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‘Only that she sympathises with their aims. And that a woman should be able to decide her own future.’ This latter sentiment was barely murmured.
Despite his corpulence, Joshua bounced up from the sofa, his annoyance lending him flight. He began to pace up and down the drawing room, backwards and forwards across the soft tufts of the Axminster, until he had bruised its thick pile into a clearly marked track. He came to rest, towering over her.
‘And what precisely does that mean – decide her own future?’ His growl threatened trouble. ‘Doesn’t she have future enough here with me? I’ve been a good father; some would say too good. I’ve let her twist me to her wishes more times than I care to remember.’
‘You have,’ she soothed. ‘But perhaps as a good father, as good parents,’ she corrected, ‘we should take time to look for a suitable husband. A man who could guide her and guard her from getting into – trouble.’
‘And where do you propose to find him?’
She was glad he didn’t question the nature of any trouble. In some ways, she knew their daughter better than he, knew her wilful nature, the passion of which she was capable. For a clever man, he could be amazingly blind. He had only to look to himself to see his daughter mirrored there. The hours Elizabeth spent in her studio could only go so far in sublimating such feelings, Alice reasoned, and the thought of trouble was never far from her mind. Elizabeth’s solitary walks did nothing to calm her. A gently reared girl did not walk alone and certainly not after sunset – her daughter knew the rules well enough, but took no heed of them.
When she didn’t answer, he warned, ‘If Elizabeth should ever marry, it must be to a man of stature. I’ll not have her marry beneath her – a tradesman or some such.’
It was a perfect irony. Joshua was such a tradesman, a very rich one it was true, but a tradesman nevertheless. The fact that he appeared oblivious to the contradiction gave her the courage to confess what she had in mind.
‘We should, perhaps, look to family connections. My family connections.’
‘I married you for your connections, remember, and where has that got me? And since you are all but separated from your family, it’s not likely to get us anywhere now.’
She ignored his jeering tone and took a slow breath before she said, ‘Henry might aid us.’
He gave a bitter laugh. ‘Aid us! The man has done nothing but cause harm, or try to, since the moment I dared to reclaim what was mine from his penniless estate.’
She disregarded the slight to her family home and pushed on. ‘But this might be something with which he would be willing to help.’
The Fitzroys had saved their estate through marrying her to Joshua, but they had also lost caste. Another marriage might help them regain it. Henry had hated the necessity that assigned her to Joshua – she’d sold herself, he had said – even though it was he who had encouraged their father to sign the contract. He who had placed the pen in the older man’s hand. Might this be an opportunity then to salvage some honour from a bad deed?
‘Elizabeth is his niece,’ she went on, ‘and a good marriage would redound to his credit as much as ours. She is a beautiful girl and there is nothing to say she could not make a very good marriage.’
Joshua was silent. She had given him pause. Last year, he had been furious with his daughter for rejecting two acceptable suitors, but his anger hadn’t lasted. Deep down, she knew, he’d wanted to keep his daughter by his side. But if, after all, Elizabeth were to make that splendid marriage, it would be a crown to his career. A trumpet call announcing to the world that here was a man who was as good as any of his neighbours.
He walked slowly over to the blank window, a new pair of balmoral boots creaking beneath his weight, then turned and frowned at her.
‘You’ll have to tackle him then. He’s your brother. His latest act of spite makes it intolerable that I should exchange even a “good morning” with the man.’
She was not a courageous person, but where her children’s welfare was concerned, she could fight as well as the next woman. Any suggestion that Joshua had not thought her brother worthy of consulting on such a delicate family matter would antagonise Henry even further. If that were possible.
‘The approach will only be successful if it comes from you, Joshua,’ she said firmly. He didn’t, as she expected, immediately rail at her and she was emboldened to continue, ‘We will see the Fitzroys in a few days – at morning service. And church might be the very place to make peace with them.’
Again, Joshua said nothing. She had no idea what he was thinking. All she could hope was that her words had hit home and, come Sunday, he would unbend sufficiently at least to speak to his brother-in-law.
The difficult evening had taken its toll and her head had begun its familiar ache. She rose from her chair, stiff from sitting so long. ‘I’m feeling a little weary. And I need to check on William before I retire.’
‘At his age! Ridiculous! You mollycoddle the boy,’ were her husband’s parting words.
