.

Will’s face was grim. ‘I’ll tellthem that we don’t know what thefuture will hold for us,’ he said. ‘Thatif the new squire chooses to go againstus we will see the corporation ruinedand we will have to leave and start

again elsewhere or accept that we willbecome again an ordinary poorvillage.’

‘Leave?’ I said blankly. I hadnever thought that anyone might oneday leave Wideacre. I had neverthought of any greater change than that Ishould have more of a share of theprofits, that it should be my decisionhow the land was to be used.

‘Oh aye,’ Will said. ‘There’s afew who will be there tonight who arethinking of setting up corporations:gentlemen farmers and owners of bigfactories in the north who want to trytheir hand at co-operative farming.They’d be glad to have a manager whohad done something of the sort before –and made it pay,’ he added with asmile. ‘There’s a few from Acrewho’d rather move than be ruled by alandlord again.’ He looked at mesideways with a half-smile. ‘Once you

start changes Sarah, you may find theytake you further than you meant to go.’

‘Who would stay in Acre if youwent?’ I asked.

Will shrugged as if it were not hisproblem. With a sudden jolt ofapprehension I realized that it wouldindeed not be his problem.

‘Those that didn’t mind workingfor a landlord again,’ he said. ‘Thosewho had not saved money over the lastfew years and could not afford toleave. Those who had saved enough topay the new expensive rents you wouldbring in.’ He thought for a moment.‘Each family would feel differently,’he said. ‘Some would not bear to go.Some have been there so long, andlove the countryside so well.’

‘I had not thought anyone wouldleave,’ I said.

‘Most would,’ Will said bluntly.‘I’d not stay one day after your

marriage. I’ve no time to waste.’‘You’d go to one of these

experimental farms?’ I asked.‘Or America,’ he said.I gasped, involuntarily.

‘America!’ I said.Will looked at me and his brown

eyes were smiling. ‘I could bepersuaded to stay,’ he said.

I smiled back, but my eyes weresteady. ‘I have to have the money andthe land,’ I said.

He shrugged. ‘Then you could notkeep me,’ he said gently. We turned thehorses and headed for home.

‘When’s this wedding to be,then?’ he asked, as we turned down thelittle lane towards the stables.

‘At the end of the Season,’ I said.‘Spring, next year.’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Plenty of time foryou to see his paces. Time for you tochange your mind if you wish. No one

can constrain you, Sarah.’We had reached the stable yard

and the groom came out to take Sea. Islid from his back and patted his neck.He turned his great wise face aroundand lipped at my pocket, seeking asugarlump stolen from my breakfasttray.

‘Will you come to London again?’I asked. My voice sounded desolate. Ihad not meant to sound like that.

I turned and walked out to thestreet outside the stable yard, Willswung down from his horse’s back andled him, following me.

‘Do you want me to?’ he asked.I turned and faced him. ‘Yes,’ I

said honestly. ‘If you’re coming up totown I should like you to come and seeme and bring me news of Wideacre.’

He nodded. ‘If you needed me, Ishould find a room and be here for you,to ride with you every morning, to see

you every day,’ he said. He spoke inthe same level tones as if he wereasking me if the plough horses shouldbe shod.

‘No,’ I said sadly. ‘I should notask that of you. You should be atWideacre.’

He swung into the saddle andlooked down at me, where I stood onthe pavement. ‘So should you,’ heobserved.

I raised a hand to him. ‘Whenshall I see you again?’ I asked.

He smiled. ‘You tell me when,and I will come,’ he promised.

‘Next week?’ I hazarded.Will smiled, a warm generous

smile. ‘It just so happens that I need tocome to London next Wednesday. Youhave just put me in mind of it. I’ll stayovernight and ride with you in themorning.’

‘Yes,’ I said, and I reached up my

hand to him. Will took it and bentdown low and pulled back my glove sothat my wrist was bared. He pressed akiss on to the delicate skin of the insideof my wrist and then buttoned the gloveagain. It was as if the touch of his lipswas kept safe inside.

‘Send for me if you need me,’ hesaid.

I nodded, and stepped back. Hishorse trotted forwards and I watchedthem go.

30Even if Will had not warned me ofPerry I should have been watching himanyway. His drinking was gettingworse, his nights were getting later.One morning, when I came out for myride I found him retching hopelessly,clinging to the railings in broaddaylight.

I took his collar in a hard grip andhauled him to his feet, and then slunghis arm over my shoulder and halfdragged, half walked him up the stepsto the front door. The tweeny, who wasup to light the fires before anyone else,let us in, horror-struck at having toopen the door, which should be doneby the butler, and aghast that it was hislordship.

‘Help me,’ I said sharply. ‘I’llnever get him up the stairs on my own.’

She bobbed a scared curtsey and

dived under his other arm. ‘Yes’m,’she said. ‘But if you please ‘m, I’m notallowed up the front stairs.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ I said throughmy teeth. Perry had got a grip on one ofthe railings and would not let go.‘Come on, Perry!’ I said. ‘Stay heremuch longer and your ma will seeyou!’

I thought that would shift him, butit did not. He turned his face towardsme and I saw his blue eyes weresuddenly filled with tears. ‘Shewouldn’t care,’ he said. ‘She never didcare for me, and she doesn’t care forme now.’

‘Nonsense,’ I said briskly. Iunclasped his hand from the railing andnodded at the maid. We both made alittle rush at the step and got him overit. I heard a clatter of hooves behindme and there was Gerry, the groomfrom the stables riding his horse and

leading Sea. ‘Wait for me!’ I called,and then grabbed Peregrine as hisknees buckled underneath him as wemade it into the hall.

Peregrine collapsed on to thebottom step of the stairs and looked upat the maid and me. ‘That’s funny,’ hesaid. ‘Sarah? Now there are two ofyou.’

‘Oh come on! Perry!’ I said.‘We’ve got to get you to your room.People will be getting up soon, wedon’t want them to see you like this.’

Perry’s perfect mouth turneddown again. ‘I don’t care,’ he said.‘They don’t care. Everyone knows I’mnot as good as George. No one expectsme to be as good as George. No onelikes me as much as they liked him.’

I nodded to the maid and wegrabbed hold of an arm each andturned him around to face the stairs.

‘Everyone loved George,’ Perry

said glumly.The maid and I went up two steps

and then, borne back by the deadweight of Perry, we went back one.

‘He was the image of my papa,’Perry said. ‘And my papa loved himlike his own son.’

We made a bit of ground whilePerry considered this, nearly as far asthe first landing. But Perry grabbed atthe banister and turned to explain tome. ‘He was his son, you see,’ he said.

I nodded. ‘I know, Perry,’ I saidsoothingly. We got hold of him againand started the ascent up to the nextlanding.

‘I am too,’ Perry said sadly. ‘Itjust didn’t seem so important.’

I was watching his feet in theexpensive boots. He was half-walking,half-dragged by us.

‘Papa always said I looked likeMama. Not like him,’ he said. ‘He said

I looked like a girl. He used to call melittle Miss Peregrine.’

This time it was me who stopped,it cost us a few steps downwards.

‘What?’ I said.‘He called me Pretty Miss

Peregrine,’ Perry said. ‘I never got thefeeling he really liked me. Sent meaway to school when I was six. Neverhad me home for the holidays when hewas there. All over the place I was.Scotland, London, even France oneholiday. Never home with him andGeorge.’ The tears had overflowedand his face was wet. ‘Once Georgeand Papa were dead I thought it wouldbe different,’ he said. ‘But I suppose Ijust don’t look like a lord.’

‘You do!’ I said fiercely. ‘You dolook like a lord. You look like anangel, Perry. You are the best-lookingman I know. And if you could staysober you would be a really good

man.’‘You think so?’ Perry looked a

little brighter. ‘Well, I think I mightbe.’ He thought for a moment. ‘But I’drather be a drunk,’ he said.

We were at his bedroom doornow and the maid and I pushed himthrough.

‘Should we take his boots off?’ Iasked her.

She dipped me a curtsey.‘Please’m, I’m not allowed in thebedrooms,’ she said.

‘That’s all right,’ I said. I wasweary with the conventions of thishouse, of this life where a six-year-oldboy could be sent away to school andnever allowed home again. ‘You cango now.’

I put my hand in my pocket andfound a sixpenny piece. ‘Here,’ I said.‘Thank you for helping.’

Her eyes widened, and I suddenly

remembered how far sixpence couldgo if you were just a young girl likethis one. Like the two of us had been.

She went out and closed the doorbehind her, and I set to work onPerry’s boots. By the time I had themoff he was lying on his back and tearswere seeping out from under his closedeyelids. When I sat on the bed besidehim he turned his head to me andburied it in my lap.

‘I’ll never love anyone like I loveGeorge,’ he said sorrowfully. ‘I wishhe was still here, and then I wouldn’thave to be a lord any more. I wouldn’thave to get married or have an heir, oranything.’

I stroked his blond curls andtwisted one perfect circle around myindex finger.

‘I know,’ I said gently. ‘I misssomeone too.’

His grip around my waist

tightened, and I could feel hisshoulders shaking as he sobbed.

‘Sarah,’ he said, his voicemuffled. ‘Oh God, Sarah, get me out ofthis mess. I seem to be more and moreunhappy every day and nothing helps.’

‘There,’ I said helplessly. I pattedhis shoulder and stroked his back as ifhe were a little boy crying from somesecret hurt.

‘I’ve got to take Papa’s place andeveryone knows I’m not good enough,’he said. He lifted his head and lookedat me. His eyes were red from weepingand from the drink. ‘I’ve got to takeGeorge’s place and no one will everlove me like they loved George,’ hesaid.

I put my hand up to cup his cheek.‘I will,’ I said. I hardly knew what Iwas saying. My grief for her, and mysorrow and my loneliness at theemptiness of the life we were all living

seemed to well up inside me and callthat there should be love between us.That at least Perry and I could be kindto one another. That here was a mansuffering like a little child, and that hewas brought so low that even I, withmy own pain and failure, could helphim.

‘Don’t grieve, Perry,’ I saidgently. ‘I can care for you. We’ll notbe here much longer and then we cango home and live near Wideacretogether. People will forget George,they will forget your papa. We’ll runthe estate well together and peoplewill see what a good man you can be.Even your mama will be pleased whenshe sees how well you can run theestate.’

‘She will?’ he asked, as trustingas a child.

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘We will bothlearn together. You’ll see. We’ll be

happy in the end.’He let me press him back gently

to the pillow, and pull the coverletover him. He closed his eyes but heheld on tight to my hand.

‘Don’t leave me,’ he said.I held his hand firmly. ‘I won’t,’ I

said.‘Don’t ever leave me, Sarah,’ he

said pitifully, then his grip on my handloosened and in minutes he was asleepand snoring. I remembered a friend ofDa’s, who had choked on his vomitand I turned Perry’s young face to oneside on the fine linen pillow so that hewas not lying on his back. Then Itiptoed to the door and went softlydownstairs and out of the front doorwhere Sea’s ears went forward atseeing me.

The groom lifted me into thesaddle and we headed for the park,riding in silence. As I moved

instinctively with Sea, and checkedhim when a top-heavy wagon swayedpast us, too close, I thought of Perry. Ithought of him with such a greattenderness and pity. I thought of himwith love, and sympathy. And a tinylittle part of me spoke with the voiceof the hard-faced gypsy who wasalways there, in the back of my mind.That voice said, ‘This is a weaklingand a fool.’

He was still asleep when I gotback, but Lady Clara’s maid waswalking up the stairs with herladyship’s pot of hot chocolate.

‘I’ll take that,’ I said impulsively,and carried it in.

Lady Clara was awake, shesmiled when she saw me.

‘Why Sarah! Good morning! Hownice to see you so early! How verystrong you do smell of horse! My dear,do go over to the window and air

yourself a little!’‘I am sorry,’ I said, immediately

confused. ‘It may be my boots.’‘Of course it may,’ she said

agreeably. ‘But don’t mention it. I amsure the rugs will wash.’

I flushed scarlet. ‘Don’t tease me,Lady Clara,’ I said. ‘Are you tellingme I should not have come?’

She smiled. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Youare welcome, even smelling of hunter.Ring for another cup and tell me whyyou have come to see me so early.’

I waited until the maid hadbrought up another cup, and poured thechocolate, and brought Lady Clara themorning’s post, and taken herself off,and then I took a deep breath andstarted.

‘It’s about Perry,’ I said.Lady Clara’s blue gaze at me was

clear and guileless.‘Did he not come home last

night?’ she asked coolly. ‘Is he drunk?Or gambling?’

‘No!’ I exclaimed. ‘I found himon the doorstep this morning. He gothimself home but he is dead drunk.’

She nodded and gestured to me topour her another cup.

‘His drinking is getting worse andworse,’ I said. ‘And he seems to bevery unhappy. I can’t help thinking thatthis town life is very bad for him. Heshould have some occupation. All hedoes every day is ride with me in theafternoon and then go out every night.He does nothing else.’

‘There is nothing else,’ LadyClara pointed out. ‘He is leading thelife of a young gentleman of pleasure.What do you want him to do, Sarah?Steer a plough? Take up silkweaving?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ I said.‘But he drank less when he was down

at Havering. It is making him ill, LadyClara. He is paler and thinner all thetime. I have seen men very bad withdrink. I would not like that to happen toPerry.’

She looked suddenly alert. ‘Notbefore there was an heir, certainly,’she said.

I scrutinized her face. She was notspeaking in jest. She meant it.

‘What?’ I said blankly.‘Not “what”,’ she said instantly.‘I am sorry,’ I said. ‘I meant to

say: I beg your pardon?’She nodded. ‘If Perry died

without an heir then the whole estatewould go to my late husband’s brother,a commander in the Navy,’ she said. ‘Iwould have only the Havering DowerHouse, which is in all but ruins, andyou would have to look about yourselffor another husband who would let yourun your land as you please.’

I gaped at her. ‘You talk as if youdon’t care for Perry at all,’ I said.

Lady Clara lowered her gaze tothe embroidered coverlet on her bed.

‘That hardly matters,’ she saidcoldly.

‘He’s your son!’ I exclaimed.She looked up at me and her face

was smiling but the smile was not inher eyes. ‘That means little or nothing,’she said. ‘When he comes of age hewill command my fortune. Of course Iwant him settled in a way that suits me,of course I want him alive and wellmarried. Of course I do not love him.He is a feckless selfish child; but infour years’ time he will be my master.Of course I cannot love him.’

‘He says you loved George,’ Iaccused. ‘He thinks you never lovedhim, he thinks you loved George.’

She shrugged her broad whiteshoulders. ‘Not especially,’ she said.

Then she looked at my aghast face andshe smiled. ‘You and I are not unalike,Sarah,’ she said. ‘We both came to alife of wealth having known anotherlife, a less comfortable one. We areboth cold women. I think neither of uscould afford the luxury of passion for aman, nor loving any other living thing. Iquite like all my children, I see theirfaults but I do quite like them. I amquite fond of you. I respected andobeyed my husband. But I never forgotthat I lived in a world where womenare bought and sold. I swore that whenmy husband died – and I chose an oldman for my husband in the hope that hewould die before me – I would nevermarry again. I would be free. I wantedto be free of the control of men.’

She paused and looked at me. ‘Itwas for that reason that I wanted tohelp you be free of Mr Fortescue,’ shesaid. ‘Your way out is marriage,

Sarah. Marriage to a weakling likePerry! If you want to keep him soberand industrious in the country I thinkyou will be able to do that. If you wantto buy him off and send him away, youcan: he is very biddable. He won’ttrouble you. And as long as myallowance is paid you will have notrouble from me.’

She broke off and smiled at me,her eyes were like ice. ‘Why do youlook at me as if I were some kind of amonster, Sarah? Did you think I was aloving mama? Did you think I doted onhim? Is this a great shock to you?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said feebly. ‘Ithought that people were hard to eachother when they were needy. When Iwas with working people I thought theywere hard then because there wasnever enough money. Never any time tolove each other, to think about whatwould make people happy, to share. I

thought it would be different for theQuality.’

Lady Clara laughed, her prettymusical laugh. ‘No,’ she said frankly.‘There is not enough money for theQuality either. We live in a worldwhere money is the measure ofeverything. There is never enoughmoney. However much you have, youalways want more.’

‘I want to take Perry back toHavering,’ I said.

Lady Clara nodded. ‘You’ll haveto marry him then,’ she said. ‘I shan’tleave town in the Season to chaperonethe two of you playing at milkmaids.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Very well,’I said. ‘I’d like to bring the marriageplans forward. We can marry as soonas the contracts are ready, and live inthe country.’

She smiled at me, kindly. ‘If that’syour wish, Sarah,’ she said. ‘But it’s a

cruel world in the countryside too.’‘Not on Wideacre,’ I said with

sudden pride, thinking of Will and theway the profits were shared.

‘No,’ she agreed. ‘At Wideacre itis hard only for the owner! And youare determined to end all that.’

‘Yes,’ I said, uncertainly. ‘I am.’She smiled and beckoned me over

to her bedside. I went to stand beforeher and she reached up and patted mycheek.

‘Don’t fret,’ she said. ‘Talk toPerry. If he wants to go back to thecountry with you and he wants to bringthe marriage forward then I amagreeable. But leave your thoughtsabout Wideacre alone until you know alittle more about running the estate,Sarah. They are not sharing with you,remember. They are taking from you. Itis you who are giving there.’

‘Yes,’ I said. I dropped her a

curtsey and went towards the door.‘They are thieves wrapped up

pretty,’ she said softly. ‘All theirideas, all their sharing is being paidfor by you. They are playing MrFortescue, they are playing you. Youare being gulled, Sarah.’

My shoulders slumped. Mymoment’s certainty, my moment’s faithin a world which was not harsh anduncaring was eroded at once. ‘Yes,’ Isaid again. ‘I shall stop it whenWideacre is my own.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘And I shall getup. We are going to a breakfast at LadyGilroy’s house, remember? I shallwear my white gown with the twilledwhite bonnet I think. And you, you mustwear your dark green. Her daughter ismiserably fair, you will quite drownher with that colour. And wear yourhair long.’

‘Yes,’ I said. I went to the door

and paused. Lady Clara raised hereyebrows to see what more I wanted ofher.

‘You have planned a future for usall, have you not?’ I asked. ‘You hadthis in your mind for some time?’

She slid from the covers and wentto her dressing-table. She gazed atherself in the mirror and patted the skinunder her eyes where the fretwork oflines told of her age.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘When littleGeorge was alive I worked on him toensure that when his father died and hehad my fortune he would be utterlyunder my control. Then when he died, Iknew it would have to be Perryinstead.’

She sighed and sat before themirror and pulled off the lace nightcapand tossed it on the floor.

‘Perry is easier in some ways,’she said. ‘He always was a weak little

boy, easily frightened. I can managehim. My only worry was that he wouldfall for some high-mettled slut whowould set him against me.’

Her eyes met mine in the mirrorand she smiled. ‘I trust you,’ she said.‘You are cold as ice, like me. Irecognized you the moment I saw you.’She smiled. ‘When he brought you in tome, I said to myself, “Here she is, thisis the one that is going to keep Perrysteady and me safe.”’

I nodded. ‘You planned ourmarriage from the start,’ I said levelly.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It was good forall of us. Perry could never cope witha high-spirited well-bred wife. She’dcuckold him in days, and then put herby-blow in the Hall. I needed adaughter-in-law I could trust, not somesilly child with parents who wouldwatch over the two of them. And youneed someone to help you against the

Wideacre trust and against MrFortescue before you are ruined. Youneed a family.’

‘It all sounds very convenient,’ Isaid.

She smiled. ‘Don’t think I’ll ruleyou,’ she said. ‘I’ve told you myfeelings and I’ve hidden nothing. If youwant to marry early and take Perryback to the country you can do so. Iwon’t stand in your way. You canmarry him and order him as youplease. All you must do for me is makesure my funds are safe, and that there isan heir to the estate. The rest is yourown affair.’

‘I’ll go and see the lawyers todaythen,’ I said.

She smiled, as beautiful as awoman half her age. ‘As you wish,’she said. ‘Send a footman round with anote to them. But get ready for thebreakfast now, and try and do

something about the smell of horse.’I curtseyed, and left her to the

contemplation of her lovely face in themirror.

The lawyers could see me in the earlyafternoon so I left a message withPerry’s valet that his lordship must beup and dressed by three. When LadyClara and I came back from thebreakfast Perry was downstairs in thelibrary, glancing at a newspaper, a mugof ale untasted on the table beside him.His mama glanced in at him and gavehim a slight smile, and then went to sitin her parlour. Perry rose from his seatwhen he saw her, and remainedstanding, smiling and blinking at me.

‘I’m at your service,’ he said.‘But I have a devilish head. Did youwant us to do something special? I’mdamned if I can ride, Sarah.’

I crossed the room and put my

hand against his forehead. He was ashot as if he had a fever.

‘Are you ill?’ I asked.‘No,’ he said. ‘It was drinking too

much brandy, I suppose. It alwaysmakes me hot.’

His face was flushed, his curlyblond hair a riot.

‘Go and wash your face, andbrush your hair,’ I said. ‘We have anappointment to see the lawyers. I wantus to bring the date of our weddingearly.’

He was instantly wary. ‘Whatdoes mama say?’ he asked.

I shrugged. ‘She says we may doas we wish,’ I said. ‘I want to go backto Havering, back to Wideacre. Yourmama is determined to have herSeason. This town life is no good foryou, Perry. You are drunk every nightand ill every morning. We should goback to the country where we were

happier.’‘I’m happy here!’ he protested.

‘Dammit, Sarah! The whole point ofour getting married was so that I couldget my hands on my money and kick upsome larks. There’s not much pointbeing well breeched and stuck in thecountry in the middle of the Season.’

‘You were crying,’ I said flatly.‘You were clinging to the railings thismorning crying like a baby. You thinkyou are having a good time but youwere weeping this morning. You werenever sad like that at Havering. Weshould go back home, Perry.’

He hesitated. His mouthdownturned. ‘I had a bad night,’ heconceded. ‘It was some damned awfulbrandy which Miles had. It made us allmaudlin.’

‘No,’ I said firmly.Perry swayed slightly, put his

head on one side and tried a charming

smile.‘No,’ I said.‘We’ll bring the marriage

forward but we’ll stay in town,’ hesuggested.

‘No,’ I said again.Perry made a face at me like a

naughty child.‘We’ll marry at once and we’ll go

to the country,’ I offered.‘We’ll stay there until you’ve

stopped drinking every night. Thenwe’ll come back to town. But youmight find you prefer the country, onceyou’re there.’

He brightened. ‘I might,’ he saidagreeably. ‘And once it’s my ownhouse we can always have somefellows down to stay. And there willbe parties and hunting.’

He made up his mind. As fickle asa child with a new toy. ‘All right,’ hesaid, suddenly agreeable. ‘As long as

Mama approves.’‘She does,’ I said, steering him

towards the stairs. ‘Go and wash yourface, the carriage is waiting.’

He did as he was bid, and wewere only a half an hour late for thelawyers. I had made the appointment inPerry’s name and when Mr Furselycame forward bowing low, he lookedsurprised that we had got there at all.

I told him that we wanted themarriage brought forward, and thecontracts written quickly and heretreated behind his desk and rang forthe right papers to be brought to him.His servant brought us glasses ofmadeira and little biscuits. Perry hadthree glasses to my one, and his facelost its hectic flush and he lookedbetter for it.

‘We are nearly ready,’ MrFursely said. ‘The trustee’s lawyershave been most helpful. There is still

some problem about the Wideacreestate if you should die without heirs.’

Perry poured himself anotherglass of madeira and strolled over tothe window and looked out.

Mr Fursely looked up and sawthat at least I was listening.

‘The entail,’ he said. ‘It specifiesthat Wideacre is inherited by the nextof kin, whether male or female.’

I nodded.‘Normally, it would pass to your

husband’s family, as your dowry whichyou bring with you to marriage,’ hesaid. He put his fingers together one byone, placing them like a pyramid overthe papers. ‘But here’ he said, ‘I thinkone could argue that the situation isquite different.’

I waited. He was slow. Perryturned back and poured himself anotherof the little glasses. I looked at him, buthe was careful not to catch my eye.

‘The intention of the entail isquite clear,’ he said. He looked at thepapers. ‘Harold Lacey set it up,’ hesaid. ‘Your grandfather, Miss Lacey.’

I nodded.‘A solid document,’ Mr Fursely

said, complimenting the long-deadlawyers who had drawn up the entail.‘The wishes are clear. The estate goesto the next of kin of the Laceys whethermale or female. I don’t think it canrevert to the Havering family in theevent of your death.’

Perry turned back from thewindow and seemed to waken to thediscussion.

‘That’s all right,’ he said,dismissing a fortune in goodagricultural land with a wave of hisglass. ‘We can agree to that. Mamasaid we could. If we have a male heirfirst, then he gets both estates. If wehave a girl first she gets Wideacre. If

we die without children then Haveringgoes to Havering kin, and Wideacregoes to the Lacey next-of-kin.’

Mr Fursely blinked at this suddenexplosion of information from Perry. ‘Ishould prefer Wideacre to come to theHaverings,’ he said. ‘It is MissLacey’s dowry so Wideacre is reallypart of the Havering estate once youtwo are married.’

There was a high cool singingnoise in my head, the sound I had heardwhen I first came to Wideacre, thatlonely night in the dark. It was as ifWideacre was calling me, calling mehome to the house which waited for mein the burnished woodland of theautumn trees where the lawns werewhite in the morning with frost andwhere the sun was bright red when itset at early evening. As if Wideacreshould belong to me, and to no oneelse.

‘It’s fair enough as it stands,’Perry said expansively. ‘Mama saidwe could take it as it is. Don’t youthink, Sarah? Wideacre comes to theHavering estate as Sarah’s dowry, butit’s entailed on our first-born child. Ifwe have no children it goes back to theLaceys.’

I shook my head to clear my earsof the calling noise. It was too late tothink that I was signing the land over toPerry and to Perry’s family. I wantedus to be away from London, I wantedto take Perry away from the clubs andthe gambling hells. I wanted to be backon the land with the money and theauthority to run it as I pleased.

‘I agree to that,’ I said.Perry went to the table and

brought the decanter towards me.‘We’ll drink to that!’ he said happilyand poured us all another glass. Inoticed his hands were quite steady.

‘And will Mr Fortes…Fortescue’s lawyers agree?’ he asked,slurring his speech a little.

Mr Fursely put his fingertipsagainst each other once more. ‘I thinkso,’ he said. ‘It is a reasonableproposition. They cannot have wishedto face the problem of breaking theentail if we had been stubborn.’

‘Good,’ said Perry. ‘We'll be offthen. How soon can the papers bedrawn up?’

Mr Fursely nodded. ‘As soon asMr Fortescue’s advisers are ready,’ hesaid.

‘And the deeds?’ Perry asked. ‘Ishould like to take them with us.’ Heput one finger owlishly to his nose. ‘Icould raise some cash using them assecurity,’ he said. ‘Absolutely safe, ofcourse. But if I had them in my handthey could tide me over some littledifficulties.’

Mr Fursely looked as if he hadsuggested something improper. ‘I couldnot possibly ask Mr Fortescue for sucha thing until the contracts are signedand the marriage has taken place,’ hesaid shocked. ‘And I would warn you,with respect, Lord Peregrine, againstusing your lands as security againstdebts. If the deeds fall into the wronghands…’

‘Oh gad no!’ Perry said with asmile. ‘This was an arrangementbetween gentlemen. But no matter. It’snothing urgent. We’ll have a crust toeat tonight.’

Mr Fursely permitted himself athin smile. ‘Of course, my lord,’ hesaid.

Perry held the door for me as weleft the office and then Mr Furselyescorted us to the carriage and stoodon the street bowing as we droveaway.

‘Y’know what?’ Perry saidpleasantly. ‘If they can sport somecanvas on these contracts, there’s noreason why we should not be marriedat once.’

I nodded.‘I’ll go and see the vicar,’ Perry

said, suddenly confident. ‘You candrop me off on your way home and I’llgo and see the rector or the vicar orwhatever he is. You wanted a quietwedding anyway, Sarah. I’ll ask himwhen we could be married.’

I paused. High over the noise ofthe cart and carriage wheels, I couldhear that warning singing noise again.It sounded loud in my head. I shook myhead to clear it, but I could not be ridof it.

‘You all right?’ Perry asked.‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘Yes, we

could be married this month. Do goand see the parish priest, Perry. I want

to be home at Wideacre. I want us togo home as soon as we can.’

‘You’ll miss all the Christmasparties,’ he warned me.

I smiled. ‘I don’t care that muchfor them, Perry,’ I said honestly. ‘I’drather be at Wideacre for Christmas.’

Perry smiled. ‘Well, I’ll see whatthe vicar says then,’ he said pleasantlyand pulled the cord to warn thecoachman to stop. ‘You don’t havesome money on you, do you, Sarah?’he asked. ‘I have to pay a fellow somemoney I lost at cards. It’d suit me tosettle at once.’

I opened my reticule. My pursewas inside with a couple of goldsovereigns I was carrying for adressmaker bill.

‘Here,’ I said, handing it over.I remembered for a moment times

in my life when money was hardearned and slowly spent. I remembered

begging Da for money, and the bargainwe would strike that I had to stay on anunbroke horse for a penny. Iremembered her dancing with herskirts lifted high, and picking pockets,and pretending to be lost on streetcorners when fat old ladies came by.But that was a long long time ago. NowI gave away gold sovereigns lightly, asif I had forgotten how hard they wereto earn.

‘You’re a darling,’ Perry saidpleased. The coach stopped and hejumped out without waiting for thesteps to be let down.

‘Tell Mama I’ll not be back fordinner,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and see thisvicar and then I’ll go on out.’

I nodded and waved as thecarriage moved off. It was the firsttime I had given him money.

31It was not the last. He was late homethat night, even later than us, and wewere in yawning after a dull ball andsupper party at half-past one. So I didnot see him that night. But at noon thenext day he tapped on the door of myroom and came in while I was sittingbefore my mirror to set my bonnetstraight.

He nodded casually to the maidand she swept him a curtsey and wentfrom the room without another word. Iwatched him in the glass. I did notthink I would ever learn that knack, thatQuality knack, of getting what youwanted without even having to ask forit.

‘Sarah, d’you have much moneyby you?’ he asked abruptly. ‘I’m short,and I lost again last night.’

I reached for my gloves and

smoothed them out.‘I have most of my quarter’s

allowance left,’ I said. ‘But I will needthat for my bills. Your mama and Ihave been buying dresses ever sincewe arrived in London.’

Perry nodded. His eyes were red-rimmed again, his hands were shakingslightly.

‘Be a darling and lend it to me,’he said. ‘I need it this morning, I’ll payyou back tomorrow.’

I hesitated. ‘I don’t think I should,Perry,’ I said. ‘If you have overspentyour allowance on gambling, I supposeyou should settle your debts before youhave more.’

He chuckled at once, and his grinwas rueful. ‘Dammit Sarah, don’t talklike Mama!’ he begged. ‘I’ve neverpretended for a moment that I couldstay inside my allowance. Just becauseyou’re a little goody with your money,

doesn’t mean I can save mine.’I laughed outright. ‘I’m not a

goody,’ I said. ‘I just don’t think I’llever see it again once it gets insideyour pocket.’

Perry smiled. ‘So what?’ he saidcarelessly. ‘When we are marriedwe’ll have all the money we need, I’llrepay you then.’

I turned to face him and laid mygloves aside. ‘Easy talking,’ I saidshrewdly. ‘If you’re a gamester you’llget through your fortune and mine.There’s never enough money for agambler.’

He was instantly penitent. ‘Iknow,’ he said gravely. ‘Don’t preach,Sarah. It’s the life we lead in London. Igamble and I drink. I owe so muchmoney I can’t even add up how much itis. One of my friends has sold myvowels to a money-changer and so heis charging me interest on my debts.

I’m in a mess, Sarah. I wish we werewell out of it.’

‘D’you like gambling?’ I asked. Ihad seen enough men half-ruined whenall they had to bet were pennies, itmade me sick with nerves when I wasin the great houses of London and sawpeople staking hundreds of pounds.

‘No,’ he said frankly. ‘I likewinning well enough, but I hate losing.And I hate losing when it goes badly.Trust me this once, Sarah and I’ll clearas many of my debts as I can, and Iwon’t gamble any more.’

‘It’s exciting though, isn’t it?’ Iasked him. I was wondering if Willwas right, and Perry had gaming in hisblood.

‘Not when I lose,’ he saidruefully. ‘I only really do it to pass thetime, and everyone gambles, you knowthat, Sarah!’

I nodded. It was true. People bet

on the turn of a card, on the fall of adie. I had been in a group which had athousand pounds on the table as towhether Lady Fanshawe would wearher awful green dress in public again.My belief was that Perry playedbecause it was part of his London life.He was not a gambler at heart. And Icould take him away from London, Icould take him away from gamblingand drink.

Besides; I had promised I wouldnot leave him. He had asked me to staywith him for ever. We were betrothed.I did not want to sour it by hagglingover a handful of guineas.

I opened the right-hand drawer inmy dressing-table. ‘Here,’ I said.

I had my quarter’s allowance ofgold coins in a purse, locked in thelittle jewel-box. It opened with a key.The purse clinked, it was heavy withthe coins. There were fifty gold

sovereigns in it; Mr Fortescue hadbeen generous in his estimates of myneeds.

‘You can have forty,’ I said. ‘Imust pay the dressmakers something onaccount or they will be charging me forloans too.’

Perry caught at my hand and wentto kiss it before he took the purse. Ipulled my hand away and he did not tryto hold me.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That willclear the worst of it, and I’ve anotherquarter’s allowance due next monthand I know my luck will change soon. Ican feel it. Anyway, soon we will bemarried and I shall be able to get at mymoney without waiting for anallowance.’

‘Why don’t you ask your mama togive you more?’ I suggested.

Perry was heading for the doorbut he turned back towards me with a

little half-smile. ‘She likes me in debt,’he said as if it were obvious. ‘She canmake me do whatever she likes when Iam in debt to her.’

I nodded. It was all of a piece.‘Well, keep it safe then,’ I said.

‘Or I shall make you do what I likewhen you are in debt to me.’

He hesitated, with the door halfopen. ‘But all you want me to do is togo home with you, and away fromLondon, isn’t it?’ he said. He gave meone of his endearing half-smiles. ‘Youcan order me, Sarah,’ he said.

I was going to reply but there wasa clatter at the front door.

‘There’s the carriage!’ I said,grabbing at my gloves. ‘I must go,Perry, I am driving in the park withLady Jane Whitley.’

Perry swept an ironic bow in ajest at my enviable company, and Ipulled on my gloves and ran down the

stairs past him and out to the wintrysunshine.

Lady Jane and I had the nearestthing to a friendship which I had foundin London, and it was not very like afriendship at all. She had pale brownhair and light hazel eyes and shebelieved that beside my unruly rippleof red curls she looked pale andbeguiling.

She was given over to invalidismand she had fainting fits and vapoursand she had to keep out of draughts andnot dance after midnight and not touchfood and drink which was either toohot or too cold. I think her mamathought that suitors who found me tooboisterous for their taste might turn toher with relief. Lady Jane herself wasfrank to me about her absolute urgencyto find a man and marry before herbedridden and mean papa worked outhow much her Season was costing him

and ordered her home.She was an only child so she had

no sister to go about with, and I wasconvenient as a companion. I liked heras well as any other young ladybecause she had no curiosity about meand did not trouble me with questionsabout my family and childhood. Theonly thing about her I could notstomach was the way she leaned on meas we walked, or took my hand whenwe rode in the carriage together. I hadschooled myself not to shake her offbut when I stepped into her carriageand sat beside her I had to grit my teethnot to pull away as she slid her handunder my elbow. I could even feel theback of her hand against my body. Theintimacy of that touch set my teeth onedge.

We were riding in her papa’slandau and we both unfurled ourparasols to protect our complexions.

Lady Jane was as pale as a skinnedmushroom, beside her I knew I lookedwind-burnt, sunburnt. It could not behelped. Lady Clara had loaded mewith one cream and lotion afteranother, but nothing could bleach thewarm colours of my skin. I had slept inthe open air with my face up to amidday sky too often. However, I keptmy parasol over my bonnet as I hadbeen taught and I listened to LadyJane’s prattle in my right ear as we setoff down the road towards the park.

She was telling me about somegloves she had bought, and I could hearmy voice saying ‘No!’ and ‘Fancy!’when she paused for breath. I waswatching the coachman guide thehorses through the traffic and watchingthe streets slide past us. It seemed along time since I had driven a wagonmyself. These long weary weeks inLondon had come to seem like a

lifetime. I felt I knew this way to thepark and back as if I had ridden orwalked it every single day of my life. Iknew it better than I had known anyother street, any other landscape. Ithought with sudden regret that if I hadstayed anywhere, and learnedanywhere so very very well, it wouldhave been better for me if that placehad been Wideacre.

My throat was suddenly tightthinking of my home. Winter wasmaking London cold and damp, thestreet vendors had set up braziers atstreet corners to sell baked potatoes,hot gingerbread, and roasted chestnuts.They were the lucky ones with hotwares – the girls carrying pails of milkwere pinched and wan with the chill;the flower sellers and the watercresssellers shivered in the damp winds.

