A Dorset Lammas



Susan D. Cook





Runcible Pen Press





Copyright © 2023 Susan D. Cook


All rights reserved



This book is a work of fiction. Except in the case of historical fact, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.



No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.





Cover design by Blue Dobson



Published by Runcible Pen Press, Koper, Slovenia

First published in October 2023



Kataložni zapis o publikaciji (CIP) pripravili v Narodni in univerzitetni knjižnici v Ljubljani

COBISS.SI-ID 166155523

ISBN 978-961-94869-2-4





In memory of Uncle Tony

Anthony Philip St John Gilles (1935-2021)



And in thanks for him and all the other young men who dedicated part of their youth to National Service.





Praise for A Dorset Summer





"Beautifully observed first love affair."

Jennifer Pittam, contributing author to the anthology Wartime Christmas Tales





"I haven't had a story affect me this much in years."

Diane Scott Lewis, author of Outcast Artist in Bretagne





"This is a beautifully layered tale of first love, loss, choices, and the hope of redemption."

V.L. Smith, author of The White Spider of Savignac





"I found myself enchanted from the beginning with this tale that showed through heroine Phoebe's eyes her evolutionary journey from being a rather stilted young governess to a full-fledged woman with the right to choose."

Colleen L. Donnolly, Amazon #1 bestselling author of Mine to Tell





A Dorset Summer - available at Amazon stores worldwide.





Chapter One





July 1953

‘Just don’t ask any questions, Mrs Stephenson. I’m not putting beetroot nor carrot in the Major’s eightieth birthday cake, an’ that’s that.’ Mrs Scadden, our cook-housekeeper, planted her hands on her ample, apron-clad hips, daring my mother to argue. Between them on the kitchen table a crate bulged with premium cake ingredients, most of them still rationed or in short supply.

My mother ran a finger over the packages, deposited before breakfast at the back door by Mrs Scadden’s nephew, and poorly concealed under a layer of brown paper. ‘Caster sugar, dried fruit, ground almonds. French marzipan. More sugar.’ We closed our eyes as one and breathed in the luscious aroma of almonds and dried fruit.

‘I really should…’ Mummy hesitated, and I knew she was battling the moral dilemma over the correct thing to say, especially with me in the kitchen.

I stood behind them, the cool, hard ridge of the deep stone sink pressing against my spine. Beyond, through the open window, I Daddy chanted to the plough horses as he mowed the fallow meadow, age-old commands that resonated within me, summoning me to the fields. Except I was stuck indoors helping Mummy with a final inventory before the celebration.

Mrs Scadden gripped the sides of the crate. ‘It were a fair price. The Major’s well-respected in these parts.’

‘The cost doesn’t matter. Well, not much. It’s… I suppose it is a special occasion,’ Mummy conceded.

‘Folks’ll be coming from all over the country, and I’ll not have them making remarks about my baking.’ Mrs Scadden leaned forward, lowering her voice. ‘And you know as Mrs Frobisher will be poking her nose into the housekeeping.’ Her apple cheeks flushed with imagined indignation.

At the mention of Daddy’s sister, my acerbic Aunt Rose, Mummy’s shoulders sank in capitulation. ‘He won’t be eighty again,’ she murmured, and drew the brown paper back over the packages. ‘Put it at the back of the pantry. And thank your nephew.’

‘He was only the delivery boy,’ said Mrs Scadden quickly.

My mother raised the merest eyebrow. ‘Then thank whomever sent it. I suppose you already paid them from the housekeeping.’

‘I’d better hide the sugar from the boys. They’ll be eating it out o’ the packet.’ Mrs Scadden disappeared into the depths of the passageway leading to the voluminous pantry, built when the manor had a full contingent of servants and family members to feed.

Mummy sighed and glanced at the list in her hand. ‘We need to make the down payment to the baker,’ she muttered. ‘Then send the pig to the butcher. How many jars of pickled cabbage do we still have, Ros?’

I followed Mrs Scadden into the narrow, dim pantry, and stood on tiptoe to count the rows of pickles on the highest shelf.

‘One jar’s for the Lammas dinner at the village hall, and another for Harvest Festival,’ said Mrs Scadden over my shoulder. ‘Last year’s pickled onions are still good. Tell your mother I’ve ordered extra butter.’ She sighed. ‘Eh, I can’t believe it. The Major’s eighty in a few weeks, and you’ll be leaving us to be a university lady come harvest. Seems like no time since he was bouncing you on his knee.’

The familiar knot hit my stomach. ‘I’m not going for certain.’

‘You’re smart, Miss Ros. You should see the world. But I’ll miss you.’ She squeezed me against her apron, enveloping me in the scent of lily-of-the-valley toilet water.

‘I’ll miss all of you.’ I backed out of her embrace before the tell-tale pricking behind my eyes grew worse.

As I emerged, blinking, into the bright kitchen, my father’s tall frame appeared against the door, his grey curls rippling in the breeze. He put his finger to his lips, then crept up behind Mummy and encircled her with his arms, kissing the top of her head.

‘James!’ She swivelled around, an embarrassed frown fighting with her smile. His eyes met hers, creasing into deep crinkles that traced pale lines against his suntanned skin. Estate lines, Mummy called them.

I pretended to study the inventory. Of course it was comforting to know my parents loved each other, but middle-aged romance was nauseating. Only my little sister Valerie liked to share in their affection, but she was five.

‘Is Ros free now, Phoebe?’

Mummy pushed back from his embrace and tucked her blouse back inside her waistband. ‘Take her. I can finish the inventory.’ She turned to me. ‘After luncheon, I would like you to come down to the village with me. I have several parcels to pick up from the post office.’

‘Can I drive?’

‘May I drive.’

Always the governess. She had been between teaching positions when she met Daddy on holiday here in Dorset and got married that same summer.

Daddy winked at me. ‘Where are Jamie and Harry?’

‘Down at Studland getting the boat ready for when Cousin Livvy and family arrive,’ I said.

‘And Valerie is helping Grandfather polish his medals in the dining room.’ Mummy skirted the huge wooden table to reach down to the new refrigerator, tucked into the corner of the kitchen to be out of Mrs Scadden’s way. She retrieved a large jug of lemonade that practically filled the top shelf and poured a tall glass for Daddy.

He downed it in several gulps and wiped his mouth. ‘Not bad things, those refrigerators. I think we should try it for chilling wine. Come on, Ros. See you at lunch, my love.’ He planted a kiss on my mother’s cheek.

Ready in my jodhpurs and a long-sleeved blouse, I swooped down to grab my old lace-ups from outside the kitchen door. We loped past the patio and lawn, still half a root vegetable plot, not yet returned to its full splendour after being dug up for victory. Jack and Jill, our shire horses, waited patiently by the fence beside the meadow, hitched to the mower, flicking flies from their ears and rumps. Jack lifted his dripping muzzle from a bucket of water as we approached.

‘Hello boy,’ I perched on the top rail of the fence to change shoes, my head barely level with Jack’s brown cheeks. I scratched along his jawline, cradling his massive chin in my hand for a moment before jumping down to take my seat at the back of the mower.

Daddy handed me the reins. ‘We’ve still got half the meadow to mow. You drive and I’ll rake.’

I clicked my tongue at the horses and flicked at the reins. In response, they swung around and ambled back through the open gate. We could have used our tractor for the job, but Daddy was particular about the grazing for his dairy herd. He swore the taste of petrol would come out in their milk. Jack and Jill plodded forward, my weight barely straining the harness over their broad, sloping shoulders, any guidance from me superfluous. After a dozen years on the farm, they knew each step of our lands, probably even better than my father.

The faint acrid smell of new mown vegetation rose around me as the grass fell beneath the mower’s blades, then rose in green waves crested with white tufts of clover and the yellow of groundsel heads and buttercups. Disturbed insects – fat, angry bluebottles, ethereal butterflies, swarms of midges – flew up around me, protesting their eviction. Behind me, Daddy raked the mown grass into neat rows to gather later.

A red admiral butterfly skimmed past my nose, flitted over the meadow and across our farmland, that rolled out behind and west of the manor house. In the next field, our Guernsey and Swiss Brown cows cropped the grass or lolled under the cedar trees at the edge, mothers watching lazily as their calves butted heads. Daddy was expanding the breeding and dairy programme once more; cheese had been derationed a couple of months ago, and heavy-handed government farm control was rumoured to be easing as swiftly.