She said nothing in reply but walked out into the hall. She would look in on the boys before she slept. Satisfy herself that all was well with her youngest and dearest. As for the business of Elizabeth’s marriage, she hoped she’d said enough to begin some kind of thaw. The Summer family led a lonely life and if Henry could be persuaded to introduce one or two likely suitors to their restricted circle, then youth and proximity might do the rest. It was important that her daughter find the right man, a man she could love and respect. Not for Elizabeth the pain of an ill-assorted liaison or the indignity of being bought and sold in a marriage made by others for others. Not an arranged marriage, but an encouraged one. That was a more comfortable thought.
Chapter Four (#ulink_6130a6ea-67a9-5653-ad65-28596cf04798)
William’s door was slightly ajar and she pushed it open a little further. The room was large and high-ceilinged, its tall windows giving onto a rolling expanse of green and filling the space with light and air. It was the room William had chosen for himself when he’d emerged from the nursery. She remembered how proud he’d been, a small boy sleeping alone for the very first time. The room might be spacious but there was barely a spot that was not filled to overflowing with evidence of the passing years. Over time, her son had followed many interests, this shy, sensitive boy with his finely honed curiosity. This summer, it was nature that had taken hold of his imagination – several boards stood at angles to the the wall, displaying leaves of every shape and size and colour, all carefully mounted and labelled. The large wooden desk she’d had the men bring down from the attic stood beneath the window and was piled high with reference books. The Trees of Great Britain & Ireland lay open on the floor.
But the toy theatre that had once dominated William’s time was huddled against the far wall. Cornford had been skilful in producing a facsimile stage made of wood and cardboard, with a row of tin footlights with oil burning wicks along the front. For years, every penny of William’s pocket money had been spent on sheets of characters and scenes. He’d managed to persuade Elizabeth to write several short plays and even help him perform them. Since then, the theatre had been supplanted by other hobbies, as once it had supplanted the regiments of lead soldiers. They were crammed into a battered wooden trunk, along with the clockwork train that had once run the circumference of the room.
But there in the centre was what really mattered – two beds, side by side, and two boys sleeping soundly, exhausted by their day in the sun. How well her son looked! Oliver would never be a favourite with her but it was enough that William liked and trusted him. She allowed herself a satisfied smile and backed quietly out of the room.
At the sound of his mother’s approach, William had shut his eyes tightly. He didn’t want her fussing over him, asking him why he was still awake, offering to bring medicine to help him rest. He wanted simply to lie there, to lie and watch Oliver sleep. He’d been watching him ever since his friend had drifted into a deep slumber. Olly was stretched lengthways down the bed, the covers thrown to one side. One arm was propped beneath his head, his dark hair a clear contrast to the white linen of the pillowcase. The other arm lay outside the covers, slightly bent towards William and, in the narrow beam of moonlight that crept between the drawn curtains, he could see the small dark hairs on Oliver’s arm. They looked soft and inviting, and he felt a strong impulse to reach out and stroke them. It left him confused, disturbed. Olly was his friend. That was the sort of thing you did with girls, he’d heard, though he could never imagine himself touching a girl. You didn’t do it with friends. Chaps pushed each other around, cuffed each other’s ears in play, but that was different. Everyone did that. What would Olly say if he woke to find his friend stroking his arm? He would think William had run mad and he’d be right.
This was the first time they had ever shared a bedroom, since at school they slept in different dormitories. And they were taught by different teachers, too, so their hours together were precious. They would meet at break times, meal times as well, and after prep if it were possible. It was Olly who had rescued him one evening from Highgrove’s biggest bully and that kindly act had cemented their alliance. Since then, they’d become the best of friends. The two musketeers, Olly had called them. How right that had felt; it hadn’t seemed to matter then that he didn’t fit in, would never fit in. It wasn’t just his background that was wrong, it was the way he felt. That was all wrong, too. When his classmates whispered about girls, it made him curl up inside. He pretended to be interested, anything to keep from another beating, but those sniggering conversations made him feel odder than ever. He couldn’t imagine wanting to do what the boys spoke of.
He looked across at Olly again, his gaze fixed on the boy’s beautiful skin, and was awash with a strange hollowness. Bewildered, he tossed himself to the other side of the bed, his back to Oliver. At school, there were rules to follow, orders to obey, and daily life was cut and dried. But these last few weeks had been different. It was this magical summer that was at fault. That and the beauty and freedom of the gardens. It was being at Summerhayes that was making him anxious. Nothing was cut and dried here. Not with Olly. Boundaries seemed to be dissolving, growing fainter every day. There was nothing to grasp, no certainty to hang on to. How was he to deal with that?
Chapter Five (#ulink_04572deb-4e28-50af-b34d-0d03ce04286c)
‘Miss Elizabeth! Wake up, Miss Elizabeth. Your father wants you downstairs.’