I knew it would be cold atWideacre – I was not one of Jane’s

poets sighing for pretty landscapes andforgetting the hard ache of bare feet onfrozen earth. But I thought that the treeswould grow stark and lovely as theyshed their leaves. I thought the woodswould smell nutty and strong if I hadbeen there to kick my way through thepiles of leaves. I thought the chestnuttree at the curve of the drive wouldshow its shape, as rounded as ahumming top now the great fans ofyellow leaves were carpeting the drivebeneath it. I wanted to be at Wideacrewhile autumn turned into winter. I feltas if the land needed me there.

‘…and I don’t even like white,’Jane finished triumphantly.

‘I do,’ I said contributing my twowords.

‘It’s all right for you…’ shestarted again. The coachman turned leftwhen we reached the park and startedthe slow trot around the perimeter

road. We were following LadyDaventry’s coach, I could just see herfamous matched bays. Jane continuedto talk but she was keeping a sharp eyeout for anyone who might see us andwave. Every time the bright colours ofa guardsman’s uniform came into sightshe lost the thread of her thought untilshe had taken a good look at him andmade sure she could not stop thecarriage to beckon him over.

‘It’s so old-fashioned to bepresented in white…’ she said.

It was the presentation at Courtwhich was on her mind. Her mamawas making her wear a satin which hadbeen ripped back from her ownwedding gown, Jane had told me andsworn me to secrecy. She could nothave borne the humiliation if it hadbeen widely known.

‘It must be lovely for you to berich…’ she said longingly.

All at once she brightened. Shehad seen a young man, I knew itwithout turning my head.

‘Coachman, wait!’ she shoutedand he obediently pulled up the horseswhile Jane leaned forward and wavedfrantically at two distant figuresstrolling on the grass. It was Sir RobertHandley and Mr Giles Devenish.

‘How d’you do, Sir Robert, MrDevenish!’ I said as they came closer.Jane nearly fell out of the carriage.

‘Oh, Sir Robert!’ she cried, andlaughed at once as if he had saidsomething extraordinarily amusingother than a simple ‘Good day’. Hesmiled and went around to her side ofthe carriage. Mr Devenish loungedtowards me as if I ought to be gratefulfor his attention.

‘Shall I see you at Lady Clark’stonight?’ he asked me.

I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well, at

any rate, I shall be there. I doubt if youwill see me. She told us she hadinvited two thousand people.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Giles. ‘But then sofew of them will come!’

I could not help a maliciouschuckle. ‘I’m surprised you haveaccepted if people are pridingthemselves on staying away,’ I said.

‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘Her mamaand mine were bosom bows, I shall bethere, at my post, from first to last.’

I nodded. ‘We are going thereearly, and then on to Lady Meeching’scard party,’ I said.

Giles raised his eyebrows.‘Practically out of town,’ he said.

I let it pass. ‘Then we are going toLady Maria’s supper party,’ I said.

Giles raised his eyebrows evenhigher. ‘The fair Maria,’ he said.‘Your sister-in-law to be. I shouldhave thought that Lady Meeching’s was

not far enough. If I was going to marrypoor Perry and dine with the fairMaria I should flee to Brighton at thevery least.’

I gave him a level glance. ‘Whodo you like in London society, MrDevenish?’

He smiled to conceal hisirritation. ‘I’m quite fond of GeorgeWallace,’ he said judiciously. ‘And mypapa commands my filial respect. Butapart from them…’ he paused. ‘Butwhat about you, Miss Lacey? I take itthat I am reproved for failing to lovemy fellow man. So do tell me, whomhave you met in London that youespecially like?’ His gaze drifted pastme to Jane who was leaning forward,twirling her parasol, laughing with hermouth wide open at one of SirRobert’s frigid quips. He lookedbeyond her, across the park, where onefashionable Quality person after

another walked, rode or drove indiminishing circles, trying to waste thetime until it was afternoon, thenwasting some more time until dinner.

I shrugged my shoulders andshook my head. Suddenly I lost alldesire to be a proper young lady. Thelittle Rom chavvy called Meridonspoke through my lips though I wasseated in a landau talking to a beau atthe pinnacle of fashion. ‘I’ve met noone,’ I said. ‘I don’t reprove you oranyone else. I’ve seen no one toadmire and I’ve made no friends. I amlonelier now than when I was a littlegypsy chavvy. I’ve slept better on thefloor, and ate better off woodenplatters. I’ve no time for this life at all,to tell you the truth. And you-’ I pausedand looked at him speculatively. ‘I’vemet better-mannered polecats,’ I said.

His eyes went purple with rage,the smile wiped away. ‘You are an

original indeed,’ he said. It was theworst thing he could think of saying toa young woman, not yet presented atcourt. He stepped back from the side ofthe carriage as if he were pulling theskirts of his coat away fromcontamination. Sir Robert saw hismovement away and was swift to sayfarewell to Jane and tip his hat to me.Jane tried to detain him, but he was toopolite and skilled.

‘How could you let him go!’ shesaid crossly to me as the carriagemoved on again. ‘You must have seenthat I was talking to Sir Robert. I amcertain he was about to ask me for adance at Lady Clark’s ball, and now Ihave no supper partner at all!’

I was suddenly weary of thewhole thing. ‘I am sorry,’ I said. Mythroat was as tight as if I were chokingon the London air. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said.‘That poisonous Devenish was being

spiteful and I wanted to be rid of him.’Jane gasped. ‘You never upset

him!’ she said, appalled. ‘If you saidsomething he didn’t like it’ll be allover London by tomorrow! Oh, Sarah!How could you!’

I sighed. ‘I didn’t say anythingthat wasn’t the truth,’ I said miserably.‘And anyway, I don’t care.’ I hesitated.‘Jane, would you mind very muchdropping me off when we get around toGrosvenor Gate again? I have a sorethroat.’

‘Oh no!’ she said. For a moment Ithought her anxiety was on my account.‘Sarah, can’t you stay with me for justone more circuit? We might meetsomeone, and I really don’t want to gohome yet.’

I nodded. Jane wanted to arrangea partner for tonight’s ball and she wasnot allowed to drive around the parkalone. I tightened the collar of my

jacket around my throat and sat back inthe carriage. The autumn sunshine waswarm enough, I had gloves; onlymonths ago I should have thoughtmyself in paradise to have owned sucha warm jacket.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘But only onecircuit, mind.’

She nodded. ‘And if there isanyone you know, then you introduceme,’ she said.

‘All right,’ I said disagreeably,and I settled back in the carriage seatto scan the people walking past to seeif there was anyone I knew who wouldbe likely to take Jane in to supper atthe ball that night. For if I knew Jane,we would be circling the park untilnightfall if she could not find a partner.

I was nearly right. We did threecircuits before I saw Captain Sullivanwith Captain Riley and introduced

them both to Jane. They were bothpenniless fortune-hunters but they knewhow to dance and how to take a girl inand out of a supper room. Jane wasflushed with triumph at having herdance card finally filled, and I wasaching all over as if I had the ague.

‘Thank you, my dearest dear!’ shesaid, heartfelt, as she dropped me atthe front door. ‘You saved my life!You really did, you know! Which doyou think is more attractive, CaptainSullivan or Captain Riley?’

‘Sullivan,’ I said at random, andturned to go up the steps.

Jane was rapt. ‘Shall I wear myyellow or my pink?’ she called to meas the door opened.

‘The yellow,’ I said. ‘See youtonight!’

The Havering butler closed thedoor as I heard her call, ‘And howshould I wear my hair…’

I went wearily to the foot of thestairs, planning to go to my room. Butthe butler was ahead of me.

‘Mr Fortescue is with LadyHavering and Lady Maria,’ he said.‘Lady Havering asked for you to beshown to the parlour when youreturned from your drive.’

I nodded. I paused only before amirror on the stairs to take off mybonnet and gloves and as the butleropened the door for me I pushed theminto his hands.

‘James!’ I said. He was the firstfriendly face I had seen in a parlour inall the long stay in London.

He jumped to his feet as I came inthe room and beamed at me. I glancedfrom him to Lady Maria and LadyHavering. I imagined he had beenthoroughly uncomfortable with the twoof them and I wished I had been homeearlier.

‘How good to see you!’ I said,and then I curtseyed to Lady Haveringand did an awkward sort of bob atMaria before I sat down. Theparlourmaid came in and poured me adish of tea.

James said how well I looked,and Lady Havering said somethingabout town polish. I saw Maria lookvery much as if she would have likedto say something cat-witted.

‘And have you made manyfriends? Is London as fine as youexpected?’ James asked, making heavyweather of it all.

‘Yes,’ I said, not very helpfully.‘Such sweet friends as you have,’

Maria chimed in. ‘You were drivingwith Lady Jane Whitley, were younot?’

I nodded in silence. James lookedglad that Maria had volunteeredsomething.

‘Is she one of your especialfriends?’ he asked. ‘I am glad you havefound someone you agree with.’

‘Oh she’s quite the toast of theSeason!’ Maria enthused, her eyessharp with malice watching me. ‘Sheand Miss Lacey together are quite thebeauties of the Season this year. MissLacey has been claimed by ourPeregrine of course, but I’m certainLady Jane will be snapped up in amoment.’

I thought of Jane and me drivinground and round the park trying to findher a partner and I smiled grimly atMaria.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘We cannotall hope to have your good fortune infinding a husband who is so peculiarlyappropriate.’

Since Maria’s Basil was fat andfifty-five I thought that would do. LadyClara thought so too, for she

interrupted before Maria could reply.‘Mr Fortescue has some business

to discuss with you, Sarah,’ she said.‘Perhaps you would like to talk withhim in the dining room?’

James rose to his feet with uncivilhaste.

‘Thank you,’ he said, and I ledhim downstairs to the ornate room withthe heavy round table and the high-backed chairs.

He pulled one out and sat down,clasping his hands before him. ‘Areyou happy, Sarah?’ he asked. ‘Is it thelife you wanted?’

The tightness in my throat had noteased despite coming in from the cold.‘It’s well enough,’ I said. ‘It’s a styleI’d have had to learn.’

He waited for a moment in case Ishould say something more. ‘I’d notdiscourage you from anything you setyour heart on,’ he said hesitantly. ‘But

I’d not be doing my duty by you, norshowing the love I still bear yourmother, if I let you go on into thiswithout speaking once more with you.’

I put the back of my hand againstmy forehead. It was hot though I feltcold inside. ‘Go on then,’ I saidunhelpfully.

He pushed back his chair andlooked at me as if he did not know howto start. ‘I keep thinking what I shouldsay and then it all comes out wrong!’he said with sudden irritation. ‘I havebeen planning and planning how Iwould speak with you and then youlook at me as if it does not matter at allhow you live or whether you are happyor sad. I won’t tell you things. I willask you instead. Sarah…how wouldyou like to live?’

I paused for a moment and thoughtof her, sprawled under the fine silk ofher flyer’s cape, her dark eyelashes

sweeping her pink cheeks. I thought ofthe smell of her – part cheap toilet-water, part sweat. I thought of hersmile as she slept and her certainty thatthe world would keep her well, andhow for all the years of our childhoodshe had poached and thieved andstolen and never been caught. Notonce. And how the very same night thatI had come to the life which she wouldhave loved was the night she was gone.

‘I want nothing,’ I said. My voicewas husky because of my throat.

‘D’you think Lord Peregrine willmake you happy?’ James asked.

I shrugged. ‘He will not make meunhappy,’ I said. ‘He has no power forthat.’ As I saw James scowl, I added:‘There are not many women that couldsay that. It’s not a bad start. He willnever make me unhappy. I will haveWideacre and I will put my child in thesquire’s chair at Havering and

Wideacre. It’s a sensible arrangement.I’m content with it.’

James’ brown eyes stared intomine as if he were looking for somewarmth that he could grasp and beg meto care for love and passion like anordinary girl. I knew my look was asopaque as green glass.

‘You want the marriage putforward,’ he said, and I knew by hisvoice that he had accepted it.

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘We want to bemarried before Christmas. I want to behome then.’

James raised an eyebrow. ‘Whythe sudden hurry?’ he asked. ‘It was tobe spring, I thought.’

I nodded. ‘The town life does notsuit Perry,’ I said honestly. ‘And Idon’t like it. I’m glad to have come,and I have learned a good deal. But Ishould not care if I was never inLondon again as long as I live. I hate

the streets, and the life is tooconfining!’ I turned and went over tothe window and drew back the heavydrapes and looked out. ‘It’s badenough sleeping in a house with all thewindows shut, without forever lookingout on to streets,’ I said.

James nodded. He could not feelas I did, but he was always trying tounderstand me.

‘I’ll tell my lawyers to go ahead,then,’ he said. ‘If you are sure.’

‘I am sure,’ I said.He nodded and turned to the door.

‘I will wish you happiness,’ he said. ‘Iam not likely to see you until after thewedding.’

I put out my hand and we shook,like old friends. ‘You can wish me alittle peace,’ I said. ‘I don’t look forhappiness, but I should like to be at aplace of my own where I don’t have towatch what I wear and what I say all

the time.’He nodded. ‘Once you are Lady

Havering you will be above criticism,’he said. ‘And I believe that you knewall the essentials of being a goodperson when you rode up the drive inyour cap and dirty jacket.’

I smiled. ‘Thank you,’ I said.‘I have something for you,’ he

said. ‘It is the interest on your share ofthe profits of Wideacre over the pastsixteen years. I have a note of the exactprofits each year, and I had it placedout with a bank. They have justdeclared a dividend and I thought itprudent to take the money in notes incase you had any strong feelings aboutwhat you wanted done with it. Thecapital remains with the bank, but Ihave the notes of interest for you.’

I nodded. James pulled a bulkypackage out of his pocket.

‘They do not pay very high rates,’

he said apologetically. ‘But they are asafe bank. I thought it best.’

I nodded and opened theenvelope. There were eleven largepieces of parchment inside, they allpromised to pay the bearer £3,000each.

‘I’ve never seen so much moneyin my life before,’ I said. I was awedinto a whisper. ‘I don’t know how youdared carry them on you!’

James smiled. ‘I was travellingwith guards,’ he said. ‘I had to bringsome gold to London so I took theopportunity to bring it all together.Then I walked around here. Perhaps Ihad better leave them with you forsafe-keeping tonight and collect themtomorrow. I can pay them into yourbank account then.’

‘Yes,’ I said.We went out into the hall together

and he shrugged himself into his coat.

The butler held the door for him and Iwatched him down the front-doorsteps. I went back into the dining roomand folded the bills very carefullytogether, then I took them upstairs tomy bedroom and locked them into theright-hand drawer of my dressing-table, where I kept my purse and thejewels Lady Clara had picked out forme, and my piece of string with thegold clasps.

32I cried off from the ball that night, fromthe visit and from Maria’s supperparty. I pleaded sick and offered asevidence my sore throat and my hotforehead. Lady Clara put her cool handagainst my head and said that I mightbe excused tonight but tomorrow I mustbe well because the Princess Caterinawas giving a luncheon party and wehad managed to get an invitation. Inodded and I submitted to beingdressed in my nightdress and wrapperand confined to the stuffy littlebedroom with a bowl of soup and apastry and some fruit.

I tried to read one of Lady Clara’snovels but I found it heavy going. Itwas by a man called Fielding and Iwas angry with him because thechapter headings at the top of the pagesdid not tell me what was happening in

the story. They were no use for me,who only wanted to appear as if I hadread the book.

For some reason I thought of thebills from the bank and took the fancyto look at them again. The key to thedrawer was in the top drawer, where Ialways kept it. The drawer unlockedeasily and slid open. It movedsmoothly as if it were lightly laden.

It was lightly laden. I had givenPerry most of my gold in the morning,and the eleven folded bills of £3,000each were missing.

I said, ‘Oh,’ very softly, and Istood still for a little while, then Ipulled up the pretty white and goldchair and sat before the table andlooked at the empty drawer.

I thought of the maid – but she hadbeen with the Haverings for years andLady Clara’s jewels alone were worthfar more. I thought of the kitchenmaid

who had helped me to get Perry to bed,but she was not allowed upstairs. Ithought of the footmen, but they wererarely upstairs and never in mybedroom.

No one entered my bedroomexcept Lady Clara, my maid, myselfand Perry.

I had known it was Perry as soonas I saw the drawer was empty. I hadbeen trying to avoid knowing that itwas him.

I sat very still and quiet andthought for a little while.

He was a gambler. I had seengamblers before. Not like my da whodid it for a living, and not like men Ihad seen who did it for fun. For somemen it is a lust worse than drink whenit gets them. They cannot leave italone. They believe themselves luckyand they bet on one game after another.They don’t care what the game is – the

bones or the cards, horses, cock-fighting, the dogs, badger-baiting – it isall alike to them. Their faces sweat andget red, their eyes get brighter whenthey are gaming. They look like menabout to have a woman. They look likestarving men excited by food. Theywere a blessing to Da for you cancheat them over and over again whenthey are mad to win.

I was afraid Perry was one ofthem.

I was not even angry.I suppose I knew he could not

help himself. I suppose that inside Iwas still a pauper and the thick wadsof paper money never really felt as ifthey belonged to me. I think also thatmy heart was not in this marriage, norin the life I was leading. Rich or poor,wed or single, she was not here. Icould not see that it mattered. And Ihad very low expectations of Perry.

I had known he was a drinker. Ihad thought he might be a gambler. If Ihad been asked, I could have predictedthat he would steal from me, or fromhis mama, or from anyone who wasclose to him and ready to trust him.

But something had to be doneabout it. I would have to see Perry, Iwould have to tell Mr Fortescue, Iwould have to tell Lady Clara.

I sighed. My sore throat was nobetter and my head was aching fromweariness. I walked across the room tomy bed and thought I would lie downand rest, wait for Perry to come in andthen speak to him.

I must have dozed then, for I nextstirred when the clocks struck three,and a little after that I heard a stumbleand a bump on the carpeted stairs. Iraised my head but I did not move.Then in the firelight I saw the handle ofthe door turn, very very slowly.

Peregrine staggered into the room.I lay still and did not say a word.

I half closed my eyes and watched himthrough my eyelashes. He took a halfstep inside the room and shut the doorbehind him.

‘Sssshhh,’ he said to himself; andgiggled.

I lay in silence, waiting for whatwould come next. The drunkenrepentance, the blustering explanation,the tears, the promises to reform.

He stepped quietly over to mydressing-table and there was a suddenscuffle as he collided with the chair.

‘Careful!’ he cautioned himselfloudly. ‘Not too much noise now!Don’t want to wake her up! She’sgoing to have a surprise in themorning!’

I opened my eyes a little wider. Ihad not expected Perry to be joyful. Ihad thought he had come back for the

last ten guineas, perhaps for myjewels.

In the flickering light from thedying fire I saw him pulling somethingout of his pocket, pieces of paper, andthen I heard the chink of coins.

‘Perry, what on earth are youdoing?’ I demanded and sat upright inbed.

He jumped like a deer.‘Damme, Sarah! Don’t shout at

me like that when I’m trying to giveyou a surprise!’ he said.

‘You’ve already given me one,’ Isaid tightly. ‘You’ve robbed me, Perry.There’s £33,000 in bills made out tome missing from that drawer, and Iknow you took them.’

‘These you mean?’ Perry saidjoyfully. I reached over for my candleand lit it. He was waving a sheaf ofpapers at me. I squinted against thesudden light. They were the same ones.

‘You brought them back?’ I askedin surprise. ‘You didn’t gamble?’

‘I won!’ Perry declared.He staggered over to the bed and

caught at one of the bedposts. Hepushed his hands deep into his pocketsand shovelled out papers and coins. ‘Iwon and won and won!’ he said. Hegiggled delightedly and spilled coinsand notes of hand over my bed.

‘I have an unbeatable system,’ hesaid. ‘An unbreakable system. I havean unbreatable system an unbeakablesystem a beakless system, a breathlesssystem!’

‘How much?’ I asked, agambler’s daughter again.

Perry put my notes to one side andshovelled out the rest of his pocketsand we made piles on the counterpaneof coins, and notes of hand, and papermoney.

Altogether it came to something

like £22,000.‘Perry,’ I said, awed.He nodded, beaming at me.

‘Unbreatheable!’ he said, withsatisfaction.

We were silent for a moment.‘You shouldn’t have taken my

money,’ I said.He blinked at me. ‘I had to,

Sarah,’ he said. ‘I’d have asked you,but you weren’t here. I had to. Mamawas talking of wearing her diamondsto present you at Court – I had to havemoney.’

I frowned. ‘What do your mama’sdiamonds have to do with…’ then Ibroke off. ‘Have you lost them atplay?’ I asked.

‘Pawned,’ he said gloomily. ‘Ihad to get them back, Sarah, or I’dhave been really sunk. She keeps meon such a short allowance I can nevermanage to stay out of debt. And a little

while ago I found the key to herstrongbox. It was before the Seasonstarted and I knew she wouldn’t needthem for months. So I prigged them,and pawned them.’

He paused gloomy for a moment,but then his face brightened. ‘And nowI’ll be able to get them back!’ he saiddelightedly.

He glanced at my face. ‘You don’tmind, do you?’ he asked.

‘You’re a thief,’ I said. ‘A thiefand a drunkard and a gambler.’

Perry looked contrite. ‘I did win,though,’ he offered.

‘I’m no better,’ I said. ‘I was athief and a card-sharper and a horse-trader. You are what you have to be,Perry. But don’t ever steal from meagain.’

His face brightened. ‘I’ll make apromise with you,’ he offered. ‘I willnever steal from you again, I will

never steal from Mama again, and Iwill never pawn anything of hers oryours again. It has been dreadful,Sarah, I thought I’d not be able to getthem back and then she would haveknown!’

I nodded. I could imagine howafraid Perry must have been.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I hold you toyour promise. You must never stealfrom me or your mama again. And I’llnever steal from you or cheat you.’

He put out his long-fingered softhand and we shook firmly.

‘Done,’ I said. ‘Now get yourwinnings off my bed, I need to sleep, Ihave a throat like charcoal.’

Peregrine gathered up his papersand crammed them back into hispockets. My bank bills he counted outcarefully on to my dressing-table andhe added to them the guineas he hadborrowed from me.

Then he came to the bedside againand leaned over me. I could feel hiswarm brandy-sweet breath on my faceas he leaned over.

‘Good-night Sarah,’ he said softlyand kissed me on the cheek. ‘Good-night, my best of friends.’

I cat-napped after he left me; once, Iturned and was wideawake and found Iwas chuckling, thinking of Perrycoming into my room, his pocketsbursting as if he had been sharpingcards all night. Then I heard the clockstrike seven and I got up, splashed coldwater on my face, and slipped into myriding habit.

Only then did I remember that itwas Thursday, and Will was coming toride with me today.

I brushed my hair in a hurry andcoiled it up on my head, then I pinnedon my hat and went to the door. I ran

down the stairs pulling on my glovesand the kitchenmaid met me at the frontdoor, her face all grimy and her handsblack with soot from the fires.

‘Beg pardon, m’m,’ she said,dipping a curtsey.

I nodded to her and opened thedoor myself and slipped out. Therewas a figure of a man, holding twohorses waiting in the street oppositethe front door. But it was not Gerry thegroom there, waiting for me holdinghis horse and Sea. It was Will,standing with the reins of his bay horsein one hand, and Sea’s reins in theother.

‘Oh Will!’ I said and I beamed athim.

‘I’m freezing,’ he said crossly.‘I’ve been waiting here for half anhour, Sarah, and that softy maid ofyours wouldn’t find you and tell you Iwas here.’

I chuckled and ran down the stepsand took the reins. ‘You’re aweakling,’ I said. ‘This is justbracing.’

‘Bracing!’ Will said under hisbreath. He cupped his hands and threwme ungently up into the saddle. Seasidled and I patted his neck.

‘Yes,’ I said provocatively. ‘Ifyou had lived in a wagon like I didyou’d count this good weather. Butyou’re a soft gorgio you are, WillTyacke.’

Will scowled and swung into hisown saddle and then his brown facecrumpled and he laughed aloud. ‘Whyare you so damned full of chirp?’ heasked. ‘What have you got to be soglad about?’

‘Precious little,’ I said. Thehorses fell into step side by side and Iturned and smiled at Will. ‘I’ve hadsome trouble, I waked all night. But

it’s come all right now, and I’m glad tobe out of that house, and with you. I’mso glad to see you.’

His glance at me was warm. ‘I’dwait all night in a snowstorm to seeyou and count myself lucky,’ he said. ‘Irode up in darkness last night to makesure I’d be here in time. Sarah, you’rethe first thing worth seeing this week.’

I put my hand out to him in a swiftinstinctive gesture, and he did not kissit like a lover but took it in a firmgentle clasp, as if we were shaking ona deal. Then his horse shifted and welet go.

‘What’s your trouble?’ he asked.‘Tell me about Wideacre first,’ I

said. ‘And how did your meeting of thecorporations go?’

‘All’s well on Wideacre,’ hesaid. ‘The oats and barley is sown,we’re setting to the hedging andditching. The root crops are coming up.

All’s well. I’m bid send you people’slove and to tell you that we all wantyou home.’ He straightened a little inthe saddle as we came down the roadtowards the park. ‘They elected mechairman of the National Associationof Corporations,’ he said. ‘I wasproud. I’m honoured to be asked toserve.’

‘Oh, well done!’ I said. Then Ipaused. ‘What does it mean?’ I asked.

Will smiled. ‘Oh, little enough,’he said. ‘We will meet every twomonths or so for debate anddiscussion, but we have more thanenough trouble with spies and thegovernment to want to do more thanthat.’

‘Spies?’ I asked blankly.Will nodded. ‘They think they see

traitors and Boney’s agents in everybush,’ he said. ‘It’s the way of thisgovernment – aye and others! They

can’t bear to think that they might be inthe wrong. They can’t bear to think thatanother Englishman might disagreewith them. So they will only believethat if you disagree with them you haveto be a paid spy, or a foreigner.’ Hepaused for a moment. ‘They think theyown the world,’ he said simply. ‘Thelandlords and those in power. Theythink they own what it is to be anEnglishman. If you think differentlyfrom them they make you feel like youdon’t belong in their country. It’s nottheir country, but they won’t hear aword of dissent.’

His face was dark. ‘It’s anuisance,’ he said. ‘I have all myletters opened and read before I eversee them, and it makes them late. Sincethe last meeting there were two menprowling around Wideacre askingpeople in the village if I was a rick-burner!’ Will snorted. ‘Damn fools,’

he said.‘I never knew,’ I said. The

enemies of my childhood had been thethief-takers and the gamekeepers. I didnot know there were gamekeepers ofideas too.

‘They make little difference,’Will said. ‘They sit by the door andevery single thing you say they scribbledown in their little books and then theyrun off and copy it all out fair for theirmasters to read. Everyone makes surethey speak civil and say not a wordagainst the government or the king. AndI never write if I can send a message.’

‘Oh,’ I said blankly.‘But it was a good meeting,’ Will

said. ‘There were some northerngentlemen there who are planningexperimental farms in the north. One ofthem took me out to dine afterwards.We talked till late into the night. Hewants to set up an experimental farm

outside his potteries for the workers. Iwas telling him about the children’sschool on Wideacre, and about howwe farm. He’s coming down to see itwhen he’s next in the south. He seemeda likely man.’

I nodded. I was dimly aware of aworld outside my knowledge, outsidemy understanding, where neither agypsy brat nor a pretty young ladywould be of much account, and for amoment I envied Will his contact witha weightier world.

‘That’s enough of me,’ Will saidabruptly. ‘What of you? You look a bitpale, Sarah. And what of this troubleof yours?’

‘Not my trouble,’ I said. ‘It’sPerry. You were right about hisdrinking, he does take too much. Butthe fool must needs think he cangamble, too. He stole some bank billsof mine, and as if that weren’t bad

enough he won handsomely with them.He was in my bedroom last nightscattering gold on my bed as if I werea princess. It’s all right now, he’sbrought my money back, and he’s wonenough to keep himself for months. ButI’ll never be able to teach him not togamble if he’s a lucky one!’

Will pulled his horse up sosharply that it gave a little half-rear.‘He did what?’ he demanded, his facewhite with shock, his brown eyesblazing.

I lost my smile. ‘Took somemoney of mine, and then won with it,’ Isaid lightly.

We said nothing for a moment andthen Will loosened his reins and let hishorse go forward.

‘Don’t you mind?’ he asked me. Icould hear the anger behind his voicebut he was keeping his tone steadyuntil I told him more.

I chuckled. ‘Oh for God’s sake,Will, remember where I came from!’ Isaid. ‘I’ve lived among gamblers andthieves all my life. I’m angry that heshould steal from me, but I had themoney back within the day…and Ican’t help but find it funny that heshould win so well! Thousands andthousands, Will! He was shovellingmoney out of his pocket all over mycounterpane.’

‘You were in bed?’ Will askedsharply.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘This all happenedlast night when he came home fromgambling.’

‘And he just walked into yourroom?’ he demanded.

I pulled Sea up and faced him.‘We are to be married,’ I saidreasonably. ‘He didn’t come in to seeme, he came to put the money back. Ihappened to be awake.’ I remembered

Perry crashing into the chair andwarning himself to be quiet and Ismiled.

Will saw the smile and it fired hisanger. ‘Goddammit, Sarah, you must bemad!’ he said loudly. ‘You are stilltalking about this damned marriage asif you meant it! If you go on down thisroad you will find yourself married invery truth and unable to get out of it.

‘For God’s sake, Sarah, tell methat you see now the crew you’reamong. Lord Peregrine is a drunkardand a gamester and a thief into thebargain. His ma can do nothing morewith him and so she lets him drinkhimself to death and damnation asquick as he can, and neither of thosesluts his sisters are worthy to tie yourlaces. He’s cheated you, and he’s usedyour money to pay for his gambling,and you’re not even wed yet!’

Will’s voice had risen to a shout,

and he shook his head, as if to clear histhoughts and then he said tightly,‘You’d be a damn fool to go furtherwith this, Sarah, and you know it.Promise me now that you’ll go backand tell Lady Clara that he’s stolenfrom you and that you are withdrawingfrom the betrothal. Write to MrFortescue and tell him what’s to do,and then order out the carriage andcome home. I’ll wait to escort you.Stay any longer in London and you’llbe robbed blind.’

I shook my head. ‘You don’tunderstand,’ I said. ‘You’ve neverunderstood me.’

‘Don’t understand!’ Will wasthunderingly angry now. ‘Do you thinkI’m blind or as stupid as your prettylordling? I’ve seen the quarterlyaccounts, I’ve seen the allowance youhave! I’ve seen the bills come in! Andwhile we’re mending and making do

on Wideacre with broken ploughsharesspliced and used again, season afterseason, and while we have oldcarthorses pulling heavy loads and nonew stock at all this year, you’repreening before a glass to go outdancing with a gamester!’

‘Nonsense!’ I said heatedly. ‘I’vespent very little!’

But Will would not listen.‘You’re a damned parasite!’ he saidroundly. ‘And he’s a worse one. He’snot even bedded you and the pizzle hashold of your money while you sit upthere, on your horse, and tell me you’renot coming home! By God if I couldpull you off the horse and make youwalk home I would!’

‘Don’t you threaten me, WillTyacke!’ I said as angry as he. ‘I’m notone of your alehouse drabs. I didn’tcome to you for help, I can manage myown affairs. I don’t overspend and I

don’t listen to a bawling from any man,least of all you.’

‘You don’t listen to anything!’Will said. ‘You don’t listen to MrFortescue when he warned you offthem, you don’t listen to me. You don’teven listen to your own common sensewhen the man has robbed you beforemarriage and you know his wholefamily will rob you later. Any womanwith anything in her head but vanityand wind would call off the weddingand run for her life away from such aband.’

‘The wedding’s to be broughtforward!’ I said, as angry as he andpicking on the one piece of newswhich would make him angrier.‘We’re to wed and be home onWideacre by Christmas! So there, WillTyacke, and don’t you dare try to tellme what to do!’

‘Brought the wedding forward?’

Will looked at me open-mouthed. Thenhe leaned forward and put his hand onSea’s reins and drew the horse closerto his own.

‘Sarah, by God, I don’t knowwhat game you’re playing,’ he saidlow-voiced. ‘I thought you’d taken upwith them so they would take you intosociety, then I thought you were tied tohim because you’d given up onyourself and you didn’t care whathappened to you. Now you tell me he’screeping into your bedroom and you’vebrought the wedding forward…’ hebroke off. Then he suddenly droppedSea’s reins as if they had burned him.‘You whore!’ he suddenly yelled. ‘Youstupid little whore! He’s bedded you,and you’re handing over your moneyand your land to the first man who’sever looked twice at you!’

I gasped. ‘How dare you!’ Istarted but Will interrupted me.

‘Thank God I’ll not be there tosee it,’ he said. ‘I promised myself I’dstay and see you safe in your homeeven if you went through with thiswhore’s deal. I thought you’d need amanager, I thought you’d need advice. Ithought you might need help againsthim, if he raised a hand to you orstarted robbing you.’ Will scowled.‘The more fool me!’ he said bitterly.‘I’ve met your sort before. They like afool in the bedchamber, and they don’tcare what he does to them. They’ve nopride and no sense. I’ll leave you toyour flirting and your ruin. I’ll be gone,and I’ll never see Wideacre again.

‘There’ve been Tyackes onWideacre since it had that name. Adamn sight longer than the cursedLaceys, but you’ve won now. I giveyou joy of it. Little Lord Perry willhave it mortgaged and lost within ayear, mark my words. And then you’ll

be Lady Sarah of No-Acre, and seehow he looks to you then!’

‘Where would you go?’ Idemanded. ‘Who’d have you managethem into bankruptcy, to teach theirworkers your sort of manners? Don’tcome to me for a character for I’ll giveyou none!’

Will snorted with rage. ‘Youknow so little!’ he said witheringly.‘And you think yourself so clever! I’llgo where I’m wanted, to Mr Norris’sestate in the north. And I’ll take awoman with me. I’ll take Becky, Beckyand the children with me, I’ll wed her,and we’ll settle there. And if I don’tsee you till you rot in hell it’ll be toosoon for me.’

‘Becky?’Will turned and his smile was

mean. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Becky. Thewoman your mama in-law flung out ofher cottage half-starved with three

bairns. She’s my lover, didn’t youknow? She lives with me with herbairns. I’ll marry her and take her withme. I was a fool not to do so at thefirst. She’s a lovely girl, warm and fullof love to give.’ His cold eyes rakedover me, over my rich green ridinghabit, my white face under the hat.‘She’s a proud girl,’ he said. ‘Shedeserves the best and she knows it. Sheloves me, she adores my touch. Shewants to give me a son. I’ll be happywith her in a way I would never bewith anyone else. And she is the mostbeautiful girl I’ve ever had in my bed,or ever seen.’

I raised my riding crop andbrought it down with one wicked slashacross his face. He snatched it off meand he broke it across his knee andthrew the two pieces towards me. Seashied and reared high, frightened by thenoise and the anger, and I had to cling

to his mane to stay on.‘I hate you,’ I shouted. I was

choked with abuse which would notcome.

‘I hate you,’ Will repliedinstantly. ‘I’ve been a fool for monthsover you, but every time I have beenwith you I went home to Becky and shetook me into her arms and loved me,and I knew that was where I belonged.’

‘You go back to her then,’ I said.My voice was choked with anger, andmy cheeks were wet though I was notcrying. ‘You go back to her and tell herthat she is welcome to have you. Idon’t want you, I never have wantedyou. You’re a dirty common workingman and I’ve seen thousands like youeverywhere I have ever lived. You’reall the same. You’re all boastful andbraggart, randy as dogs and weepy aschavvies. I’d rather have Perry thanyou any day. So go back to your slut,

Will Tyacke, and her dirty littlebastards. Go to your stupid farm in thenorth and rob and ruin anotherlandowner. I don’t want to see youever again!’

I wheeled Sea around andthundered away, forgetting all aboutthe rule of not galloping in the park. Iraged against Will, shouting abuse andswearing out loud, all the way back tothe gate, and then as we trotted throughthe streets I swore under my breath, therich filthy language of my childhood. Istormed up the steps to the front doorand hammered on it loud as a bailiff.The footman gaped at me and I orderedhim to take Sea around to the stablesfor me in a voice which made him leapto do my bidding. Then I raced up thestairs, two at a time, to my room andslammed the door behind me. I was soangry I could not think what to do orwhat to say.

I leaned back against the door, myhat squashed against the woodenpanels and I shut my eyes. They felt hotin my hot face. Then I rememberedwhat he had said about Becky, and Ifound I had clenched my hands intofists and I was cramming them bothagainst my lips to stop me screaming inrage. He had told me that he loved her,that he loved her body, that he loved tohold her in his arms, that he was goingto marry her.

That last took the rage from me asif I had had the breath knocked out ofme with a fall. I thought of him smilingand kissing my wrist and then goingback to his cottage where she waitedfor him. I thought of her three littlechildren around his table, pleased tosee him home. I thought of her sittingon his lap in the firelight after thechavvies had gone to bed, then Ithought of him holding her in his arms

all night long. He had said that sheadored his touch.

I stood with my back against mybedroom door staring into the room,silently, for a long time.

I went over to the writing table and Idrew a sheet of the expensivenotepaper towards me. It wasembossed with the Havering crest ingold, and on the right-hand side Ispelled out the London address. AtHavering Hall they had notepaper withthe Sussex address. One day soon Iwould be the new Lady Havering andall this, two sorts of notepaper andeverything, would be mine.