Beyond our herd, our arable land, more hay and oats than any other crops now, fed both our animals and those of other local farmers who were specialising too much to grow their own feed. A short way off, a straggling copse gave way to the undulating hillside rented out for grazing, pock marked with flashes of the underlying chalk and the creamy white flanks of sheep. All of this was in my blood – and all of it would one day belong to my younger brother Jamie.

The team slowed almost to a halt on the turn, and I realised I gripped the reins too tight in my hands. Daddy appeared at my side, picking grass from his fringe. He leaned on his rake and followed my gaze. ‘You don’t have to go to Cambridge this autumn, or at all. You can decide when you are ready.’

I frowned. Even if I turned down my place at Girton College, someday I would have to leave. If not Dorset, at least Manor Farm estate. That, or resemble a Victorian maiden aunt, living in a corner of the west wing. I felt even less suited for spinsterhood than for the life of a scholar.

But Daddy understood. This was our world.

I sat straight, relaxed the reins, and with a pat from Daddy on Jill’s broad back, the horses picked up their pace. Watching Jack and Jill pull together, the unfairness of being a girl dissipated, like the cut grass and leggy-stemmed flowers that sprayed out behind us, revealing the new growth beneath. Daddy was right. There was always time for a fresh start.

But what would I have to scythe down beforehand?





Chapter Two


As I drove my mother down into the village that afternoon, my thoughts lingered back at the estate, glad of the dry weather after mowing, hoping that heavy rains would hold off for the beginning of harvest.

‘Where to first?’ I asked. We turned the corner and approached the short stretch of tarred road that passed as our little village’s high street, where most of the inhabitants faced each other across two rows of houses clustered along its length.

‘Mrs Vaughn said she would organise the flower arrangements, so I should stop by the vicarage to begin with. That way, we will be too early for tea and have an excuse not to stay.’

‘Mother!’ I rounded my eyes in mock shock.

‘Watch the road, Ros. There’s a dray outside the pub. Ginny may be a friend, but she does like to talk, and we still have to finish all the bedrooms before the cousins arrive tomorrow. And the day after, I have to conduct that postponed tour of the house and kitchen garden.’

I slowed the car to avoid startling the dray horses. ‘You should have cancelled the tour. It’s the first day of the holiday with our cousins.’

Mummy shrugged an apology. ‘We’ve already earmarked all the tour money for a university wardrobe fund. Neither you nor Jamie can turn up at Cambridge in the clothes you have, then of course there are college scarves, gowns, sports uniforms…’ She ticked imaginary items off on her fingers. ‘… it’s endless. After the flowers, we need to call at the post office to collect those parcels. Mrs Dyett managed to acquire some of the special items I wanted for the party.’

‘“Acquired” like Mrs Scadden did?’

‘Park by the vicarage, please, Rosamond.’

I parked the Morris Minor under an elm at the end of the flint-paved lane behind the church, home to a couple of small cottages and the vicarage, and hitched down my beige pencil skirt as I swung my legs out of the car. I knew better than to accompany Mummy to the village in my ploughing clothes, especially when driving our newest car.

The square, Georgian rectorate stood back from the surrounding stone wall, its newly renovated façade of Portland stone gleaming pale in the sunlight. The previous vicar was a fanatical local historian, who refused to replace the crumbling stonework because it was original to the house. He was a jolly, kindly man, but had clung to his living until he almost dropped dead in the pulpit. A collective sigh of relief accompanied his retirement.

Mummy glanced up. ‘The stonemason from Salisbury cathedral was worth the money. The place is a credit to the village.’

I grimaced behind her back. This ‘credit to the village’ was one more reason she had to give tours to pay for our clothes.

‘Cooee, Phoebe! Ros!’ Ginny Vaughn, the vicar’s wife, waved to us from an open downstairs window. ‘Do you mind coming around the back? We just waxed the entrance hall floor.’

‘Of course not.’ Mummy latched the gate behind us and we traipsed towards the kitchen door.

‘Here!’ Ginny opened the French windows and beckoned us into the sitting room, one arm out of her work smock. ‘Do pardon us. Monday is usually a slow day for callers, and now that we get more sun through the glass you can really see the scuffs on the floor. So I told Violet, let’s roll up our sleeves and tackle it, then we can feel virtuous for the rest of the week. She’s making the tea now. We had already had the kettle on the boil for us.’

‘Well, erm, perhaps just one cup,’ said my mother. ‘We have to get back to our preparations for my cousin and her family.’

‘Oh goodness, yes, you have a lot more on your plate with a house that size and no servants to speak of.’

‘We manage quite well with a team from the village coming in quarterly.’ Mummy tugged her cardigan straight over her flowered rayon dress.

We barely settled on the sofa before Violet bustled in, smelling faintly of beeswax and lavender, with the tea tray. Ginny hurriedly swept up her knitting and stuffed it down the side of her armchair.

‘How are you doing, Violet?’ asked my mother.

Violet set down the tray and bobbed. ‘Very well thanks, ma’am. I mean, thank you.’ Violet was about my age and had briefly attended the school my mother ran from Manor Farm during the war.

‘She’s training up very well,’ Ginny said to Violet’s retreating back. ‘And it’s nice to have a young person about the place, quite apart from her not having any notions of her own about housekeeping.’

‘Indeed.’ Mummy took a proffered teacup. ‘And the flowers?’

‘No, still my preserve. She doesn’t have the eye… oh, silly me, you mean for Major Stephenson’s birthday, not the house. Actually, I made some sketches yesterday afternoon between services. Now, where did I put my notebook?’

Mrs Vaughn rummaged among copies of The Church Times and Woman’s Own piled on the coffee table. ‘Oh, I remember.’ She jumped up to retrieve a notebook from the music stand on the baby grand piano. ‘I got inspiration after we talked about using the Major’s regimental colours. How about a garland at each end of the hall? I could reproduce that wreath on the regimental flag at the centre, and have patriotic colours for the ropes, then repeat the colour combinations in vases for the tables. That should cut the cost. Everyone has been growing red, white and blue for the coronation last month, and they’ll want to be rid of excess stock.’

Mummy bent over the notebook. ‘That’s beautiful. He’ll be bowled over.’

My attention drifted as they talked floral design, the number of vases they could borrow from the church and other uninteresting topics. I preferred flowers firmly rooted in the ground and had thus far refused all Ginny’s offers to ‘get me started’ on the church flower arranging roster.

Half an hour and two cups of tea later, we escaped with promises of bringing Livvy to visit as soon as possible. ‘That’s probably the closest to the church you will get her,’ I muttered.

‘Ros!’ Mummy remonstrated under her breath as she waved goodbye to Ginny for the third time. But even she exhaled a sigh as we marched along the lane, around the church wall and back out into the high street, then past The Black Sheep pub to Dyett’s Provisions.

Two other customers stood in line in front of us at the shop counter, a holidaymaker and, behind her, Mrs Riggs, who ran The Black Sheep with her husband. The village shop had expanded to include the post office after Mrs Dyett’s brother conveniently married the widowed post mistress. The two ladies were known as the elder and younger Mrs Dyett, respectively, though there could not have been many years between them. As the elder Mrs Dyett said, the arrangement was handy because they could manage home and business, but in practice it meant there was usually only one woman in the shop while the other was at home popping dinner in the oven or hanging out the washing.

Mrs Dyett (the elder) acknowledged us with a nod while wrapping the first customer’s purchase. ‘I’ve got everything set aside for you, Mrs Stephenson.’

‘I’m just here for a stamp,’ said Mrs Riggs, patting her apron by way of excusing her state of dress. ‘It’s too noisy at the pub when they’re making a delivery.’

The first customer departed with a quick ‘good day’ to us, and Mrs Dyett moved to the post office counter to serve Mrs Riggs. Mummy turned to peruse the small display set near the door and picked up a jar of red glacé cherries. ‘Perhaps some more fairy cakes,’ she murmured as she gauged the contents. ‘We could send any leftovers to the Sunday school. Then again, angelica is more economical.’