With the tug at her bedclothes, Elizabeth surfaced slowly from a very deep sleep. She opened her eyes the barest fraction, shielding them with her hand from the brightness in the room. It was gilding the satinwood furniture with its brilliance and had settled in a pool of gold on the embroidered bedspread directly beneath her feet. She glanced at the carriage clock on her bedside table. It was very late. Sunday was no day of rest at Summerhayes and right now she should be at the breakfast table.
‘Thank you, Ivy.’ She took the teacup the maid was offering.
Between yawns, she sipped at the hot liquid while Ivy’s black-clad figure moved quietly around the room, gathering up items of cast-off clothing and sorting them for washing or mending. As soon as the maid judged her mistress sufficiently awake, she drew back the curtains, their stencilled linen vivid in the bright sunlight. A vista of soft green and splashed colour crowded in on them.
‘It’s going to be another fine one, by the look of it.’ She smiled at the day’s promise.
‘That it will, miss.’ The girl wore an even wider smile. ‘And what dress will you be wearing?’
‘I don’t know. Nothing special – it’s only Sunday service.’
Then she thought again. Would Aiden Kellaway be at church this morning? It was possible, if he had lodgings in the village. It was possible that he’d been in church all these weeks past, but she hadn’t known. She shook her head at the thought and then realised how odd she must look. But if she were thinking at all sensibly, he wouldn’t be there. He must be a Catholic and would never attend St Mary’s. Or he was busy and still working in his spare time on the temple plans. Or he was simply godless. Her mind swung wildly from one proposition to another, until she became quite cross with herself. It shouldn’t matter whether he was there or not, but somehow it did and the fact annoyed her greatly. She’d already spent far too long thinking about him.
And far too long growing annoyed. She’d been ruffled by him, ruffled by his assumption that she wasn’t happy at Summerhayes, and knowing he was right only added to her annoyance. She wasn’t happy. Life on the estate was dull – no one visited and nothing happened. But her dissatisfaction went deeper than that. While she lived here, her art would remain hidden. There was little chance of ever becoming the professional painter she longed to be. In London, it might be different. But then she hadn’t been any happier there and had been glad when the Season ended. Plunged into a summer of flower shows and exhibitions, races and regattas, she’d found society frenetic. It was not the London she wanted or needed. She’d danced at ten balls a night, but the mad tempo masked a falsity that struck her acutely. She’d not belonged there any more than she belonged at Summerhayes. But she didn’t need a man to tell her that, and a man she barely knew. This morning she would show herself content with her world – just in case he was there.
‘I’ll wear the Russian green,’ she decided. And when Ivy looked uncertain, added, ‘The moiré silk the dressmaker delivered last week?’
‘I remember – such a handsome dress,’ her maid enthused. ‘I hung it behind the green cloak, but you’ll not be needing that this morning! The colour will show off your hair something lovely though. Will you wear it up?’
‘There’s no time. Just pin it back and maybe we can find a ribbon to match the dress.’
Ivy went busily to work, pulling the gown from the wardrobe and laying it across the old nursing chair to hang out the creases. Various pieces of underwear were whisked from the chest of drawers and then she was delving into the squat wooden box that sat on the dressing table in search of a ribbon. All the time, the girl hummed quietly to herself.
Elizabeth swung her legs out of the bed. ‘You sound remarkably happy.’
‘I should be, miss. It’s my banns today.’
‘Of course, it is. I’m so sorry. I’d forgotten.’
‘I don’t mind. Neither does Eddie. We don’t want a lot of fuss and bother. The next three weeks the banns will be called and then we can lie low for a while.’
‘It’s September, isn’t it? The wedding?’
‘We’ve fixed it for the fifth – we’re saving hard.’
Elizabeth knew that money was scarce for them both and had wondered if she dared ask her father to raise Eddie’s pay. Cars were still a novelty in the countryside and chauffeurs even more so. But when the gleaming dark green Wolseley had arrived from Birmingham last year, Eddie Miller had performed the small miracle of transferring his driving skills from horse to car. The day he’d donned a motoring uniform of drab grey, together with leather gauntlets and leggings and a visored cap and goggles, he had become an entirely different man from the groom who only weeks previously had flicked his whip at a recalcitrant horse. Surely he deserved reward for that. And reward, if Joshua only knew it, for refusing her request that he teach her to drive this mechanical beast. That had been a step too far, even for a warm-hearted Eddie.
She wanted to help the couple, but she was nervous of tackling Joshua in his present mind. Her father had been mercifully quiet these last few days, but it didn’t mean he had forgotten his anger over the derelict lake, and the smallest annoyance could light the spark again.