It took me a white, for I could notwrite swiftly. I had to print the wordsand many of them were spelled wrongfor all I knew. So it did not look asproud and angry as I wished. I wantedto hurt him, to cut him to the heart.

To Will Tyacke,

Your behaviour andlanguage in the park today werenot what I expect of one of myfarm workers. I would begrateful if you would terminateyour work on Wideacre forthwithand leave my land.

Yours faithfully,Sarah Lacey.

Then I wrote another:

Dear Mr Tyacke,You have no right to speak

to me as you did today, and youknow it. I pledged my wordmonths ago to marry Peregrine

Havering and of course I intendto hold to that promise. Yourown affairs are your ownconcern. I have no interest inthem. If you wish to leaveWideacre I am sure I am verysorry to see you go. If you wishto stay I will accept yourapology for speaking in animproper fashion.

Yours faithfully,Sarah Lacey.

I slid that version to one side andwent to look out of the window. Then Iturned and went back to the littlewriting table. I was in an anger hotterthan anything I had felt in years,perhaps ever. I could not let it go withformal words.

Dear Will,How dare you talk to me

like you did today!You must be mad to even

dream of speaking to me as youdid!

Let me tell you two things.One is that I am your employer,the squire of Wideacre andshortly to be Lady Havering.One word from me, one word andyou don’t work in Sussex anymore. And don’t think that youcould get work elsewhere. Thereisn’t an employer in the countrywho would take you on after Itell them that you abused me tomy face, and in the coarsest ofterms.

I have no interestwhatsoever in your messy littleintrigues with your woman, norin your opinions. I want you

gone from Wideacre at once, butbefore you leave I insist that youcome to London and see me atonce. At once, Will.

Sarah Lacey.

I sat with that version before mefor a long time. Then I sighed andpulled forward another sheet of paper.The anger was seeping away from me.

Dear Will,I am angry with you, and I

am sad. You are right and I am afool. I have lived my life here inLondon, and also with them atthe Hall as if I were blind, as if Ihad forgotten where I was raisedand what mattered most to me.

You don’t understand how itis with me and Peregrine, and Ilet you misunderstand me. Hecomes to my room because he islike my brother, like a littlebrother to me. I can’t withdrawfrom the marriage – he needsme, and I like how I am when Iam with him. I like to give himthe care and courage he needs. Ihave never given anyoneanything, except one persononce. And I failed her at the last.Now there is someone who needsthe things I can do, who looks tome for help. I want to be good tohim Will. That cannot be wrong.Forgive me, it is truly what Iwant. I am afraid it is all I am fitfor.

Your friend,Sarah.

The clocks chimed softly; it waseleven already. I should be changingfor breakfast at noon, and then I shouldchange again to go out to the princess’sluncheon. I swallowed experimentally.My throat was sore. It was not soreenough to let Lady Clara excuse mefrom lunching with the princess. I putmy hand to my forehead. It was hot, butnot hot enough. I would have to go. Iwould write a letter and put it in thepost for Will before I went.

I thought of him riding back toSussex, in a rage; alone. And I wantedto speak with him, to take back thethings I had said which I had not meant.I thought of the weal of the riding whipwhich had come up on his cheek andthough I had known blows and bruisesa-plenty, I felt that this single blowwas the worst I had ever known. And ithad been from my hand.

I was too rough, I was too wild. I

was wrong for Perry, I was a foul-mouthed little pauper, no match forPerry’s delicacy. But I was too hardfor Will. It was all wrong. I belongedwhere I had been raised, down amongthe fighters and the swearers, whereyou lived by your wits and your fists,and you never loved anybody.

Dear Will,You are right, they have

trapped me. I thought I was soclever and I thought I waswinning my way through to thelife I wanted to lead. But I waswrong and they caught me whileI thought I was catching them.They have caught me – all ofthem. The Haverings and theQuality and the lords and ladiesand the life we live in London. Ihave been a fool Will and I have

to pay for it.Not Perry. I know you hate

him because he is what he is – adrunkard and a gamester and afool. But he is also like a child,he is not a cheat. He loves meWill, and he needs me. And hislove for me and his trust in mewill make me a better person, akinder woman. If I stay withPerry I may learn to love him asa woman ought to be able to lovea man. If I stay with Perry Ithink I can rescue him from hisfolly, and myself from mycoldness. I think I can get himaway, away to the country, andwe will find some way of treatingeach other with tenderness andlove. He will do as I wish. Hewill run Havering as I order, andI shall run Wideacre. And thenwe can do the things which you

have wanted all along. I know Iwas wrong to suspect you, andJames Fortescue. I have metQuality rogues now, and Iunderstand how they work. Iknow you are not liars andcheats, not you, not James, notall the people at Acre. I shallcome home to you, with Perry,and everything can be different.We can run the whole Havering-Wideacre estate as you wouldwish, as a corporation, and youwill see that Perry is a goodman. You will come to like himWill.

I am sorry that I have beenso foolish about you, and aboutBecky. I will try to be glad aboutthat, glad that you love her. Ihave been selfish I think. I didnot know that there was thatbetween you, I should have

guessed – I lived in a wagonlong enough! I just did not think.I am sorry. I feel foolish that Idid not think, but I am glad thatshe loves you, and that you loveher. I am sorry that I was selfishin asking you to come to Londonto see me as I did. I was lonelyhere, in this big city, and Iwanted to hear your voice andsee your face. But I should haverealized that you loved her. Ithink I have never understoodlove like that. I warned youquick enough not to love medidn’t I? I was a fool not to knowthat you would find someoneelse. I am glad she loves you,and that you are happy. I hopeshe will let me come and see herchildren and you when I ammarried and come to Wideacre.

Your friend,Sarah.

I paused then, and put my head inmy hands for a long time. I was a slowwriter and that muddle of thoughts hadtaken me an hour to spell out. I flushedwith shame at the thought that Willmight write very well for all I knewand he might think me ignorant andstupid not to be able to loop my lettersand scrawl all over the page.

But then I heard noon strike andmy maid tapped on the door and Icalled for her to go away, that I wouldbe down for breakfast in the instant.And then I laid my head on the paperon the writing table and groaned as if Iwas injured, knifed to the heart. I feltas sick as a horse and I could not thinkwhy. When I thought of the red weal onhis cheek and him telling me of his

Becky I wanted to throw up myaccounts.

I pulled a sheet of notepapertowards me and I knew I was downbelow the lies, well below the level ofanger and pride. Below even the levelof trying to be pleasant about hiswoman. I was down to where Ibelonged. Where I had alwaysbelonged. And down below that. For Iwas no longer Mamselle Meridondancing on horseback who was cold asice. Now I was no longer Meridon theslut horse-tamer who could make herda spit with rage. I was now someonewhose name I did not know who waslonging, longing, longing for someoneto love. Longing for him.

Dear Will,This is all wrong.Please do not promise any

more to her. Please come back toLondon. I do not want to marryPerry. I want to be with you. Ihave loved you and wanted youfrom the moment I first saw you,that night at Wideacre. Pleasecome for me at once. I beg yourpardon for having struck you.You were right, it is no goodhere. It is hopeless with Perry.

I am sure she is lovely, but Icannot believe you do not loveme, and if you do not come forme now, I do not know what Iwill do. Please come to me. Ilove you with all my heart.

Sarah.

I took the six pages of notepaperand I screwed them up into a fat ball. Icast them in the fire and I held the

poker and watched them burn. Imashed down the clot of embers so thatthere was nothing left. I turned my backon the fire, I turned my back on thewriting desk.

I could not be betrothed to oneman and write like that to another. Icould not break faith with Perry, Icould not abandon Lady Clara withouta word. They had treated me well, bytheir lights, I could not walk awayfrom them as easily as I had walked in.

I would have to wait, wait andplan. I would have to get free,honourably free, before I wrote toWill, before I thought of him again.

I leaned my forehead against thecold thick glass of my window andlooked at the grey sky and thought ofWill riding home with the scarlet wealfrom my whip on his cheek. I had noright to strike him, I had no right tomake a claim on him. The letters were

burned, I would not write another. Iwould never write to Will. Not inanger, not in love. Our ways lay bydifferent roads. Perhaps one day hewould forgive me for the blow.Perhaps one day he would understand.

I rang my bell for my maid tocome and dress me in my morningdress.

I could think of nothing else Icould do.

33I was ill, and it was that which mademy eyes seem red and made me so dullat the luncheon.

‘You are cruel!’ lisped SirRichard Fuller.

I looked at him blankly.‘Cruel to one who adores you!’ he

said smiling. His lips were painted adelicate pink, he had a black patch inthe shape of a heart at the corner of hismouth.

‘Yes,’ I said stupidly. ‘I suppose Iam.’

He gave his ringing peal oflaughter and a couple of old dowagerslooked around at us, saw Sir Richardand smiled indulgently.

‘A Diana! A very Diana!’ hecried out.

I shrugged. Half the time in thismannered social world I could not

understand a word of what people saidto me. The other half I understood wellenough but I could not think why theytroubled.

‘Do you think I have not seen thenewspaper this morning?’ he askedteasingly. ‘I knew it was coming butoh! the blow to my hopes!’

I stared at him again. We wereseated in the window seat of theprincess’s parlour, looking outtowards the park. Will had been rightabout it being cold. The hoar frost wasstill white in the sheltered corners, ayellow sun was harsh in the sky.

‘What are you talking about?’ Iasked.

Sir Richard’s pale eyes dancedwith malice. ‘About my heartbreak,about my heartbreak!’ he said.

I was no good at this kind offlirting. I sighed and went to get up andwalk away from him.

‘I knew you were half promised,but I had no idea he would be sospeedy,’ Sir Richard twinkled, puttingout a hand to detain me. ‘Have hislosses really been so bad?’

‘Perry?’ I said, coming throughthe maze of innuendo.

‘Of course!’ Sir Richard saidlimpidly. ‘Who else are you engaged tomarry?’

I looked at him blankly and saidnothing.

‘Don’t look so surprised, MissLacey!’ he begged. ‘You are charming,charming. But I cannot believe thateven Perry would post yourengagement in the newspaper withoutconsulting you!’

I nodded. Perry was quite capableof it.

‘Which is why I ask!’ Sir Richardcried triumphantly. ‘What freak hasPerry taken up now that he must run

through your fortune as well as hisown? We knew his losses at faro werestaggering, but I hear now he is playingpiquet like a fiend! And why,heartbreaking Miss Lacey, do you handyour fortune over so readily? Is itlove? Do you tell me to abandon allhope?’

I gritted my teeth and got to myfeet. ‘You must excuse me, SirRichard,’ I said politely. I held myembroidered silk morning gown to oneside and dipped him a polite curtsey. ‘Isee Lady Clara wants me, I must go.’

I crossed over to the other side ofthe room and stood at Lady Clara’selbow. She was playing whist with theprincess and I waited until she hadtaken a trick before I interrupted her. Iwished her son had half her skill atcards.

‘Perry’s put our engagement in theMorning Post,’ I said in her ear.

Her face never changed. Sheshould have worked as a gull sharperin the taverns. She was wasting hertalents on rooking Quality spendthriftslike the princess.

‘I did not see,’ she said softly.‘You don’t object, do you?’

‘He might have told me,’ I said. ‘Ihave had Sir Richard Fuller raking meover. I looked a fool.’

Lady Clara nodded. ‘He shouldhave told you indeed,’ she said. ‘I’mglad you warned me. There he is,speak to him yourself.’

I glanced up. Perry was comingthrough the crowd of people who werestanding near the door by the buffettable. As he came through with a smileand a word for many of them, he caughtmy eye and he beamed at me and cameto my side.

‘Sarah!’ he said. ‘I thought I’dfind you here. Have you seen the

newspaper this morning? We are in!Isn’t that nice! I gave them an extraguinea to get it in at once!’

He kissed my hand, and then, athis mother’s nod, drew me closer andkissed my cheek gently. His touch wascool, my cheek was hot.

‘Why the hurry?’ I asked.He grinned roguishly. ‘Come

now,’ he said. ‘You know thatyourself. I was all out of credit at thestart of this week and now they arefalling over themselves to lend to me.’He beamed. ‘And the cream of the jestis that I don’t need the money now!’

I kept the false smile pinned onmy face and I nodded as if he weretelling me excellent news.

‘I’m finished with gaminganyway,’ he said. ‘We’ll marry assoon as the banns are called – in afortnight – and then we’ll go down tothe country and live like fat old

squires. As you wish, Sarah. Just asyou wish.’

If half a dozen curious people hadnot been watching us I think I wouldhave wept. I was so tired from mysleepless night and my throat was sotight. And the memory of Will ridingfrom me in a rage, riding back toBecky and that safe little cottage mademy head throb.

‘Good,’ I said. I would never livein a cottage with Will Tyacke. I wouldnever love him as his Becky did. Iwould never lie in his arms at night.But I had learned how to love a manand some of that love I could give toPerry. We were young, we would findmany good things to do together. And ifwe could farm the land well, and makeWideacre and Havering good places tolive and work, we would have donesomething more than any squires orlords before us had ever done.

‘Don’t play piquet,’ I said.Perry shook his head. ‘Not a

card,’ he replied. ‘You look tired,Sarah, and you are all hot. Why don’t Itake you home?’

I shook my head. ‘I can’t,’ I said.‘Your mama…’

Perry smiled at me. ‘I am yourengaged husband-to-be,’ he said with ajoking little play at dignity. ‘I think youshould come home and rest. You are tobe out tonight, are you not? And youhardly slept at all last night! Come on.I shall tell Mama that you must rest.’

I was about to tell him ‘no’ butthe truth indeed was that I was tired,and I longed to be away from thatbright room with the tinklingchandelier above the hard laughingfaces. I thought I would see Perry tryhis paces. It was the first time I hadever seen him go against his mama’swishes. I wanted to see if he could do

it.He walked up to the table and

leaned over her shoulder. Lady Clara’slook was impatient but the dowagerswho were playing cards with her allleaned forward to hear the exchangebetween her and her son and I saw herglacial social smile smooth away herirritation. She nodded sweetly enough,and then she waved her hand to me.Perry threaded his way back towardsme and offered me his arm with acheeky grin.

‘Tally ho!’ he said. ‘We’reaway!’

I smiled back at him though myeyelids felt heavy. ‘You stood up toyour mama,’ I said.

Perry smoothed both lapels with abraggart’s gesture. ‘I’m the fiancé ofone of the richest women in London!’he said with a flourish. ‘I’d like to seeanyone get in my way.’

I laughed at that, despite mythrobbing head. And I took his arm andwe went to bid our farewells to theprincess. Sir Richard was bendingover her chair as we came up and hesmiled at me under his archedeyebrows.

‘Rushing off to snatch a fewmoments together alone?’ he askedacidly.

The princess laughed and tappedhim over the knuckles with her fan. Herjowls wobbled, her little eyessparkled. ‘Now, Sir Richard!’ she saidin her deep fruity voice. ‘Don’t teasethe young people. Shall I see you atCourt tomorrow night my dear?’ sheasked me.

I curtseyed to what I thought wasthe right depth. ‘No, your highness,’ Isaid. ‘We don’t go. I am going at theend of this month.’

‘As the new Lady Havering!’ Sir

Richard said. ‘How ravishing you willlook in the Havering diamonds!’

My stomach lurched as guiltily asif it had been me who had taken themand my face fell, but Perry let us downaltogether. He exploded into gigglesand had to whip out his monogrammedhandkerchief and turn it into a cough.We shuffled away from the princess indisarray and got ourselves out of thedoor to where we could collapse in thehall out of earshot.

‘How did he know?’ I demanded.Perry leaned against the blue silk-

lined wall until he could catch hisbreath. ‘Oh, Lord knows!’ he saidcarelessly. ‘It’s the sort of thing thatgets around. Just as well I got themback though, Sarah!’

‘Just as well,’ I said faintly.Our coach was ready at the door

and Perry helped me in. I dug my handsdeep inside my fur muff and lifted it up

to my face to sniff the warm smell ofthe pelt.

‘Have a nip of this,’ Perryoffered, pulling his hip-flask out of hispocket.

I sipped it cautiously. It hit theback of my throat and burned like fire.

‘What is it?’ I said, my eyeswatering.

‘Hollands gin and brandy,’ Perrysaid, swigging at the flask. ‘All therage. We call it Dutch and French.Takes your head off, don’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I said.The carriage swayed forward, the

wheels sliding without gripping on theice between the cobbles.

I nodded and laid my head backagainst the cushions of the coach. I shutmy eyes and dozed. When the carriagepulled up I had to lean on Perry’s armto get up the stairs into the house andthen Sewell, my maid, was waiting to

help me change into an afternoongown.

‘I’m not driving,’ I said. Mythroat had tightened even more and Iwas hoarse.

She looked at me. ‘You lookunwell, Miss Sarah,’ she said. ‘Shall Ifetch you a posset? Should you like arest?’

I paused for a moment, looking atthe bed with the clean white sheets.The girl I had been could walk all daybehind a wagon and then ride horsesfor a living all evening. Now I wastired in my body and weary deep intomy very soul.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Undo the buttons atthe back here, and I’ll take a nap, I’mnot promised anywhere until thisevening.’

I climbed between the cool sheetsand sat up and sipped the posset shebrought me. I slept at once but jerked

awake when she came to stoke my fire.‘It’s five o’clock, Miss Sarah,’

she said. ‘Her ladyship has come inand changed and gone out again. Shesaid you and Lord Peregrine couldfollow her in the second carriage. Itold her you were lying down.’

I nodded. I pushed back the sheetsbut they seemed heavy, my arms wereweak. I put my feet down to thefloorboards and the very wood seemedto sway beneath me.

‘I have a fever, Sewell,’ I saidstupidly. ‘I’m not well enough to go.Ask Lord Peregrine to take myapologies. I shall stay in bed tonightand be well tomorrow.’

My eyelids were hot. I fell backagainst the pillows.

‘Will you dine up here?’ sheasked indifferently.

‘No,’ I said. Poor little hungrywretch that I had been. I felt now that I

never wanted to eat again. ‘No. Bringme some lemonade and then leave meto sleep please.’

I heard her rattle the fire irons inthe grate and then I heard thefloorboard creak as she crossed theroom for the door. I dimly heard hervoice speaking to Perry and then thesound came and went in my ears likethe sound of the sea, like the sounds ofthe waves that last day at Selsey.

Then I fell asleep again and Idreamed that I was not in London atall. It was a dream of the fever allfractured and short with strangefrightening ideas lost in the darkness asI struggled awake and was rid of them,then they came back when I wasdrowsy again. I thought I was back inthe wagon and I was calling andcalling for her to bring me a mug ofwater. My throat was parched and Iwas so afraid it was the typhus and I

was going to die. In the dream I couldsee her humped back and hear my thinchild’s voice begging her to wake andfetch me a mug. I was disturbedbecause I was feverish. I did not knowmyself. In the fever dream I thought thatI was angry that she had not wakenedfor me, and I called out to her: ‘I’vewaked for you often enough, you lazyslut!’ And I thought of all the times Ihad waked for her and served her, andhow she had repaid me with a smileand perhaps a touch, but often withnothing at all. And, though it was likethe tines of a rake over my heart, Ithought that there were many and manytimes when she had taken much fromme and given nothing in return. Thatshe was a selfish young silly tart, andif she had listened to me she would nothave gone up the ladder that day. If shehad listened to me she would not havetried to trap a lad who was not fit to

wed. If she had had anything in herhead but vanity and wind she wouldhave seen that she was sailing gailydown the wrong road, the worst roadof all. And if she had listened shewould not be dead now, and I wouldnot be ill now, ill and lonely and so outof joint with myself that I was allwrong.

All wrong too.And so wrong that I could not tell

who I was nor what I should be doing.I struggled awake with that, and

reached out in the darkness for thelemonade. It was night then, night andgoing on for dawn. Someone hadbrought me a drink while I slept.Someone had made up the fire again.Some time in the night I had reachedout for the glass and drained it for itwas empty and the jug half full. In thecold grey light of the early morningbefore sun-up I was able to see enough

to sit up in my bed and pour the drink.It was icy. It made me shiver as if

a finger of snow had passed down mythroat into my very belly. I gulped itdown to sate my thirst and then Ihuddled back down under the coversagain. I was cold, chilled and cold. Butwhen I put my hand to my forehead Ifound I was burning hot.

I knew I was ill then, and I knewthat the dream of her, of seeing her as afool and a cruel fool at that, was partof my illness. I had to hold to the thingsI knew. I had to remember her as shehad been, my beloved. I had to hold onto Perry as I knew he could be, acareless youth who would grow into agood man. I had to remember that WillTyacke was an angry, vindictiveworking man who had done very wellout of my land and was now takinghimself off in a rage, and goodriddance to him.

I shivered in the grey coldness ofthe early morning. I had to hold on tothose things or I did not know whatwould happen. If I opened my mindjust a little crack, to the doubts anduncertainties, I would lose my memoryof her and my love for her, I wouldlose my certain future.

‘I want to be Lady Havering,’ Icroaked into the still cold air of theroom. ‘I want to farm Havering andWideacre together. I want to be thegreatest landowner in the county. Iwant everyone to know who I am.’

The thought of being known byname to everyone for hundreds ofmiles around was a comforting one. Islid down on the pillows a littledeeper. And I slept again.

I woke in the morning hot andblinded with my eyelids so red andswollen I could hardly open them. Iwas wakened by a squawk when my

maid, coming to my bedside, caughtsight of me and dashed for the door. Iopened my eyes slightly and shut themagain quickly. Even with the windowcurtains closed the room seemed fartoo bright and the flicker of the newlylit fire was so loud it made my headache. I was burning up with fever andmy throat was so sore that I could nothave spoken even if I had wanted to.

The bedroom door opened againand there was Lady Havering’s maidRimmings herself looking very tall andregal despite the curl papers stickingout from under her nightcap. Sheignored my maid, who was twitteringbehind her and approached my bed andlooked down at me. When I saw herface change I knew that I was very illindeed.

‘Miss Sarah…’ she said.I blinked. I tried to say ‘Yes?’ but

my voice was burned away in the

hotness of my throat. I nodded. Eventhat slight movement made all theswollen muscles in my neck shriekwith a pain which clanged inside myhead like an echoing belfry.

‘You look very ill, do you feelunwell?’ Rimmings voice was sosharp it cut into the tender placesbehind my eyes and inside my ears.

‘Yes,’ a little whisper of soundmanaged to creep out. She heard it, butshe did not bend closer to hear mebetter. She was keeping her distancefrom my breath.

‘It’s the typhus for sure!’ saidSewell, my maid. I turned my headstiffly on the sweaty pillow and lookedat her. If it was the typhus I was donefor. I had seen my Rom ma die of it andI knew how hard the illness was, like aharsh master who breaks your spiritbefore throwing you aside. If I hadbeen on Wideacre I think I might have

stood against it, I might have fought it.But not in London where I was alwaystired, always ill at ease, and with solittle joy in my days.

‘That’ll do!’ Rimmings saidabruptly. ‘And not a word of this in theservants’ hall if you want to keep yourplace.’

‘I don’t know I do want my placewith typhus in the house,’ the girl saiddefiantly, backing towards the door,her eyes still on me. ‘’Sides, if it’styphus she won’t need a dresser willshe? She won’t need a maid at all. Herla’ship had best get a nurse for as longas Miss lasts.’

Rimmings nodded. ‘I don’t doubtshe’ll have a nurse,’ she said. Iwatched her through half-closedeyelids. I did not think I could bear tohave a stranger pushing me around thebed, pulling me around, stripping meand washing me. I knew the London

nurses. They worked as layers-out andmidwives too; dirty-handed, foul-mouthed, hard-drinking women whotreated their patients – quick and dead– the same: as corpses already.

Rimmings remembered me.‘Some of them are very good,’ shelied. Then she turned to Sewell. ‘Getsome fresh lemonade, and a bowl ofwater. You can sponge her face.’

‘I’m not touching her!’ The girlstood firm.

‘You’ll do as you’re ordered,miss!’ Rimmings burst out.

She didn’t care. I closed my eyesand the squabble came to me dimly ingreat heaving waves of noise.

‘I won’t touch her! I’ve seentyphus before,’ she hissed defiantly.‘It’ll be a blessed miracle if we don’tall of us get it. Besides, you just lookat her face! She’s not long for thisworld, she’s grey already. Sponging

ain’t going to bring down that fever.She’s a goner, Miss Rimmings, and Iain’t going to nurse a dying woman.’

‘Her la’ship will hear of thisSewell – and you’ll be out on thestreets without a character!’ Rimmingsboomed, her voice seemed to echoagain and again in my head.

‘I don’t care, it ain’t right! I’m alady’s maid, hired for a lady’s maid!No one can say I don’t keep her clothesright and it ain’t my fault that shewears riding habits all the time. It ain’tmy fault she’s been so peaky eversince she came to London. I’ve dressedher right and I ain’t ever said one wordabout her coming up out of thehedgerow. But I won’t nurse her. It’dbe up and down those stairs twentytimes a day and certain to take it anddie too. I won’t do it!’

My cracked lips parted in a littlesmile as I heard them wrangling,

though my head was thudding like anenlisting drum. It had all gone wrongthen. Sewell was right with her sharpservant’s eyes and her quick wits. Iwas worm’s meat already, she hadseen the look in my face which Iremembered from my ma. When thetyphus fever puts its hot sweaty fingeron you, you are gone. Perry would notclear his gambling debts with mydowry, I would never be LadyHavering. Her ladyship would neverhave an heir from me.

All our work and lies and lessonswould be for nothing. I had alwaysthought they were good for nothing, andnow nothing would come of them,except that I should have a fashionablefuneral instead of being tossed into acommon grave. But I would die in thisbeautiful London town house as surelyas I would have died in that dirty littlewagon if we had taken the infection

when we were chavvies. The diseasewhich had taken my weary travel-wornma in her poverty and her hunger couldslip past the butler and take me too.

I was not even sorry. Not evensorry that I would die and not see myseventeenth year. I could not find it inmy hot shivering body to care aha’pence either way. Ever since shehad died I had been marking my timeout, waiting. Now I was going too andif there was such a thing as the gorgioGod, and a gorgio heaven, then I wouldsee her there. I thought of her with herhair tumbled down, dressed in shiningwhite with pink fluffy wings rising upbehind her. She would be lovely. Iwanted to be with her.

‘The kitchenmaid can do it,’Rimmings said decisively.

‘Em’ly?’ my maid asked. ‘Ofcourse! The kitchenmaid should do it.Will you wake her la’ship and tell her

about this?’‘This’ was me on my deathbed,

not a fit subject to broach to LadyHavering before she had woken in herown good time and rung the bell forher morning chocolate.

Rimmings hesitated. ‘I supposeso,’ she said slowly. ‘She’ll have tosend for the doctor for her, I can’t takethe authority. But I doubt he’ll be ableto make much difference, she’s that fargone.’

She looked at the clock on mymantelpiece. ‘I daren’t wake my ladybefore eight,’ she said. ‘Not even ifshe was breathing her last already! Itwon’t make much difference to herwhether she waits till nine or later. I’llgive Emily some laudanum to giveher.’

She came back to my bedside andstood a judicious three feet away. ‘Canyou hear me, Miss Lacey?’ she asked. I

gave a painful nod.‘I shall send Emily to nurse you,

she shall give you some laudanum.That will make you feel better.’

I nodded again. Emily or Sewell,it made little odds. Sewell was right.The fever had me in its grip like a hardrider forcing a horse at a galloptowards a cliff. I did not expect to leapacross.

They took themselves off then,still fretting, and I lay in the throbbinghot pain of the stuffy little room and letmy red eyelids close on my hot eyes,and I dozed.

At once I dreamed of a girl wholooked like me and rode like me, butdressed in bulky uncomfortableclothes. She had a riding habit of greyvelvet, but thicker and heavier cut thanmy smart outfit. She had eyes evengreener than mine, as green as mine arewhen I am happy. She looked happy

enough. She looked as if she had nevershed a tear in her life.

I heard her laugh, I saw someonelift her into the saddle and I saw hersmile down at him with love. Butthough her face was warm I knew thatall the time she was teaching herself tobe cold and hard, that she would throwhim away, she would throw awayanyone who stood in her way. I knewshe was my grand-dame. The greatBeatrice Lacey who made the landgrow and made it eat up the peoplewho worked it. Beatrice whom theyhad stopped with fire and anger.Nothing else would have made hereven pause. I knew then, that I was aLacey indeed, for that bright hard smilewas my smile when I stood in the ringand knew I had an audience in the palmof my dirty little hand. And thatcoldness which she swung around her,like an icy cloak, was the coldness

which I had been born and bred to. Thecoldness which says: ‘Me! Me! Who isgoing to care for me?’ It seemed odd,that this moment when I was gallopinglike an arrow towards my death shouldbe the time when I saw her, when Iknew at last that I was a Lacey throughand through.

My bedroom door opened and Istirred in my sleep and saw poor littleEmily the kitchenmaid with her handsswiftly washed and her cap pulledstraight and her dirty pinny swappedfor a clean one.

‘Please’m,’ she said. ‘They said Ihad to give you this.’ She held a bottleof laudanum in one hand and glass ofwater in another. ‘They said I shouldbe your maid while you’re ill, until herla’ship gets a nurse,’ she said. ‘Butplease’m I ain’t never done it and Idon’t know nohow what’s to do.’

I tried to smile and nod her to the

bedside, but I could not move my neckat all now. I must be getting worsevery quick for I had been able to speakearlier in the morning and now it hadgone altogether.

She was made bold by mystillness and silence. ‘Are you verybad, miss?’ she asked. I blinked myeyes and she came a little closer.

‘Bloody hell,’ she said.I gave a little croak of laughter

and she jumped back as if I could bite.‘Beg pardon, miss,’ she said

hopelessly. Then when I made no moresound she held out the bottle at me.‘They said I was to give you this,’ shesaid.

I could imagine how a strong dosewould take the pain away. I forced myhead to nod, the movement made mysenses swim and I closed my eyeswhile the room swirled and the bedheaved like a ship in a rough sea.

‘I’ll put it ‘ere then,’ she saidhelplessly, and moved my pitcher oflemonade and put the phial and thewater on the bedside table. ‘You helpsyourself when you wants it.’

She looked around the room forsomething that came within herexperience. ‘I’ll make your fire upagain!’ she said brightly, and went tothe hearth.

The little part of me which hadclung to life like an obstinate succubusin the wagon through beatings, eventhrough the deadly pain in my heart onthat night when she died, held me tightnow; and ordered my throat to cry out.I strained and strained to speak,looking desperately from her turnedback as she worked on the fire, to thelittle glass of water and the laudanumalongside it. If the laudanum took thepain away I would sleep. If I slept Iwould not be weary when the crisis of

the fever came and then I might fight it.I might win.

I tried to cry out, but all I couldmake were little choking noises whichshe could not even hear above therattle of the fire irons and the pokerknocking ashes in the grate. She got ablaze going and straightened up. Theroom which had been hot and stuffywas now a furnace, the firelightstabbed my eyes with its fierce heat.

‘That’s better!’ she said. Sheapproached the bed a little closer.‘’Ave you got everythink you wantthen?’ she looked around. Thelemonade was out of reach, I could notraise myself up to get the laudanum.‘Got everythink? Good.’

‘Emily,’ I croaked.She was instantly alarmed. ‘Don’t

you try to talk now,’ she said. Shecame a little closer but she did notdare to touch me. She had been

ordered too often out of the goodrooms, told to use the back stairs, toavoid the Quality and to curtsey lowwhen they went past. She was too wellschooled to dare to lay a finger on me.‘Don’t you try to talk,’ she said again.

She scuttered towards the doorand dipped a little curtsey, and wasgone. I tried to call her back but mythroat was swollen so badly I couldmake no sound. I stared at the paintedceiling, at the pretty frieze at the top ofthe walls showing cupids and love-birds in white and gold. I rememberedMeridon the gypsy and her slytoughness and I heaved myselfupwards in my bed.

It was no good, I was Meridon nolonger. I was little Miss Sarah Laceywith my throat closing so tight that Icould not breathe and the smell of stalesweat and death all around me, and thepain behind my eyes and in the very

bones of my face so bad that I couldhave cried except my tears had dried inthe heat of the fever.

I dropped back on the pillowagain and tried not to be afraid. I knewwhy Sewell had refused to nurse me, Iknew why Rimmings would not touchme. I knew why Emily had said‘bloody hell’ when she had seen myface. I had caught a brief glimpse ofmyself in my mirror when I was sittingupright for that moment. My face wasso white I looked like a corpsealready, my eyes were rimmed orange,my lips were so dark and so crackedthat they looked black with driedblood. The typhus fever had me.

34I lay for more long hours. No one cameto see me. The house was silent aroundme in the early morning quietnesswhich Lady Clara demanded. Outsidein the street a ballad-seller startedsinging a snatch of song, and I heardour front door open and close and oneof the footmen tell him briskly to beoff. The church clock at St George’sstruck the hour. I started trying to countit but there were so many echoes in myhead from each chime that I lost countand could not make it out. I thought itwas about ten.

I could feel my throat closingtighter and I could feel panic rising inme as I thought that soon I would notbe able to breathe at all. Then Isupposed that I would die. I could nolonger feel resigned and ready fordeath. When I thought of dying,

clutching for my breath in this stuffylittle room, I knew that I was mostterribly afraid. It was as bad as it, hadbeen up on the trapeze when I had hungin utter terror of falling. Now as Isucked each gasp of air down into mybody I felt the same shameful terror.Soon I should not be able to breathe atall.

I shut my eyes and tried to driftinto sleep so that my dying would notbe a terror-driven scrabble for breath;but it was no good. I was awake andalert now, my throat dry as paper, mytongue swollen in my mouth. I felt as ifI were dying of thirst – never mindtyphus. The jug of lemonade hoveredlike a mirage, well out of my reach.The phial of laudanum, which wouldhave eased my pain, was beside it.

I could hear a horrid raspingnoise in the room, like a saw on drywood. It came irregularly, with a

growing gap between the sound. It wasmy breath, it was the noise of mybreath as I struggled to get air into mylungs. I opened my eyes again andlistened in fear to the noise, and felt thepain of each laboured heave at air. Iremembered then my ma in the wagonand how she had kept us awake withthat regular gasp. I was sorry then that Ihad cursed her in my hard littlechildish heart for being so noisy andinterrupting a dream I had been having.A dream of a place called Wide.

The bedroom door opened as theclock started chiming the half past thehour. I tried to open my eyes and foundthey were stuck together. I was blindedand for a moment I thought I was stone-blind with the illness.

‘Sarah, I hear you are unwell,’Lady Clara’s voice was clear,confident. I shuddered at the noise ofher footsteps which echoed and banged

in my head. Then I heard her quickindrawn breath. I heard the noise of herskirts whisk as she crossed to the bell-pull by the fireplace, and then therunning feet of Rimmings, Sewell andEmily.

She ordered a bowl of warmwater and in a few moments I feltsomeone gently sponging my eyes untilthey fluttered and I could open themand see Rimmings holding me as farfrom her body as possible andsponging my face at arms’ length.Sewell was weeping quietly in thecorner with her apron up to her eyesand I guessed that the low-voicedexchange I had heard had been herrefusing to touch me and Lady Clara’sinstantaneous dismissal.

‘You may go, Sewell,’ she said.‘Pack your bags and be out by noon.’

Sewell scurried from the room.‘She needs a nurse, your

ladyship,’ Rimmings offered, turningmy pillow so that the cool side wasunder my hot neck. ‘She needs anurse.’

‘Of course she needs a nurse, youfool,’ her ladyship said from mywriting table. ‘And a doctor. I can’tthink why I wasn’t called.’

‘I feared to disturb your ladyship,and she was sleeping well after Emilygave her some laudanum.’

‘Did you?’ Lady Clara shot a lookat Emily who bobbed a curtsey withmelting knees.

‘Yes’m,’ she said faintly.‘How many drops?’ Lady Clara

demanded.Emily shot an anguished look at

Rimmings who cut in smoothly: ‘Ithought three, your ladyship, for MissSarah had lost her voice this morningbut she was not overheated.’

Lady Clara nodded. ‘None the

less she is seriously unwell now,’ shesaid firmly. ‘Rimmings, take this noteto a footman and tell him to take itround to Doctor Player at once.’

Rimmings stepped back from mybedside gladly enough and whisked outof the room.

‘You,’ Lady Clara said to Emily.‘You clear up in here, understand?’

Emily dipped a curtsey.Lady Clara came and stood at the

foot of my bed. ‘Sarah, can youunderstand me?’ she asked.

I managed a small nod.‘I have sent for the doctor, and he

will be here soon,’ she said. ‘He willmake you well again.’

I was so weak with fear and sohopeful of being able to breathe again Icould have wept. Besides, Iremembered my ma’s weak terror asshe died alone, fighting for her breath.I didn’t want to be alone like her, I

wanted someone to smooth myforehead and tell me that I would bewell.

‘Sarah, have you made a will?’Lady Clara demanded.

I choked with shock.‘Have you made a will?’ she

asked again, thinking I had not heard.I shook my head.‘I’ll send for your lawyers then,

as well,’ she said brusquely. ‘Don’t bealarmed my dear, but if it is typhus thenI know you would want to be on thesafe side. I’ll have the footman go forhim as soon as he gets back.’ Shepaused. ‘Is there anything you wouldlike?’

I forced myself to speak, to forcea word through the sandpaper of mythroat. ‘Drink,’ I said.