A lorry rolled noisily along the high street, the awning open, stuffed with soldiers from the Bovington garrison, their rowdy song penetrating the closed shop door. I peered over the advertisement for Spratt’s Dog Cakes in the corner of the window and tried not to catch any serviceman’s eye with my mother standing absentminded guard next to me.

As the lorry passed, the drayman trundled a barrel into the road. The lorry pulled up sharply with a screech of brakes, a tumble of soldiers, and a cacophony of words I was supposed to pretend did not exist.

A crash of glass. Liquid splattered my legs. I whirled around to see my mother, white, staring in the lorry’s direction, the smashed jar of cherries at her feet.





Chapter Three


Red syrup oozed across the floor around the shards of glass, like slow-moving tributaries of a bloody river.

‘Dear Christ,’ my mother whispered.

‘Mrs Stephenson, whatever has flummoxed you?’ Mrs Dyett was at her side in a moment, mop and dustpan in hand.

My mother shook herself, cheeks scarlet as the cherries. ‘I am so, so sorry, Mrs Dyett. It was silly. Those young soldiers drove by, I glanced out of the window and thought I saw a face I used to know. I … here, let me help you with that glass.’

Mrs Dyett laid a hand on Mummy’s arm, her eyes glistening with tears. ‘I understand, Mrs Stephenson. So many times, I think I zee my Johnny, or hear his bicycle come round the corner, like when he was a lad.’

Mrs Riggs looked up from dropping cherries into a dustpan. ‘I see my boy clear as day in me dreams. Talk with ’im, too. Comforts me in a way. I don’t tell me ’usband, though, it upsets ’im no end.’ Her London accent always escaped in unguarded moments, though she’d lived here for several decades.

The three women stood locked as one for a moment, like some village version of the Fates, picking up the cherries as if choosing which crushed lives to save.

‘Be a love, put the kettle on out back,’ Mrs Dyett instructed me.

I escaped to the kitchenette with a guilty rush of relief. The kettle was half full, and still warm. I lit the stove and set it back on to boil.

Who had Mummy thought she saw? Someone who’d died fighting in the war, of course, but there were so many. I felt for her, for all of them, but I was painfully aware the legacy of the war was different for adults than for those of us who had been children at the time. To us – me, my brothers, my two cousins – it had been a scary adventure, shaken off as we looked forward to adulthood and freedom. To little Valerie, the war would never be anything but stories. But to our elders, it would forever be what they had lost: Mummy’s brother, Mrs Dyett’s only son, Mrs Riggs’s eldest, wounds that stung afresh whenever a villager passed the eight still-clear names carved on the war memorial, or the sun shone through the new south church window that Grandfather commissioned.

I stirred the tea leaves and set the pot on the vinyl-topped table that dominated the kitchenette. A moment later, the three women trooped in bearing a pinkened mop and dustpan, several large pieces of glass balanced on my mother’s palm.

‘You can put all that cherry mess on the draining board. I’ll get zome newspaper for ’en after tea. Here’s a clean cloth to mop your stockings, Mrs Stephenson.’ Mrs Dyett dampened a dish cloth under the tap and passed it over.

‘Thank you. I’m sorry to interrupt your day.’ The cloth trembled in her hand.

‘Nonsense, it’s nice to put the closed sign up for fifteen minutes, a little treat for the afternoon. Miss Rosamond, go fetch the spare chair an’ a packet o’ Rich Tea biscuits from the shop.’

When I returned, Mummy was dabbing at her nylons while Mrs Dyett poured the tea. I arranged the biscuits on a plate and squeezed into the empty chair at a corner of the table.

Mummy paused her ministrations for a sip of tea, her face as white as the porcelain teacup. ‘Please put the cherries on our bill, Mrs Dyett, and add another jar to our next order.’

‘Don’t you fret about that. I’ll charge the cherries to the army bill zeeing as those noisy young men were what caused it. An’ I’ll tell them as much if zomeone notices.’

Mummy handed me the cloth. ‘Your turn, Ros.’ My sticky legs rubbed clean, but my stained bobby socks would need a good soak.

Mrs Riggs reached for a biscuit and dunked it thoughtfully in her tea. ‘The money from the army’s good for the village, especially with all those National Service men, but it doesn’t help you forget.’

Mrs Dyett shook herself into a smile. ‘Swings and roundabouts, Mrs Riggs. Mrs Coombs couldn’t run the café without army custom, and what would she have done, being a childless widow? And life is looking up. We’ve a lovely young queen on the throne. Rationing’s almost gone. I’m zelling sweets as fast as I can fill the jars.’

‘That reminds me,’ I said. ‘Valerie wants some dolly mixture if you have it.’

‘I’ll measure her a pennyworth before you go. Now, who’s for another cup?’


✽✽✽

We drove back in relative silence. Next to me, Mummy leaned against the window, her face drawn, her colour barely returned.

Who had she imagined she saw? Mentioning her brother never made her look that sad, or blanched. And she had sworn. My mother, who had made us copy out a whole page of the Bible if we took the Lord’s name in vain, had uttered the words dear Christ out loud.

‘Shall I roll the window down?’ I asked.’ Silence. ‘Mummy? Do you need some air?’

She jumped. ‘I’m sorry Ros, what did you say?’

‘I said, shall I roll the window down?’

‘Oh yes, a little.’ She fiddled with the handle on her door, closed her eyes as she tilted her head to the breeze.

Who, I wondered again? Maybe one of the young village boys. A first love, perhaps, though I could barely imagine there being anyone before Daddy. Maybe someone reported missing in action, hence the shock.

‘It was silly of me,’ she said, eyes still closed, as if reading my thoughts – or avoiding my gaze. ‘But I caught a glimpse of the young men, and my brain made me see someone who wasn’t there. Someone I didn’t expect. It happens when you get older, Ros. You will understand one day.’ She fingered the bottom button of her cardigan. ‘It’s hard to be the ones who made it through, even those of us who did not serve.’

Who did not serve, said the woman who ran the estate with Grandfather during my father’s wartime absence, and taught first us, then the growing group of children whose parents were reluctant to send them further away as school after school closed. The one who was unanimously selected for our War Agricultural Committee by all the local men, and on top of all that kept up a monthly country life column for a London magazine ‘so that the lights can stay on – when they are allowed to be on’, as she used to half joke.

Jamie and Harry were unloading tools and paint into the garage as we circled the drive to the back of the house, hampered by Harry’s adolescent springer spaniel bouncing around their legs. I rolled down the window. ‘Meet us at the front to unload,’ I called as we passed.

Back at the front entrance, Mummy hurried indoors to change her nylons while I doled out parcels. Grandfather appeared in the doorway, Valerie clutching his hand, a feminine miniature of Daddy with dark curls that bounced around a face only now losing its babyish roundness.

Grandfather smiled. ‘I think a certain little girl hopes for dolly mixture.’

I fished the paper bag from the glove compartment. ‘Here, Valerie, I made sure it was not packed away with the other shopping.’

‘Thank you, Ros, I love you.’

Grandfather patted her head. ‘Good girl.’

I regarded him with a love that nowadays was so often tinged with fear. Eighty soon, he still stood tall and impeccable with his neat, white hair and clipped moustache, but I observed how his clothes had begun to hang off him, how he dozed off more often in his armchair.

He held out his hand. ‘Pass me one of those boxes.’

I took the chance to squeeze his fingers. ‘I can’t. You know it is all a surprise. James the third, take that one.’

My brother glared at me. He hated that moniker, but it was true: Grandfather, Daddy and he were all James. Grandfather went by Stephenson to most, Daddy was a definite James; my brother was getting too old to be Jamie, and so was condemned to the nickname to avoid confusion.

Grandfather lowered his hand with a feigned look of surrender. ‘I think you are all trying to outdo the coronation picnic.’

‘Well, you are practically local royalty,’ I said.

‘Who did you murder, Ros?’ Harry nodded down at my red-stained socks.

‘A jar of glacé cherries.’

The telephone rang inside the house, thankfully saving me from further explanation, because I still couldn’t fathom my mother’s reaction.

‘Confounded thing never stops nowadays,’ said Grandfather.

I heard my mother’s voice faintly from the hall. ‘Livvy?... Quite all right… We’ll barely notice…’

She emerged behind Valerie and Grandfather.

‘Is there a problem?’ I asked. I hadn’t seen my cousin Teddy, Livvy’s eldest, since Christmas. I would hate anything to spoil the summer visit.