Aloud, she said, ‘Is the bathroom free, do you know?’
‘I’ve the bath running now. Master William and his friend were in and out of there this morning like the shake of a lamb’s tail.’
‘I bet they were!’
When she walked into the breakfast room half an hour later, it was to find the silver salvers lining the buffet table almost empty. The family had already eaten. She forked a slice of ham and started to spoon scrambled egg onto her plate, but then for the second time that morning saw the hands of the clock. There was no time and she would have to go hungry. She hurried out into the hall, skimming its black and white chequered tiles, and out of the front door where the small family group had gathered to wait.
‘You’re not driving us this morning, Eddie?’ The car stood gleaming on the driveway and Eddie Miller, dressed in his Sunday best, was gently flicking the last spot of dust from its shining chrome.
‘Them’s my orders, Miss Elizabeth. But I’ll be in church, alongside Ivy.’
‘Of course you will. Your banns are to be called today.’
His face lit with a warmth she could almost touch. ‘It’s a special day for sure,’ he said, ‘and your pa was agreeable to walk. It’s not often Ivy and me get to be in church together.’
Ivy, she knew, would make sure her intended went to at least one service on a Sunday. Now that the couple were to marry and occupy the rooms above the motor house, it would be more important than ever to keep the master happy. Not that her father was a devout man, but aping the manners of the aristocracy had become essential to him, and a servant who did not attend church would be a discredit.
Joshua had a detaining hand on Oliver’s arm and was pointing upwards to the half timbering on the front façade of the house, lecturing the bored youth on how his personal choice of weathered, unstained oak had so beautifully blended a modern Arts and Crafts mansion into the landscape.
He stopped mid-sentence when he caught sight of his daughter and walked over to her. ‘You’ve made us late,’ he grumbled, but softened the words by smoothing an errant strand of hair from her forehead.
‘If we walk briskly, we will be in good time,’ Alice said pacifically, unfolding her sunshade. ‘And a walk should help curb some high spirits.’ She looked pointedly towards Oliver, who, having escaped Joshua’s grasp, had taken to kicking loose gravel along the drive and was attempting to inveigle William into a competition.
Her father sounded an irritated harrumph and rammed a felt homburg onto his head. He pointed his cane at the lodge gates ahead. ‘Come,’ he ordered.
They came, trooping after him down the magnificent avenue of ornamental dogwood, its profusion of creamy bracts just beginning to unfurl their enormous waxy flower heads. Behind the family, the first group of servants, out of uniform but soberly dressed, followed at a respectful distance. She was glad she had worn her second-best boots, Aiden Kellaway not withstanding. It was less than half a mile along a country lane to the tiny village green and the Norman church that overlooked it, but quite long enough for new boots to pinch.
The walk this morning, though, was delightful. Banks of primroses shone yellow on either side of them and beneath the shade of the hawthorn hedge, the deep, sweet smell of bluebells filled the air. Above, swallows skittered across a sky of unclouded blue. She wondered whether this might be the time to broach the subject of Ivy’s marriage. The morning was the most beautiful nature could bestow and her father was striding out as though, for once, he had a real wish to attend church. But when she drew abreast of him, his expression was anything but promising and she decided she would wait her moment. All would depend, she guessed, on the meeting with Henry Fitzroy. This would be their first encounter since the lake debacle. The Fitzroys were bound to be in church; they never missed a Sunday, never missed the chance to sit ostentatiously in the family pew. Alice had as much right as they to a seat there, but she never took it. The Summer family sat to the rear; years ago, a tacit agreement had emerged within the congregation that this was where Joshua’s family belonged. Her mother did not appear to mind the discrimination and the thought crossed Elizabeth’s mind as she entered the church that Alice was glad to be away from her brother. She was scared of him. Why, she didn’t know. Uncle Henry had never scared her.
She could see him now. He was a tall man and his head and shoulders were clearly visible through the nodding plumes and feathers of the women’s toques, donned for this special moment of a special day. He sat rigidly straight, his glance never deviating from the stained glass figure immediately ahead. The window, fittingly donated by the Fitzroy family, held the image of Jesus in an unusually martial pose. Aunt Louisa sat to one side of her husband and, next to her, Dr Daniels. That seemed odd. It appeared they had a lot to say to each other, small sharp whispers between the hymns or as Eddie Miller’s and Ivy’s banns were read or as the vicar made his way to the pulpit. She wondered if her aunt or uncle might be feeling unwell, to need the doctor in attendance.