Lady Clara came no closer butshe nodded Emily to the bed. ‘PourMiss Sarah a drink,’ she said sharply.

‘Not like that. Up to the brim. Now lifther up. Yes, hold her around theshoulders and lift her. Now take theglass and hold it for her.’

The cold glass touched my lipsand the sweet clear liquid slid into mymouth. The first few mouthfuls chokedme and Emily nearly drowned mebefore Lady Clara snapped at her tostop and let me breathe. But then thesweet clear ease of it opened my throatand I drank three glasses before Emilylowered me to the pillow again andsaid softly:

‘Beg pardon, m’m.’Lady Clara ordered her to sit by

my bedside and give me morelemonade if I asked for it. Emilyhesitated, but then sank into a chairwhen her ladyship scowled.

‘Beg pardon, m’m,’ she said.Lady Clara gave a swift

comprehensive look around the room,

and at me. I was breathing a littleeasier now I was higher on the pillowsbut that eerie rasping noise came everytime I drew a breath. I saw a shadowcross her face and I knew she thought Iwould die and she would have to findanother biddable heiress to marry herson, and she would have to find herquickly before his gambling debtsruined them all.

‘I’ll see you in a moment,’ shesaid shortly and left the room.

Emily and I sat in silence,listening to the awful hoarseness of mybreath. Then I was too weary to doanything more but doze again.

That was my last lucid momentfor days.

A lot of the time was very hot, butthere were also long times when Ishivered with cold. There was a manwho came from time to time whosetouch was gentle, and I mistook him for

Robert Gower and thought I was backin the parlour hurt from falling from thetrapeze. There was a woman, a nurse Isuppose, who smelled of spirits andwho rolled me from side to side whenshe had to change the sheets on the bed.My skin flinched when she touched mewith her hard dirty hands and she usedto laugh in a loud beery voice when Iwinced.

Sometimes Lady Clara was there,always asking me if I felt well enoughto sign something. Once she actuallyput a pen in my hand and held a paperon the bed before me. I remember Ithought she was going to take Sea fromme – an odd fancy from my fever – andI let the pen fall on the white sheetsand closed my eyes to shut her out. Iremember my hair became matted withsweat and tangled and the nurse hadher way and hacked it off. I wandereda little in my mind after that; with the

short ragged bob I thought I wasMeridon again.

Often, very often, Perry wasthere. Sometimes drunk, sometimessober. Always gentle and kind to me.He brought me little posies of flowers,he paid a ballad singer to sing songsunder my window one afternoon. Hebrought hot-house grapes andpineapples and sliced them up small sothat I could eat them. When I wasrambling in fever I always knew Perry,his hand was always cool against mycheek and the smell of gin and hisfavourite soap was distinctive. Onetime when the nurse was out of theroom he leaned over me and asked ifhe could take some guineas out of mypurse.

‘I’m desperate short, Sarah,’ hesaid.

I knew I should not allow it. Iknew he had promised me, in what

seemed another lifetime, hundreds ofyears ago, that he would never nevergamble again. But I had no will tomatch against his imploring blue eyes.

‘Please Sarah,’ he said.I blinked, and he took that for

assent and I heard the chink of goldcoins and then the soft closing of thedoor behind him as he left me.

The doctor came again and again.Then one day, when I felt so weary andso sick that I half wished they wouldall leave me, leave me and let me diein peace, I saw him nod to Lady Claraand tell her there was nothing he coulddo. They would have to wait and see. Irealized, only dimly, that they weretalking about my death.

‘Her mother died of childbedfever,’ Lady Clara said.

The doctor nodded. ‘But it’sstrong stock,’ he said. ‘Squires, thebackbone of the country.’

Lady Clara nodded. I knew shewould be thinking that I had not beenreared as a squire’s child, with nothingbut the best to eat and drink.

‘She is very strong,’ she saidhopefully. ‘Wiry.’

The doctor inclined an inquisitiveeyebrow. ‘What of the estate if shegoes?’

Lady Clara looked bleak. ‘Backto the Laceys,’ she said. ‘All thecontracts depend on marriage betweenPerry and her. Betrothal is not enough.’

The doctor nodded ‘You must beworried,’ he offered.

Lady Clara gave a little moan andturned towards the window where thewinter sky was greying into darkness.‘Perry will be ruined if he cannot gethis hands on his capital soon,’ shesaid. ‘And I was counting on therevenues of the Wideacre estate. It is agold mine, that place. My income

depends on the Havering estateremaining strong. And if Perry does notmarry at all…’ she trailed off but thedesolation in her voice echoed in myhead. She was thinking of the tumbledDower House, and the Havering kinwho would take her place.

Doctor Player glanced towardsthe bed and his look at me gleamed. Ihad my eyes shut and they thought Iwas sleeping. Indeed, I was only halfconscious. I drifted in and out ofawareness as they spoke. Sometimes Iheard it all, sometimes I heard nothing.

‘Special licence…marriage,’ Iheard him say, and I heard LadyClara’s swiftly indrawn breath.

‘Would it be legal?’ shedemanded.

‘Her guardian has already givenhis consent,’ Doctor Player saidjudiciously. ‘If she herself wishedit…’

Lady Clara came swiftly to thebed and, forgetting her fear of thetyphus, put her hand on my hotforehead.

‘Would she agree? Is she fit toconsent?’ she asked. ‘She can scarcelyspeak.’

Doctor Player’s urbane voiceheld a gleam of amusement. ‘I shouldbe happy to testify that she was fit, ifthere should be any dispute,’ he saidsoftly. ‘Especially to oblige you, mydear Lady Havering. I have alwaysthought so highly of you…and alwaysloved your part of the world. How Ihave longed to be a neighbour of yours,perhaps a little house…’

‘There’s a pretty Dower Houseon the Wideacre estate,’ Lady Clarasaid. ‘If you would do me the honour…rent free, of course…a lease of say,thirty years…?’

I heard his stays creak as he

bowed, and I heard the smile in LadyClara’s voice. The special smile, whenshe obtained what she wanted.

‘Doctor Player, you have beenmost helpful,’ she said. ‘May I offeryou a glass of ratafia? In the parlour?’

He took a little bottle of medicinefrom his bag, I heard it clink againstthe brass fastening.

‘I shall leave this for her, sheshould take it when she wakes,’ hesaid. ‘I can tell Nurse on my way out.And as for her marriage with your son,I should risk no delay, Lady Clara. Sheis very ill indeed.’

They went out together, I heardthem talking in low voices as they wentdown the stairs and then I was alone inthe silence of my room with only thesoft ticking of the clock and the hushedflickering of the flames in thefireplace.

I slid into a hot daze, and then I

woke again seconds later, chilled tothe bone. If I had any voice other than arasping breath I should have laughed. Ihad thought my da a big enough villainbut even he would have balked atmarrying his child off to a dying girl.He was a rogue but he had given methe string and the clasp of gold becausehis dying wife had asked it of him. Inour world we took the wishes of thedying seriously. In this Quality worldwhere everything looked so fair andspoke so soft, it was those with landwho gave the orders, who had theworld as they wished. Nothing wassacred except fortune.

Lady Clara did not dislike me, Iknew her well enough and I knew thathad I been her daughter-in-law shewould have liked me as well as sheliked her own Maria – probably better.She neither liked nor disliked anyonevery strongly, her main concern was

with herself. In her eyes it was her dutyto preserve her personal wealth, herfamily’s wealth and name, and toincrease it wherever possible. Everygreat family on the land had made itselfrich at the expense of hundreds of littleones. I knew that. But I never knew itso clearly as that evening when Iwatched the ceiling billow like amuslin cloth as my hot eyes playedtricks on me, and I knew that I was inthe care of a woman who cared morefor my signature than for me.

What happened next was like anightmare in a fever. I woke one timeto find Emily washing my face withsome cool scented water. I pulledaway from her touch. My skin was sosore and so burning that it stung whenshe touched me. She said, ‘Beg pardon,m’m,’ in an undertone and made a fewmore ineffectual dabs at me.

I was sweating still – burning up

with fever. My bedroom door beyondEmily opened, the white paintworkseemed to shimmer as I looked at it,and Lady Clara came in. Somethingabout her face struck me, even in myheat-tranced muddle. She lookeddetermined, her mouth was set, hereyes, as she glanced to the bed, wereas hard as stones I think I shrank back alittle and looked to Perry.

He was ill from one of hisdrinking bouts, his, face was pale, hishair curly and damp from a wash withcold water in an effort to sober in ahurry. But most of all I noticed hisclothes. He usually wore riding dressin the mornings, or one of his silkdressing gowns over white linen andbreeches. But this morning he wasdressed immaculately in pale grey,with a new waistcoat of lavender and apale grey jacket. In one hand he carriedpale grey gloves.

I think it was the gloves whichmade something in my mind click likea clockwork mechanism. I heard myold voice, my worldly gypsy-child’svoice say: ‘Damn me, they’re going tomarry me as I lie here dying!’ and asense of absolute outrage made mesweat with temper and made my eyesgo bright and dizzy.

Perry came to my bedside andlooked down at me.

‘Not too close, Perry,’ his mothersaid.

‘I’m sorry about this, Sarah,’ hesaid. ‘I did not mean it to be like thisfor us. I really wanted us to marry andmake each other happy.’

His anxious face was wavering ashe spoke. That burst of temper hadtired me.

‘You’re dying,’ he said bluntly.‘And if I’m not married to you I’ll beruined, Sarah. I have to have my

fortune, please help me. It will meannothing to you when you’re dead, afterall.’

I turned my face away and closedmy eyes. I was black with rage. Ishould do nothing for him, nothing forthem, nothing.

‘She should have some laudanumto soothe her,’ I heard the doctor say.They were all here then. Emily’snervous pulling at my shoulder raisedme a little and I opened my mouth andlet the draught slide down. At once Ifelt a golden glow inside me. It was farstronger than usual. It was strongenough to make me drunk with it.Clever Doctor Player was earning hisfee – the Wideacre Dower Housewhich belonged to me. My sense ofanger and my panic-stricken scrabblefor life eased away from me. Myrasping breath grew quieter and steady.I was getting less air, but I minded

less. I would have protested againstnothing while the drug worked itsmagic on me. It all seemed a long wayaway and wonderfully unimportant. Ifelt easy; I liked Perry well enough, Idid not like to see him look so afraidand so unhappy. He should have hisfortune, it was only fair.

I smiled at him, and then I lookedaround the room, Maria’s room whichI had disliked on sight, and yet wouldbe the last thing I saw before I closedmy eyes for the last time. They had putflowers on my writing desk, whitelilies and carnations and the little flapwas down ready for the ledger whichthe rector would bring. There wasfresh ink and mended pens and ablotter and sealing wax. They were allready. There were more flowers on themantelpiece by the clock. The stuffyroom was heavy with their perfume, Ilooked around at them and I laughed

inside. They would do nicely for myfuneral too. I guessed Lady Clarawould choose white flowers for thewreath. She would never waste hot-house flowers in mid-winter.

There was a tap at the door and Iheard Rimmings’ voice say: ‘TheReverend Fawcett, ma’am,’ and Iheard a brisk tread into the room.Through half-closed eyelids I saw himgo and make his bow to Lady Clara,and shake the doctor’s hand. He bowedto Perry then he approached my bed,halting a careful distance from me, andhis smile was less assured.

‘Miss Lacey, I am sorry to seeyou so ill,’ he said. ‘Are you able tohear me? Do you know why I havecome?’

Lady Clara came swiftly to mybedside, her silk morning dressrustling. She came to the other side ofthe bed and fearless for once, took my

hand and put her other hand against mycheek as if she loved me dearly. Iflinched. She knew I hated beingtouched, she was not a loving woman.All this was for show. I understoodthat. I had been a circus child.

‘Dear Sarah understands us, whenher fever is abated,’ she said firmly.‘This marriage has been her dearestwish since she and my son met lastspring.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Wenone of us could bear to disappointher,’ she said. ‘They have beenbetrothed for months, I could not denyher the right to marry before…’ shebroke off as if her emotions were toomuch for her. My breath rasped in thesilence. I had no voice to deny it, evenif I had wished. Besides, the drug hadrobbed me of determination. I feltsleepy and lazy, idle and happy, asfeckless as a child on a hot summer’sday. I did not care what they did.

The rector nodded and his darkshiny head caught the grey winter lightfrom the window. ‘Is this yourconsidered wish, Miss Lacey?’ heasked me directly.

Lady Clara looked at me, herwide blue eyes had a look of desperatepleading. If I found my voice and said‘no’ her son would be ruined. I couldhardly see her, I could hardly see therector, or Perry. I was thinking of thehigh clean woods of Wideacre andhow, when he was teaching me my wayaround the estate, Will used to ridewith me. How very loud the birdsongwas, in those afternoons, under thetrees.

I thought of Will, and smiled.They took it as consent.‘Then I will begin,’ said the

rector.He did Lady Clara’s work for

her. He began at the beginning and

missed out nothing – as far as I knew,for it was the first wedding service Ihad ever heard all the way through inall my life. When we were chavviesshe and I used to hang around the backof churches at wedding-time forsometimes kindly people would giveus a penny, pitying our bare legs andthin clothes. More often they wouldgive us a ha’pence to scout off andleave the church looking tidy. Wenever cared for their motive, we onlywanted the coppers. I knew some partsof the service, I knew there werequestions to be answered, and Ipuzzled my tired hot mind withwhether I should say ‘no’ and stop thisfarce while I could. But I did not reallycare enough for anything, the drugcame between me and the land.

When he came to the sectionwhere I should have said ‘I do’ heslipped through it, and my confused

blinkings were consent enough. LadyClara was at my side, reckless ofinfection, and when she said firmly,‘She nodded,’ that was consent enough.

I was fair game. I seemed to beback in time on Wideacre and it wasnight. I was riding Sea wearily downthe hill from the London road. At theford at the foot of the hill he splashedin and then paused, bent his head anddrank. I could smell the coldness of thewater and the scent of the flowers onthe air. In the banks along the river theprimroses gleamed palely in thedarkness. In the secret darkness of thewood an owl hooted twice.

‘I now pronounce thee man andwife,’ a voice said from somewhere.Sea lifted his head and water drippedfrom his chin, loud drops in the night-time stillness, then he waded throughthe swift water and heaved up the farbank and on to the road again.

Lady Clara was pushingsomething into my hands, a pen. Iscrawled my name as she had taughtme to do on the paper she held beforeme. In the darkness on the land Seaheaded purposefully between two openwrought-iron gates and a shadow of aman came out from under the trees andlooked up at me. It was a man who wasout looking for poachers because hehated gin traps. It was Will Tyacke.

‘She is smiling,’ said the rector’svoice from the foot of the bed.

‘It was her dearest wish,’ LadyClara said quickly. ‘Where do youwish me to sign? Here? And the doctorfor the other witness? Here?’

They were going. Silently in thedream Will reached up for me on thehorse and silently I slid from Sea’sback into his arms.

‘We will leave her to rest now,’Lady Clara said. ‘Emily, you sit with

her in case she wakes and needssomething.’

‘She will be mentioned in ourprayers,’ the rector said. ‘It would be atragedy…’

‘Yes, yes,’ Lady Clara said. Thedoor closed behind them. In the worldof the fever-dream Will Tyacke benthis head and I lifted up my face for hiskiss. His arms came around me andgathered me to him, my hands went tohis shoulders, tightened behind hisneck to hold him close. He said. ‘Ilove you.’

‘Don’t cry, Miss Sarah!’ Emilysaid. She was patting my cheeks with awad of damp muslin. There were hottears running down my flushed cheeks,but my throat was too tight and I wastoo short of breath to weep. ‘Don’tcry,’ she said helplessly. ‘There’s noneed to cry. Beg pardon,’ she added.

They were sure I would die, and theywrote to Mr Fortescue, telling him ofmy illness and of the wedding in thesame letter. He was away in Ireland onbusiness when the letter came, and itawaited his return to Bristol. With himaway there was no one to tell them onWideacre that they had a new master.That the London lord whom Will hadwarned them of had won their landindeed, and he and his hard-facedmama would run the land as theypleased. They carried on, using theirown money to mend the ploughs,spending the common fund on seeds forthe winter sowing, ploughing the landfor the spring sowing, hedging,ditching, digging drains. They did notknow they would have done better tosave their money. No one in Londontroubled to tell them of the changesthey would face, as soon as Perry andhis mama arrived in the country in

springtime.No one expected me to arrive.

They expected me to die.It grieved Perry. He had moved

his things to the room next door, toreinforce his claim to the marriage ifanyone should dispute it in the future,after my death. He kept the adjoiningdoor unlocked and he often camethrough to sit with me. Often he wouldstumble in to see me after a night ofgambling and he would sit at mybedside and mumble through the handshe had played and the points he hadlost. When I was feverish I thought hewas Da – forever bewailing his illluck, forever blaming others. Eternallygulled by those he had set out to cheat.Perry was not a cheat but he was a ripefat pigeon. I could imagine how thecard-sharpers and the gull groperswould beam when he rolled into a newgambling hell and smiled around with

those innocent blue eyes.When I was cool and the fever

had given me a moment’s respite Iwould ask him how it was with him,whether his creditors had given himtime now that it was known he wasmarried. He dropped his voice so lowthat it would not disturb the rough nightnurse who sat, snoring, by the fire, andhe told me that everyone had offeredhim extra credit, that he had gonethrough the figures with his lawyersand that he thought he could very wellmanage to live the life he liked on theprofits from the joint Havering-Wideacre estates.

‘It has to be ploughed back,’ Isaid faintly. I could feel the beat of thefever starting deep inside my bodyagain. Already the covers were feelinghot and heavy on the bed, soon I shouldstart to shake and to shiver. Laudanumwould stave off the pain, but nothing

would hold back the waves of heatwhich drained my mind of thoughts anddried my mouth.

‘I can’t plough it back this year,’Perry started. ‘Maybe next, if there isenough…’ But then he saw how myface had changed and he broke off.‘Are you ill again, Sarah?’ he asked.‘Shall I wake the nurse?’

I nodded. I was drowning in awave of heat and pain, slowly, in thecrimson darkness I could hear the rasprasp of my breath coming slowly intome, and then I felt my throat thicken yettighter and I knew I would not be ableto get my breath for much longer.

Dimly I heard Perry shouting atthe nurse and shaking her awake. Shestamped across to the bed and herbroad arm came under my shouldersand my head fell back against hersweaty gown. She tipped the laudanumdown my throat in one smooth

practised gesture and I retched andheaved for breath.

‘Her throat’s closing up,’ she saidto Perry in her hard voice. ‘It’s theend. Best get her la’ship if she wants tobid her g’bye.’

Her voice seemed to come from along way away. I did not believe itpossible that this could be the end forme. I felt as if I had hardly lived at all.I had been raised in such a rough poorway, and I had been less than a year inluxury with the Quality. To die now,and of a disease which I could havetaken at any time in a damp-clothedhungry childhood made no sense at all.The drug began taking hold and I feltthe familiar sense of floating on agolden sea. If she was right and I diednow I should have died withoutknowing a proper childhood, withoutknowing a proper mama, withoutknowing what it is to be loved honestly

and truly by a good man. And worse ofall, I would die without knowing whatit was to feel passion. Any slut on astreet corner might have her man; but Ihad been cold as ice all my life. I hadonly ever kissed the man I loved in mydreams. In real life I had whipped himaround the face and told him I hatedhim.

I gave a little moan – unheardamong the hoarse scraping noise as Ibreathed. Lady Clara came in andlooked down at my face.

‘Is there anything you want?’ sheasked.

I could not reply but I knew trulythat there was nothing she could buyfor me, or sell to me, or barter withme, which I could want. The only thingI wanted could not be bought. It wasnot the ownership of Wideacre, but thesmell of the place, the taste of thewater, the sight of that high broad

skyline.She looked at me as if she would

have said far more. ‘I hope I have nottreated you badly,’ she said. ‘I meantwell by you, Sarah. I meant Perry tomarry you and to live with you. Ithought you might have suited. I didneed Wideacre, and I am glad to haveit, but I wanted it to be your freechoice.’

She looked at me as if she thoughtI could answer. I could barely hearher. Her face was wavering likewater-weed under the Fenny. I felt as ifI could taste the cool wetness of theFenny on my tongue, as if it wereflowing over my hands, over my face.

She stepped back from the bedand Perry was there, his eyes red fromweeping, his curls awry. He saidnothing. He just pressed his head onmy coverlet until his mother’s hand onhis shoulder took him away.

Still I said nothing. I thought Icould see the gates of Wideacre Hallas I had seen them on that first night,open, unguarded. Beyond them was thedrive to the Hall edged with the tallbeech trees and the rustling oaks. In thewoods was Will, watching for the menwho would set gin traps which injureand maim. It was dark through thegates. It was quiet. I was weary andhot to the very marrow of my bones. Iwanted to be in that gentle darkness.

In my dream I waited beside thegates.

Then I stepped through into theblackness.

35The blackness lasted for a long time.Then from far away there was thesound of a robin singing, so I knew itwas winter. There was a smell offlowers, not the familiar clogged smellof sweat. There was no sound of therasping breathing, I could breathe. Icould feel the blessed air going in andout of my body without a struggle. Iraised my chin, just slightly. Thepillow was cool under my neck, thesheets were smooth. There was nopain, the rigid labouring muscles wereat peace, my throat had eased. I wasthrough the worst of it.

I knew it before anyone else. Ihad woken in the grey light of morningand I could see the nurse dozing beforethe embers of the fire. It was not untilEmily came in to make up the fire andwake the nurse and send her away for

the day that anyone looked at me.Emily’s face was there when I openedmy eyes after dozing and I saw hereyes widen.

‘I’ll be damned,’ she said. Thenshe raced to the idle old woman at thefireside and pulled at her arm.

‘Wake up! Wake up! You olebutter-tub!’ she said. ‘Wake and lookat Miss Sairey! She’s through ain’t she!She’s stopped sweatin’ ain’t she? Sheain’t hot! She’s broke the fever andshe’s well, ain’t she?’

The nurse lurched up from herchair and came to stare at me. I lookedback. Her ugly strawberry face neverwavered.

‘Can you hear me, dearie?’ sheasked.

‘Yes,’ I said. My voice was thin,but it was clear at last.

She nodded. ‘She’s through,’ shesaid to Emily. ‘You’d best get her

summat sustaining from the kitchen.’She nodded magisterially. ‘I could dowith some vittles too,’ she said.

Emily scooted towards the doorand I heard her feet scamper down thehall. The fat old woman looked at mecalculatingly.

‘D’you remember that they didmarry you?’ she asked bluntly.

I nodded.‘’E slept with your door open to

‘is room, an’ all,’ she said. ‘It’s rightand tight. Was it what you wanted?’

I nodded. She could be damnedfor her curiosity. And I did not want tothink of Perry, or Lady Clara, of thedoctor who had been promised theDower House on my land, nor of therector who had married me while Icould not speak. All I wanted to dowas to hear the robin singing and lookat the clouds moving across the whitewinter sky, and to feel the joy of my

hand which was no longer clenchedand sticky with sweat and a breathwhich came smoothly to me, like gentlewaves on a light sea. I had comethrough typhus. I was well.

I was weary enough though. In theweeks that followed it was as if I werea chavvy again, learning to walk. Itwas days before I could do more thansit up in my bed without aching withtiredness. Then one day I made it to thechair by the fireside on my own. Alittle later on and I bid Emily help meinto a loose morning dress and I mademyself walk out into the corridor andto the head of the stairs before I calledher and said I was too faint and wouldhave to go back to my room. But thenext day I got downstairs, and the dayafter that I stayed downstairs and tooktea.

It was not little Miss Sarah who

had come through the fever. It was notthat faint shadow of a lady of Qualitywho had fought through. It was notlittle Miss Sarah who ordered Emilythrough gritted teeth to damn well giveher an arm and help her walk, evenwhile her legs turned to jelly beneathher.

It was the old strength ofMeridon, the fighting, swearing, toughlittle Rom chavvy. A lady of Qualitywould have died. You had to be asstrong as whipcord to survive a feverlike that, and nursing like that. A ladyof Quality would have been an invalidfor life if she had survived. But Iwould not rest, I would not have a daybed made for me in the parlour. Everyday I went a little further, every day Istayed up for a little longer. And oneday, only a week after I had firstwalked across my room, I had thembring Sea round from the stables, up to

the very front door, and I walked downthe steps without an arm to support meand laid my white face against his greynose and smelled the good honestsmell of him.

It was that smell, and the sight ofhim all restive in a London streetwhich took me back in to the parlour,to rest again, and to ready myself for atalk with Peregrine.

I had hardly seen him, or LadyClara, since my recovery. Lady Clarawas out of the house at all hours. Atfirst I could not understand why, andthen Emily let slip some gossip fromthe servants’ hall. Lady Clara wasrunning all around town trying to keepthe lid on scandal about her daughterMaria. Only months into marriageMaria was humping her piano tutor,and if Lady Clara did not buy the manoff and silence Maria’s complaints,and scotch the rumour fast, it would

reach the ears of the hapless husband;and Basil was already weary ofMaria’s dress bills, and her temper,and her sulks.

I knew Lady Clara well enough toknow that she was not doing this forlove for her daughter, nor for herrespect for the holy estate. She was inmortal terror that Basil would throwMaria out, and she would be backhome with the piano tutor in tow, herreputation ruined: a costly disgrace toher family.

Lady Clara said as much to mewhen we passed on the stairs thatafternoon.

‘I am glad to see you up, dear,’she said. ‘And glad to see you are wellenough to dine downstairs. Perry ishome from Newmarket tomorrow, is henot?’

‘Yes,’ I said. I hesitated, my handon the cold metal banister. ‘You look

tired, Lady Clara.’She made a little face. ‘I am,’ she

said. ‘But I have to go out at once toMaria. Basil is coming home to dinethis evening and I dare not let the twoof them be alone together. Maria hassuch a sharp tongue she’ll goad him, Iknow it. There are enough people whowould tell him what has been going onif he were willing to hear it. I shallhave to be a peace-maker.’

I looked at her coolly. ‘Youspecialize in profitable marriage-making,’ I said. ‘But making themarriage stick is more difficult, is itnot?’

She met my eyes with a gaze ashard as my own. ‘Not when it suitsboth parties,’ she said bluntly. ‘Mariais a fool and cannot see beyond herown passions. You are not. You haveaccess to Perry’s fortune and to yourown. You are welcome to live in the

country, in the town, or on the moon forall I care. You wanted to be launchedinto society and I did that for you. Iwill sponsor you at Court, your childwill be the biggest landowner inSussex. You consented to yourmarriage Sarah, and it will serve youwell. I’ll take no blame.’

I nodded. ‘I’ll learn to live withit,’ I said and my voice was hard. ‘ButI did not consent.’

She shrugged. She was too wiseand too clever to be drawn. ‘It willserve you well,’ she said again. ‘Andanyway, now you have no choice.’

I nodded, but I still had a gleam ofhope that I might get free. It was onething to consent to marriage to Perrywhen I pitied him, and pitied myselfand respected – almost loved – LadyClara. It was another damned thingaltogether when I had seen Perry stealfrom my purse when I was ill, and seen

Lady Clara rob me of my lands whenshe thought I was dying. If I couldbreak free I would. And if I couldbreak free there would be Wideacre,waiting for me. And Will might still bethere.

I sent a footman flying with a noteto James Fortescue’s lawyer and tookhim privately into the dining room andtold him bluntly what had happened.His jaw dropped and he strode aroundthe room like a restive cat beforeplacing himself before the hearth.

‘I did not know!’ he said. ‘All Iheard was a special licence becauseyou were unwell. And I knew you hadbeen living in this house as part of thefamily for months.’

I nodded. ‘I’m not blaming you,’ Isaid. I had little energy for thisconversation and I wanted to hear if Iwas indeed, trapped tight. ‘I’m notblaming you,’ I said. ‘It is no one’s

fault. But tell me if the marriage isvalid. If I have any choice now?’

He turned to the fire and studiedthe logs. ‘Has he slept in your bed?’ heasked delicately.

I nodded. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Theytook care of that. But we never did it.’

His whole body jumped as if Ihad stuck him with a pin at myindelicacy. But I was little Miss Sarahno more.

‘I see,’ he said slowly, to coverhis nervousness. ‘So a medicalexamination, if you could bear to allowsuch a thing would establish that youare indeed…’ he hesitated.

‘An examination by a doctor?’ Iasked.

He nodded. ‘To prove non-consummation of the marriage, with aview to obtaining an annulment,’ hesaid watching the hearthrug beneath hisboots and blushing like a schoolboy.

I thought of the horses I hadridden and the tumbles I had taken. Ithought of riding bareback andclimbing trees. I made a grimace at histurned-away face.

‘I’ve not had a man, but I doubt Icould prove it,’ I said. ‘Where I comefrom there’s few girls who stain theirsheets on their wedding night. We alllive too hard.’

He nodded as if he understood. Iknew damn well he did not.

‘Then we would be faced with theproblem of obtaining a divorce,’ hesaid carefully. ‘And a divorce wouldnot return your lands to you, even if itwere possible.’

I leaned back against the paddingof the chair. I was very weary indeed.‘Let me get this straight,’ I said. ‘Icannot get the marriage annulled.’

He nodded.‘I might be able to get divorced.’

‘Only for flagrant abuse andcruelty,’ he interjected softly.

I shot an inquiring look at him.‘Imprisonment, torture, beatings,

that sort of thing,’ he said quietly.I nodded. Where I came from, if

you were tired of your husband or hewas tired of you, you could stand up ina public place and announce you wereman and wife no more. That was theend of it and you went your ways. Butthe Quality had to think about land andheirs.

‘I’ve had none of that,’ I said.‘But even if I had, and I could make adivorce stick, are you telling me thatI’d not get my land back?’

The lawyer turned from the fireand faced me, and his expression waskindly but distant.

‘It is his land now,’ he said. ‘Heis your husband and master. Everythingyou owned at marriage became his, at

marriage. It is his to do with as hepleases. This is the law of the land,Lady Havering.’ He paused. ‘And youhave been offered a most generousallowance and settlement,’ he said. ‘Ihave seen the contract and it is verygenerous indeed. But both religion,law and our traditions insist that it isbetter if the husband owns everything.’

‘Everything?’ I asked. I wasthinking of the beech coppice on theway up to the Downs where the sunfilters through the leaves and theshadows shift on the nutty brown leaf-mould at the foot of the treetrunks.

‘Everything,’ he said.I nodded. ‘I’m good and wed

then,’ I said. ‘And I’d best make themost of it.’

He picked up his hat and hisgloves. ‘I am sorry for this confusionduring your illness,’ he said formally.‘But once you put your name to the

marriage register the deed was done.’I managed a smile, my hard-eyed

beggar-girl smile. ‘I understand,’ Isaid. ‘And I should have been on myguard. I’d lived among thieves all mylife, Mr Penkiss. I should have known Iwas among them still.’

He dipped his head at that. He didnot quite like the widow of a peer ofthe realm being lumped among a parcelof thieves, but he was paid by theestate which had been mine and hewould not correct me to my face.

He went and I rang the bell forEmily. I wanted her strong young armaround me to help me upstairs to reston my bed. I was as weak as a half-drowned kitten.

I did not see Perry during the longweeks of my convalescence because hewas out of town, at Newmarket for theraces. He came home the day after my

conversation with the lawyer, on abright crisp January day with the smellof snow in the air that not all the smogof the London streets could steal.

I had tried a drive out in LadyClara’s oversprung landau and wascoming in, weary with overtaxingmyself in my gritty struggle back tohealth. Perry was bright as a newguinea, golden-haired, blue-eyed,smiling like sunshine.

He was also drunk as awheelbarrow. He fell out of thetravelling chaise and giggled like ababy in sunshine. The footmen cominggracefully down the steps to fetch inhis baggage suddenly put on a turn ofspeed and heaved him up out of thegutter. Perry’s legs went from underhim and tried to race off in oppositedirections while he laughed aloud.

‘Why Sarah!’ he said catchingsight of me. ‘You up and about

already! You look wonderful!’I scowled at him. I knew I was as

white as ice and my hair was a coppermop of curls again which lookedridiculous under a bonnet and half-baldunder a cap.

‘I’ve had such luck!’ he saidjoyously. ‘I’ve won and won, I amweighed down with guineas Sarah! I’lltake you out to the theatre tonight tocelebrate!’

‘Bring him in,’ I said abruptly tothe footmen, and went ahead of theminto the parlour.

Perry walked steadier when hewas in the house. He dropped into achair and beamed at me.

‘I really have done well, youknow,’ he offered.

I managed a thin smile. ‘I’mglad,’ I said.

There was a tap on the door andthe parlourmaid came in with tea. I

took a seat by the fireside and my cupwhen she handed it to me. Perry drankhis eagerly and refilled it severaltimes. ‘It’s good to be home,’ he said.

‘I’ve seen my lawyer,’ I saidabruptly. ‘The marriage is unbreakableand the contracts are going through.They’ll send the deeds of Wideacre toyou at once.’

Perry nodded, his face sobering.‘I was washed up, Sarah,’ he said. ‘Iwas quite under the hatches. It wouldhave been the debtors prison for me ifwe had not married.’

I nodded, but my face was stony.He shrugged. ‘Mama said…’ he

started, then he broke off. ‘I’m damnedsorry if you are angry with me, Sarah,’he said. ‘But I could think of nothingelse. The doctor told us you would die,I was not even thinking of gettingWideacre. I was just thinking of gettingmy own money, and I thought you

would not mind. It’s not as if youwanted to marry anyone else, after all.And we are very well suited.’

I looked at him, I was too wearyfor anger. I looked at him and I sawhim as he was. A weakling and adrunkard. A man too fearful to stand upto his own mother and too foolish tostay out of gambling and off the bottle.A man no woman could fall in lovewith, a man no woman could respect.And I thought about myself – a womanspoiled from the earliest childhood soshe could not stand a man’s touch, noraccept a man’s love. A woman whohad dreamed all her life of living in acertain way, of seeking a certain place.And when I had found it, it had meantvery little.

I was no longer little Miss Sarahwith her hopes of a brilliant Londonseason and her eagerness to learn howsociety people lived, her belief in the

best. I was Meridon who had beencheated until my heart was hard all mychildhood, and had been robbed inadulthood by the people I had thoughtof as a refuge.

‘We’re well suited,’ I saidwearily. ‘But I don’t have a lot ofhopes for us.’

Perry looked dashed. ‘Youwanted to go home…’ he offered‘Home to the country. When you’rewell enough for the journey, we couldgo to Havering,’ he glanced at me. ‘OrWideacre if you’d prefer.’

I nodded. ‘I would like that,’ Isaid. ‘I would like to go to Wideacreas soon as possible. I should be wellenough to travel in a few days. Let’s gothen.’

He gave me a little smile, asappealing as a child.

‘You’re not really angry are youSarah?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t mean to

make you angry, or disappoint you. Itwas Mama who was sure. Everyonewas certain that you would die, I didn’tthink you’d mind doing it. It wouldhave made no difference to you, afterall.’

I got to my feet, steadying myselfwith a hand on the mantelpiece.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t really mind.There was no one else I wanted tomarry. It is not what I planned, that’sall.’

Perry stumbled as he went to holdthe door open for me. ‘You are LadyHavering now,’ he said encouragingly.‘You must like that.’

I looked down the long years tomy childhood to where the dirty-facedlittle girl lay in her bunk and dreamedof having a proper name, and a properhome, and belonging in a gracious andbeautiful landscape. ‘I should do,’ Isaid thoughtfully. ‘I’ve wanted it all

my life.’That reassured him and he took

my hand and kissed it gently. I heldstill. Perry had inherited his mother’sdiffidence, he would never grab me, oroverwhelm me with kisses, or brushagainst me for the pleasure of mytouch. I was glad of that, I still liked adistance between me and any otherperson. He let me go and I went pasthim and up the shallow stone stairs tomy bedroom to lie on the bed and lookat the ceiling and keep myself fromthinking.

For the next week I worked atbecoming stronger. Lady Claracomplained that I never went intosociety at all. ‘Hardly worth yourwhile to make me take the title ofDowager if you’re going to be ahermit,’ she said to me at dinner oneday.

I gave her half a smile. ‘I am toogrand to mix with the common people,’I said.

That made her laugh and she didnot tease me further. She was still toobusy trying to keep Maria with herhusband to waste much time on me. Anotice of our private marriage hadappeared in the paper but all of LadyClara’s friends knew that I had beenseriously ill. They would hold partiesfor me later on. I told everyone I met inthe park that I was not well enough todo more than ride a little and walk, atpresent.

Sea was very good. He hadmissed our daily rides and the groomsin the stables did not like to take himout because he was frisky and naughty.If a high-sided coach went past him heshied, if someone shouted out in thestreet he would be half-way across theroad before they could steady him

down, and if they so much as touchedhim with a whip he would be up on hishindlegs in a soaring rear and theycould not hold him.

But with me he was as gentle as ifhe were a retired hack. The first outingI let the groom lift me into the saddleand I gathered up the reins and waitedto see what would come. I would havefelt a good deal safer astride, but wewere in the stable courtyard and I wasin my green riding habit, pale asskimmed milk in the rich colour.

I had a silly little cap perched onmy head instead of my usual bonnet –but with only short curls no pins wouldhold. Lady Clara had been scandalizedwhen I had threatened to ridebareheaded.

Sea snuffed the air, as ifwondering whether to race for the parkat once, but then he tensed his musclesas he felt my lightness.