‘No, no. They will be here tomorrow, as planned. Cousin Livvy was just asking…’

‘Wilfrid, no, NO!’ Valerie screeched as the springer spaniel leapt up to grab at her paper bag, ripping the bottom. Dolly mixture scattered across the driveway. Pandemonium ensued as Harry tried to pull the dog off its spoils, Valerie wailed, and Mummy and Jamie scrabbled on hands and knees to pick up the sweets. Grandfather raised Valerie above the chaos.

‘Bad, bad dog,’ she sobbed.

‘Really, Harry, you are supposed to be training him,’ Mummy sighed as she flicked a piece of gravel off a jelly tot. ‘Valerie, darling, I am sorry, but these sweets are too dirty to eat.’

‘I’ll drive you back into the village and we’ll buy more sweeties,’ I promised before she commenced a fresh round of lamentation. ‘The shop will still be open. You can sit in the front with me.’

‘I’ll pay,’ added Harry.

Valerie stuffed the remains of her sweets into her mouth as quickly as she could, eyeing Wilfrid with justifiable suspicion, while he in turn fixed her with eyes full of greedy hopefulness.

‘Harry, take that thieving cur away,’ ordered Jamie. He never missed an opportunity to throw his weight about with his younger brother, mainly, I suspected, because he knew who would lose if it came to a physical contest; at fifteen to Jamie’s seventeen, Harry was already more muscular, and about to overtop him in height.

Harry opened his mouth to retort, took in our faces, and thought better of it. He tugged the dog’s ear. ‘Come on, Wilfrid, let’s go and watch Dad finish the milking.’

‘On a lead, Harry,’ Mummy warned. As he dragged Wilfrid off by the collar, she put a hand to her forehead and surveyed the scene. ‘Ros, Jamie, take the rest of the packages to the hall table.’

‘Then we’ll go to the shop,’ I repeated to Valerie.

Mummy sighed. ‘Yes, the shop. Grandfather?’

‘Tea?’ asked Grandfather.

‘Sherry, please.’





Chapter Four


Four eager faces peered from the east wing windows, competitors in the time-honoured family game of ‘First to spot the cousins’.

‘I see them!’ cried Valerie, nestled in the crook of my elbow, toes balanced on the window ledge in my room.

‘I’m not sure about that, dearest.’ I bent my cheek to hers. ‘But can you hear a car?’

‘I seed it too!’

‘I don’t think you saw it yet,’ I gently corrected, ‘but … look now.’

‘They’re here!’ Harry’s voice echoed down the hallway as a gleaming black Bentley trundled into view. A boy hung out of the car’s back window waving wildly. The horn sounded a reveille.

Valerie twisted around. ‘No, Harry, I won!’ she shouted at the door.

I held her hand as she jumped down. ‘Yes, you did. Come on, we’ll beat the boys downstairs.’

We dove out of my room at the same moment our brothers belted out of Harry’s bedroom at the end, but Valerie’s shriek brought them up short. With a grin, I swung her onto my hip. The little imp knew as well as he the consequences for provoking a tantrum today.

Defeated, the boys let us jog ahead to the end of the hallway, then around the corner through the gallery above the old Great Hall and past the shadowed ancestral portraits, a long line of unremarkable Stephensons captured by unremarkable artists.

Breathless, I cantered down the main staircase with a giggling Valerie. Darby, the butler, waited in the entrance hall, his coat freshly brushed, the sleeve of the left arm pinned up neatly over the stump of his elbow. Only we would have a one-armed butler. A mechanic before the war stole his limb, he’d had to relinquish his job. Daddy and Grandfather insisted he take over from his own grandfather at the manor, the next in a long line of Darbys who had run the house.

Mrs Scadden plodded out from the kitchen in a black wool dress, sans apron, seizing the occasion to act as a formal housekeeper. Agatha, our general maid, scurried in her wake, her starched lace cap stiff as a doily.

‘You had an unfair advantage, Ros,’ Harry panted.

‘Tell that to my arms,’ I groaned.

We hurried to join Grandfather and our parents on the front step. The car crunched to a halt in front of us, and two tall, brown-haired boys burst out of the back seat. Our cousins Teddy and Aidan. Teddy dodged the mobbing of Jamie and Harry with a quick couple of slaps on the back and enfolded me and Valerie in a collective hug.

‘You’re such a big girl now,’ he smiled.

‘I’m big too,’ announced Valerie.

I rubbed my nose against hers. ‘He meant you, silly.’

‘Not much between you and Aidan now, Teddy,’ remarked Daddy. ‘Which one of you will outstrip your father? Good to see you again, Simon.’ He reached out to Livvy’s husband for a firm handshake. Tall, and still handsome, Simon’s golden summer boating tan contrasted with the walnut hue of my father’s year-round life in the sun.

‘I wouldn’t live to see the end of summer if I didn’t bring this lot down to Dorset.’ Simon swept back the cowlick he had bequeathed to Teddy, his hair a little darker brown than his son’s, though speckled with grey.

Livvy patted her husband on the back. ‘Sensible man.’

Simon kissed Mummy on both cheeks. ‘Phoebe, you and Ros look more like sisters every time I see you.’

‘Of course they do.’ Livvy linked her arm through my mother’s, whose eyes had lost that hint of worry that so often lurked behind them. Actually, it was the two of them who were often mistaken for sisters: first cousins, both slim and of middling height, oval faced, though Livvy’s features were not as small as Mummy’s, a reflection of her larger personality. My mother kept her golden brown hair long, but rolled in a tight chignon at her neck, while Livvy sported a permanent wave of dark brown curls dancing down to her shoulders, today lightly swathed in a translucent turquoise scarf that picked out the stripes in her blouse. Wide-legged, navy Hollywood-style trousers skimmed her wedge sandals. Her make-up had, of course, survived the hours-long car journey impeccably. She always seemed caught in a perfect moment, as if she had stepped out of one of her paintings.

‘What are the twins planning this summer?’ Livvy smiled. ‘The Twins’ was mine and Teddy’s nickname. We had been born only weeks apart, as witnessed by the numerous photographs of us together, swaddled in layers of knits in a pram or sprawled, pudgy and stark naked on rugs. Honeymoon babies, both of us.

‘Everything,’ we said together, then laughed.

I set Valerie down to hold out an arm to Aidan. Teddy was my property, but his shy, quiet younger brother had a place in my heart, too.

Aidan kissed my cheek, then crouched down to Valerie’s level. ‘I have that painting of Milly-Molly-Mandy I promised for your bedroom. It’s in the back of the car.’

She flung her arms around his neck. ‘Can I see it now? Please?’

‘Let’s take your things to your room, Teddy,’ I said.

My mother looked over her shoulder. ‘I changed Teddy’s usual room to the one opposite Ros’s bedroom.’

‘I’ve just got my duffle bag,’ said Teddy. ‘The rest is on the train.’

Simon tossed his son the keys to unlock the boot of the Bentley. Teddy grabbed a green canvas bag and, leaving the hubbub behind, we entered the house.

Teddy stopped to greet the staff. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Scadden, Darby, Agatha. We’re back to try your patience again.’ He shook Darby’s single hand firmly and bent to plant a kiss on Mrs Scadden’s plump cheek.

Mrs Scadden beamed. ‘It’s more like a homecoming, Master Teddy.’

As the others drifted in behind us, Teddy ran up the staircase, pausing on the landing to take a deep, appreciative inhale. ‘Not even the smell changes.’

True. Centuries of beeswax, the little lumps of dust that never made it out of the corners between banisters, the potpourri whose recipe Mummy had resurrected from a mottled housekeeping book in the library. This was the manor in a breath.

We turned towards the east wing, where most of our bedrooms were. Teddy loped alongside me. Beside him, my heart softened, expanded: I always felt more complete with him at my side.

‘Did I feel stubble on Aidan’s cheek?’ I touched my own at the memory.

Teddy glanced at me, his face serious. ‘Yes, but don’t tease him about it.’

His protective tone elicited a smile. Teddy was a natural big brother – taller, more outgoing, protective, stronger good looks. And Aidan, unlike Harry, was content to be the second son, happiest in the background, behind his beloved camera lens.