When the last prayer had been said, the congregation trickled from the church to shake the minister’s hand as he waited in the porch to greet them. She had thanked him for his sermon and begun to walk along the brick path to the lych gate, when she realised that her mother still lingered by the church door. She looked around and saw her father taking an inordinate interest in several of the more ancient tombstones, their engravings barely visible beneath the lichen. Of William and Oliver there was no sign. They had sat almost entirely silent during the service, and she’d been about to congratulate them on their forbearance, when like two young colts freed from harness, they had chased off, one after another, to the fields that lay at the back of the church. Her mother appeared distracted and seemed not to have noticed.
It was a feeling Elizabeth shared when Aiden Kellaway emerged from the stone porch and came up to her. She had not seen him in church, had hardly dared look for him. And now he was here, in person rather than in thought, and she was most definitely distracted. He looked a good deal smarter than when she’d encountered him in the Italian Garden, though his hair had not remembered it was the Sabbath and still waved wildly across his forehead.
‘Good morning, Miss Summer.’
Her mother turned sharply at the unfamiliar voice and she became conscious that Alice’s eyes were fixed on them.
Her colour mounted. ‘Good morning, Mr Kellaway. I hope you are well.’ She tried for a neutral tone.
He gave a small nod. ‘And you, Miss Summer?’
‘Indeed, yes. And how is your work progressing?’
‘Well, I thank you. And yours?’
‘My work?’ She sounded bewildered.
‘Your painting.’
That left her more bewildered still and very slightly affronted. Art was not work, not in her world. It was an acceptable hobby for a young woman, that was how her family thought of it. And most other families, too. There were women, she knew, who’d escaped the straitjacket, a few who’d attended art school and were even painting for a living. Laura Knight, for instance – she’d heard her spoken of last year in London. But they were exceptional and she was not. At Summerhayes, she remained alone in sensing the true nature of what she did. Alone in knowing the passion that gripped her. But it was a secret, brooding passion, and one she had never shared.
‘It’s going well,’ she stuttered, thinking of the lake scene now emerging from the canvas in her studio. ‘But tell me about the temple.’
‘Tomorrow we raise the first of the columns – it’s an important moment. We should have a good idea then of how the finished building will look. But I fear the lake will be a blot on the picture.’
‘The stream is still dammed then? I’m sorry to hear it.’
She was burbling. She must sound ridiculous but she had to say something. For days, she’d allowed her mind to conjure an image of him, hear his voice, imagine a conversation. Now faced with the reality, she was flustered and flailing.
But he treated her remark seriously, or had the good manners to do so. ‘As far as I know, the situation remains the same. Though I sense there may be moves afoot.’
‘In what way?’
‘I’ve a feeling it’s to break the dam that has been constructed, though I know little of what’s planned.’
It was probably as well to know little. Breaking the dam sounded altogether too grave, but his words reminded her that her father had yesterday been closeted with Mr Harris and several of his men for some hours.
‘You must pay the Italian Garden another visit,’ Aiden was saying, ‘and see the temple as it rises. There’s an excellent view from the summerhouse and the pathway around the lake has now dried completely. We have been lucky with the weather.’
‘It would be good to see it,’ she said impulsively.
But then checked herself. Would she go? She found herself looking into a pair of misty green eyes and thought that she might. Her mother would be shocked by such forwardness, and her father disapprove heartily of her mingling with men he considered servants. But the chance of a small adventure was enticing.
She became conscious that Aiden was looking at her in the same intent way that earlier she’d run from, and found herself trying to fill the silence that had grown between them. ‘At least today you can forget about the temple. Sunday must be a day of leisure, even for you.’
He smiled down at her and she grew warm beneath his gaze. ‘Will it be meat and pickles for lunch?’ she gabbled. She’d remembered the supper he’d spoken of and there was something that appealed to her in that simple meal.
‘No, indeed.’ His eyes lit with laughter. ‘On Sunday, Mrs Boxall treats her lodgers to a feast – a leg of lamb at the very least. A trifle singed around the edges, but nevertheless roasted meat. And, if we’re lucky, a slice of Sussex Pond pudding to follow.’
She was about to ask him how such a pudding tasted, when her mother called to her. Whatever had distracted Alice, it was not weighty enough for her to ignore her daughter’s protracted conversation. ‘Elizabeth,’ she called sharply, ‘I need you here.’
She was apologetic. ‘Enjoy your meal, Mr Kellaway.’
‘And yours too, Miss Summer.’
‘Who was that?’ her mother asked, as she reached her side.
‘One of the men working on the temple, Mama. He is apprenticed to Mr Simmonds.’
The information seemed unwelcome. ‘You should not be talking to him for so long,’ Alice scolded. ‘Your place is beside me.’