‘Sea,’ I said, and at my voice hisears went forward and I felt him shift alittle beneath me. I knew heremembered me, remembered the red-faced man who had been his ownerbefore I had come to him. Rememberedthe little stable in Salisbury behind theinn, and how I had sat gently on him,half the weight of his usual rider, andspoken to him in a quiet voice. Ithought he would remember the journeyhome, tied to the back of RobertGower’s whisky cart, with medripping blood and drooping withtiredness, my head on Robert’sshoulder. I thought he would rememberthe little stable at Warminster, and howI would go down to him in the morning,clattering down the little woodenstaircase to greet him before going into breakfast and bringing him back acrust of a warm roll. And I was sure hewould remember that night when there

had been no one on the land but himand me. No one in the whole world butthe two of us going quietly through thesleeping Downland villages. Me, aslost as a child without its mother, andhim quietly and certainly trotting alonglanes where he had never been before,drawn like a compass point to ourhome.

I reached down and patted hisneck. He straightened and obeyed thetouch of my heels against his side. Hemoved with his smooth flowing strideout of the stable yard and into themews lane, then down the busy roadstowards the park. The groom fell intostep behind us, watching me nervously,certain that I was not well enough toride, that Sea would be sure to throwme at the first sight of a water cart, or ashrieking milk maid.

He did not. He went as steady asa hackney-horse with blinkers. Past

open doors and shouting servants, pastwagons, past delivery carts and streetsellers. Past all the noise and bustle ofa big city to the gates of the park. Andeven then, with the smooth green turfbefore him and the soft furze beneathhis feet he did nothing more than archhis neck and put his ears forward aswe trotted, and then slid into a smoothsteady canter.

He would have gone faster, and Iwas finished with the conventions ofpolite society for ever: I would havelet him. But I could tell by the lightbuzzing in my ears, and the strangeswimmy feeling, that I was pushing mynew strength too far, and I should gohome.

We turned. Sea went willinglyenough though I knew he longed forone of our wild gallops. He went backthrough the streets as gentle as he hadcome, and pulled up outside the front

door as sweet as a carthorse on afamiliar delivery round.

‘He’s a marvel with you,’ thegroom said. ‘I wish he’d be as goodwith us. He was off with me last weekand I thought I’d never get him turnedaround for home. I couldn’t pull himup, the best I could do was bring himaround in a circle. All the old ladieswere staring at me an’ all! I wasashamed!’

‘I’m sorry, Gerry,’ I said. I hadone hand on the balustrade to supportme and I patted Sea’s cool flank withthe other. ‘He’s never liked men verymuch, he was ill-treated before I gothim. It spoiled his temper for a manrider.’

The groom pulled his cap and slidfrom his own horse. ‘I’ll lead themboth,’ he said. ‘That way I won’t getpulled off if he plays up as soon asyou’re gone.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll comearound to the stables tomorrow, sametime.’

‘Yes, miss,’ he said politely.Then he corrected himself. ‘I mean,yes, Lady Havering.’

I hesitated on hearing my title,‘Lady Sarah Havering’; then I shruggedmy shoulders. It was a long way fromthe dirty little wagon and the twohungry children. She would laugh ifshe knew.

I grew stronger after that ride. Irode every day, I walked every day.Sometimes Perry was awake and soberand he came with me. Otherwise, in themiddle of a dazzling London season Ilived alone, in quietness and isolation.Sometimes they stopped in theircarriages in the park to bid me goodday and ask me if I would be coming toone party or another. I alwaysexplained I did not yet have my

strength back, and they let me beexcused. Sometimes I would be in theparlour when Lady Clara’s guestscame in and I would sit quietly in thewindow for some time before sayingthat I needed to go to my room for Iwas still a little tired. They let me go.They all let me go.

I did not need to stay. I wasaccepted, I was an heiress in my ownright, I had a title, I was married to thelargest landowner in Sussex and, apartfrom Perry’s growing scandalousdrunkenness, there was not a breath ofrumour about me. I was odd andunsociable, certainly. But they couldnot complain of that. And I think thehard eyes of Meridon looked out fromunder the short-cropped hair, and theyknew that I was strange and alien intheir world. And they let me go.

36Two days later I received a letter:

Dear Sarah,I cannot tell you how sorry

I am that I should have beenaway from home when you wereill and that in my absence yourmarriage took place. Iunderstand from Penkiss andPenkiss that you have consultedthem as to the legality of such amarriage and they have told you,and confirmed to me, that themarriage is legal. I feel deeplyunhappy that I was not availableto help you at that time. It is as ifI had lost your mother all overagain to serve you so badly.

I can offer you littleconsolation except to say that Ido indeed believe that your

husband may steady now that heis married, and that if he doesnot, he is well used to having hisestate run by a woman. You mayfind yourself in the position ofbeing responsible for therunning of both Havering andWideacre estates and you willfind that work rewarding andenjoyable.

It would have been my wishthat you had made a marriage ofchoice, for love. But I believethat you yourself had little wishfor a ‘love marriage’. If thatwere the case then no arrangedmarriage could have been moresuitable, if you and LordPeregrine can agree. I know youliked him when you first met him,it will be my most earnestprayer, Sarah, that you continueto enjoy his company and that he

treats you well. If there isanything I can do to assist you inany way, I beg you will ask me. Ifyou two should not agree, I hopeyou know that whatever theworld may say, you may alwaysmake your home with me, and Iwould provide for you.

I hope you forgive me fornot being able to protect youfrom this marriage. I would nothave left the country if I hadknown how ill you were. I wouldhave come to London to see if Icould serve you. Regrets donothing, but I hope you believethat mine are sincere; and whenI think of your mother and thetrust she placed in me, myregrets are bitter.

Yours sincerely,James Fortescue

PS. I have just this day heardfrom Will Tyacke. He tells methat he gave you notice that hewould not serve under LordPeregrine and he writes to offerhis formal resignation which willtake place at once. This worry Ican help with. I shall advertiseat once for a new manager totake his place. He will be sadlymissed by his friends onWideacre but perhaps a newmanager to start with the newsquire is advisable. Will has onlyjust seen the notice of yourmarriage, apparently he did notknow you were unwell. He hastaken a post in the north ofEngland and is leaving at once.

I read the letter through several

times, sitting at the mahogany table inthe parlour, the noises from the streetvery loud in the room. I was sorryJames was so grieved that he had notprotected me against the Haverings’marriage plans. I could shrug that off.No one could have predicted that Iwould fall ill. No one could haveforeseen that I would get well again. IfI had died, as everyone had expectedme to do, then there would have beenlittle harm done. The Wideacrecorporation, the great braveexperiment of Wideacre would havebeen ended under a new squire, eitherway. It was bitter indeed that I shouldbe persuaded of the rightness ofrunning an estate as if the very poorestvillager’s life was of value at the verymoment when I had put a new man inthe squire’s chair. But James was right,I would be the mistress in my house,the land would be run as I wished, and

I would run Wideacre as Will haddone. I made a sad little face. It wouldbe a different place without him.

I opened the letter again and re-read the postscript. I nodded. He hadsaid he would go when we had partedin anger, that day in the park. He hadtried to warn me and I had refused tolisten. He had tried to keep Wideacresafe as one of the few places, one ofthe very few, where the wealth of theland could go to those who earned it.Where people could work and earn thefull benefits of their work – not whatwas left after the squire had taken hiscut, and the merchant, and the parson. Ihad been on the side of the squires andthe merchants and the parsons then. Iwas not now. Since then I had been asclose to death as most people ever get,and I had felt someone take mysweating hand and sign away my landfor me. I would never again believe

that some people deserved higherwages or finer lives than others. Weall had needs. We all sought theirsatisfaction. Some people were cleverrogues, they managed to get a littlemore – that was all the difference thereever was.

I would never be able to tell himthat. He had gone, as he had sworn hewould go, to a new corporation, a newattempt at creating some real justice inthe way England was run. Not wordson paper, not ideas in people’s minds,not pleasant civilized chat across adinner table. Real changes for realpeople. And I knew that after thatexperiment failed – as fail it surelywould, for it was too little in a worldtoo big and too implacable – after thathe would go to another, and to anotherand another. And though Will mightnever win he would never stop,travelling from one place to another,

doing whatever he could in smallbrave ways to set a wall against thegreed and corruption of the world weof the Quality were building.

I folded the letter carefully andthen I bent down and poked it into thefire. It would be of no help to me, norto any of the Haverings if they knewthat I would have gone against theirwishes if I could. I had spoken onceagainst Lady Clara, I had acceptedPerry’s awkward apology. They hadwon as the rich always win. Theywrite the rules. They make the world.They win the battles.

I was sorry it had taken me thislong to learn it. I had come from apoverty so grinding that I had seen theQuality as a race apart, and knewnothing more than a longing to be partof them. They made it look so easy!They made fine clothes and good foodand polite chatter look like a God-

given right. You never saw theirstruggle to keep their money earningmore and more money. You never sawthe ill-paid servants and clerks whoserviced their needs, who earned themoney for them. All you ever saw wasthe smooth surface of the finished work– the Quality world. I leaned againstthe mantelpiece and looked down atthe fire. It was as if I were to say thatmarble like this of the mantelpiececame straight from the ground smoothand carved, and never needed working.They managed to pretend that theirwealth came to them naturally – as ifthey deserved it. They hid altogetherthe poverty and the hardship and thesheer miserable drudgery whichearned the money which they spentsmiling.

I had been as bad as any of them –worse; for I had known what life waslike down at the very bottom, and I had

thought of nothing but that I should befree from that hardship, that I shouldwin my way up to the top. And sour itwas to me, to learn when I made itthere, when I was little Miss SarahLacey, that I felt as mean and as dirtyas when I had been a thieving chavvyin the streets.

It is a dirty world they’ve made –the people who have the power and thetalents and who show no pity. I hadhad enough of it. I would be little MissSarah Lacey no more.

There was a knock on the parlourdoor. ‘Lady Sarah, there is a parcel foryou,’ the parlourmaid said.

I turned with a scowl which madeher step swiftly back. I had forgotten Iwas little Miss Sarah no more. Now Iwas Lady Sarah and damned nonsenseit was to talk of being on the side of thepoor while I sat in the parlour of thegreat Havering town house and was

waited on by a dozen ill-paid people.I took the parcel with a word of

thanks and opened it.It was from my lawyer, Mr

Penkiss. It was the contracts for themarriage and the deeds of Wideacrefor Perry. Wideacre was out of thehands of the Laceys. Wideacre wasmine no more.

I spread the old paper out on theparlour table and looked at it. It meantnothing to me, the writing was allfunny, and the language was not evenEnglish. But I liked the heavy seals onthe bottom, dark red and cracked, andthe thick glossy pink ribbon underthem. I liked the curly brown letteringand the old thick manuscript. And nowand then, in the text I could see theword ‘Wideacre’ and knew it wastelling of my land.

The Laceys had earned it in agrant from the king. The Norman king

who came over some time and beat thepeople in a war and won the country.That was how it was told in the gentryparlours. In the taproom at Acre theysaid that the Laceys had stolen it,robbed farmers like the Tyackes whohad been there for years. In the wagonsof the Rom they said that once they hadheld all the land, that they had been theold people who had lived alongsidefairies and pixies and old magic untilthe coming of men with swords andploughs. I smiled ruefully. All robbers:generation after generation of robbers.And the worst theft of all was to takesomeone’s history from them. So thechildren who went to school from theHavering estate believed theHaverings had always been there. Andthey were taught that there was nochoice but to doff their caps to thepower of the rich. And no alternativebut to work for them – and try to

become rich yourself.I rolled up the parchment

carefully and put it back in its packagealong with the marriage contract. IfPeregrine were not too drunk tonight hemight be well enough to take it to thelawyers tomorrow.

I glanced towards the window. Itwas getting dark with that cold, damp,end-of-January darkness which mademe glad of the warm fire and the quietroom. I rang the bell and ordered morelogs for the fire, and I heard the frontdoor bang as Perry came home.

He was unsteady on his feet, but Ihad seen him a lot worse. He beamedat me with his good-natured drunkard’ssmile.

‘It’s good to see you up,’ he said.‘I’m glad you’re well again. I missedyou when you were ill.’

I smiled back. ‘You’d have madea tragic widower,’ I said.

Perry nodded, unabashed. ‘I’dhave missed you all the same,’ he said.‘But oh! it’s good to have as muchmoney as I like!’

‘Are you winning or losing thesedays?’ I asked dryly.

‘Still winning!’ Perry saiddelightedly. ‘I don’t know what devilis in the cards. I haven’t lost a gamesince I came back from Newmarket.No one will play with me any moreexcept Captain Thomas and BobRedfern! I must have had a thousandguineas off them both!’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘Shall you mindleaving all this excitement to comehome? I want to go back to Wideacre,and I’m well enough to travel now.’

Perry rang the bell and orderedpunch made strong when the butlercame.

‘When you like,’ he said. ‘But theroads will be bad. Why not wait until

it is warmer, and the roads less dirty?We’ll get stuck for sure.’

The silver bowl came in andPerry poured himself a cup and handedme one. I sipped it and made a face.

‘Ugh Perry! It’s far too strong! It’ssolid brandy!’

Perry beamed. ‘Keeps the coldout,’ he said.

‘Will you stop your drinking,once we are at Wideacre?’ I asked alittle wistfully. ‘Will you really stopyour drinking, and the gambling? Is ittruly just being in London which makesyou do it?’

Perry stretched out his legs to thefire. ‘I’ll tell you the truth,’ he said. ‘Istarted gambling because I was bored,and I started drinking because I waslonely and afraid. You know how itwas for me before.’ He paused. ‘I amsure I could give it up like that,’ hesnapped his fingers. ‘Any time I

wanted to. I could just walk away fromit and never touch it again.’

I looked at him curiously. ‘I’veseen men who said that who would killsomeone for a drink,’ I said. ‘I’ve seenmen who would shake and vomit ifthey couldn’t get a drink when theyneeded it. I even heard of one man whowent mad without it, and killed hislittle chavvy, and didn’t even knowhe’d done it!’

‘Don’t talk like that!’ Perry saidwith instant disdain. ‘Don’t talk aboutthose horrid people you used to bewith, Sarah. You’re not among themany more. It’s different for us. I’m notlike that. I can take or leave it. And inLondon, in the Season, everyonedrinks. Everyone gambles. You’d begaming yourself if you weren’t ill andstaying at home, Sarah, you know youwould.’

I nodded. I was not sure.

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But remember youpromised to never use Wideacre assecurity against a loan.’

Perry smiled, too sweet to bescolded. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I’dnever use your land, or my own. Mamaexplained it all to me, how it has to behanded on intact if we have a child.All I’m doing now is spending some ofthe interest and the extra rents. No onewas able to touch it for years, it’s justbeen mounting up in the bank. Andanyway…’ he said conclusively, ‘I’mwinning! I’m winning faster than I canspend it. D’you know what they callme down at Redfern’s club? “LuckyHavering”! That’s what they call me!Rather fine, isn’t it?’

‘Mmm,’ I said dubiously. But thenI decided to let be. I had seen Perry inLondon, and down at Havering. And Iknew he did not gamble when he wasaway from the city, and from the

boredom of the London season. I knewhe did not drink so hard when he wasin the country. And I thought it verylikely that he might not drink at allwhen we were on our own in thecountry.

I was not such a fool as to believethat he did not need drink. But we werewed and inseparable. There was littlegain for me to scold him. The onlything I could do was get him into thecountry as quick as I could where Icould have the keys to the wine cellarand Perry would be away from theclubs and his drinking, gambling,dissolute friends.

‘Are you out tonight?’ I asked.Perry made a face. ‘You are too,’

he said glumly. ‘Don’t blame me,Sarah, it’s Mama. She says we’ve bothgot to go to Maria’s, she’s having amusic party and Basil is to be thereand we have to go too to look happy.’

‘Me too?’ I asked surprised.Since my illness I had done very wellat escaping all the Quality parties.Lady Clara was content to let me restand convalesce at home, she had doneher duty and introduced me to herworld as she had promised. She wasworking night and day to keep Mariaand Basil shackled, and she did notcare whether I took and returned callsor not.

‘Your mama wants me to go?’ Iasked.

Perry ran a grimy hand through hishair and chuckled. ‘Scandal,’ he saidbriefly. ‘They’re saying Mama saddledBasil with a light-skirt, and that we’verobbed you and got you locked up athome. Mama’s had enough of it.You’re to come out to Maria’s party.Maria has to look happy and behavewell, and you have to look happy andbehave well.’

‘And you?’ I asked, amused.‘I shall be radiant,’ Perry said

glumly.I laughed.‘Actually, I shall stay for the first

half-hour and then I shall cut along toRedfern’s club, I promised him a gameof piquet. He wants to win his lossesback,’ Perry said.

‘I don’t want to stay long myself,’I warned.

Perry beamed at me. ‘Well blessyou!’ he said. ‘We’ll say you need tobe taken home, and I can escort you.That way we can both leave early.’

‘Done!’ I said, then I pointed tothe punch bowl. ‘But leave go that,Perry, it’s too strong, and your mamawon’t want you there half-cut.’

Perry got to his feet. ‘To pleaseyou,’ he said and held the door for me.

I gathered up the parcel of ourmarriage contract and the deeds for

Wideacre. ‘The papers from mylawyers,’ I said, as Perry held the doorfor me and we went up the stairstogether. ‘We’ll have to take them toyour lawyers tomorrow.’

‘At last!’ Perry said. ‘They’vetaken long enough!’ He held out hishand for them and I passed them over.He tucked them in his coat pocket andgave me his arm to help me up thestairs.

We parted at my bedroom doorand I went in to dress for dinner. I didnot mind going out this once, and I wasspiteful enough to anticipate somepleasure from the sight of Maria,daggers drawn with her husband,having to smile and play foot-licker tohim.

My new maid was waiting and Ihad her open my wardrobe so I couldchoose a gown grand enough forMaria’s music evening. I had a shiny

silk gown, as bright as emeralds withlittle white puff sleeves, cut quite low,and a white shawl to match.

‘I’ll wear that one,’ I said to thegirl, and she got it out while I splashedwater on my face and slipped out of myafternoon dress. She fiddled with thebuttons at the neck while I stoodimpatiently, and then I sat before mymirror and she took up the hairbrush.

Then I caught her eye and we bothlaughed.

‘You’re wasting your time,’ Iagreed. ‘It’s so short I can’t even put aribbon through it without looking odd. Ishall just have to leave it all curly likethis until it has grown a little.’

‘Perhaps a cap, and maybe somefalse hair?’ she asked tentatively,looking at my bright copper mob withher head on one side.

‘Leave it,’ I said. ‘Everyoneknows I had a fever and they cut my

hair. I won’t hide it as if it had allfallen out and I was bald.’

She dipped a curtsey and then Iwent down to dinner.

Lady Clara was there, lookingvery grand in a lovely gown of paleblue watered silk which matched thecolour of her eyes. She was wearingfine diamond earrings and a diamondnecklace.

‘They might as well see we’re notin utter poverty,’ she said acidly whenPerry made a nervous little bow andsaid how fine she looked. ‘The gossipis that you were bankrupt and that Ilocked Sarah up until she agreed tomarry you.’ She made a little grimaceof disdain. ‘We’ll scotch it tonight, butafter tonight I expect you both to comeout more into society until the end ofthe Season.’

‘I want us to go back toWideacre, as soon as the roads are fit

to travel,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to stayin London any longer.’

Lady Clara looked at me underveiled eyes, but said nothing while thebutler served the soup. When he hadstood back at the sideboard she lookedfrom me to Perry and said: ‘It wouldsuit me very well at the moment tohave you both in town for at leastanother month. I should like you to goout and around together. People expectit, and Sarah you have not yet beenpresented at Court. That should bedone as soon as your hair is grownlong again.

‘I don’t think you would either ofyou enjoy the country at this time ofyear. At any time it is dreary enough,but in February I should think youwould both go mad with melancholycooped up at Havering.’ She paused. Iwaited but Perry said nothing.

‘Besides,’ she said. ‘Many of the

Havering staff are here, there is nobutler nor chef in Sussex. You hadbetter wait until the Season ends in thespring, Sarah.’

‘We were planning to go toWideacre,’ I said. ‘It does not matterthat your staff are here, Lady Clara.Perry and I are going to stay atWideacre.’

‘Better not,’ she said smoothly.‘There has been gossip enough, Ishould like you to be seen aroundtown, Sarah. I don’t want you down inthe country, it looks too much as if wehad something to hide.’

I looked back at her. Her blueeyes were limpid, the candles beforeher made her face glow with colour.She was sitting at the head of thedining-room table, Perry at the foot. Iwas placed in the middle, insignificant.

Perry cleared his throat. ‘Sarahdid want to go, Mama,’ he said. ‘She

has not been well, she needs to rest inthe country.’

His mother flicked him a lookwhich was openly contemptuous. ‘Ihave said that is not possible,’ shesaid.

I could feel my temper buildinginside me but I was not a young lady toshriek or have the vapours, or throwdown my napkin and run out of theroom. I took a sip of water and lookedat Lady Clara over my glass.

‘We’ve lost our manager onWideacre,’ I said. ‘I need to be downthere to meet the new man. I don’t wantto be away so long. There will be talkdown there too about this marriage. I’dlike to go down. I had planned to godown within a couple of weeks.’

The footmen started to remove theplates, the butler brought a plate withslices of beef in a red wine sauce tothe table and served Lady Clara, then

me, then Peregrine. There wereartichokes and potatoes, carrots andsmall green sprouts. Perry fell to andate as if he was trying to deafenhimself to any appeal I might make tohim. But I was not such a fool as tothink that Perry could help me.

‘It’s not possible, Sarah,’ LadyClara said pleasantly enough. ‘I amsorry to disappoint you, but I need youboth in London.’

‘I am sorry,’ I said mirroring herregret. ‘But I do not want to stay inLondon.’

Lady Clara glanced at the footmenand at the butler. They stood againstthe wall as if they were deaf and blind.‘Not now,’ she said.

‘Yes. Now,’ I said. I did not carewhat London society thought of me, Icertainly did not care what LadyClara’s servants thought of me. ‘I wantto go to Wideacre at once, Lady Clara.

Perry and I are going to go.’Lady Clara looked down the table

at Perry. She waited. He had his headbent low over his plate and he wastrying not to meet her eye. The silencelengthened.

‘Perry…’ she said; it was all sheneeded to do.

Perry looked up. ‘I am sorry,Sarah,’ he said. ‘Mama is right. We’llstay in London until the roads are alittle drier, later in the year. We willdo as Mama wishes.’

I felt myself flush red but Inodded. There was nothing more tosay. I had not thought that Lady Claraand I might pull Perry in oppositedirections, I had not thought that Iwould be under the cat’s paw. But thelaws of the land said that Perry was mymaster, and he was ruled by his mama.

I nodded at her, indeed I bore herlittle ill will. I had wanted my way and

she had wanted hers, and she had won.I had learned about power in my hardlittle childhood. I had been a fool tothink people lived in any other wayjust because they ate well and sleptsoft.

‘I thought it was agreed that Imight live as I please?’ I asked levelly.

She looked around uncomfortablyat the footmen again, but she answeredme.

‘I did agree that,’ she said. ‘Butthat was before this nonsense withMaria blew up. I need you, Sarah, Ineed Perry too. I cannot afford anyscandal talked about this family if weare to hold Basil. Once this Season isover it can be as you wish.’

I nodded. I did not doubt shemeant it, but I had learned in that briefexchange that I was as tied to her as Ihad been sold to Robert Gower, andowned by Da. I was not a free woman.

I was apprenticed for a lifetime. All Icould ever hope to do was to changethe masters.

They cleared the dinner platesand served the puddings. There werethree different sorts. Perry got his headdown and ate as if he never expectedto see food again. He was on to hissecond bottle. Both his mama and Isaw his flight into drunkenness, andshe shook her head at the butler whenPerry’s wine glass was empty again.

All in all, it was not a happymeal. Elegant; but not happy.

Nor a happy evening. Maria wasdressed in scarlet as if to shame thedevil and she greeted us at the head ofher stairs with her head held high andBasil looking hang-dog at her side.

‘Why, here is your mama-in-law!’she exclaimed as Lady Clara came upthe stairs. ‘And Perry, and the gypsyheiress!’ she said in a lower voice.

‘My dear…’ Basil complained.He took Lady Clara’s hand and bowedlow. Maria stepped forward andkissed her mama, Perry, and then me.Her cheek was cold and dry withpowder, she was white under herrouge.

‘Everyone’s here!’ she saidbrightly. ‘I don’t think there’s beensuch a squeeze since Lady Taragon ranoff!’

Lady Clara’s face was stony atthe reference. ‘Keep your voice down,Maria,’ she said in a biting undertone.‘And behave yourself.’

Maria shot a bright defiant look ather, but she greeted her next guestsmore soberly, and nodded to theservants to pass around chilledchampagne among the crowd.

Basil came over and drew LadyClara into the window-seat. I couldsee his bald head nodding and his thin

voice droning on. Lady Clara spreadher fan to shield them and lookedcompassionately at him, over the top.Perry and I were alone. He tookanother glass off a passing waiter anddowned it.

‘I am sorry, Sarah,’ he said. ‘Icouldn’t tell her “no”.’

‘Why not?’ I asked. ‘All you hadto do was to tell her that you agreedwith me, I’d have done the rest.’

He shrugged. One of Maria’sfootmen came and took the empty glassand exchanged it for a full one. ‘I don’tknow,’ he said miserably. ‘I don’tknow why. I’ve never been able tostand up to her. I suppose I can’t startnow.’

‘Now’s the time you should start,’I said. ‘I’m there to help you, we bothknow what we want to do, and youhave control of your fortune. What canshe do if she doesn’t like it? She can

get angry, but she can’t do anything.’‘You don’t know what she’s

like…’ he said.‘What who’s like?’ Maria asked

from behind me.Perry made a face at her. ‘We

wanted to go down to Havering, butMama is keeping us in town,’ he saiddolefully. ‘She wouldn’t have mindedif you hadn’t been kicking up a dust,Maria.’

He turned away from Maria’sreply, looking for another glass ofwine. Maria looked hard at me. ‘Isuppose you think it’s awful,’ she saidharshly.

‘Not at all,’ I said steadily. I wasnot afraid of Maria.

‘I’d have thought a young bridelike you, and married for love, wouldthink it was awful…’ she said again.

‘I’m not married for love and youknow it,’ I said. I kept my voice low

and the hum of conversation around usand the distant ripple of a harp and aviolin were enough to drown out mywords for anyone but Maria. ‘But I’dnot be fool enough to marry a man oldenough to be my father for his moneyand then hope to get away with playingfast and loose.’

Maria’s eyes were very bright. ‘Isthat what you think it is?’ she asked hervoice hard. ‘I fell in love withRudolph, I didn’t hope to get awaywith it. I wanted us to run awayaltogether. I didn’t even care about themoney.’

I said nothing. Maria lookedaround and saw her mama side by sidewith her husband, their heads together.

‘She’s got me where she wantsme,’ she said resentfully. ‘And he has.The two of them together. They boughtRudolph off – I know! I know thatshows he wasn’t much good! – I never

said he was much good. But he mademe feel alive, he made me feel as if Ihad never been young before!’ Shelooked at me and her eyes which hadbeen bright went hard again. ‘Youwouldn’t even begin to understand,’she said bitterly.

I shook my head. ‘No,’ I saidsadly. ‘I’ve never been like that with aman.’

She held out her hands before herand looked at the heavy rings. ‘He usedto take my rings off and kiss each oneof my fingers,’ she said. Her voice washeavy with longing. ‘And every timethe tip of his tongue touched that littleplace between each finger I used totremble all over.’ She glanced at me.‘All over,’ she said.

I was thinking of Will Tyacke andhow I had warned him that I had nolove to give a man. I was thinking ofthe time he had peeled down my glove

and kissed me on the wrist and pulledthe glove up again as if to keep the kisswarm. I was thinking of how he hadfollowed me to Gower’s show thatnight and seen me wrecked with grieffor her. I was thinking that even thoughhe had Becky and her love, he hadcome to London whenever I asked him.It was me who named our meetingdays. He never failed me. He neverpromised me one thing he did not do.And at the end he said that if I marriedPerry I would not see him again.

He had kept that promise too.‘I shall never forgive them,’

Maria said. She suddenly smiled, ahard bright smile. ‘I shall neverforgive those two,’ she said, noddingtowards her husband and her mama.‘That fat old bawd and that cheaplecher. She sold me and he bought me,and he is making her keep to her sideof the bargain.’

Lady Clara and Basil had risenfrom their seats and were comingtowards us.

‘You should have run when youhad the chance,’ Maria said to me.‘When I first met you, when you werejust up from the country. I thought thenthat if you’d had any wit you’d havegot out of Mama’s clutches. But youwanted to be a lady, didn’t you? I hopeit brings you much joy!’ she laughed, ahard bitter laugh which made a fewpeople turn around and look at us, andmade Lady Clara come to her side.

‘It’s time to hear La Palachasing,’ she prompted. ‘I’m longing tohear her, Maria, Basil has been tellingme how charming she is.’

Maria nodded obediently andturned to summon one of the footmen.

‘I have to go,’ I said firmly. LadyClara turned to me with a frown.

‘Don’t you start,’ I said warningly

and she heard the old toughness in myvoice and hesitated. ‘It’s my first timeout and I can’t abide standing around,’I said. ‘Perry said he’d take me home.I’ve come as you bid me, and I’ll bestaying in London as you wish. Butdon’t push me, Lady Clara, I won’thave it.’

She gave me a tight little smile atthat. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘Make yourcurtsey to the princess as you go out.You are going to her luncheontomorrow.’

‘Yes ‘m,’ I said in imitation ofEmily’s servitude. ‘Thank’ee ‘m.’

Lady Clara’s eyes narrowed, butshe leaned forward and kissed me onthe cheek. I smiled at her, my clearshowground smile and then made forthe door. Perry was swaying slightlyon his feet, his eyes glazed, a glass inhis hand.

‘Time to go,’ I said tightly. Perry

nodded. We paused for a moment bythe princess to bid her good evening.She exclaimed over my cropped headand my paleness and said I mustpromise to come to her luncheontomorrow and eat some good Russianfood. And now I was a wife too! Howhad that been?

‘Private,’ Perry said owlishly.‘’Stremely private.’

The princess’s sharp little eyeswere bright with curiosity. ‘So I hadheard!’ she said. ‘Was only yourfamily there?’

‘’Stremely private!’ Perry saidagain.

The princess looked to me, shewas waiting for an answer.

‘It was during my illness, yourhighness,’ I said. ‘A quiet ceremony, athome. We were anxious to be marriedand we foresaw a long illness.’

Perry made his bow. ‘’Stremely

private indeed,’ he said helpfully.The footman mercifully opened

the door and I put my hand on Perry’sarm and pinched him hard to get himout.

‘You drunken doddypoll, Perry!’ Isaid irritably. ‘I wish to God you’dstay sober!’

‘Oh, don’t scold, Sarah!’ he said,feckless as a child. ‘I had enough ofthat with you and Mama at dinner.Don’t scold me, I can’t bear it. Benice, and I’ll see you home.’

I took his arm and we wentdownstairs, he was steady enough onhis feet.

‘You need not,’ I said. ‘You cango straight to your club if you willpromise me that you’ll come away ifyou start losing.’

‘Yes, I promise,’ Perry saidcarelessly. ‘I’ll come away if I loseand I’ll only drink another glass or

two. And tomorrow Sarah, if you’rewell, we can go riding in the parktogether.’

‘I’d like that,’ I said. The link boyoutside the house waved for ourcarriage and it came up. Perry helpedme in and kissed me on the hand. Hislips were wet. Unseen, I wiped myhand on the cushions of the chaise.

‘Call me tomorrow morning,’ hesaid, ‘’bout ten.’

‘All right,’ I said. ‘Good-night.’I watched him as the carriage

drew away from the brightly litdoorway. The petulant rosebud mouth,the mass of golden curls, his downcastblue eyes. He was exactly the sameyoung man as he had been on theLondon road that day, who was toodrunk to find his home.

The same, and yet not the same.For when I had met him then he hadworn his joy in life about him, like a

cloak from his shoulders. But the youngman outside the wealthy house stood asif, in reality, he had nowhere to go, andwould find no pleasure in anything hedid.

37I tumbled out of the carriage and up thebroad stairs without a word to thebutler or the footmen. I could havewept with my tiredness, there weresome times when I thought I wouldnever get my strength back. At thosetimes, if I had been little Miss Sarah, alady born and bred, I should have weptand taken the next day in bed, and thenext, and the next after that.

But I was not one of the Quality, Iwas a hard little Rom chavvy and Iwould not rest. I let my new maidundress me, and tuck me into bed; butthen I told her to call me at eight for Iwas going riding, and I ignored hermurmured advice. I would get well byfighting through. All my tough work-hardened life I had got sick and gotwell again by fighting through. I knewof no other way. I did not even know

when I was sick and tired deep into myvery soul, and that fighting andstruggling and trying would not makethat any better.

I slept at once, as soon as thedoor closed behind her, and in mydeepest early sleep I dreamed of a dayof sunshine, when I rode by the sea andsomeone loved me. Suddenly, I startedawake. I had heard something whichdid not fit with the usual night-timesounds. Soft footsteps past mybedroom door, a slight noise from thestairs and then I heard the well-oiledclick of the front-door latch and acarriage drive away down the street. Iguessed then that Peregrine had comeback for something.

Some instinct, some old hungryRom instinct made me raise myself halfup on one elbow and stare in theflickering firelit darkness across mybedroom. Something was not right.

I pushed back the covers andstepped out of my bed, walkedunsteadily across the room, opened mybedroom door and looked into the hall.It was all quiet down there. A footmandozing on a chair, the butler back in hisown private room. I shrugged, andturned back for my room, irritated withmyself for losing the rest I needed forsome nervous fancy.

Then I heard a carriage draw upoutside the house and saw the footmanunfold himself out of the chair in ahurry and rush to the butler’s room. Iturned, silent in my bare feet, andscurried back to my room, shut mydoor in a hurry and slipped back intomy bed and shut my eyes to feign sleep.I heard the front door open and LadyClara’s high-heeled slippers tappingloudly on the marble floor as shecrossed the hall. I heard her ask thebutler if I was well and his quieter

reply. I lay still and listened for herfootsteps to go past my bedroom to herown.

I waited until I heard her doorclose for the last time and I heard hermaid sigh as she carried the soiledclothes down the corridor towards theback stairs where they would have tobe washed and perhaps ironedovernight if Lady Clara wanted them inthe morning.

They would all be in bed now,except for the kitchenmaid. Perry didnot order his valet to wait up for him, acandle was left for him in the hall, andhis fire was banked in to burn all thenight and most of the morning in hisempty bedroom. The last personworking was the kitchenmaid –watching the copper in the kitchen andwashing Lady Clara’s linen. Shewould wring them out and then leavethem drying before she crept up the

stairs to her little bed. Everyone elsewas quiet.

I slipped from my bed and threwmy wrapper around my shoulders andstepped, quiet as a cat, barefoot to mybedroom door, opened it, listened.There were no lights shining, the housewas in silence. I stepped delicately onto the carpet in the corridor and stolesoftly down towards Perry’s room. Hisdoor opened with the quietest click. Ifroze and listened. There was nothing.I opened the door a little way and slidinside and closed it carefully behindme. I stood in silence and waited.Nothing.

The flames flickered in the grate,a candelabra was by Perry’s bedsidewith three of the five candles lit. Ilifted it and stood it on his washstandso I could have the best light, then Iturned and opened his wardrobe doors.

He had been wearing his

mulberry-coloured coat with the greenwaistcoat this afternoon, when I hadtold him our marriage contract hadarrived, and the deeds with it. I openedhis wardrobe door and the coat washanging, along with twenty others onhangers. I put my hand in the right-handpocket, and then in the left-hand one. Itook the coat out of the wardrobe andfelt in every pocket and I even shookthe coat in case I could feel the weightof the bulky papers in some pocketwhich was concealed.

There was nothing there.The deeds of Wideacre were

gone. I laid the coat on the floor andsmoothed my hands all over it, alert forthe rustle of thick paper, waiting forthe feel of bulky documents under myfingertips. The deeds were not there. Ihad known they would not be, but Istill had held to a little flicker of hope.That was foolish of me. In the hard,

hungry corner of my mind I knew thedeeds were not mislaid. I knew I hadbeen robbed.

I tossed the mulberry coat into thecorner and took down another from thewardrobe. This was a fine ball coat ofpeach silk, wonderfully embroideredwith green and gold thread, stiff withpeach velvet at the collars and cuffsand the pocket flaps. I thrust my coldlittle hands into every pocket and feltthoroughly inside. I shook it hard incase I could feel the weight of thedeeds. Then I spread it on the floor,careless of creases and smoothed it allover, feeling for the weight of thepacket of papers which would give theowner title to my land, my land ofWideacre.

Northing.I bundled the fine coat into a ball

and tossed it into the corner with theother. I took down a third…and a

fourth…a fifth. I took down every coatin the wardrobe and searched each oneas if I thought I might find the deeds toWideacre carelessly stuffed in apocket. I searched as though I had anyhope left. I had none. But I felt as if Iowed it to Perry, to Lady Clara, to myown Quality self, to little Miss SarahLacey, that I should believe that the lifeof the Quality was not the life of themidden. I wanted to believe that Perrywas not a drunkard and a liar, agambler and a thief. So I gave everycoat a thorough searching, as if Ithought I might find something morethan disappointment and disillusion inevery fine-stitched empty pocket.