‘You know I wouldn’t, but I can’t speak for my brothers.’

‘Jamie and Harry are still in this wing?’ Teddy asked.

‘They haven’t given up petitioning to move to the west wing, but Mummy doesn’t want the extra cleaning. The plumbing needs work, too. Here we are,’ I said unnecessarily, because Teddy could have found any room in the dark. Actually, he often had, especially during blackouts.

I kicked the doorstop free as we entered; the wind from the wide-open windows swept the door shut behind us. We flopped down on each of the twin beds.

‘Before I forget, this is for you.’ Teddy drew a framed photograph from the duffle bag. ‘Aidan developed it himself. He’s really got the knack of colour film now.’

I stared in admiration at the photograph of Teddy and me, taken at Christmas on a frosty walk along the Thames. In the picture, I leaned against Teddy’s shoulder, my lips parted in a smile – I think he had just made me laugh. Aidan had brought out the contrast of my deep red beret and ginger-tinged, mid-brown hair, which framed a face otherwise similar to my mother’s. Teddy’s arm encircled my waist, his thick camel overcoat lending square lines to his lithe frame. His body tilted towards mine, though his expression was composed for the camera, wide mouth in a smile, dark hair slipping down on his forehead.

‘My very first colour photograph!’ I exclaimed. ‘Look how Aidan matched that deep blue of your eyes exactly. He’s a talented darling.’ Fifteen, and as focused as his lens, whereas Teddy and I were about to be set adrift in the world.

‘He’s brought all his developing equipment. He thought Cousin James would let him set up a darkroom in one of the unused rooms, like last year. We should try to get lots of photographs this summer.’

Maybe our last family summer. The words hung unspoken in the air.

‘So you’re definitely going up in October?’ I asked.

Teddy stretched out on his back, hands folded behind his head. ‘Yes. Dad wanted me to defer National Service, especially since the bother in Korea extended service time by six months. He hopes they will end that war and abolish the whole National Service thing before I get my degree. Plus, I might get better duties if I enlist after Cambridge, even if I don’t take the officer route.’

‘Jamie is going to defer as well. Volunteering in the war put Daddy and Simon off the army for life. Harry is the only one keen to follow in Grandfather’s footsteps.’

Teddy turned his head towards me. ‘What about you, Ros?’

I snatched at the net curtain that blew in front of my face. ‘I can’t decide. It would be so much easier if the choice were university or National Service, but it’s Girton or … anything.’

My cousin swept an arc with his hand. ‘It’s a bigger world out there than Dorset or Cambridge. You don’t have to choose a safe option.’

‘I’m not afraid to leave.’ My voice rose, defensive. ‘I don’t wish to. That’s different.’

Teddy shrugged. ‘I’m glad to be done with school and move on.’

I scowled. ‘I wish you wouldn’t keep on about that. Everyone is so serious about our having to go out into the world. Except Daddy.’

Teddy propped himself on his elbow, his face serious. ‘If you stay here, it should be because you will inherit the estate. You obviously have a head for the business, and you work far harder than Jamie.’

I shook my head against the pillowcase, static crackling through my hair. ‘Don’t say that. It doesn’t help. You can’t change the rules. Besides, Jamie has a worse slog than I did studying for the Cambridge entrance exams. Mummy only had to write a letter to the Mistress of Girton and I was in. She and Mary Cartwright rubbed shoulders when Mummy was an undergrad.’

Teddy shot me a disapproving glance. ‘This is the middle of the twentieth century. If a woman mathematician can run a college that gives degrees to other women, why can’t the eldest child inherit an estate, even if they’re a girl?’

‘The estate has always passed to the eldest son,’ I protested. ‘Daddy and Grandfather insist on retaining tradition wherever we can. And it’s working. We’ve achieved something special here. Jamie appreciates that as much as I do. He has a real knack for the cheese making, and that’s the part of the business we are banking on to take us forward.’

The excuse sounded lame, even to my ears. I huffed. ‘Even if it were possible, how could I take what my brother has expected all his life?’

‘Not every man wants to do what is expected of him. Why should every woman?’

I rolled over onto my stomach. ‘I don’t know why Mummy swapped rooms to one with two beds.’

‘For when Julian stays.’

I pushed up off the pillow in an instant. ‘Julian?’

‘My friend from school. Remember, he was going to come, but his family insisted he join a hiking holiday in the Alps. Then his father broke a foot a few days ago, so now their jaunt is called off. Mum telephoned yesterday. Didn’t your mother tell you?’

‘No. Oh, yes, she started to, then the dog stole Valerie’s sweets, and we got distracted.’ My stomach sank. I would not have Teddy to myself. ‘When does he arrive?’ I tried to sound nonchalant.

‘Tomorrow. You’ll get on well with him, Ros. I know you will. You’re my two best friends.’

‘Tomorrow?’ I choked. ‘Is he staying all summer?’

‘About two or three weeks. His godfather will stop by, too. He, the godfather, I mean, paints landscapes, like Mum. She cornered him at one of her exhibitions and persuaded him to visit this part of Dorset.’

‘The house will be full.’ I did not mean it to sound like a complaint.

‘I don’t think Lord Northbourne will stay here.’

I perked up. ‘Lord Northbourne is his godfather? Walter James? You mean the man who wrote Look to the Land? I read that from cover to cover as soon as I could wrench it out of Daddy’s hands.’

‘Julian didn’t tell me he writes novels. Was it any good?’

‘It’s about agriculture, not a novel. Seeing the farm as a whole organism. It was really interesting.’

Teddy’s face did not suggest he was about to beg for our copy. ‘Julian said he is a bit of an oddball. A proponent of some sort of unorthodox religious viewpoint as well as being nutty about agriculture. Says he is a kind chap, but shy. He rowed in the Olympics, though, and won a silver, so he can’t be all bad.’

‘He’s not nutty, he’s a visionary,’ I objected. ‘Daddy will be bursting to talk farming with him.’

‘If Mum doesn’t monopolise him with artist talk.’ Teddy smoothed his hand across the chenille bedspread and sighed. ‘It’s our last summer before we have to grow up. Let’s have fun, lots of fun.’

‘With Julian.’ I bit my lip. That was unfair.

‘I want to share him with you, Ros,’ he pleaded. ‘I want you to know about that part of my life before everything changes.’

‘There’s not about to be another world war,’ I snapped, mentally crossing my fingers.

‘No, but it won’t be the same.’ He reached across the gap between the beds and clasped my hand. How could I not melt at those spaniel eyes?

I squeezed his hand back. ‘Well, all right. But I hope he’s up to the summer we are going to have.’





Chapter Five


‘Harry, leave some eggs for everyone else.’ Jamie elbowed his brother aside and heaped scrambled eggs onto his own plate.

Mummy looked up from cutting Valerie’s toast into soldiers. ‘More eggs are on the way.’

A hearty brunch in the Great Hall was a hallowed tradition for the first day of the cousins’ visit, following the late night bonfire and celebration that stretched into the wee hours. The younger boys still smelled faintly of smoke.

Only Daddy’s chair stood empty; he was doing the farm rounds. Usually, I would be up early and out with him, but I had slept in this morning, tired from the gossip and dancing around the bonfire, led by Livvy dressed in a flamboyant, embroidered skirt she brought back from a trip to Portugal. She even persuaded Mummy to dance, roses spiked in her hair, petals showering about her feet like a May queen. Watching her and Mummy laughing as they twirled hand in hand was a glimpse back through the years to my mother’s youth, before the estate and all of us weighed her down.

Grandfather pushed back his chair at the head of the table. Livvy quickly folded her napkin and rose. ‘No, Stephenson, don’t get up. Let me replenish your plate.’

‘I’m not doddering yet.’ But he smiled as he spoke.

She pressed a hand on his shoulder as she leaned over to take his plate. ‘I look forward to spoiling you every summer. Don’t you dare deny me the pleasure.’

Grandfather patted her hand. ‘I’m spoiled enough in this family.’

Daddy strode through the door, shirt sleeves rolled up, arms damp from washing at the courtyard tap. He stopped to kiss my mother on the cheek before attacking the buffet.

‘Livvy, my dear, let James serve himself first,’ said Grandfather.

Daddy perused the warming dishes. ‘Did I miss the kippers?’