Nothing.I started on the drawers next. In

the top were his fine linen shirts. Ilifted each one out, shook it out of thecarefully pressed folds and waited incase the deeds fell free. I dropped each

shirt behind me on a chair, one afteranother until the drawer was empty andthere was a snowdrift of creased finewhite linen on the chair and on thefloor. I took the drawer out then andthrew aside the little muslin purse ofdried lavender seeds, lifted the sweet-smelling paper lining of the drawer,and rapped with my fingers on thedrawer base, in case Perry had takencare with the title deeds to my land. Incase he had prized them so well that hehad wanted to keep them safe,concealed where no one could stealthem.

I knew they had been stolen. AndI knew the name of the thief. But still Isearched each drawer of the wardrobe,and then I went to the washstand andcast out his shaving tackle and hissweet-smelling soaps. His toilet waterand the soft muslin cloth which he usedto sponge his face. Everything I cast on

the floor so that I could pull out thedrawer and see if the deeds weresafely hidden there.

Nothing.I went to his writing desk, in the

corner by the window. It was packedwith papers, writing of every kind. Icarried one drawer after another andheaped them on the centre of the bed.Small pasteboard calling cards,snippets of paper torn from dinnermenus, sheets from notebooks, hot-pressed letter paper, a little mountainof papers and every one of them a noteof gambling debts, written in Perry’scareless drunken scrawl. A score ofthem, a hundred of them, a thousand ofthem.

I moved the candelabra to thebedside table and lit the two newcandles so that I might see better, then Ismoothed the paper into a pile and satamongst them, at the head of the bed. I

drew the candles closer and lifted thefirst piece of paper, smoothed it out,and lifted it close to my eyes so that Icould read. I spelled out the wordcarefully, whispering under my breath:‘Ten guineas George Caterham’. ThenI laid it on a pile and reached for thenext.

Minutes I sat there, taking onepaper after another, smoothing it,struggling with the words, placing itwith the others. All the time my brainwas working, calculating, adding andadding until all the little pieces were ina pile and I knew Perry owed two anda half thousand pounds in gamblingdebts to his friends.

There was a bigger pile, ofproper paper, not crumpled scraps.Now I started on this. They werereceipts from moneylenders againstsecurity and charging usorious rates ofinterest. They took me a long time to

struggle through, I did not understandthe words they used, nor some of theterms. I pulled my wrap around me andsettled back with my back against thechair in the wreckage of the room. Thedeeds might be among them. Theymight be hidden among them. The bedwas piled with papers, the chairheaped with Perry’s shirts, the floorcovered with his coats. It looked as ifsomeone had wrecked his room inanger. But I was not angry. I had beenlooking for the deeds of Wideacre. Icared for nothing in the world but myland. And as the clocks struck two allover the house in sweet muted tones Isat again in silence and knew what Ishould have known all along. That Iloved Wideacre, that it was my home.And the man who tried to take it fromme was my enemy. That whatever I hadlost in the past, whatever I might clingto in the future, Wideacre was my

source and my roots. I needed it like Ineeded air on my face and water in mycup. I had loved my sister and lost her.Wideacre I would keep.

I sat very still and gazed into thefire as if I could see my future there. Ithought, for the first time ever, aboutmy mother, my real mother, and thoughthow she had planned for me to befound and brought to Wideacre to beraised there as a country child. Ithought of what James Fortescue hadtold me, that she had loved the landand loved the people. I thought that oneof her friends had been a Tyacke, kinto the first man I met when Sea took meto my home. And for the first time myhardened roughened heart reached outto her memory and forgave her forletting me go, for throwing me out intothat dangerous world. I forgave her forfailing me then, when I was new-born.And I gave her credit for trying to do

the best for me by putting me in thecare of the man who loved her, andbidding him teach me that the landbelonged to no one.

I felt that now…I smiled atmyself. The moment the deeds wereheld by someone else I felt that no oneshould hold them. But I thought it wasnot my simple quick selfishness whichmade me feel thus, I thought it wassomething more. A sense of rightness,of fairness.

You should not be able to buy andsell the land people walk on, thehouses they call homes. You should notbe able to gamble it away, or throw itaway. The only people who can betrusted with the land are those wholive on it, who need it. Land, and air,and sunshine and sweet water canbelong to no single person. Everyoneneeds them, everyone should be able toclaim them.

I sat there in silence, in silenceand weariness. And I wondered wherein all of the gambling dens and hells ofLondon Perry had gone with the deedsto Wideacre in his pocket and thedesire to gamble making him mad inhis head. I had known at once whatPerry was staking tonight. He had goneout gambling with our marriage deedsand the deeds of Wideacre in hispocket. The imp of mischief which hadmade him slip them into his jacket hadbeen born in the parlour when Istopped him drinking, had grownstrong at dinner when his mama and Ipulled him and worried at him like apair of hungry curs over a strip ofcowskin. Perry would never stand upto her. Perry would never stand up tome. He was a coward. He would lieand steal and betray us all as he soughtto prove himself to us, in his hundredsof little vengeances.

And I knew where he wasplaying, too. I knew that his new-foundfriends, Redfern and Thomas, werebilkers. I had seen all the signs –Perry’s amazing luck which startedwhen he met them, just as he came intohis fortune. They called him ‘LuckyHavering’ he had told me and I had notthought quick enough with my clevercheating mind. They were gulling himand tonight, when he was drunk andpeevish, they would spring the trap.

I gnawed on my knuckle andpulled one of Perry’s expensive coatsaround me in the darkness. I wasracking my brains to think of a way tofind him, to trace him before it was toolate.

There was a sudden rattle againstthe glass. A tapping like hailstones. Itwas someone in the street outside,throwing stones up at the bedroomwindows. My heart leaped for a

moment, perhaps it was Perry lockedout and afraid to wake the house byknocking. Another shower of stonescame, and I jumped out of bed andcrossed to the window, afraid for theglass.

The windows had been sealedshut, thick with white paint. I could notopen them. I pressed my face up to theglass and squinted down into the streetbelow. Whoever was throwing stoneswas hidden by the angle of the house,but then a figure stepped back into theroad to look up at my window and Irecognized him at once.

It was Will Tyacke, standing inthe dark street like an assassin come tomurder me.

I ran to the bedroom door andwrenched it open. I flew down the hall,my bare feet making no noise on thethick carpet, and pattered down the icystairs. The front door was bolted and

chained, but I had often let myself outfor my morning rides, and I pushed thebolts back and unchained the door andthrew it open.

I tumbled out on the stone step,wearing only my nightdress, my armsoutstretched. ‘Will!’ I said. ‘I needyou!’

He fended me off roughly, pushedme away from him, and with a suddenshock I saw his face was dark withanger. I fell back.

‘I’ve no time for that now!’ I saidsuddenly. ‘You may be angry with me,but there is something that mattersmore. It’s Wideacre. You have to helpme save it!’

Will’s face was as hard as chalk.‘I have come to ask you one question,’his voice was thick with rage. ‘Onequestion only and then I will go.’

I shivered. It was freezing, thepavements glistened with hoar frost. I

stood barefoot on the stone step.‘Do you know what stake your

husband is using to gamble withtonight?’ he asked.

‘What…?’ I stammered.‘Do you know what stake your

husband is using, for his gamblingtonight?’ Will repeated. His voice wasvery harsh, the whisper was chargedwith anger.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He came home toget the deeds. I have just found themmissing.’ I put my hand behind me andgripped the knocker of the big blackdoor so hard that it hurt. ‘D’you knowwhere he is?’ I asked.

Will nodded. ‘I wanted to seeyou,’ he said. ‘I went to that woman’sparty, where you were this evening.They said you’d gone home to bed. Ithought I’d see his lordship instead, if Icould find him.’ He paused. ‘I foundhim,’ he said. ‘He was in a new

gambling club, in a mews behindCurzon Street, he was dead drunk,trying to play piquet. The gossip in theclub was that he had won all eveningbut was starting to lose. The stake onthe table were the deeds to Wideacre.Whoever wins them, wins Wideacre.’

We neither of us spoke. The windblew icy down the street and Ishivered but I did not step back into thehall.

‘It was not lost when you left?’ Iasked.

‘No.’‘Did you see him?’ I demanded.

‘Did they let you in?’Will’s hard mouth twisted in a

smile. ‘It’s not a gentleman’s club,’ hesaid with the precise discrimination ofa radical. ‘They let in anyone who isrich enough or fool enough. It’s amews turned into a club with a porterdown at the bottom of the stairs, and

where the grooms would sleep iswhere they play. It’s only been open afew weeks.’

My mind was spinning as fast asif I still had a fever. ‘Wait here,’ Isaid. ‘I’m getting my cloak.’

Before he had time to answer Iturned and raced back upstairs. Ipulled my cloak from the wardrobeand I pushed my icy feet into my ridingboots. I was not tired now, my headwas thudding with anxiety and I wasshuddering with the cold, but I was in amad rush to get downstairs again incase Will should leave, withoutwaiting for me.

I snatched a purse full of guineasfrom the drawer in my desk andclattered down the stairs, hardly caringhow much noise I made.

Will was still on the doorstep.‘Come on!’ I said, pulling the

door shut behind me and starting down

the street at a run. ‘Is that your horse?’Will’s big bay was tied to the

railings. Will nodded and unhitchedhim. At my nod he threw me up to thesaddle and then swung up behind me.

‘Where to?’ he asked.‘The stables,’ I said.We trotted around to the mews,

the horse’s hooves clattering loudly onthe frozen cobbles. A dog yappedinside, and we saw a light go on. Ibanged on the stable door and I heardthe horses inside stir, then I heardsomeone coming down the stairs fromthe sleeping quarters above the stableand a voice, gruff with sleep, shout:‘Who is it?’

‘Lady Havering!’ I yelled back. Icould feel Will behind me stiffen withanger at the title, but the groom pulledback the bolts of the door and pokedhis head and his lantern out through thegap.

‘Lady Havering?’ he askedincredulously. Then, as he saw me, hetumbled out into the street. ‘Whatd’you want, your ladyship?’

‘I want to borrow your best suit,your Sunday suit,’ I said briskly. ‘Ihave need of it, Gerry, please.’

He blinked, owlish in thelamplight.

‘Quickly!’ I said. ‘I’ll change inyour room. Give me the clothes first.’

Will dropped down to the groundand lifted me down.

‘You heard her,’ he said to theman. ‘Do as she says.’

The groom stammered, but turnedinside and led the way up the ricketystairs.

‘There’s the suit I had for mybrother’s wedding,’ he said. ‘He’s atailor, he made it up for me special.’

‘Excellent,’ I said. The smarter Ilooked the more likely we were to pull

this off.He went to a chest in the corner of

the room and lifted it out reverently.We were in luck so far, he had kept thelinen with it, and a white cravat. It wasa suit almost as good as a gentleman’s;in smooth cloth, not homespun. A darkgrey colour. You’d expect a city clerkto wear such a suit, or even a smallmerchant. If Perry’s club would admitWill dressed in his brown homespun,they’d certainly admit me in this suit, ifI could pass for a young man.

There was a tricorne hat with it,in matching grey, and I could swing myown cloak over the whole. My bootswould have to serve. I did not want toborrow the groom’s shoes with shinybuckles, they would be obviously toobig for me whereas the jacket andtrousers just looked wide-cut.

I dressed as quick as if I werechanging costume between acts and

clattered down the stairs as Will andthe groom were leading his bay horseinto the stables. Will stared at me andthe groom gaped.

‘My God, Lady Havering, whatare you about?’ the groom exclaimed.

I brushed past him and swung mycloak around myself.

‘What d’you think?’ I demanded.‘Would I pass as a young man, a younggentleman?’

‘Aye…’ Gerry stammered, ‘Butwhy, your ladyship? What are youabout?’

I gave a low laugh, I felt as madas I had been with my fever.

‘Thank you for the loan of yoursuit…’ I said. ‘You shall have it backsafe. Tell no one about this and youshall have a guinea. Have Sea and thebay ready for us at daybreak. Wait upfor me.’

He would have answered, but I

turned on my heel, Will at my side. Hissmile gleamed at me in the moonlight. Igrinned back. It was good to be out ofthe house, and dressed easily again. Itwas like an enchantment to be withWill in the dark deserted streets ofLondon. I laughed aloud.

‘Lead the way,’ I said. ‘ToPerry’s club, as fast as we can.’

Will did not wait to ask me what Iplanned. I had known months beforethat moment that I loved him, but whenhe nodded with a smile, I loved himeven more. For the way he turned andstarted down the street at a steadyloping run, even though he did notknow what the devil I was planning.

I was only half sure myself.The new club was only minutes

from home; Perry had taken a cab to it,and would have planned to reel homelater. As we turned around the cornerfrom the broad parade of Curzon Street

we went arm in arm and strolled to thedark doorway, as leisurely as lords.

‘This is the place, Michael,’ Willsaid loudly. His voice was as clearand as commanding as a squire in thesaddle. I had to bite back a smile.

‘Bang on the door, then!’ I said. Imade my voice as deep as I could, andI slurred as if I were drunk. ‘Bang onthe whoreson door!’

It swung open before Will raisedhis hand. The porter inside, dressed ina shabby livery which looked as if ithad been bought off a barrow cheap,smiled at us. He had a tooth missing.He looked an utter rogue.

‘This is a private club,gentlemen,’ he said. ‘Private to thegentry and their friends.’

Thank the lord they were savingmoney on the lighting and the hall wasilluminated only by a singlecandelabra, and two of the

candlesticks were guttering. My faceunder the hat was in shadow anyway;he was looking mainly at the cut of mycoat which was good, and assuringhimself that, although we might looklike rustics, we were neither of us thewatch come to check on this newgambling hell.

‘I’m an acquaintance of Sir HenryPeters,’ I said, braggishly, like a youngman. ‘Is he here tonight?’

‘Not tonight,’ said the porter. ‘Butplease to come in, there is a small, avery small membership fee.’

I put my hand in my pocket and athis mumble of two guineas each Itipped the gold coins into his hand. Hiseyes gleamed at the weight of the purseas I tucked it back inside my cape.

‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Mostcertainly, this way.’

He led the way up the ricketystairs to the upper floor. I could hear

the sound of voices and the chink ofbottle against glass. I could hearPerry’s own voice say, ‘Gad! Againstme again! My luck’s sick as a dogtonight!’

I hesitated, wondering how drunkPerry was, whether he would see myface under the heavy tricorne hat andcry out in surprise. But then the porterpushed open the door and I saw howdark and smoky it was inside, and Iwent on, fearless.

The smoke hung like a pall in theroom, cigar smoke in thick wreaths.The stench of it made my eyes water assoon as I stepped inside, but I saw howit darkened the room so that thegamblers were squinting at their cards.No one even noticed us.

‘Waiter!’ Will said behind me.The man appeared and Will

ordered a bottle of burgundy andsigned for it with a flourish. He did not

once glance at me for approval. Youwould have thought we had been bottlecompanions, gambling and wenchingtogether for years.

The porter had gone across theroom to whisper in the ear of a manwho was sitting sideways to the door.He glanced up towards us and rose tohis feet, came across the room twirlinghis glossy red mustachios. ‘Captain’Thomas, I bet silently with myself. Andas like a captain in the cavalry as anyfool and coward can reasonablyappear. His partner at the table stayedseated. I guessed that would be BobRedfern.

‘Morning gentlemen,’ he said. Heeven had the voice to perfection, thecavalry officer’s confident drawl.‘Good of you to come to my little placehere. Can I interest you in a game?’

I hesitated. I had not thoughtfurther ahead than to get to Perry

before he gambled Wideacre away forever. But he was deeper in than I haddreamed. Captain Thomas was notrunning a cheap little fleecing here.This was a well-staffed club with threeservants at least within call and adozen wealthy patrons, most of whomwore swords.

I looked around quickly. With hisback to the entrance, slumped in hischair, was Perry. His golden curlslooked dark and dirty in the flickeringcandlelight, his head was bowed as hestared at his hand of cards. The emptyplace opposite him, which had beenthe captain’s, was surrounded with apile of papers and gold coins. Theywere unmistakably IOUs from Perry.Any one of them might be the Wideacredeeds, and Will and I were too late.

‘You certainly can,’ I said. Mymouth was very dry, and my throat tootight. My voice came out a little higher

than I meant, too girlish. But it did nottremble. Beside me I saw Will shift alittle, like a wrestler places his feetwhen he is ready for a fight. I reachedback to the table where our wine waspoured and took a gulp.

‘What’s your game?’ I asked. Inodded towards Perry’s table withassumed confidence. ‘What are youplaying?’

‘Lord Havering and I wereplaying piquet while waiting for apartner for whist. Perhaps you andyour companion…?’

He glanced at Will who swayedon his feet. ‘I’ll sit this one out!’ hesaid hastily.

‘Well, let me introduce you thento Mr Redfern who will take a handwith us,’ Captain Thomas saidsmoothly. ‘I’m Captain Thomas, this isLord Peregrine Havering.’ Perryglanced up, his blue eyes hooded. He

blinked owlishly and slumped backdown again. ‘And this is Mr Redfern.Play whist, Bob?’

Perry straightened, he lookedbemusedly at me, blinking like adaylight owl. I tensed. He had seen medressed as a lad before, that springmorning in the Havering woods whenhe had thought we might be friends. Hestared at me.

‘Do I know you?’ he askedconfused.

I nodded confidently. ‘Aye, but Idoubt you remember, my lord. We metat Brighton races, at the start of lastsummer. I was with Charles Prenderly,staying at his house.’

‘Oh,’ Perry said blankly. ‘Begpardon. Of course.’

‘Will you play whist, my lord?’Captain Thomas asked.

Perry blinked. ‘No,’ he saidfirmly. ‘Got to keep the same stakes.

Got to have a go at winning them back.Daren’t go home without them. That’sa fact.’

Captain Thomas shot me a ruefullook. ‘His lordship’s dipped deeptonight,’ he said. ‘He wants hisrevenge from me.’

I pushed my hat back carelesslyon my red curls. Building inside mewas a mad recklessness I had neverknown before. The hard-working,tough little child seemed to be melting,in this most unlikely moment. I felt as ifI could have laughed aloud. My wholelife was on the table of a commongambling house, my legal-weddedhusband dead drunk and defeatedbefore me, the only man I loved tenseas a twitched horse behind me. I tippedback my head and laughed aloud.

‘Maybe I’ll bring him luck!’ Isaid. ‘Will you play whist with me,m’lord?’

Perry blinked, his rosebud mouthdown-turned as if he felt like crying.‘Shouldn’t change the game,’ he said.‘How can I win it back if we changethe game?’

Captain Thomas hesitated. Perrycould turn nasty if he was nothumoured, but the porter would havewhispered in his ear about the heavypurse in my pocket and how it chinkedwith gold. Perry’s friend CharlesPrenderly was a wealthy young man.Any bilker would keep a friend of hisat the gambling table if he possiblycould.

‘Well, keep the stakes,’ I saidcheerfully. The insane temptation tolaugh aloud kept rising up in me. I wasMeridon the gypsy tonight indeed. Noland, no husband, no lover, and nochance of getting out of here without athorough beating if I set a foot wrong.‘Keep the stakes as they are, I’ll buy

into the game. Then m’lord can win hisfortune back if the cards fall his way.’

Captain Thomas gleamed.‘I’ll buy in, too,’ said Bob

Redfern quickly. ‘Say a hundredguineas, captain?’

I reached into my purse andcounted out the coins. I held the pursestill this time so that they should notsee that it was near empty now. Thiswas my stake for Wideacre. I wouldonly have one chance.

Will lounged over to the doorwaywith his glass of wine to watch theplay. His mouth was set hard and I sawhim swallow. He had no gamblinginstinct, my solid Will Tyacke. I slid awink at him and he scowled a warningat me. He had no idea what I plannedto do.

Captain Thomas slid somecounters across to me and to BobRedfern. Perry had a handful in his

pocket. He brought them out and turnedthem over and over as if he had hopedthey had bred into more in the darknessof his pocket. Even in my fear forWideacre I had a second’s pity forhim. He had lost everything tonight,and he still only half knew it.

Captain Thomas dealt. I watchedhim as he did so. It was a straight dealas far as I could tell. Clean cards, newpack, dealt from the top. He pushed thepack to Perry who cut the cards tochoose suit. Diamonds.

I had a moderate hand and I won acouple of tricks and lost a couple. I didnot care much during this game. Iwanted to see how they worked. Thedeal passed to Perry and he fumbledwith the cards but got them out. BobRedfern called the suit. He calledclubs. I had a wonderful hand. I wonfour of the six tricks and the deal andthe calling of the suit came to me. I

called clubs again for a mixed handand took two tricks. Bob Redfern tookthree, and took the call for the nextdeal.

So far I had seen nothing. At theend of the game I was eight guineasdown to Captain Redfern. Perry hadlost ten. I could not see how they did it.As far as I could tell Perry had lost bysimple incompetence. He was not ableto remember what cards had beenplayed and who had called the suit.The tricks he had won had come fromluck – a high card in the right suit.

In the second game I saw it. Ishould have spotted it at once. I hadwatched card-sharpers at work all mylife. These two had, no doubt, arepertoire of all the tricks: dealing offthe bottom, marked cards, hiddencards, stacked decks of cards. But withPerry and me in the game they workedas a simple team. I remembered my da

at the steps of the wagon sitting meopposite him and holding his mug oftea up to his ear, ‘Ear means ace,’ hehad said. ‘Ear: Ace. Mouth: King.Shoulder: Queen. Easiest trick in theworld, Merry. And don’t you forget it.Right hand red. Left hand black. Handsclenched looks like a club, see? Thirdfinger on thumb looks like a heart, see?Hand out fingers together looks like aspade. Fingers open looks likediamonds. Easy.’

I never thought I should thank thatman for anything in the world. I neverthought he had given me aught worthhaving. But in that dirty smoky littleclub I bent my head to hide my smile.

I had them. The two damnedcheats who were robbing me of myland. I knew what they were doing.Whichever of them had the best cardsof any suit signalled to the other. Oneor other of them could keep ahead of

the game to win the deal most times.They could let me and Perry win fromtime to time to keep our interest in thegame and our hopes up. The firsttrumps were called by cutting the packand they could cheat on that by stackingthe pack if they needed. Most timesthey would not need. It was a simplegame and a simple cheat.

And all it needed was a simpleopposition.

They were using the code my dahad taught me. I watched them undermy lowered eyelashes and smiledinwardly. I could read it as well asthey. I could see that Bob Redfern hadhigh diamonds, and that was why thecaptain called diamonds when he hadonly one or two in his hand. I knewthen to use my low couple of diamondsto trump tricks to keep myself in thegame.

They were going for me. For my

little pile of guineas. Perry’s miserablebewailings of his luck meant nothing tothem. He would scrawl some moreIOUs as he staked more to try and winback Wideacre. But they had suckedPerry dry for tonight. The IOUs werewell and good but they preferred gold– like mine; or deeds to property – likePerry’s.

I held them off. I lost a guinea at atime, slowly, slowly, until I took theirmeasure. I watched them. I did nothave the time, nor did I think to watchPerry.

The table suddenly jolted as hepushed it back.

‘I won’t play any more!’ heannounced. He rocked his chair backand then dropped it foursquare on itslegs. He scowled around at us, I sawhis lower lip trembling and I knew hewas sobering fast. I knew he wasrealizing what he had done.

‘Jolyon,’ he said piteously to thecaptain. ‘Jolyon, for God’s sake takemy IOU for the deeds. I should neverhave put it on the table. You shouldnever have accepted it.’

The captain smiled but his eyeswere cold. ‘Oh come now,’ he said.‘You won a fortune off me atNewmarket. A fortune in gold too! Notsome damned place miles away in thecountryside entailed to the hilt. It’s theluck of the game lad! And my God!What a gamester you are!’

‘Never seen a finer one,’ BobRedfern corroborated at once. ‘Neverseen a finer.’

Perry blinked rapidly. I knewthere were tears in his eyes. ‘I broke apromise,’ he said. ‘I promised…alady…that I’d not gamble with thosedeeds. It was only owing you so much,Jolyon, and thinking it would be a finething to stake Wideacre to clear all the

debts in one gamble that led me on. Ishouldn’t have done it. I hope you’llaccept a draft on my account instead.’

Captain Thomas rose to his feetand clapped Perry on the shoulders.

‘Surely,’ he said pleasantly.‘Surely. I’ll attend you tomorrow, shallI, old fellow? I’ll come around to yourhouse at noon, shall I? I want you tosee a new hunter I have, I fancy you’lllike him.’

‘And I can clear my debt with youthen, can I?’ Perry demanded urgently.‘You won’t let a day go? And you’llkeep the deeds safe?’

‘As safe as a babe new-born!’ theCaptain said. He guided Perry to thedoor carefully and the porter swathedhim in his silk-lined evening cloak.‘Mind your step as you go home, Perry,I want you in one piece for tomorrow!’

Perry paused at the top of thestair, his mouth working. ‘You won’t

fail me, Jolyon, will you?’ he asked. ‘Ipromised her, I promised this ladymost especially…’

‘Of course,’ Jolyon assured him.He waved his cigar and we heardPerry clatter down the stairs and thenthe bang of the outer door as he wentout into the streets.

The captain and Bob Redfernexchanged a slight inoffensive smile.They’d let Perry redeem the deeds forWideacre only when they had pricedthe estate and checked its value.

I laughed aloud, like a recklessboy: ‘Gambling for land, are we?’ Idemanded. ‘Well, I’ve a fancy to winsome land! What d’you say I put myplace against this place of yours?’

The captain laughed as carelessas me, but I saw him shoot a quick,calculating look across the table at me,and also at Will.

‘And you, Will!’ I exclaimed.

‘Come on! It’s not often we come toLondon, and to be in a gentleman’sclub and with a chance to win a fortuneand all!’

Will straightened up reluctantly.‘I’d not put Home Farm on the table,not for all the money in the world,’ hesaid. ‘And you’d be mad to put yourestate up, Michael. Why, you don’teven have the deeds yet, your pa’sshoes are still warm.’

I thought that was pretty fast lyingfor an honest farm manager but I keptmy eyes down and I laughed defiantly.‘So what?’ I challenged. ‘It’s mineright enough, isn’t it? And why should Iwant to be buried in the country for therest of my days?’

I turned to the captain. ‘It’s thesweetest little estate you ever did see,just outside Salisbury,’ I said. ‘Not onegood thing have I had out of it in mylife. My father scrimped and saved and

bought one little parcel of land afteranother until he had it all together. Notone penny would he spend on me. It’sonly since his death I’ve been able togo to a half-decent tailor even! NowI’m in London I’m damned if I’ll sellmyself short. I’ll put Gateley Estate onthe table, up against your – whateverit’s called – and let the winner takeboth!’

‘Not so fast,’ the captain said.‘Lord Perry was anxious that I keep thedeeds safe.’

I shrugged. ‘I’ll sell them back tohim, or gamble ‘em back to him, neverfear,’ I said. ‘You talk as if I’m certainto win. I surely feel lucky!’

Will came forward softly. ‘Thisis madness,’ he said aloud. ‘You’llnever gamble your inheritance. Therents alone are worth four thousandpounds a year, Michael!’ In anundertone, for my ears alone he leaned

forward and hissed: ‘What the devilare you playing at, Sarah?’

I leaned back in my seat andbeamed at him. I had that wonderfulinfallible feeling I had known when Isaw Sea for the first time and knewthat he would not throw me.

I winked at the captain. ‘I don’tlive like a rustic!’ I said. ‘I’ve comeinto my own at last, I’m ready to playlike a gentleman, aye and live like onetoo.’

‘Well, good luck to you!’ saidBob Redfern. ‘Damme that calls for abottle. Are you drinking burgundy,Mr…Mr…’

‘Tewkes,’ I said at random.‘Michael Tewkes, Esquire, of Gateley,near Salisbury. Glad to meet youindeed.’

I let him take my hand, it was stillas rough and as calloused as anyworking squire. They had cut my nails

short in the fever, my grip was hard.A fresh bottle was bought, and a

new pack of cards.‘What’ll it be?’ asked the captain.

His eyes were bright, he had beendrinking all evening but it was not thatwhich made him pass his tongue acrosshis lips as if for the taste of somethingsweet. He could smell a pigeon ripefor the plucking.

‘Michael, I promised yourmother…’ Will said urgently.

‘Oh, sit down and take a hand,’ Isaid carelessly. ‘This is a jest betweengentlemen, Will, not serious play. I’llput my IOU for Gateley on the tableagainst this other estate. If I come homewith a house and land in my pocketd’you think anyone will complain? Sitdown and play or sheer off!’

The captain smiledsympathetically at Will. ‘It’s a hardrow, keeping a young man out of

trouble,’ he said. ‘But we’re allfriends here. We’ll put the deeds on thetable if that’s your wish. But we’llhave a gentleman’s agreement to buythem back at a nominal sum. No one ishere to be ruined. All anyone seeks is alittle sport.’

Will unbent slightly. ‘I don’t mindgames of skill,’ he said stiffly. ‘Gamesof skill between gentlemen for anominal sum.’

‘Slow coach!’ I said easily.‘Captain, get me a sheet of your paperand I’ll write out the deeds of my landfair. We’ll put them on the table withLord Perry’s farm and they can be thestake.’

‘I’ll put my hundred guineas in,’Will said, warming to the game.

‘Dammit so will I!’ said BobRedfern as if he had suddenly decided.‘I could do with a little place in thecountry!’

Will checked at once. ‘Theproperties to be re-sold at once to theirrightful owners,’ he said.

Bob Redfern smiled. ‘Of course,’he said. ‘For a nominal sum. This isbut a jest. It adds zest.’

‘For God’s sake, Will, we’re inpolite society now,’ I hissed at him.‘Don’t count the change so!’

Will nodded abashed, andwatched as I wrote out a briefdescription with a line-drawing ofwhat was, in fact, Robert Gower’sfarm. I chose it on purpose. It lookedreal. My da always used to say, whenyou’re getting a gull, tell him a story asstraight as you can. I thought of him as Idrew in the river which flowed nearthe bottom field.

‘Pretty place,’ the captain saidapprovingly.

‘A fair stake, for a jest,’ I said.Bob Redfern leaned forward and

dealt the cards with his swift whitehands. I dropped my eyelashes andwatched him like a hawk.

I was not a card-sharper, I was ahorse-trainer, a petty thief, a poacher. Icould call up a show or ride a horsefor money. I could take bets, make up abook, drug a bad horse into steadiness,or ride a wild pony into the ground fora quick sale. Here, in this London club,with a man’s hat pushed back on myforehead, sprawled in my chair like aflushed youth, I was in the grip of menwho cheated at cards for a living, andfor a handsome living. I was the pigeonhere. The little skills I had learned atDa’s knee would not preserve me froma thorough plucking if I stayed toolong. Whatever I was going to do I hadbest do quick.

News of the bet had spread toother parts of the room and severalgentlemen had quit their own games to

come and watch ours. I didn’t knowwhether any of them would signal toBob or Jolyon what cards we held. Ididn’t dare wait to find out. There wasno time, and I did not have enoughskill. For the first time in my life Iwished with all my heart that my dawas at my side. He was no artist, buthe could spot a cheat. And I did notknow if they would use the samesignals with others watching.

They did. The first tricks I sawthem do it. They moved like gentlemen,that was what made it alluring. Whenyou saw Da pinch his ear or scratch hisshoulder it looked foolish, as if he hadnits. But when Captain Thomasbrushed his collar with the tips of hisfingers he looked merely debonair. Irisked a quick glance at Will, he wasscowling over his cards. He wouldknow they were cheating but he wouldnot have a clue how it was done. I

could not hope that he would have witsquick enough to follow me. He had nothad the training, he was no easy liar,no quick cheat. He did not know howto do it. I should have to do it alone. Ishould have to do it quickly. I shouldhave to do it now.

38They were going for me, for theconvincingly pretty little farm I haddrawn for them. All good card-sharping is a war of imagination inwhich the card-sharp convinces thepigeons of two things at once: that he ishonest, and that they are skilled. Iwatched them under my eyelashes andsaw that they thought Will too staunch,too unwilling, possibly too poor fortheir skills. But I was a flash youngfool. They looked from the littleroughdrawn map to my open eager faceand licked their lips like hungry menbefore sweet pudding.

I tapped my cards on the table andshot a look at Will. ‘Seems you wereright, Will,’ I said. ‘I’m well out of mydepth here.’

Will kept his eyes down and hisface still, but he must have been

reeling at my sudden change of tack.‘Let’s finish this game and be off

then,’ he said. He glanced at CaptainThomas and Bob Redfern. ‘Beggingyour pardons, sirs, and thanking youfor your hospitality. But I promisedthis young man’s mother I’d bring himsafe home. Aye, and with hisinheritance safe in his pocket.’

Captain Thomas cracked a laughthat made the dusty chandelier tinkle.‘You’re a bear leader, sir!’ he cried. ‘Ithink Mr Tewkes here is a very sharpplayer indeed!’

He switched the card he wasabout to play for one further away fromthe cleft of his thumb. It was a lowtrump. He probably knew I had higher.I took the trick as he had intended.

‘Look at that now!’ he said. ‘Imissed that you had a trump that high,Mr Tewkes.’

‘Let’s have another bottle,’ Bob

Redfern said genially. ‘Up from thecountry you should enjoy yourselvesgentlemen! A shame to go home withno tales to tell! They’ll open their eyeswhen you tell them you played here, Iwarrant!’

Hearts were trumps and I had twoor three low cards. I led instead with aKing of diamonds and everyonefollowed my lead with lower cardsexcept Captain Thomas who discardeda low club card, giving me the trick.After that I drew out their low trumpcards with one heart after another untilall I had left in my hand was the Jackof spades and I gambled on no onehaving higher. But Captain Thomas hadthe Queen and at the end of the gamewe were neck and neck for tricks.

‘I think we should go now,’ Willsaid. ‘It’s a fair ending to a good jest.’

I laughed excitedly and hoped mycolour was up. ‘Leave when I’ve hit a

winning streak?’ I demanded. ‘Dammeno, we won’t! I won’t leave this tableuntil I’ve had a crack at winning thatlittle farm in Sussex. It’s only a jest!And the night’s young! And the cardsare going my way now! I can feel it!’

‘Oh, you’ve a cardman’sinstincts,’ Redfern said wisely.‘Sometimes I feel that too. You justknow that you cannot lose. I’ve hadthat feeling once or twice in my lifeand I’ve left tables with a fortune in mypockets! It’s a rare gift that one, MrTewkes…may I call you Michael?’

‘Oh aye, Bob,’ I said carelessly.‘You believe in luck, do you?’

‘What true-bred gambler doesnot?’ he asked smoothly. He shuffledthe cards and I picked up my glass anddrank, watching him around the rim.

Then I saw it. He had picked upthe discarded cards and flicked out ofthem a selection of cards into his right

hand, palmed them in his broad whitehand. The backs looked plain enoughto me but they might have been markedso he could tell the picture cards fromthe rest. Or they might have beenshaved thinner – I couldn’t tell fromlooking, I would only be able to tellfrom touch when the deal was mine.And I would have to wait for that. Heshuffled the pack with vigour, theruffles from his shirt falling over hisworking hands. He was not toodexterous, he was not suspiciouslyclever. It was an experienced player’shonest shuffle. He passed the pack tome for me to cut. My fingers sought forclues around the cards in vain. Therewas no natural point to cut to, he hadnot shifted the deck or made a bridgeto encourage me to cut where hewished. Nothing.

I cut where I wished and passed itback to him. Then he dealt. What he

did then was so obvious and so crassthat I nearly laughed aloud and stoppedlonging for my da, for beside me was aman as greedy and as vulgar as my daever had been. And I had his measurenow.

He had not stacked the cards, hehad not made that instant calculation ofwhere the picture cards would have tobe inserted into the stock of ordinarycards in his left hand. He just thrust thepicture cards on top of the deck anddealt a selection of the cream of thepack off the top to me and Will, and offthe bottom to him and Captain Thomas.It was a childish simple cheat, and myglance shot to Will to warn him to saynothing when he saw it.

I was safe enough there.Amazingly, he did not see it. Will wasindeed the honest country yeoman andhe watched Bob Redfern’s quick-moving hands, and collected his cards

as they were dealt, and never spottedthe movement where Bob’s longfingers drew from the top or the bottomof the stack as he pleased.

I glanced cautiously around. Noone else seemed to have seen it either.It was late, they were all drunk, theroom was thick with smoke andshadowy. Bob’s shielding hand hideverything. Only I saw the quickmovement of his smallest finger on hisright hand as he hooked up a card fromthe bottom of the pack for him and hispartner so that they could ensure thatthey would lose to us.

I had good hands during the game.Good cheating hands. Nothing tooflash, nothing too stunning. I fidgeted agood deal, and by holding my breathonce and squeezing out my belly Imade my face flush when Bob dealthme the Ace of trumps. I won by threetricks ahead of Will and there was a

ripple of applause and laughter when Icrowed like a lad and swept the heapof IOUs and the tied roll of theWideacre deeds towards me.

At once a waiter was at my sidewith a glass of champagne.

‘A victory toast to a great card-player!’ Bob said at once, and held outhis glass to drink to me.