My mother shook her head. ‘No kippers today. The tour party is due later this morning, and I didn’t want the place to smell of fish. Mrs Scadden cooked sausages and black pudding instead. I apologise,’ she added to Simon and Livvy. ‘This particular local history group was scheduled to come in the spring, but those terrible floods in Devon meant they had to postpone.’

‘It’s your home,’ said Simon.

‘Yours too, in the summer.’ Daddy slid into place next to Simon, at the foot of the table, and attacked a plate piled with black pudding, sausage, fried bread, tomatoes, and bacon.

Simon set down his knife and fork. ‘Cricket practice this afternoon?’

Daddy nodded. ‘Today and tomorrow. Need to get the team working together. Only a few days to the match.’

‘Ah, the match!’ proclaimed Livvy, serving Grandfather’s breakfast with a flourish.

‘The army versus the village. It is a matter of high honour,’ said Simon. ‘They beat us last year.’

‘Only just.’ Jamie still rankled about that defeat as he had been last out. ‘And they had two National Service men who played for the junior Surrey and England teams. What were the chances of that? Both of them moved on, thank goodness.’

Mention of the army reminded me of my mother’s mystery man. I glanced across the table, but her head was bent to Livvy’s. Whatever rattled her, I bet Livvy knew the details.

‘Dad promised we can sail the new yacht by ourselves if we win this year,’ said Teddy.

‘What new yacht?’ demanded Harry. Eggs slipped from his overloaded fork, poised halfway to his mouth.

‘It’s from Fairey Marine, a brand new design,’ Teddy enthused. ‘Your old boat will feel like sailing a washtub after you’ve been in this beauty.’

‘It should have arrived at the Poole marina from Southampton by now,’ said Simon. ‘I’m driving over this morning to inspect it. Any of you boys want to come?’

‘I do,’ said Jamie.

Harry shoved eggs and bacon into his mouth and chewed, scowling.

Mummy looked at him, then at the door. ‘Oh good, more eggs for you, Harry!’

Mrs Scadden bore in the steaming dish, and Darby stalked in her wake with the coffee. Our butler had a self-imposed rule that Daddy get a fresh pot of coffee, brewed to his exact preferred strength, the moment he returned from the fields.

Daddy reached out a hand. ‘We’ll take the eggs here, please, Mrs Scadden. Simon?’

‘Just one helping, thanks. Aidan is too modest to tell you, but his overs have really improved this year.’

‘Good news.’ Daddy nodded at Aidan. ‘We might need an extra bowler. Bill Dyett has knee trouble. I think he will be retiring to the rank of umpire. Thank you,’ he added to Darby as the butler poured his coffee and set the pot at his elbow.

‘Julian was captain of the school’s eleven,’ put in Teddy.

‘This year’s secret weapon!’ Livvy laughed as she passed the dish of eggs along the table. ‘I wondered why you were so quick to get him to revert to the original plan and come with us to Dorset. It was the cricket.’

It was my turn to scowl over my toast and marmalade.

‘Valerie, what are you doing?’ said Mummy suddenly. My little sister had taken advantage of all the conversation to sneak out of her chair without permission. She perched on the andiron inside the gigantic, empty fireplace, feeding something to Wilfrid from a saucer. Wilfrid circled the plate with his tongue while Daddy’s well-behaved Labrador, Dickens, watched on, a little tag of drool stretching from his lip.

‘I’m giving him med’cine. The dolly mixture made him sick.’

Daddy left his breakfast to inspect. ‘What are you feeding him, darling?’

She held up the remains of the concoction. ‘Tea and crusts and sausage and sugar.’

Daddy gently retrieved the saucer. ‘Only vets give animals medicine, Valerie.’

She pouted. ‘But I am a vet.’

‘Oh yes, I forgot. This week you are a vet. Perhaps your stuffed animals need tending instead.’

‘They’re not real. Vets take care of real animals.’

Daddy kissed the top of her head. ‘Well, if you finish your breakfast like a good girl, you may come with me on the next milking round to inspect the cows. And please don’t give the dogs sugar. It is bad for them.’

‘But Mummy gives me jam after my cod liver oil,’ she protested.

Daddy ended the conversation by sweeping her up and installing her back at the table on his lap.

Simon pushed his plate to one side. ‘Here, I’ll take her. You finish breakfast. Pass me Val’s breakfast, Phoebe. So, it’s oiling bats and limbering up when we get back from the marina?’

‘Practice at four,’ said Daddy. ‘But there are a few trials beforehand, and a meeting to finalise the order of play. That should keep us out of the way of your tour group, Phoebe.’

‘I’ll hang those new paintings,’ said Livvy. ‘As long as that is all right with you, Phee.’

Mummy nodded. ‘Yes, please, it will freshen the place, and give me something new to talk about on the tour. Rearrange the art however you see best. It’s your area of expertise.’

‘That one of Ballard Down in winter is particularly good. Not that all of your work is not sublime, darling.’ Simone blew a kiss in his wife’s direction.

‘I’ll turn the cheeses for you, Daddy,’ I said, guilty that he had worked while we lounged about.

‘I did that yesterday,’ said Jamie.

Daddy smiled over his coffee. ‘You can have the day off since Teddy’s here.’

‘But has anyone checked the hurdle fencing for the sheep?’ I asked. ‘Nathaniel will be bringing the lambs down tomorrow for inspection.’

Teddy swallowed a last forkful of black pudding. ‘Let’s do it together, Ros. I want to see how well my fence weaving held up from last year.’

At last, replete, we parted our several ways, Harry, Jamie and Aidan to gather cricket gear, Mummy and Livvy to arrange the house, Valerie in tow. The men took the milk jug, coffee pot, and newspapers out to the patio. Teddy and I lingered in the Great Hall.

‘Let me unpack my wellington boots,’ said Teddy. ‘I’ll meet you at the back door.’

‘When does Julian arrive?’ I could not keep the edge from my voice.

Teddy traced a finger along the table. ‘His train is due at two twenty-three this afternoon. Will you drive me to Wareham station to pick him up?’

‘Why can’t you do it yourself?’

Teddy pulled a face. ‘I’m still banned.’

‘Still? The accident was over a month ago. Your parents must be furious.’

‘I think they were equally angry and scared. Someone had recently been killed on that same bend. No driving for at least two more weeks. They included a little of our holiday time to underline the punishment.’

The vision of Teddy dead in a ditch overrode my resentment at the interloper. ‘Of course I’ll take you, Bear. Anyway, women drive better than men.’

Teddy smiled sheepishly. ‘Please don’t call me Bear in front of Julian.’

I broke into a grin. ‘What is that worth?’

‘Ro-os.’ He lunged and captured me in a merciless, tickling hug.

‘Truce, truce!’ I shrieked. I wriggled out of his arms and ducked around the table. ‘Surely they called you something worse at school. What is it worth not to ask Julian about that?’

‘Who’s being murdered in here?’ Mrs Scadden shuffled in with a large tray. ‘Miss Ros and Master Teddy. I might have known. Nowt changes with you two.’

Teddy dropped his hands. ‘Come on, I want to say hello to the cows and see if old Dora remembers me.’


✽✽✽

A couple of hours later, fencing and cows inspected, Teddy and I crept back into the house via the kitchen door, mindful of the tour underway.

We peeked into the Great Hall, now devoid of any traces of scrambled eggs, coffee or dogs. On the dining table, an exuberant flower arrangement spilled out of an ancient silver punch bowl, something Livvy had thrown together from our haphazard flower beds. In place of our unruly gathering, the local history buffs followed my mother in a huddle like ducklings.

‘…and as we move around the Great Hall, you can see the last shield up there in the corner, depicting the arms of the Bankes family. The Stephensons were their tenants when the manor was built, although of course our family did not have a surname back then.’

A dozen heads craned upwards towards one of the four wooden shields set up among the rafters.

‘During a recent renovation, the roofer found an Elizabethan shoe tucked in the corner behind that coat of arms. As I am sure some of you know, it was the custom to place a shoe in such places for luck.’

‘I bet she’s not going to mention the cat skeleton we found inside the kitchen wall,’ I whispered to Teddy. We hung back for the party to move on.

Mummy continued. ‘Mind the step, it is rather worn. This takes us towards the Jacobean annex, all that is left of a wing that was rebuilt in the last century. These have become family rooms, but I will be glad to show them to you. In the dining room, we have several contemporary paintings of the house and grounds by the artist Lavinia Woodford, my cousin and member of the Royal Academy, who is in residence at the moment. You can compare them with those in the Long Gallery above, which backs onto this hall.’

At that moment, an ominous rumbling emanated from the aforementioned Long Gallery.

A thwack followed by a thud. ‘Four!’ came a boy’s voice.

The visitors laughed. ‘That sounds like cricket practice,’ commented one.

‘Please excuse the noise. We have four boys in the house for the summer.’ I could hear the tightness in my mother’s reply.

I nudged Teddy. ‘That’s unfair,’ I whispered. ‘You are right here.’

Teddy rolled up his sleeves. ‘I’ll go knock a few heads together upstairs and rescue the tone of your mother’s tour.’

‘Please do. Apparently mine and Jamie’s college scarves depend on it.’

Teddy stepped into the hall. ‘Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen. This may no longer be the age of chivalry in which this manor was built, but it seems I need to be Mrs Stephenson’s squire and rout the cricket match upstairs.’ I rolled my eyes. Teddy had inherited his parents’ good looks and his mother’s charm, and knew how to use them.

Mummy sighed with relief. ‘If you would, Teddy.’ She turned back to the visitors. ‘Shall we visit the library while the Long Gallery is cleared? I am building a collection of local history books that mention our estate, and which I am sure will be of interest...’





Chapter Six


The afternoon found Teddy and I in Wareham well ahead of the train’s arrival, performing our second good deed of the day by picking up an order of wool for a cardigan Mummy intended to knit for Valerie.

We exited the knitting shop with several brown paper packages: my mother’s russet wool and some sweet daisy buttons just right for Valerie’s little fingers to manage, plus the remaining two hanks of blue wool I had on reserve for a jumper of my own. The town hall clock across the road chimed the half hour as we reached the car. Teddy glanced at his wristwatch.

‘There’s still almost an hour until the train is due,’ I said. ‘Do you want to have tea or take a stroll by the river?’

‘Let’s head for the station. You know the queues up to the level crossing can be horrendous.’

‘Only on summer weekends. It’ll be clear as a bell today.’

‘Let’s go, anyway. We can sit there as well as anywhere else.’

‘It won’t make Julian arrive sooner.’ Teddy’s eagerness piqued me. I wanted him to myself.

I pulled out into North Street and we drove the few minutes from the town centre to the station in silence, past rows of shop fronts, pubs, the ancient church of Saint Martin-on-the-walls, and across the river, the road as empty as I had predicted. We parked outside the red brick railway station, then wandered through the little ticket office past the dark-suited guard to platform two, which brought trains from London and the east.

We plonked down on a green painted bench under the metal awning, I drew my half-finished jumper from my canvas bag and set the pattern beside me. Ginny Vaughn had let me tear it out of an issue of Home Notes. She was a great resource for dress and knitwear patterns.

Teddy leaned across and studied the photograph of the pattern, a boat-necked jumper with a wide waistband that sat just on the waistline. ‘I think something a little more off-the-shoulder would show off your nice collarbones.’

I snorted. ‘Careful, I almost poked your eye out. Do you honestly think I could wear an off-the-shoulder jumper in front of Daddy? He’d be scandalised. Besides, the boat neck will look nice with a blouse underneath, and I can get more wear out of my old school blouses that way.’ I shook a needle at him. ‘Now you’ve made me lose my place.’

Teddy’s eyes widened. ‘Ros, promise me you won’t wear your school blouses at Cambridge, if you go.’

‘Now who is scandalised?’ I laughed. ‘Are you afraid you’d be tainted by my unfashionable reputation?’

‘I’m going to have Mum take you shopping in London this summer,’ he declared. ‘You cannot dress like a fourteen year-old when you’re eighteen.’

‘With whose money? You know that everything gets ploughed back into the estate.’

‘The money of your beloved cousin and godmother. Mum would agree. This is a mission of mercy.’

‘Well, I’m glad someone can be free with their parents’ money.’ I snatched up the pattern. Not the best knitter in the world, I furrowed my brow as I scanned the dense paragraphs of numbers and letters.

‘Here, let me hold the ball. The dusky blue suits you,’ said Teddy in a conciliatory tone.

‘Bother, I think I knitted the wrong armhole row.’

‘Let me see.’ Teddy ran a finger down the pattern then took a needle from me and counted down the rows of my knitting. ‘Yes, right here. Do you want help to undo it?’

I stared at him in amazement. ‘You never let on that you could knit!’

He smoothed the crinkled wool around his fingers as I unravelled my work. ‘We had a pouring wet Easter holiday with Nana Woodford once, when there was nothing to do except submit to knitting lessons. I managed a scarf that had more peaks than the Alps. It’s a fantastic way to be an instant pet with old ladies, though.’

‘You charm all the older women, anyway. That’s an excuse. I think you must enjoy knitting.’

He dropped the ball of wool into my lap. ‘I haven’t touched a pair of needles since. But men still knit up in the highlands and islands.’

I jabbed him with my elbow. ‘I’m teasing, Bear. If I can plough a field, you can knit a jumper. But now I expect one for Christmas. You can knit while you’re listening to law lectures.’

He grinned. ‘I’ll make it off-the-shoulder, and your father won’t be able to complain because it was a gift from your favourite cousin. You’re on this row.’ He indicated the place in the pattern.

I held out the jumper. ‘Do you want to fix it for me?’

He shook his head. ‘I bet we have different tension.’

So true. There was a tightness to everything I attempted, a looseness to Teddy’s endeavours.

A train trundled in along the Swanage branch line, dissipating steam across the platforms. ‘I’m chilly,’ I said. ‘Let’s get into the sunshine.’

As we trailed down towards the end of the platform, the guard called out, ‘You be waiting for the two-twenty-three? It’s forty-five minutes late.’ He drew a pocket watch from his waistcoat. ‘Should be here in ’bout an hour.’

‘Trouble on the line?’ I asked.

‘The driver took ill not long afore he was due to come into work. They had to knock up someone on his day off.’

‘Never mind,’ I said in answer to Teddy’s anxious look. ‘Let’s get tea at the café across the street.’

‘They might make up time on the journey and we’ll miss him.’

It seemed to me that his friend must be rather helpless if he could not wait five minutes on the platform. But I did not provoke Teddy with my thoughts.

‘All right,’ I sighed. ‘The café will let us bring the teacups over to the station. They do it all the time.’

Teddy lay his head on my shoulder. ‘Could you, darling Ros? I’ll pay.’

I returned ten minutes later with tea balanced on a small tray to find Teddy perched on the edge of the bench, picking at the pilling on his practice cricket jumper. Above him, a railway poster blazed the words ‘Visit Swanage’ across a picture of a young woman posed on a golden beach in a red two-piece swimming costume.

Teddy sighed. ‘Forty-five minutes late.’

I handed him a cup. ‘It can’t be helped. That’s not a bad delay. At least the train wasn’t cancelled. And I got your favourite gingernut biscuits.’

We dunked biscuits and drank in companionable silence.

Teddy slid his cup and saucer onto the tray. ‘I think I’ll pop to the gents and brush up.’

I flicked a crumb from the same beige skirt I had worn the other day, my usual outfit for errands. ‘Is that a hint? I thought we were waiting for your best friend, not a beauty contest judge. Really, you could have told me if I was meant to wear my Norman Hartnell gown to the station.’

‘No, you look fine,’ Teddy said, apparently oblivious to my sarcasm. ‘I’m just a little nervous. I’m bringing my two worlds together.’

‘Well, I promise not to hate him. I’ll take the cups back to the café while you powder your nose.’

In truth, I’d made him a weak promise, I admitted to myself, as I popped across the road to return the tea tray. This Julian was going to spoil the holiday. Teddy was mine in the summer – and he was right, this might be our last one together. He would go off to Cambridge, make new friends, and spend the holidays traversing Europe with them. Then he would get engaged to one of their sisters and that would be that. Summers with her family. How could wellies in Dorset compare to loafers on the Riviera?

And me? I could take up my place at Girton and spend term time with him, become one of his new circle. But I could not make our friendship the only reason I went to Cambridge, even for Teddy. I suppose that was what was making me grumpiest of all.