Will looked surly. ‘We’d best beoff now,’ he said.

‘Oh, drink to my victory!’ I said.‘You shall come with me to Lord Perryin the morning for him to buy back hisfarm. How he will laugh! Drink to myvictory, Will! It’s early to go yet!’

‘And gambling’s in the air!’Captain Thomas shouted joyously. ‘Ifeel my luck coming back! Damme if Idon’t’! Stay with your luck, Michael!Dare you put both your properties onthe table…your new farm and yourown place at Warminster?’

‘Against what?’ I demanded witha gleam.

Will said ‘Michael!’ in exactlythe right mutter of anguish.

The waiter filled my glass again,the voices seemed to be coming from alittle further away. I cursed the winesilently. I was not used to it, and I wasstill weak from my illness. Much moreof it and I would be in trouble.‘Damme! This place!’ Captain Thomasyelled.

There was a roar of approval andlaughter, and shouts to me: ‘Go on,country squires! Take the bet! Let’shear it for the Old Roast Beef ofEngland!’

‘I’ll do it!’ I said. I slurred mywords a little. In truth I was acting onlyslightly. Will’s dark look at me wasnot feigned, either.

I piled the deeds back into themiddle of the table again, and Captain

Thomas scrawled something on a sheetof headed notepaper handed to him bythe waiter. Bob and Will added theirIOUs.

‘Your deal,’ Bob said to me. Hegathered up the tricks loosely, andpushed them towards me. I took a deepbreath and patted them into a pack. Islid my fingers along the sides. Ishuffled them lightly. I was pouring myconcentration down into my fingertips.It was possible that the pack was aclean one. With the partnership theyhad of cueing to each other’s cards, itmight be that the pack was unmarked.And the dealing from the top and thebottom ploy looked very much as ifthey used no sophisticated tricks.

Then my fingers had it. Just atouch of roughness on one side of thecards, as if a very fine needle had justpricked the veneer of the surface. Theyhad only marked one side too, so

sometimes the mark was on the left,sometimes on the right, and it was hardto tell.

‘You’re scowling,’ CaptainThomas said. ‘All well with you,Michael?’

‘I feel a bit…’ I said. I let mywords slur slightly. ‘I will have toleave you after this game gentlemen,whatever the outcome. I’ll come backtomorrow.’

‘Surely!’ Bob said pleasantly. ‘Iget weary this time of night myself. Iknow what you want lad! Some claret!Claret’s the thing for the earlymorning.’

They took my old glass ofchampagne away and brought a freshone filled to the brim with the rich redwine. Will’s face was frozen.

While they were fussing with thewine I was quietly stacking the deck. Ithought of Da. I thought of him in a new

way – with a sort of rueful pride. Hehad played on upturned barrels forpennies yet he would have scorned todeal off the bottom like these finecheats had done. Not him! When my dawas sober and cheating he counted thenumber of hands to be played, thenumber of players and stacked the deckso the cards would fall as he wished tothe players he wished. While theytasted the wine, and quarrelled as towhether it was cool enough, I countedswiftly in my mind, seven cards toeach player, the second hand as I dealtit to be the strong one. Strong cardsmust occur every four cards at the righttime for me to get them to Will whowas sitting opposite me. Thus in thefirst deal there had to be a strong cardat number 2, number 6, number 10,number 14, number 18, number 22, andnumber 26. I felt for the marked cards.I thought they had only marked Aces,

Kings Queens and Jacks…there didn’tseem to be more than twenty-eightmarked cards.

‘Ready, Michael?’ Bob saidpleasantly. I shot him a quick look. Hehad not been watching me. He wassmiling at Captain Thomas, an honestneutral smile, which passing betweenthose two said, clear as a bell, ‘Wehave them now.’

I riffled the pack. It was stackedas well as I could do, in the time I had,and I was not in practice as I had beenwhen I was Meridon.

I went to deal.‘Cut,’ Captain Thomas reminded

me.I flushed. ‘Oh yes,’ I said.They cut before they dealt in this

club. Captain Thomas was waiting forme to cut my carefully stacked decktowards him so that the cards I hadprepared for Will would be cut to the

bottom of the deck where they wouldgo at regular and surprising intervals toany one of us.

‘Agent shifting cut,’ I heard Da’svoice in my head. I saw his dirty handssquaring up a pack on the driving seaton the front of the wagon. ‘See thisMerry? D’ye see?’

It was a tricky move. Da used tobodge it, I learned it from watchinghim failing at it. I glanced around. Itwas growing light outside but it wasstill dark in here with the thick mustycurtains at the window. Someone atone of the tables was disputing a billand people were glancing that way. Ilooked at Captain Thomas.

‘Trouble?’ I asked, noddingtowards the table. Captain Thomaslooked over. A man had lurched to hisfeet and tipped the table sideways. Igrasped the pack in two hands, my leftholding the top half of the pack, and my

right holding the bottom. With oneswift movement I pulled the bottomhalf gripped in my right hand and put ittowards Captain Thomas.

‘Nothing really,’ he said lookingback. He completed the cut, moving thehalf-deck which was furthest from himon top of the one nearest to him.Without knowing it, he had put mystacked deck back together again. Andno one had spotted it.

I heard my heart thudding loud inmy ears, in my neck, in my throat. Soloud that I thought they would all hearit over the jostle and confusion of thedrunk man being thrust down the stairsand out into the street.

I dealt with a trace ofawkwardness and the cards lay on thetable. Will picked up his cards and Isaw his eyes widen slightly, but hishand outstretched to the wine glass didnot tremble.

He won, of course.I saw Captain Thomas squinting

at his cards, and at the backs of Will’s.I kept my cards low, held in my cuppedhands in case there were markings inthe back he could see. I watched thetwo of them warning each other to callspades for trumps, or diamonds. Heartsor clubs. It would make no odds. Willhad a King, a Queen or an Ace in everyhand. The other good cards which Ihad scattered around the table werejust to dress the act.

They couldn’t nail it. They wereso sure of me as a pigeon. They hadseen me shuffle clean enough, and thenthey had seen me cut. And theybelieved, as many fools before themhave believed, that you cannot stack acut.

I slid the last card across thetable. Captain Thomas took the trick, itwas his third. Will had five, Bob

Redfern had three tricks, I had two.Will was a truly awful card-player;with the hands I had given him heshould have wiped the floor with thethree of us.

‘I’ve won!’ he said incredulous.Bob Redfern was white, the

sweat on his forehead gleamed dully inthe candlelight. He slid the heavydocument of the deeds of Wideacreacross the table to Will. I pushed thedeeds of my farm, and the paper for theclub, and Redfern’s IOUs.

‘I’m done for tonight gentlemen!’I said. My voice came out a little highand I took a breath and clenched myfingernails into my palms under thetable. I was not out of the ring yet. Irubbed my hand across my chin as if Iwere feeling for morning beardgrowth. ‘I’ve won and lost a property,and lost my own as well! A great night!We shall have to settle this very day,

Will.’Captain Thomas smiled thinly. ‘I

shall call on you,’ he said. ‘Where areyou staying?’

‘Half Moon Street,’ I said glibly.‘Just around the corner, with CaptainCairncross at number 14.’

He nodded. ‘I’ll call on you alittle after noon,’ he said. ‘And I’llbring Lord Perry. We will all need tosettle up after tonight!’

There was a murmur from the menall around us.

I smiled around at them. ‘It’s beena hard gambling night for me!’ I said.‘Not often I get to play in suchcompany as this. I shall come backtomorrow evening if I may.’

‘You’d be very welcome,’Captain Thomas said pleasantly. Hisbright eyes above the curly mustachioswere cold. ‘Play always starts aroundmidnight.’

‘Grand,’ I said.Will got to his feet, as wary as a

prize-fighter in an all-comers ring.‘My cape,’ I said to the waiter

behind me.Will tucked the precious deeds

deep into his jacket, and shovelled theother papers and guineas on top ofthem.

‘We’ll settle up tomorrow,’ thecaptain said, watching his every move.

‘I’m in no hurry,’ Will lied. Hestepped towards the door, his eyes onme. The waiter came and draped mycape around my shoulders. I picked upmy hat which I had tossed off duringthe game, ran my hands through mycurls and crammed it on.

‘A grand evening!’ I said. ‘I thankyou both.’

I stepped towards the door. I wasas loath to turn my back on those twoas I would take my eyes off a snake. I

felt utterly sure that once I could notsee them they could spring on me.

I took two steps towards thedoorway, Will was through the door,starting to descend the stair, I was inthe doorway, I was through. I wentdown each stair one at a time, makingmyself go slow, forcing myself to walkcautiously, as a drunk walks.

‘Thank you, good fellow,’ Willsaid as the porter fumbled with thebolts of the door. He was hesitating asif they would hold us. Hold us at thebolted door while they rushed us. Irisked a quick glance behind me.Redfern and Thomas were at the top ofthe stairs looking down at us. I felt mythroat tighten in panic.

‘Good-night!’ Will called. Hisvoice was assured. I did not trustmyself to speak, I waved a casual handand hoped to God that my face was nottoo white. The last bolt slid free, the

porter swung open the door, the greylight of dawn and the clean cold smellof a spring morning flooded in upon us.

We stepped out, arm in arm, intothe silent streets.

The sun was not yet up, it was thatpearly pale time of the morning when itis half-way between dark and dawn. Iglanced at Will; his face was lined asif he had aged ten years. I knew myown face was bleached with the strain,my eyes dark-shadowed.

‘Are we clear?’ he asked me, hisvoice very low.

‘I think so,’ I said.It was a hopeful lie and we both

knew it. We did not think so.‘Walk slowly,’ he said softly. ‘If

they’re going to get us it’ll be beforewe get out into the main street.’

We strolled, five steady paces,away from the doorway of the club.Then there was a shout from behind us:

‘Hey! Hey! Michael! You’veforgotten your cane! Come back!’

‘Run!’ Will said and grabbed myhand.

As soon as we had taken our firststrides I heard them shout behind us,confused instructions to head us off.We hurtled around the corner intoCurzon Street. The road wasabsolutely deserted, the place emptyand silent.

‘Damn!’ Will said.‘This way!’ I said quickly and led

him down the street, running close tothe wall of the buildings, hoping to behidden by the shadows.

From the mews behind us weheard their boots on the cobbles, thenoise of them stopping and then a loudvoice yell, ‘They went that way! Thatway!’ and I knew we had been spotted.

I led Will across the road at therun and dived up Queen Street. I

glanced behind me. There were five ofthem, a little slower than us and wehad a good lead. But Captain Thomaswas gaining a little, he looked fit.Already my breath was coming ingasps and I could feel my kneesstarting to go weak.

We ran without speaking up thelength of Queen Street, they were abouta hundred yards behind us. I could notbelieve there were no lighteddoorways, no carriages, no lateparties, not even a neutral witness.There was no one. Will and I were onour own against five villains and thedeeds to Wideacre in Will’s pocket.

At the corner I did not hesitateeven for a second. I was runningwithout a thought in my head except toget away from them. Now I dived overthe road and up John Street hoping tobe into the shadows before they cameto the crossroads and saw us.

We nearly made it, but we heardThomas shout, ‘Stop! Listen for them!’and then the triumph in his yell.‘They’re going that way! After them!’

The road was narrow and theclatter of boots on cobbles behind usseemed to get louder and louder. Mycape was twisted around my legs,hampering me like hobbles on a horse,I could feel myself slowing. Only fearwas moving me on now; and I was notgoing fast enough.

‘Which way?’ Will gasped.My mind reeled. I had been

heading for home, instinctivelythreading my way through thefashionable streets and the dark secretmews streets behind them. But I knew Icould not keep up this pace. Theywould be upon us, and in any case Iwould lose my way in this warren ofnew gracious squares and back lanes.

‘The park!’ I said. I thought of the

cool trees and the dark hollows wherewe might hide. I thought of the icygrass shining under the pale light ofearly morning. It was as like to countryas we would get in London and I had agreat longing for earth under my feet.Both Will and I were country children,we needed to be home.

We swung left down Farm Streetand I could see the high trees of thepark, it seemed like miles away at theend of the street.

‘Down there,’ I said. I wasrunning even more slowly, my throatwas tight and my chest heaving. ‘Yourun, Will, you’ve got the deeds. Getthem away. Get away with them.’

He shot me a swift sidewayslook, his teeth gleaming in the half-light. The idiot was smiling.

‘We’ll make it,’ he said. ‘Keeprunning.’

I was so angry with him not

understanding that I could not keeprunning, I was finished, that my angergave me a spurt of energy which boreme up. Also, I was afraid. That mademe faster than our pursuers. Behind uswere men, angry and greedy for myland, but they were not scared as Iwas. I had run from men too manytimes in my life not to feel my heartrace when I heard boots oncobblestones behind me. My heart wasthudding in my chest, and my breathwas hoarse, like in my illness, but Icould still run and run and run.

We burst across the road. Therewere one or two carriages in thedistance, but no one close enough, andanyway, the hue and cry was after us. Ifwe called for help we might findourselves before a magistrate, and Ihad a law-breaker’s terror of thejustices.

‘Those trees…’ Will gasped. He

was near the end of his strength too, hewas wet with sweat, his face shiny inthe pale light. He headed towards alittle coppice of beeches and silverbirches. They were stark in the paleshadows, their bare branches thinthreads of blackness against the lightersky. But they would give us someshelter.

I shot a look behind me. Theywere hard on our heels, crossing theroad even now. They would see us gointo the coppice, we would not havetime to hide. They would cast aboutand catch us.

‘You go on!’ I said peremptorily.‘I’ll hold them up! For God’s sake,Will!’

He turned roughly on me as soonas we were hidden from sight.

‘Drop your breeches,’ he ordered.I gaped at him and he dragged mycloak from my neck and bundled it

under a bush of blackberry.‘Drop your damned breeches!’ he

whispered harshly. ‘You pass as mydoxy!’

Then I understood. I ripped theboots off my feet and tore the breechesoff. My cravat went the same way, andI stood before Will in my night-shirt.Without hesitation he took a handful ofthe material at the neckline and rippedit so that it dropped down to mybubbies, showing my milk-white neckand shoulder, the rounded curve of mybreast and the rosy nipple.

Behind us, at the edge of thecoppice we heard Thomas’ voice, andRedfern shouting:

‘Look up to the trees, check theboughs!’

Will flung himself upon me andbore me down to the ground.

‘Open your legs for God’s sake,Sarah,’ he said impatiently, and rolled

himself over so that he was lying onme. I felt him fumble at his breechesand I felt my white face burn red as hepulled them down so he was bare-arsed.

‘Will!’ I said in whisperedprotest.

He had a moment to rear up andlook at me, his face was brimful withmischief. ‘Stupid little cow,’ he saidlovingly, then he dipped his head intomy naked neck and started thrusting atme with his hips.

‘Holloa!’ came the yell behindhim, Captain Thomas skidded to a haltand his bully-boys craned over hisshoulder. Will kept his head down, Irisked a peep over his shoulder. Theywere staring at me and at my baresplayed legs. I ducked my head downinto Will’s warm jacket and inwardlycursed them and every damned man onthe whoreson earth. I hated Will, and

Captain Thomas, and Wideacre withevery inch of my frigid angry body.

‘Did ye see a couple ofgentlemen, run through here?’ Thomasrapped out.

Will let out a great bellow ofrage, or it would have passed forfrustrated lust. ‘What the devil d’youthink I’m doing, keeping watch?’ hehollered. ‘O’course I didn’t. Whatdoes it look to you that I’m doing? Goyour ways, damn you. I’ve paid fortwenty minutes and twenty minutes I’llhave!’

They hesitated, two of them fellback.

‘They went that way…’ I said.My voice was silky, slurred. I gesturedwith an outflung hand and they saw mynaked shoulder and the line of mythroat, gleaming in the pale light.

Captain Thomas bowed to me,ironically. ‘I am much obliged to you

ma’am,’ he said. ‘And I apologize fordisturbing you, sir.’ We heard him taketwo steps. ‘It seems the lady is lessattentive than the man,’ he said and themen laughed. Then his voice changed.‘Is that them? Boarding that coach?Dammit! After them!’

We heard the noise of themcrashing through the undergrowth andtheir yells to the coachman. We froze,as still as leverets in bracken, whilewe listened to the coach pull away,and them chasing after it, yelling toattract the guard’s attention. Then itwas quiet. They had gone.

Will Tyacke lay on top of me, hisface buried in my neck, breathing in thesmell of my sweat, his face rubbingagainst my skin, his hardness pushinginsistently through my rumpled shift atthe deep inner core of me where Icould feel I was as soaking wet as anyloving strumpet behind a hay stack.

‘It’s all right, Will,’ I said, myvoice warm with laughter. ‘You canstop pretending. They’re gone.’

He checked himself with ashudder but the face he raised to lookat me was alive with love.

‘My God, I love you,’ he saidsimply. ‘It would be well worth beinghanged for card-sharping to rip yournightgown open and lie between yourlegs – even for a moment.’

I stretched in a movement aslanguorous and sensual as a cat. I feltas if blood had never flowed in myveins before this moment. I felt warmall over, I felt alive all over. My skin,the inside of my wrists, the soles of myfeet, the warm palms of my hands, thetingling tip of my tongue, every tinyfraction of me glowed like gold. Anddeep deep between my legs I felt apulse beating as if I had never beenalive there before, as if Will was a

plough to turn the earth and make itfertile, and that suddenly my body wasno longer wasteland; but rich fertileploughland, hungry for seed.

‘Not now,’ I said unwillingly.‘They’ll be back when they’ve stoppedthe coach. They’re not stupid.’

Will leaped up. ‘No!’ he said.‘Here! Your clothes!’

He reached into the blackberrybush, stamping his feet and cursing in awhisper when the briers scratched him.Then he turned his back in incongruouschivalry while I got dressed. Icrammed my hat on my head, andwrapped my cloak around me.

‘Home to Wideacre,’ Will saiddecisively.

‘I’ve got to fetch Sea,’ I said.Will checked, looked at me to see

if I was jesting.‘We cannot!’ he said. ‘We cannot

risk retracing our steps, going back the

way we’ve come. We should strikeacross the park now, go west, doubleback later.’

‘I want Sea,’ I said stubbornly.‘Sea will get us home. And you’ll wantyour horse.’

‘They’d send them on…’ Willstarted.

‘Not they,’ I said certainly. ‘I’mfinished with the Haverings for alltime. They’ll not send on as much as apocket handkerchief of mine. I’mgetting my horse out of their stablesbefore they know their pigeon’s flownthe coop.’

Will hesitated, looked from myresolute face to the streets of the citywhich were getting noisy and busy asthe sun rose.

‘I’m not going without Sea,’ Isaid.

‘Oh very well,’ he said sullenly,and we strode out of the coppice

shoulder to shoulder without a spark ofpassion or even affection between us.Cross as cats.

39We saw a hackney coach going downPark Lane and we hailed it andbundled in. Will counted his silver inthe pale light through the window tosee if he would have enough to meetthe fare without flashing his goldguineas around. He was always ascautious as a yeoman, Will Tyacke.

I leaned back against the dirtysquabs of the coach and sighed. ‘Howmuch have you got?’ I asked.

Will pulled out his gold coin bycoin and carefully counted. ‘Ninety-eight guineas,’ he said. ‘You lost allyour stake, didn’t you?’

‘Aye,’ I said smiling at him undermy half-closed eyelids. ‘I like to playlike a gentleman.’

‘You play like a cheat,’ he saidinstantly. Then he cocked his head.‘What was that?’

I dropped the window and welistened.

There were shouts from behindus, I heard a voice say: ‘Heycoachman! Wait!’

Will’s face was white. ‘Theyturned,’ he said. ‘What now?’

‘We outpace them!’ I said.Before he had a chance to protest

I grabbed his handful of guineas andstuffed them in my pockets. I wenthead-first out of the coach windowclutching the door frame and up on tothe box beside the driver like a streeturchin.

‘What?’ he said. He was alreadypulling up his horse in obedience to theshouts from behind.

‘Go on!’ I yelled.He gawped at me.I put a fistful of guineas in his

hands. ‘Card-sharpers,’ I shouted overtheir noise. ‘They don’t like losing.

And they’re blown. Keep this old naggoing and there are twenty guineas foryou at the end of the ride!’

He glanced quickly behind. Onlythe captain and a couple of men hadkept up. They would not catch us if thedamned nag between the shafts couldgo faster than a knock-kneed stumble.

‘Faster!’ I said.The man broke into a wide

broken-toothed grin. ‘Twentyguineas?’ he asked.

‘Thirty!’ I said.He flashed his whip over the

horse’s back and the creature, startled,broke into a shambling canter. Will,sticking his head out of the window,could see we were drawing away fromthe gamblers.

‘Howay!’ he yelled.I laughed aloud.Then I looked to the front.Some damned hay-wagon was

blocking our way. It had turned on itsside and there were half a dozen menscurrying around trying to right it, acouple of idle milkmaids pausing towatch, and four or five link boys.

The hackney could edge aroundthe wagon if the people would give usspace but they were all over the road. Ilooked back. Captain Thomas was redin the face but he saw we were stuck. Isaw him smile.

‘Stop thief!’ he yelled, damn hisstrong lungs.

I thrust my hand deep in mypocket.

‘Let me pass, lads!’ I yelled.‘Look here!’

With a great broadcast sweep Iflung the coins in my pocket – guineas,silver, coppers – wide into the sky.The urchins and the milkmaids dived tothe ground out of our path. The menrighting the hay cart looked blankly at

me and then chased after the rollingcoins.

‘Drive on!’ I ordered. Anotherhandful of coins as we got through and,as from nowhere, beggars and street-walkers and urchins and thieves wereall out of their doorways and lodgingsfalling over each other in their haste tochase the money.

‘Sarah!’ Will exclaimed,anguished.

I laughed. ‘Look!’ I said pointingback.

Captain Thomas had pushedsomeone in his haste to get through thecrowd and the man had pushed back.What had been a little scramble wasnow a promising street-fight. The manhad punched Thomas roughly in theshoulder and had hold of his coatcollar and would not let him pass. Idanced up and down on the boxwaving farewell and holloaing.

‘Goodbye, pigeon-plucker!’ Iyelled in triumph. ‘Goodbye, curtal!Goodbye, you glim-glibber! You poxytatsman! You hog in armour!’

The hackney whirled around thecorner and threw me off balance. I felldown to the seat and grinned at thedriver.

‘Drop us at the corner of themews behind Davies Street,’ I said,and he nodded and drove where Iordered.

‘A fine night you’ve been having,’he observed.

I stretched luxuriously, thinking ofthe deeds safe, and Will safe, and mesafe away from the Haverings and theQuality life at last.

‘A fine night,’ I agreed.The coach drew up at the corner

and Will tumbled out. He shook hishead at me. ‘Good God, Sarah!’ hesaid. ‘That was near all the money I

had!’‘I promised the driver thirty

guineas if he got us away,’ I said.‘Turn out your pockets, Will.’

The driver came down from thebox as Will and I went through everypocket in our coats and breeches. Wemustered seventeen guineas and somecoppers.

‘I won’t hold you to it,’ he said.‘Seventeen is fair, I’ll have that offyou.’

He helped himself to the coins outof Will’s reluctant palm and drove off,beaming.

Will’s face could have modelledfor an etching of a countryman fleecedin the big city.

‘Sarah that was all our money!’he said. ‘How d’you think we’ll gethome?’

‘Ride,’ I said cheerily.‘And go hungry?’ Will demanded.

‘We’ve little money for food.’I gleamed at him. ‘I’ll steal it,’ I

said. ‘Or you can call up a crowd andI’ll ride on the street corners.’

Will’s cross face collapsed intolaughter. ‘Oh you’re a rogue,’ he said.‘By rights I should never bring you toWideacre, they’re an honest crew thereand you are a brigand!’

I laughed back, then we turnedand walked side by side down thecobbled street to the stables.

It was early still, and quiet inthese back streets. In the distance therewas the noise of milkmaids and thewater-carrier; at the end of the road thenight-soil cart went past with a stenchblowing behind it. The city was not yetawake. Only working people, with thehardest jobs, were up this early.

The groom was waiting for us, hiseyes wide at the state of me, and thestate of his best suit, and Will with his

shirt hanging out the back.‘My lady…’ he said helplessly.‘I’ll have to keep your suit,’ I said

pleasantly. ‘But I’ll send you moneyfor another and for the service you’vedone me this night, when I get to myhome.’

‘To the house?’ he said hopefully.‘Sussex,’ I said.His face looked stunned. ‘M’lady,

you’re never running off,’ he said. ‘I’lllose my place if they know I let you go,and you’ll be ruined. Go home, m’lady,I’ll say anything you want.’ He turnedto Will. ‘You know she’s not for you,’he said fiercely. ‘I could see how youlooked at her, but you know she’s LadyHavering now. You’ll ruin her if youtake her away.’

Will gave a snort of laughter. ‘Itake her!’ he said. ‘I don’t want her.She can go home if she likes, I can nomore control her than I can order the

wind to blow. I’ve got what I came for.I want nothing more.’

I had my hand on the stable doorbut at that I turned and smiled at Willwith all my heart in my eyes. It was thesmile of a woman who knows herselfto be utterly and faithfully beloved.There would never be anyone for Willbut me, we both knew it. There wouldnever be anyone but him for me.

‘I want Sea,’ I said. ‘And MrTyacke wants his horse. Put a man’ssaddle on Sea, I’m riding astride.’

He gave an audible moan at that,but he went into the darkness of thestable and I heard him curse Sea as heblew out as the girth was beingtightened. Then he led the two horsesout into the street. Their hoovesclattered loudly on the cobbles and helooked around nervously.

‘What am I to say?’ he demanded.‘They’ll ask me where Sea is. What am

I to say?’‘Tell them her ladyship ordered

it,’ Will said curtly. ‘How could youargue with her?’

‘They’ll ask what she waswearing! And that’s Lord Perry’ssaddle…’ the man said despairingly.

‘Oh dammit, you come too,’ Isaid, suddenly impatient with thenonsense. ‘Take a horse and come withus. We’re going down to Wideacre.There’s work you can do there. We cansend the horse back later, and it willbe better if there’s no one here togossip.’

Will looked at me. ‘We take agroom with us?’ he askedincredulously.

I grinned. ‘Why not?’ I demanded.‘I thought it would appeal to yourradical conscience. We release himfrom his servitude, we break hischains. We stop him bellyaching on

about what they will say to him.’Will nodded, his eyes dancing.

‘Get a horse,’ he said to the man.‘What’s your name?’

‘Gerry,’ he said from inside thestables. ‘Could I have one of LordPerry’s hunters?’

‘For God’s sake, no!’ Willexclaimed. ‘A working horse, whatd’you think this is, a picnic?’

‘Seems a waste, if we’re stealinga horse, to take a cheap one,’ Imuttered mutinously, but at Will’ssharp look I fell mum.

Gerry led a handsome black hackout of the stables and swung into thesaddle. He was beaming.

‘Now we’d better move fast,’Will said. ‘When will they notice yougone, Sarah?’

‘Not till eight,’ I said. ‘And noone will disturb her ladyship beforeten.’

Will squinted at the sky. ‘Must besix now,’ he said uneasily. ‘I’d give aguinea to be safe home.’

He helped me up into the saddleand swung up into his own. Sea’s earswent forward and he side-stepped anddanced on the spot, impatient to be off.

‘Knows he’s going home,’ Gerrysaid admiringly. ‘He’s a fine animal,I’ve never seen better.’

‘You lead the way,’ Will said tohim. ‘Get us on the Portsmouth road,but use as many back streets as youcan. I’d rather we weren’t seen.’

Gerry nodded importantly, andled the way down the mews street. Thehooves echoed loudly and someonelooked out from a high window. Willglanced at me.

‘Pull your hat down,’ he said,then he looked a little closer. ‘Are youall right?’ he asked. ‘You look awfulpale.’

‘I’m fine,’ I lied promptly.We paused at the corner of David

Street and I looked down the road towhere the Havering House stood on thecorner. I could see smoke coming fromthe chimneys as Emily went aroundlighting fires, back to her usual back-breaking work now the dirty work ofnursing me was done.

‘Emily,’ I said.She had cared for me when no

one else would do so. She had let meout to see Will and told no one aboutit. She had helped me get Perry up tobed and kept mum. And she had heldme and bathed the sweat off myforehead and sat with me night afternight with no thanks, and no tip, and norest. She would go on lighting the firesand cleaning the grates and sweepingthe stairs and sleeping in a crampedbare attic until she grew too old towork. Then Lady Havering would

throw her out and if someone had saidto her, ‘But the old woman will have toend her days in the poorhouse,’ herladyship would widen her blue eyesand ask why Emily had never savedher wages since she had worked fromchildhood? and exclaim, ‘Howimprovident are the poor!’

‘Emily,’ I said.‘What?’ Will asked. They were

hesitating, ready to turn down thestreet, waiting for me. Sea champed athis bit, reined-in too tight.

‘I’m taking Emily,’ I said,deciding suddenly. ‘She shouldn’t beleft there. She shouldn’t be left withLady Havering, in that house. Sheshould come with us to Wideacre.’

Will’s face was a picture ofrising rage. ‘You are taking yourmaid?’ he demanded. ‘You, a jumped-up gypsy brat, need to take a maid withyou?’

‘No, you idiot,’ I replied briskly.‘She was the only one in that wholehousehold who ever showed me aha’penny of love. I’m not leaving herbehind. She’d be happy on Wideacre.She can ride pillion behind Gerry.’

I slid down from Sea and tossedthe reins to Will. He caught them, andbefore he could protest I had run up thestreet and tapped on the big front door.I heard Emily’s little feet patteringdown the hall and her nervous: ‘I ain’tallowed to open the door…’ tail off asshe opened the door and saw first aslim young man in grey, and then myface under the grey tricorne hat.

‘Sarah! I beg pardon m’m, Imeans your ladyship!’

‘Hush,’ I said peremptorily. Notall the escapes in the world couldmake me unstintingly pleasant. ‘Don’tchatter, Emily. Fetch your bonnet andall the money you have. You can come

away with me if you want. I’m runningaway to my home in Sussex and youcan come too. There’s work you cando there, farm work – but fairly paidand not too hard. You might like it.D’you want to come? I’m leavingnow.’

She flushed scarlet. ‘I’ll come,’she said defiantly. ‘Dammit! I will!’and she turned on her heel and boundedup the main staircase where she wasnot allowed to go, and then scutteredalong the passageway to the atticstairs.

I glanced back down the street.The daylight was getting brighter, thesun was up in a sky the colour ofprimroses, it would be a fine day. Acool clear day. A good day fortravelling. Will made an impatientbeckoning motion at me. I smiled andwaved back.

I was not afraid of being seen, I

was not afraid of being caught. Since Ihad lain beneath Will in the darknessof the park, I had lost every scrap offear I had ever known. There was awarmth and a lightness about me as if Iwould never fail or fear anything everagain. I did not fear Lady Havering,nor poor Perry. I knew at last who Iwas and where I was going. A lifetimeof travelling had not taught me half somuch.

There was a rush along the halland Emily came out, wrapped in a tattyshawl and with a bonnet on her head.She carried a shawl roughly knotted inone hand, and a little withy birdcage inthe other with a starling in it.

‘Can I bring ‘im?’ she asked meanxiously. ‘I’ve ‘ad ‘im for a year, and‘e sings marvellous.’

I glanced down the street to Willwho was now rigid with anger. ‘Ofcourse,’ I said and my voice shook

with laughter. ‘Why not?’Emily pulled the door gently to

close and came down the steps. Wewalked back towards the horses.

‘Your young man,’ she said withquiet satisfaction as she saw Will. Shedid not seem in the least surprised.

I held her bag and the cage asGerry jumped down from his horse andlifted her up and then mounted behindher. I passed the bundle up and then thecage. The starling, annoyed by thejolting, began to sing loudly. I shot asly look at Will.

He was not fuming at all, he wasnot seething with irritation. He sat onhis horse as easily and as calmly as ifhe were taking the air on Wideacre.

‘Quite ready, my darling?’ heasked me, and I started to hear anendearment from him and then smiledand coloured up like a silly wench.

Quite ready? Nothing and no one

you have forgotten? No one else youwould like to bring with us? Nochimney sweeps, or lap-dogs, orcrossing boys?’

‘No,’ I said. I took back my reinsand swung myself up into the saddleand then burst into laughter.

‘Do tell me you’re glad I broughtthe starling,’ I begged as Gerry led theway south, towards the river.

Will laughed joyously, his browneyes filled with love. ‘I am delighted,’he said.

40Gerry led us southwards, across theGreen Park and then down theVauxhall road, a part of the city I didnot know. It was odd, sometimes likecountryside, sometimes a town. Therewere little fields and byres where theykept dairy cattle, and carts with youngwomen riding on them came down theroad towards London and waved to us.There were a few grand houses too,and many many tumbledown cottageswith barefoot children peeping out ofunglazed windows. We crossed theriver by the Vauxhall Bridge. Seathrew his head up at the sound of hishooves ringing hollow, and I held himstill for a moment and lookeddownriver.

The early morning mist wasslowly lifting, the river was all silverand pearl. There were river-trading

ships with sails, ghostly in the mist,and wherry boats and fishing smacksfading in and out of sight as the mistcurled around them. The city eastwardsgleamed like a new Jerusalem in themorning sunlight.

‘It could be a wonderful place,’Will said softly beside me. ‘Even now,if they used the new machines they areinventing, and the new ideas they have,for the benefit of the poor. If theythought of the land and how to keep itsound, if they thought of the river andhow to keep it clean. This could be themost wonderful city in the world, andthe most wonderful country.’

‘People always say that,’ I said.‘People always say it could have beengood. But then they say it’s too late togo back.’

Will shook his head. ‘If we go onas we are going, with people thinkingof nothing but making fortunes and

caring nothing for their workers andcaring nothing for the land then theywill regret it,’ he said certainly. ‘Theythink they can count the cost of livinglike that – a high rate of accidentsperhaps, or no fish in a river wherefish once used to spawn. But the cost iseven higher. They teach themselves,and they teach their children a sort ofcallousness, and once people havelearned that lesson it is indeed too late.There is nothing then to hold back richpeople from getting richer at theexpense of the poor, nothing to protectthe children, to protect the land. Therich people make the laws, the richpeople enforce them. Time after timewe have a chance to decide whatmatters most – wealth, or whetherpeople are happy. If they could onlystop now, and think of the happinessfor the greatest number of people.’

I smiled at him. ‘They’d tell you

that the way to make people happy is tomake them rich,’ I said.

Will shrugged and the horsesmoved forward. ‘I don’t think peoplecan be happy unless they are well fedand well housed and have a chance atlearning,’ he said. ‘And you’ll neverdo that by opening the market placeand saying it’s all free to those withmoney to buy it. Some things are tooimportant to be traded in a free market.Some things people should have as aright.’

I thought of the Havering land andthe clearing of the Havering village. Ithought of some of the people I had metin London who had no more skill norwit than Da, but lived in great housesand dined off gold plate. And I thoughtof her, and of me, dirty-faced littlechildren with never a farthing of achance to get out of that miserable lifeand think of something other than

getting and keeping money.‘I got from the bottom to the very

top,’ I said. I thought of RobertGower’s long struggle from the failedcartering business, to the horse-ridingact, and then his own show. And Ithought of what it had cost him. It hadmade him a man with stone where hisheart should be, and it had made hisson a murderer.

‘It’s not the rising or fallingwhich matters,’ he said. ‘Thereshouldn’t be a bottom where childrenare cold and hungry and beaten. Not ina rich world.’

I nodded, and we rode in silencefor a little while.

‘You’re pale,’ he said. ‘Are youwell?’

‘I’m all right,’ I said, lying again.I was deathly tired, but I wanted toride to my home, to Wideacre. Iwanted to ride without stopping until

midday when we might have enoughmoney between the four of us to buybread and cheese and a flask of ale.‘I’m all right,’ I said.

Emily looked back. ‘She doeslook poorly,’ she confirmed. Shescanned my face. ‘You’re still tooweak to be up all night, Miss Sarah,’she said. She looked at Will. ‘Shedidn’t ought to be riding,’ she said.

Will glanced at me in surprise.‘Are you still weak?’ he asked. ‘Iheard you were ill, but then I heard youwere married and I thought you musthave recovered.’

I gave a wry smile. ‘I’m wellenough,’ I said.

‘Don’t ‘e know?’ demandedEmily of me. ‘Don’t ‘e know whathappened?’

‘Apparently not,’ Will saidtightly. ‘What is this?’

I looked down. Sea’s neck and

mane were rippling under my gaze as ifwe were swimming through water. Thesun was growing brighter, its glare hurtmy eyes and I was hot, wrapped up inmy cape.

‘It’s nothing,’ I said softly. ‘I’lltell you later, Will.’

‘She’s awful white,’ Emily said.Gerry pulled his horse up and lookedanxiously back. ‘She shouldn’t beriding,’ Emily said. ‘Not after beingout all night.’

‘What the devil is wrong?’ Willsaid in sudden impatience. ‘Sarah!What’s the matter.’

‘Nothing,’ I said irritably. ‘I wasill for a long time, and now I am better.I get a little tired that’s all.’

‘Are you well enough to ride?’ heasked.

My tough little Rom spirit rose upin me. ‘Of course,’ I said. The roadwas shimmery and bright, I half closed

my eyes.‘Ride all the way home?’ Will

demanded.‘Of course,’ I said again, my

voice was softer, my throat seemed tobe tightening like it had done when Ihad the fever. ‘How else can we getthere?’

‘Are you sure?’ he asked again,and now his voice was tender.

‘Oh Will,’ I said wearily,accepting my weariness and myweakness at last, just as I had acceptedthe joy in my body earlier in this longnight. ‘Oh Will, my love, please helpme. I’m as sick as a dog,’ I said.

Then I pitched forward on toSea’s neck and the darkness of the roadcame up to meet me.

When I came to, it was broad daylightand I was being jolted, rhythmicallylike a rocking cradle. I was lying on

straw, wrapped warm in my heavycloak, bedded as snug as a winterfieldmouse. I blinked up at the wintersky, bright and blue above me, and Ilooked to my right and there was WillTyacke unstoppering a flask of ale andlooking smug.

‘Drink,’ he said and held it to mylips. It slid down in a cool maltyswallow.

‘Whaa?’ I asked.‘More,’ he said firmly, and I

gulped again and my parched throatwas eased at once.

‘Emily and Gerry are comingalong behind us, leading Sea, riding theHavering horse and my bay,’ Willsaid. ‘You and I have bought a ridewith this carter who is taking a load ofIrish linen bales to Chichester. He willride straight past your very doorstep,m’lady.’

‘Money?’ I asked succinctly.

‘Gerry had a handsome sum savedagainst his wedding day,’ Will saidhappily. ‘I promised I would repay himwhen we got to Wideacre, and he splitthe hoard. I’m so glad you decided torescue him from his servitude. We’dhave been stuck penniless withouthim.’

I chuckled. ‘Where are theynow?’ I asked.

Will nodded behind. ‘Droppedback to rest the horses. The carter hasan order to meet in Chichester, he’ll bechanging his team as we go. We’ll behome by nightfall.’

I snuggled a little deeper and putmy hands behind my head to gaze up atthe sky.

‘Then we have nothing to do…’ Isaid.

‘Nothing,’ Will said sweetly.‘Except rest, and eat, and drink ale,and talk.’

He shifted round so his arm wasbehind my head and I was leaningagainst his shoulder, comfortable andwarm. He held the flask of ale to mymouth and I took a gulp, then hestoppered it up and leaned back andsighed.

‘Now,’ he said invitingly. ‘Tellme all about it. I want to heareverything, all the secrets, and all thethings you thought about when youwere alone. I want to know all aboutyou, and it’s time you told me.’

I hesitated.‘It’s time I knew,’ he said

decisively. ‘You must start from thevery beginning. We’ve got a long rideand I’m not at all sleepy. Start from thevery beginning and tell me. What’s thevery first thing you remember?’

I paused and let my mind seekbackwards, down the years, a longway back to the dirty-faced little girl in

the top bunk who never heard a kindword from anyone except her sister.

‘Her name was Dandy,’ I said,naming her for the first time in the longsorrowful year since her death. ‘Hername was Dandy, and my name wasMeridon.’

I talked as the carter drove. I broke offwhen we went into inns, and weclimbed down from the back andbought the man an ale. He took upanother passenger one time, a prettycountry girl who sat in the front withhim and giggled at the things he said.We sat still and quiet during that time,around noon. But we did not court asthey were courting. Will did not kissme, and I did not box his ears andblush. I rested my head on his shoulderand I felt the tears roll down my cheeksfor the two little children in the dirtywagon, and even for Zima’s little

babby we had left behind.When the girl had gone, climbing

down at her home, a darkshutteredcottage, leaving with a wave, Will hadsaid softly, ‘You asleep?’ and I hadsaid ‘No.’

‘Tell me then,’ he said. ‘After thatfirst season with Gower, where hetook you for winter quarters, tell meabout that.’

I thought of the cottage atWarminster, of Mrs Greaves and theskirt which I stained so badly, fallingfrom Sea, that I never had to wear itagain. I told him about Dandy and herpink stomacher top and her flying cape,and of David who trained us so kindlyand so well.

Then I buried my face in hisjacket and told him about the owlwhich flew into the ring, and aboutDavid warning us about the colourgreen. And how I had forgotten.

I wept then, and Will petted me asif I were a little well-loved child, andwiped my face with his own cottonhandkerchief, and made me blow mynose and take a gulp of ale. He tooksome bread rolls and some cheesefrom his pocket and we ate them as thesky was growing darker again with thequick cold twilight of winter.

‘And then…’ he prompted, as Ifinished eating.

I sprawled back against thesoftness of the straw and turned myface to the sky where the pale starswere starting to show. The evening starhung like a jewel above the darklatticework of the twigs of the passingwoods.

My voice was as steady as aballad singer, but the tears seeped outfrom my eyelids and rolled down mycheeks in an easy unstoppable flood asif I had waited for a year to cry them

away. I told him of Dandy’s plan, andhow she trapped Jack. How she teasedhim and courted him until she had him,and how she got a belly on her whichshe thought would bring us to a safehaven with the Gowers. That shethought Jack would cleave to her, andthat Gower would be glad of agrandson to inherit the show. That shewas always a vain silly wench and shenever troubled herself to wonder whatothers might want. She was so anxiousto seek and find her own pleasures, shenever thought of anyone else.

I should have known.I should have watched for her.And I confessed to Will that I had

known in some secret shadowy way, Ihad known all along. I had beenhaunted. I had seen the owl, I had seenthe green ribbons in her hair. But I didnot put out my hand to stop her and shewent laughing past me, and Jack threw

her against the flint wall, and she died.We were quiet for a long time

then. Will said nothing and I was gladof that. It was silent but for the creak,creak noise of the wheels and thesteady jolting of the cart, the clip, clop,of the dray horses and the carter’stuneless whistle. A wood pigeoncalled for a few drowsy last notes, andthen hushed.

‘And then you came to Wideacre,’Will said.

I turned in his arm and smiled athim. ‘And I met you,’ I said.

He dipped his head down to meand kissed my red swollen eyelids, andmy wet cheeks. He kissed my lipswhich tasted of salt from my tears. Heburied his face in my neck and kissedmy collar-bone. He reached into mylittle nest of straw and hidden by mycape his hands stroked me as gentle asa potter moulding clay, as if he were

shaping my waist, my breasts, myarms, my throat, my cheekbones. Thenhis hands slid down over my breasts tothe baggy waistband of Gerry’sbreeches, and his flat hand strokeddown my belly to between my legs.

‘Not now,’ I said. My voice wasvery low. ‘Not yet.’

He leaned back with a sigh oflonging, and pulled my head on to hisshoulder. ‘Not long now,’ he said inreply. ‘You’ll come to my cottagetonight.’

I hesitated. ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘Whatwould Becky say?’

Will looked puzzled for amoment.

‘Becky,’ I said. ‘You told me…that day in the park…you said youwere promised to wed her. You saidthat she loved you. I can’t come to yourcottage…I don’t want to spoil thingsfor you…’ I tailed off. I lost my words

at the thought of having to share himwith another woman. ‘Oh Will…’ Isaid miserably.

Will Tyacke let out a great guffawof laughter, so loud that the cartercraned around one of the bales to beamat the two of us with his toothlesssmile.

‘Oh you poor silly darling!’ heexclaimed, and gathered me up into hisarms and kissed me hard. ‘You poorsilly girl! I told you that in a rage, yousimpleton! When you were so full ofLord Perry in your bedroom and hisluck at cards! I was angry, I wanted tohurt you back. I’ve not seen hide norhair of Becky in months! She livedwith me while she was ill, and shebedded me then once or twice. Thenshe worked her way through half thevillage and when she’d taken her fill ofall of us she was up and off toBrighton! We’ve not seen her since.’

‘But her children…?’ Iexclaimed. I was stammering withanger. I had pictured her so clearly,and the little faces at the fireside, I hadtortured myself to tears thinking ofWill beloved in that little family.‘Will! You lied to me! I broke my heartimagining you and her children all inyour cottage together. I have beendreading and dreading the moment youwould tell me that you had to stay withher and the children.’

‘Oh I have the children,’ Willsaid carelessly, and at my astoundedlook he said: ‘Well, of course I have!She was running around with everyman in the village, someone had tolook after them! Besides,’ he saidreasonably. ‘I love them. When sheleft, they said they’d like to stay withme. They asked me if I would marrysomeone so that they might have a newmother.’ He grinned at me sideways. ‘I

take it you’ve no objection?’ he asked.I gaped. ‘Three children?’ I

asked.‘Aye.’‘And all very small?’‘It’s easier if they’re small,’ he

said reasonably. ‘They get accustomedmore quickly. It’s like trainingpuppies.’

‘But I know nothing aboutchildren,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t possiblycare for them.’ I thought of Zima’swhimpering babby, and my own bitter-hearted indifference to it. ‘I don’tknow how to look after children, Will.I don’t know how to run a house, Idon’t know what to cook for them. Icouldn’t do it!’

He gathered me close to himagain and silenced me with soft quickkisses.

‘My silly love,’ he said softly. ‘Ididn’t chase around the country after

you, and bring you here to apprenticeyou as a housekeeper. I don’t want youto feed them and keep them for me. I doall that already. I want you to live withme so that I can enjoy the sight of youmorning noon and night. I don’t wantyou to skivvy for me.

‘As for them – I want you to lovethem. Think of them as little foals andlove them. I’ll do all the rest.’

I would have protested, but heheld me close and when I raised myface to say: ‘But Will!’ he kissed mewith warm dry kisses so that although Iknew it wouldn’t do; though I knew hewas wrong, and that I would not beable to love them; I gave myself up tothe easy warm pleasure, and stayedsilent.

He reached over me and piledsome more straw over us for warmth.

‘Cold night,’ he said. ‘Not longnow.’

The carter in the front lit his pipeand the sweetmeat smell of the smokeblew back over us, I could see theembers glow in the darkness. Hehitched the reins over the post and tookdown and lit the lantern in the front.

‘Can ‘ee light the one at theback?’ he called to Will, and Willwriggled out of our burrow of strawand went to the back of the cart to lightand hang the lantern out. Then he cameback to me, treading carefully over thebig bales of cloth, and banked morestraw around me, and slid in beside mywarmth. He put his hand behind myshoulders and drew me to him again.

‘And in all that time,’ he said.‘All that time of your travellingchildhood and girlhood, in all thosevillages and towns and out-of-the-wayplaces, I suppose there were manymen, many men, who saw you andwanted you, and loved you. Maybe you

had them, did you? And maybe a childyou had to be rid of? Or leave?’

‘No,’ I said, half offended. ‘No,not one. I told you Will, I was cold;cold as ice, all through. You know howI was when I came to Wideacre first. Ididn’t like to be touched by anyone, noteven Dandy. I’d never have taken alover.’

‘What of Perry?’ Will asked.I made a face which he could

barely see in the gathering darkness. ‘Idon’t think Perry quite counts,’ I said.

Will snorted with male conceit.I thought for a moment about Lady

Havering and poor Maria, and thesacred importance of a woman’schastity. I thought of the way men prizevirginity in their women, as if we werebrood mares who need to be kept awayfrom bad-bred mates. And my facehardened a little in the darkness, thatWill, my Will, should be a man like all

the rest, and care that I had slept withno one, even though he had lain withBecky and with a score more, Idaresay.

‘If it matters at all, I’ve neverproperly laid with a man,’ I saidungraciously. ‘You can call me avirgin if it pleases you.’

He could not see my face clearlyin the half-darkness, but my tone ofvoice should have been enough to warnhim.

‘A virgin!’ he exclaimed insimple delight. ‘A virgin? Really?’

He paused.I said nothing, I was seething in

silence.‘A virgin!’ Will said again. ‘How

extraordinary! To think you can seeunicorns and everything! I’ve neverhad a virgin before. I don’t think I’veever met a virgin before! I hope itwon’t hurt me very much!’

‘Why…!’ I had no words. Iclenched a fist to punch him but hecaught it by instinct, and hugged metight. ‘You silly little cow,’ he saidlovingly. ‘As though I care whetheryou’ve had half of Salisbury or not.You’re with me now, aren’t you? Andyou love me now, don’t you? I onlywanted to know if you’d left your heartsomewhere on the road behind you.But if there’s no jealous lover batteringdown my door then I can sleep quiet inmy bed with you.’

We did sleep quiet enough. The carterdropped us at the Acre corner and webid him farewell and watched the tail-light of his wagon jogging away downthe dark lane. The sight of the littlelantern going away into the darknessreminded me of something, somethingsad, though I did not know why. Then Iremembered the woman who had run

behind a wagon calling, ‘Her name isSarah’ – my mother, who had wantedto send me away from Wideacrebecause she could not believe that itwas possible to be a landlord and notto be cruel. I put my hand out and drewWill’s comforting bulk close to me. Itwould be different for me.

‘Boots all right?’ Will asked.‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘They’re my

own, my riding boots.’‘Come on then,’ he said and took

my hand and led me down the lane.The woods on the left of the road

were dark and secret, there were quietrustles and far away an owl hooted.Will sniffed at the air like a hungrydog.

‘Good to be home,’ he said.On our right the fields were pale

under the moonlight where the wintergrass was light coloured. A ploughedfield, ready for wheat, breathed out a

smell of dark earth, wet loam. As wewalked past, very quiet on the pale-coloured road a deer raised its headand looked at us, and then melted awayacross the field into the trees.

I could hear a very faintwhispering in my ears, like the highlight singing noise which had drawnSea and me to Wideacre all those longmonths ago. Then I heard the ripplingof the river, as clear as a carol.

‘High,’ Will said. ‘Steppingstones will be covered.’

We paused at the ford.‘There used to be a bridge here,’

Will said. ‘Years ago. It came downtwice and no one troubled to rebuild itthe second time. We should maybe dothat.’

‘Yes,’ I said. In the deepest partof the river, in the middle, the reflectedmoon bobbed like a floating porcelainplate. The river sucked and gurgled at

the bank’s edge, a cool breeze blewdown the valley bringing the smells ofthe Downs, the frozen grass and thewinter thyme.

‘Carry you?’ Will offered. ‘Carryyou like a bride over the threshold?’

‘Nay,’ I said and smiled at him.‘We’ll both paddle. You don’t want tobe seen carrying lads over rivers atmidnight, Will, people’ll begin totalk.’

He chuckled at that and took myhand and we both went cautiously intothe dark current.

I gave a little gasp as it flowedover the top of my boots. It was icyand my boots were filled with water inan instant, my stockings and breechessoaked. Will held my hand steadilyuntil we reached the cobbled bank onthe far side of the ford. He lookeddown at my expensive leather ridingboots and smiled.

‘You’ll be glad enough to becarried another time,’ he said.

‘Not I,’ I said stoutly. ‘You’d bebetter off with your Becky, if you wanta woman to pet and carry, Will!’

He chuckled again and took myhand and we squelched along the roadtogether.

The Wideacre gatehouse was adark mound on our left, there were nolights showing, the gates stood open asalways. Will nodded.

‘Come up tomorrow, set the houseto rights,’ he said. ‘Will you livehere?’

I hesitated, searching his facewhich was shadowed in the half lightof the moon.

‘It’s not mine,’ I said. ‘You wonit, it belongs to you.’

‘Now…’ Will started, then hepaused. ‘You wanted me to win it?’ heasked. ‘I thought you lost it to me so

that we had a better chance of gettingout of that place in one piece. But didyou want me to win it in truth? Win itand keep it for Acre?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think the Laceyshave had it long enough. I want thevillage to have it now. I lost it to youto make it safe. If I had won it, Perry orLady Havering would have been afterit, or after me, at once. As Perry’s wifeit would be his as soon as I claimed it.But you won it, it is yours now. I wantthe village to own it.’

Will nodded slowly. ‘You aresure?’ he asked. ‘I don’t want this togo sour between us in a few years’time.’

I took a deep breath. Behind mewere generations of owners of land, itwas a wrench to turn my back on them,on their striving and hunger and givethe land away. But I was the last of theLaceys, the old gypsy woman in

Salisbury had said I would be the bestof them all.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘All I want is alittle cottage in the village. I want tolive here and breed and train horses.’ Istole a look at his intent face. ‘I wantto live with you,’ I said bluntly.

He put his arms around me anddrew me close to him. I lifted my faceto his kiss and I breathed in the warmcountry smell of him, and tasted thewarmth of his mouth as it came downon mine.

‘I love you,’ I said, and itsuddenly struck me that I had neversaid those words before, not to anyone.‘I loved you from the moment I firstsaw you, when you came out of thewoods, out of the Wideacre woods,and found me at my home.’

Will nodded. ‘I was looking forgin traps,’ he said softly, remembering.‘I hate gin traps.’

I nodded. ‘I know,’ I said.A cold wind blew down the lane,

icy as if it had come from the veryheart of the moon. I shivered.

‘You’ll catch your death!’ hesaid, and caught me to his side andmarched me down the road to Acre, tohis cottage, to my home.

41Will tapped on the door and called:‘It’s me,’ and I heard someone stirinside. ‘It’s Sally Miles,’ he said tome. ‘She watches the bairns for mewhen I’m away.’

The door opened and Will pushedme into the firelit room. A woman inher thirties smiled at me, and thengaped when she recognized me. ‘MissSarah?’ she exclaimed. ‘I mean, LadyHavering?’

Her eyes widened even furtherwhen Will took my riding cape and shesaw my jacket and breeches.

‘Your ladyship?’ she gasped.Will chuckled at her face.

‘Sarah’s left Lord Peregrine,’ he saidsimply. ‘She’s come home to us. She’scome home to me. She’ll live herenow.’

Sally Miles blinked, then she

dipped a curtsey and smiled at me.‘Well!’ she said.I put out my hand and shook with

her. ‘Don’t curtsey to me,’ I said.‘There’s no need. I never was a properlady in the manor. Now I’m where Ibelong, and right glad to be here. I’llneed you to teach me how to go onwith the children and the house.’

She nodded, still bemused. ‘Aye,’she said. ‘Of course.’ Then she lookedat Will. ‘How’s all this then?’ sheasked. ‘I thought you were moving upnorth, just going to London to say yourfarewells?’

Will kneeled at my feet andpulled off my wet boots. ‘It’s as yousee,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you all about itin the morning, Sally. We want to getto bed now, we’ve been travelling allday, and we were up all last night too.’

She nodded. ‘Of course,’ she saidblankly. ‘Well, there’s porridge in the

pot and ale in the jar. I could make yousome tea?’

Will glanced at me and I shookmy head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Babbies all well?’‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sleeping sound.’

She paused, she was longing to stay.‘I’ll be off then,’ she said hesitantly.

‘Good-night, many thanks,’ Willsaid briskly.

She paused in the doorway tolook at me. ‘I knew your ma MissJulia,’ she said softly. ‘I think she’d beglad to know you’ve come to liveamong us. It’s an odd thing to do, but Ithink she’d have done it herself if shecould.’

I nodded. ‘I think so,’ I said.Then she opened the door and a

cold gust of air blew in and made theflames leap in the little hearth, and shewas gone.

‘Be all around the village by

daybreak,’ Will said philoso-phically.‘Saves telling people. Hungry, areyou?’

‘No,’ I said.‘Bed then,’ he said softly.Now we were so close to being

lovers I was suddenly cold withnerves.

‘Yes,’ I said uncertain.He drew me towards him and he

took me in his arms, lifted me gently,and carried me up the creaking woodenstaircase to the upstairs room at theback of the cottage where the windowlooked out on a dark field and beyondit, the Fenny, with the stars in the night-time sky above and the black downs ofWideacre all around us. He took offmy wet stockings and breeches, asgentle as a lady’s maid, took off mylinen shift, and laid me down on thesoft hay mattress. Then he loved meuntil the sky paled with dawn and I

heard the spring birds singing.

I woke so slowly and so silently that itseemed hours before I even knew I hadwoken. The first thing that caught myattention was the silence. There was norumbling of carts, no shouting ofLondon street-traders, it was so quietthat you could hear your own breath,and against the silence, sharpening it,was the twittering of birds.

I turned my head. The man whohated gin traps was still asleep, aswarm as a fox cub in a burrow. Hisface tucked into my shoulder, his nosepressed against my skin. I smiled as Iremembered him saying last night,‘Dear God, I love the smell of you!’

I moved away from himcautiously, so as not to wake him. Thesunshine was bright on the lime-washed wall. The bedroom faced eastand the shadow of the lattice window

made a fretwork of patterns above thebed. I raised myself on one elbow andlooked out of the window.

There had been a light frostovernight and the grass was soakedand sparkling. Each blade of grass helda drop of water which shone in thesunlight. Our window was half openand the air that breathed in was sweetand cold as spring water.

I moved to sit up and at onceWill’s arm came around me in ademanding, irresistible grip. He heldme like a child might hold a favouritemoppet – quite unconscious in sleep,quite unyielding. I waited till his griploosened slightly then I stroked his armand whispered: ‘Let me go, Will. I’mcoming back.’

He did not wake even then, but hereleased me and buried his face deeperinto the pillow so that his face waswhere my head had laid. I crossed

barefoot to the window and swung itwide, I was home at last.

The hills of the Downs were onmy left, higher and more lovely than Ihad remembered. Soaring up, streakedwith white, reaching to the clouds,massively solid. On the lower slopethere was a scar where timber hadbeen felled, and then further down, theplough line where the horses could notdrag a plough so our fields ended on acontinuous curving line which girdledthe high slopes.

I could see the pale dried fieldsof stubble and the rich dark fieldswhere the earth was new-turned. Thefields which were resting looked greenand lush. Even the hedges looked darkand fresh where they were stillclinging to their leaves. They hadburned the stubble in one field andthere were little black tracks where theflames had been. The ash would make

the land grow. The burning had comeand gone, and the land would grow thebetter for it.

Immediately below the windowwas the cottage garden – a littlechequerboard of hard labour. One mainpath, and then a score of others like agrid so that the garden was dividedinto square, easily reached beds. Icould see clumps of lavender, andmint, and thyme and a great pale-leaved sage bush. There was some rueand fennel and whole beds of otherplants I did not know. I would have tolearn them. Someone in the villagewould teach me. I knew I would learnthe country remedies as if I had knownthem all my life. I was no longer littleMiss Lacey who could be drugged andtricked by a London charlatan.

A wood-pigeon called softly, assweetly as a cuckoo. Beyond thegarden was a rich paddock of good

grass and as I looked I saw Sea walkfrom one end to another, ears pricked,moving like a waterfall. They musthave brought him in late last night, hehad taken no hurt from the journey. Icalled softly to him: ‘Cooee, Sea!’ andhe looked towards the window withhis grey ears pricked up towards me,and then nodded his head as if ingreeting before turning back to crop thegrass. He looked pleased to be in thelittle field. He looked at home.

A floorboard behind me creakedand a broad arm came around me andthe man who hated gin traps lifted mythick mop of curls and kissed the napeof my neck.

‘Mmmm,’ he said by way ofgreeting, and then his other arm camearound me and I leaned back againsthim and closed my eyes, and let thesunlight and the cool morning, and thegreenness of the fields and the warmth

of his body against my cool skin washover me in a great wave of delight.

He slid his hand down my flankand cupped one rounded buttock gentlyin his hand, then without hesitation hishand went between my legs frombehind and his fingers, skilled andknowledgeable, parted my gentle fleshand found the core of the little maze ofmy body, and stroked me so that Isighed again and again until, stillholding me with my back pressedagainst his warm chest, he entered meand I clung to the window-sill andrested my head against the cool of thewindow frame and thought for onemoment, ‘I have never never felt suchdelight.’

Then we tumbled down togetheron the hard floorboards, giving andtaking pleasure, moving and seeking,demanding and contented in a greatfrenzy of happiness until I sighed out

loud – and then there was a silence andnothing but the birdsong and the wood-pigeons calling in the silence and thesun was very warm on my shoulderand on my rapt face.

We lay very still, and then Willreached up to the bed and drew me uptoo. I sat naked on his bare thighs andfelt the pleasure of being close andnaked like innocent animals. He lookedmore like a fox cub than ever, his eyesbrown and smiling and sleepy. He wasradiant with love, I could feel the glowof it on his skin, all over.

‘I hope you’re not going to expectthat every morning,’ he saidplaintively. ‘I’m a working man, youknow.’

I laughed delightedly. ‘And I’m aworking woman,’ I said. ‘I must gointo Chichester this very day and seeabout leasing the Hall. It wouldproduce a good income for the

corporation, and a nice couple, aLondon merchant, or a retired admiralor someone like that, would be goodneighbours to have.’

‘It’ll be odd: them coming to acottage to pay rent,’ Will offered. Hestood up and stretched so that his headbrushed the low ceiling. ‘Odd for themto see you living here.’

‘I have low tastes,’ I said lightlyand I kissed his warm chest and rubbedmy face against the soft hairs.

I pulled on my breeches andGerry’s best shirt. ‘I’ll need somemore clothes, too,’ I said.

‘I knew it,’ Will said gloomily.‘Can’t you make do with hand-me-downs?’

‘I’ll work in breeches,’ I saidthoughtfully. ‘But I’ll have one – no,two! – dresses for best!’

There was a clatter from the roomnext door.

‘Is that the chavvies?’ I asked. Iwas alert at once. I could not help butfear them, Becky’s daughters, thechildren Will had chosen to raise.

Will nodded, and the next thingthe door burst open and all three ofthem were upon him swarming all overhim like puppies.

‘And look who’s here!’ Willexclaimed as he got clear.

They all three turned to look atme, six unwinking eyes surveyed mefrom head to bare feet.

‘Is this Miss Sarah?’ the oldestone asked uncertainly, taking in myrumpled hair and my breeches.

‘She was Miss Sarah,’ Will said.‘But now she has come to live with us.She’s finished with living in London,and with grand folks. She’s my truelove and she’s come home to me.’

The middle one, very ready tobelieve in princesses coming to

cottages, came forward and put herhand out to me. ‘And will you be myma and comb my hair without pulling?’she asked.

I took a deep breath. ‘Yes I will,’I said bravely, and took her hand. Willbeamed at me across their heads.

‘Will can be your da, and I’ll beyour ma,’ I said plunging in. ‘Butyou’ll have to help me go on, I wasnever anyone’s ma before.’

‘She’s a circus girl,’ Will saidimpressively. ‘She can dance onhorseback and she can swing on atrapeze. There’s not many little girlswho have a ma who can do that. Youcome on downstairs and she can tellyou all about it while I make theporridge!’

They tumbled downstairs in arush at that offer and while theyspooned porridge into their mouths andWill made strong hot tea for them I told

them a little about Robert and Jack andlearning to ride bareback and the falls.Then I told them about winning Seaand they all rushed upstairs to pull ontheir woollen stockings and their clogsunder their nightshirts so that theycould go out at once and meet Sea.

‘Will you do circus tricks for ushere?’ the oldest one pressed me.‘Will you teach us how to dance onhorseback, and we can all be in acircus?’

Will laughed aloud at my aghastface.

‘Nay,’ he said. ‘Her travellingdays are over. She may teach you sometricks for fun, but her main workshould be training horses for people tobuy.’

‘To dance with?’ asked the littlestone, eyes and mouth round.

‘No,’ I said smiling. ‘To ride. ButI will show you how I used to dance

bareback if we ever have a horse whowill let me do it. Sea would not standfor it for one moment!’

Will sent them upstairs then to getdressed in earnest and wash their facesin time for school. Then he and Iwalked together to take them to schooland went hand in hand down thevillage street to bid good-day to otherpeople of Acre and to tell them that Ihad come home at last.

It was a busy couple of days.There was Gerry and Emily to settle inwith two familes down the villagestreet. Emily bloomed like a rose in thecountryside but Gerry was surly andcross until he went into Midhurst andgot himself a job at the Spread Eagle,then he was very full of bragging to theother ostlers about London ways. Hebrought home a good wage, and hepaid a share of it into the common fundfor the corporation. He seemed settled,

and Will and I repaid him our debt.I went, as I had promised, to

Chichester and the Hall was offeredfor rent. We would get a handsomesum for it, the agents thought. I spoke tothem before I went to the dressmakersfor new clothes so they had to dealwith me in my breeches. It was to theircredit that they never so much asglanced at me. They called me LadyHavering throughout and I did notknow how to stop them. They never somuch as mentioned Perry, nor the factthat the name on the deeds of the Hallwas now ‘The corporation of Acre,manager Will Tyacke’. But I knew thatonce I had set so much as a step out ofthe office, the tale would be all aroundSussex – aye and Hampshire too, bytea-time.

I had to go and see the vicar andtell him how everything was changed,and the world upside down for him. He

could not comprehend why a richwoman could choose to be poor. Hecould not understand why I shouldwish to live in a cottage and rent outthe Hall. Finally I told him bluntly thatthough I was married to Lord HaveringI would never live with him, and thatWill was my lover. He had been tryingto maintain a pretence that I was livingin Will’s cottage as a rich woman’swhim. But when I said outright thatWill and I loved each other, and lovedthe land, and would live here togetherfor the rest of our lives, he went whitewith shock, and rang the bell for me tobe shown the door.

‘I’ll never be able to go tochurch,’ I said to Will that evening. Iwas sitting on the settle, skinning arabbit with my sleeves rolled up, as hecooked the supper. ‘I’m a scarletwoman. I’ll never be able to take thechavvies in to say their prayers, not

even sat at the back. Vicar’ll lookbadly at you too.’

Will turned, a wooden spoon inhis hand and licked it with relishbefore he smiled and answered me.‘Small lack,’ he said. ‘But he’d bestremember which side his bread isbuttered.’

When I looked blank he beamedat me. ‘You’ve made the village into asquire!’ he said grinning. ‘We own theliving. If he’s impertinent I think wecan refuse him his wages, certainlydon’t need to pay the Wideacre Hall’sshare of his tithe. If you don’t fancyhaving a vicar we can leave the postempty after he is gone. You canpersuade the whole village to turnpagan if you wish.’

I laughed in return. ‘I hadforgotten!’ I said delightedly. ‘But Iwouldn’t do it! The whole place ispagan enough already! But I had

forgotten we own the living, thevicarage and all!’

‘Aye,’ Will said, and turnedhimself to the important task of gamestew.

The only thing which fretted me atall in those busy spring days was thethought of Mr Fortescue. I spoke of himone morning, when the letters for theestate came in and there was no replyfrom him. Will took a handful of mycurls and gently shook my head. ‘He’sa good man,’ he said softly. ‘He onlyever wanted your happiness. He’ll beshocked, but I reckon he’ll take it. Hewas deep in the dismals when he knewyou were set on marriage to LordPeregrine. And I never heard a wordfrom him that you’d been forced to it. Itshook him to the marrow, he was toopained even for speech. He’d think thatanything was better for you than that. Iwager he’ll be glad enough that you’ve

run away from that Havering crowd.And we have Wideacre safe. Safe forever, safe for the corporation. He’ll beglad enough of that.’

I nodded. And Will was right.Only a couple of days later, when Iwas turning over the earth in the frontgarden with Lizzie helping and gettingin the way with a spoon in her grimyhands, and mud on her face, the post-boy came down the street with a letteraddressed to Lady Sarah Havering,care of Will Tyacke, which I thought amasterly compromise between postalaccuracy and scandal.

James Fortescue was brief and tothe point: ‘I am more happy than I cansay to know that you two have foundhappiness together. Please do not thinkof the opinions of Society. You arebuilding a new world on Wideacre,you cannot expect to be welcomed byall those who live in the old. You have

my blessings on your brave attempt tobreak free.’

I tucked the letter into the pocketof my breeches to show Will when Imet him in the fields at midday.

It was good to know that I had notdisappointed James Fortescue. He wasthe only contact with the mother I hadnever known, Julia Lacey. If he couldsee that we were trying to build a newworld, to be new people, maybe shewould have understood too.

It was only Mr Fortescue who hadworried me. I did not think of Perry atall. All of the Haverings, all of theirbright talkative social world, hadfallen away from me as if it had neverbeen. They had gone, I could barelyremember the meaningless lessons Ihad learned from them and the emptylife I had lived with them.

Lizzie and I returned our attentionto the flowerbed. Will had promised

me a rose bush in the middle of thepatch of earth and Lizzie and I wereturning over the soil and digging inmuck. My thoughts were running somuch on James Fortescue and hisletter, that when I heard hooves comingup the lane and the noise of carriagewheels, I straightened and scoopedLizzie up and set her on my hip to godown to the little garden gate, thinkingI would see a hired post-chaise, andJames smiling out of the window.

It was a bright morning and I putup my hand to shield my eyes, the otherhand clasped around Lizzie’s littlebody, her chubby arms around myneck. With a shock of sudden surprise Isaw that it was not James’s carriagepulling up outside my little gate. It wasthe Havering crest, and as the footmanlowered the steps I saw it was Perryon his own.

‘Sarah?’ he asked in

bewilderment. He came down thesteps, blinking in the bright sunlight.‘Sarah?’

I saw he was so bad with drink,that he could hardly recognize me. Hewas shaking, and his eyes wereclogged with sleep and screwed upagainst the light. The footman wasstanding like a block, eyes straightforward. A man trained so well that hecould appear deaf and dumb,especially when dragged into scandalsuch as this. Perry put a hand out on thefootman’s shoulder and leaned on himlike one might lean on a gate.

‘Is that a baby?’ he asked,bewildered.

‘No I ain’t!’ said Lizzie,immediately argumentative.

I tightened my grip to hush her andI said, ‘It’s a little girl, Perry, WillTyacke is her da. I look after her withhim.’

He looked past me and Lizzie tothe little cottage. There were a fewlate-blooming roses still in frozen budsaround the front door. A bush offorsythia was yellow as brass at thegarden wall.

‘Charming!’ he said uncertainly.Then he paused. It was as if he did notknow what more to say.

‘I’ve come to fetch you home,’ hesaid. His mama’s lesson had suddenlyreturned to his wandering mind. ‘If youcome at once there’ll be no scandaland I’ll say no more about it. I willforgive you,’ he said pompously. ‘Wecan live in the country all the time ifyou wish. I’ll give up gambling, andI’ll give up drinking.’

He paused for a moment andscrewed up his eyes as if he weretrying to recapture some thought. ‘No!’he said. ‘I’ve given up already. Shockof your leaving us like that. I’ve given

it all up already. So you should comeback.’

‘Oh Perry!’ I said gently. ‘What isin your pocket?’

Blinking owlishly he put his handinto his right pocket and then flinchedas he closed his hand on the hip flaskwhich I knew he would have there.From his other pocket he pulled out ahandful of papers. They were gamblingvowels: IOUs from other gamblers.The wintry wind caught a few of themand blew them down the street. It wassmall loss. I guessed they wereuseless.

‘No, Perry,’ I said softly. ‘I amnot coming home. Tell your mama Ithank her for her kindness and that Iwill not contest a divorce action. Tellher I have a criminal connection andshe can have me put aside so that youcan marry again. Tell her I am sorry,but I shall be living here on Wideacre

with the man I love.’Perry blinked again. He took out

his flask and unstoppered it and took aswift swig. On the clean coldWideacre air the smell of warm ginwas sickly-sweet. He turned andstepped unsteadily back into thecarriage. The footman, as impassive asa statue, folded the steps in and shut thedoor and swung on to the back of thecarriage. His hands were blue withcold. He did not look at me.

Perry dropped the windowholding the leather strap. ‘I don’t knowwhat people will say about you,’ hesaid with the sudden spitefulness of athwarted child. ‘They will say the mostdreadful things, you know. You willnever be able to go anywhere again.No one will blame me. No one willblame me at all. They will say you areat fault, and no one will call you LadyHavering ever again.’

I shifted Lizzie’s warm weightand I smiled at him with compassion. Iwas far from his world now. I was farfrom the world of the landed, of thesquires, of the owners. I was the last ofthe Laceys and I had turned my back onownership, I was trying a new way. Iwanted to build a new world.

‘I don’t need your name,’ I said.‘I don’t want your title. I am WillTyacke’s whore, that’s good enoughfor me.’

‘Sarah…’ he said.I stepped back a pace and the

coachman flicked the horses.‘My name is not Sarah,’ I said.

And I smiled at him in my suddencertainty. ‘My name is not Sarah. Myname is Meridon. Meridon; and this iswhere I belong.’

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTSI should like to thank Gerry Cottleand all the staff and artistes of hiscircus for the welcome they extendedto me and my family when we stayedwith them in the summer seasons in1987 and 1988.

I owe special thanks to theWitney family: Derek, June, April andLee-Ann who shared their familyhistory with me, and taught me circustraditions – and (with less success)rosinback riding!

I am very grateful to Larry andJill de Wit for their friendship, andfor their unfailing patience with meboth on the ground and terrifyinglyhigh up on their trapeze.

And to Martin Lacey – the boyprince of ringmasters – whosecourtesy and generosity made ourvisits such fun.

About the Author

Meridon

Philippa Gregory is an establishedwriter and broadcaster for radio andtelevision. She holds a PhD ineighteenth-century literature from theUniversity of Edinburgh. She has beenwidely praised for her historicalnovels, including Earthly Joys, VirginEarth and A Respectable Trade(which she adapted for BBCtelevision), as well as her works ofcontemporary suspense. PhilippaGregory lives in the North of Englandwith her family.

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CopyrightThis novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names,characters and incidents portrayed in it are the workof the author’s imagination. Any resemblance toactual persons, living or dead, events or localities isentirely coincidental.

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This paperback edition 2002FIFTH EDITION

First published in Great Britain byViking 1990

Copyright © Philippa Gregory Ltd, 1990

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