As I returned to the platform, a clacking beyond the bend of the line heralded the slow arrival of the train. Teddy perked up. He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘No biscuit crumbs?’ He turned his face for my inspection, even though he had been five minutes in the gentlemen’s toilets.

‘None.’ I almost wished there were, so that I could say nothing.

The long, droning squeal of the brakes gathered volume as the train loomed into view. Teddy leapt up as it passed under the bridge into the station and paced alongside the first class carriage. I glanced back at the poster. Maybe my cousin was right, and I should dress a little more sophisticated. I had spotted a two-piece swimming costume I rather liked while shopping in Salisbury, but not worked up the courage to ask Mummy if I might purchase it.

Ahead of me, the train ground to a halt, the carriage door swung open and out bounded the famed Julian.

My face, which had been set in a resolute blank, widened as I drew in a sharp breath. Of course I assumed Teddy’s friends would be part of the beautiful set, but a Greek god had just jumped out of a London railway carriage. I understood why Teddy wanted to look his best in comparison. I swear I had never seen a boy who could look so feminine, and yet so masculine at the same time. High cheekbones, wavy blonde hair a little too long to be fashionable, skin glowing with the merest kiss of a tan. Long, strong fingers that clasped the leather handles of an overnight bag. His poised energy shimmered beneath the white shirt and lanky limbs encased in fawn corduroy trousers.

I slipped a hand behind me and pinched the back of my thigh. Get a grip on yourself, Ros, I commanded.

By now, Teddy had gained Julian’s side with a smile that threatened to split his mouth. Julian slung an arm around his shoulder, then pivoted to swallow me into the orbit of his radiant smile. ‘I don’t think I need to ask who this is.’

‘No, I mean, I, ah…’ My befuddled brain scrambled for something devastatingly witty to say.

Teddy stretched a hand in my direction. ‘Ros, this is Julian Alderidge. Julian, my cousin, Rosamond Stephenson.’

Julian dropped his bag and grasped my hand. A frisson shot up my arm. ‘Delighted to meet you at last, Ros. May I call you Ros? I’ve heard so much about you, I almost consider you to be my cousin, too. I’ve vowed to get to know you well enough to discover if Teddy’s stories are true.’

I recovered sufficiently to arch an eyebrow. ‘Everyone calls me Ros. But I’m afraid Teddy has been keeping you close to his chest until these past couple of days, so I’ll have to make my own judgments about you.’ No wonder he had kept Julian a secret. I doubted any description could have matched the reality.

‘Really?’ Julian glanced at Teddy, the corner of his mouth crooked in a question, still holding my hand. ‘Then I wonder which one of us that puts at a disadvantage?’

Teddy tugged at Julian’s arm. ‘Come on, the porter is unloading your suitcase.’

Ten minutes later, we were motoring along the main road out of Wareham in the Morris Minor, Julian in the passenger seat and Teddy squashed in the back with the suitcase, leaning between the seats, his arm across Julian’s head rest. Julian’s long legs splayed out, his knee almost brushing my hand on the clutch.

‘…so we’re almost late for cricket practice,’ Teddy finished.

Julian shrugged. ‘Then let’s go straight to the green. I can change as long as there is a hut, or a large tree to hide behind.’

I blushed, even though I had spent my life catching my brothers and cousins changing clothes or peeing behind trees. ‘We have a small pavilion, but with all the amenities. I can wait for you both. I have a book and my knitting.’

‘Why don’t you drop us off at practice and take Julian’s luggage to the house?’ Teddy asked me. ‘We can catch a lift back with the rest of the family.’

‘The five of them probably squeezed into one car,’ I said. ‘But maybe someone else will be going back your way.’

‘It seems rather unfair to make Ros the chauffeur and let us have all the fun,’ said Julian.

‘My cousin loves driving,’ said Teddy. ‘She can handle anything from a tractor to a motorcycle.’

‘I’ve never ridden a tractor. Will you give me lessons, Ros?’

My hand tightened on the clutch.

‘I can teach you,’ said Teddy.

‘In a couple of weeks,’ I put in. ‘Unless farm equipment doesn’t count.’

‘Oh yes, you are banned after your Grand Prix exploits.’ Julian swivelled his head, his chin brushing Teddy’s sleeve.

So he knew all about me, and all about Teddy’s life, but Teddy had not shared him with me? I set my shoulders back and lifted my chin, taking care to make my gear changes as smooth as silk, and to stop with perfect precision at the crossroads.

We parked alongside the village playing field to join a dozen or so youths and men in an assortment of work and cricket clothes. Some of the older farm workers were contemptuous that our little village should now have something as frivolous as a dedicated sports field. The younger ones, used to their Saturday afternoons off, welcomed a space for weekly football or cricket matches.

Our gardener, Mr Thomas, was measuring and marking lines, while Daddy sat on the pavilion steps, scribbling in a notebook. Jamie, engaged in batting practice with Aidan, turned and raised a hand, then bent back over the crease.

‘I’ll make room for you to open the suitcase.’ I wrestled the front seat forward.

‘Here, allow me.’ Julian leaned down, slid into the car. Suddenly, we were body to body, face to face. I clenched my teeth against the shiver that ran down my spine, but Julian showed no embarrassment, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be pressed against a stranger.

‘You have Teddy’s eyes,’ he whispered, his voice husky, the merest hint of a smile on his lips.

I might have Teddy’s eyes, but I did not have my cousin’s expression as I wriggled out, flustered, to meet his darkened gaze.

Julian unfurled his long body, cricket whites clutched in a bundle. ‘Thank you for being the perfect charioteer, Ros. I look forward to a deeper conversation later.’

‘Yes, I want to know all about Teddy from your point of view since he has apparently been so free with my character.’ I glared at my cousin. He might have warned me Julian was a gorgeous flirt.

Teddy slammed the passenger door shut. ‘Thanks, Ros. See you at dinner. I expect the cricketers will miss tea in favour of the pub.’

I slipped back into the driver’s seat. ‘Avoid the cold lager, Bear. You know it makes you queer if you’re hot.’

I winked at his heated face in the rear-view mirror and pulled the starter switch with a wave. But my heart was still thudding against my ribs. If Julian was Teddy’s other world, I wasn’t sure I was ready.





Chapter Seven


Daddy checked his wristwatch. ‘I’m off to meet Nathaniel. You can finish defeating the young people for me, Simon.’

He handed Simon his mallet. Cricket laid aside for an hour, we were having a post-breakfast croquet match on the only piece of lawn that was assiduously tended, due to Mummy’s love of the game.

I thwacked a final ball through the hoop. ‘I’m going with Daddy, so the field is even.’ I turned to Teddy. ‘Do you and Julian want to come and watch?’ I kept Julian shyly in the periphery of my vision, still a stranger to me, even though yesterday’s incident in the car set my torso tingling whenever I thought about it.

‘My gosh, literally lambs to the slaughter,’ breathed Julian. ‘I don’t know if I could.’

‘Not yet,’ I said. ‘The sheep fair won’t be until August. Today we’ll check if they’ve put on weight. Besides, they’re barely lambs now. More like small sheep.’

‘Jules doesn’t need the minute details of farm life. I’m taking him for a quick tour of the place, then for a walk up in the hills,’ said Teddy. ‘Join us when you’re done, if you have time.’

I shoved my mallet into the rack. ‘You play for me, Aidan.’ Where was Teddy’s proclamation of making memories together this summer? Gone the second Julian arrived.

‘Did Ros tell you what happened over towards Kimmeridge?’ asked Harry. ‘Someone’s flock wandered into a field that was still mined.’ He grinned. ‘Exploding sheep everywhere.’ He launched his ball into the air with a neat jump shot.

‘Not funny, Harry,’ snapped Jamie. ‘That was someone’s livelihood. I’ll come, too, Dad.’

Harry glowered.

‘Valerie, put that hoop back in the lawn,’ said Mummy. She sent a well-aimed shot that clipped Julian’s ball. ‘Perhaps Nathaniel will do well at the August market after his ram won a first prize at the May sheep fair.’ The hint hung in the air.

‘The situation’s still settling post-war,’ said Daddy. ‘And there’s the New Zealand imports to contend with. I don’t know if sheep farming will ever claw its way back to the levels it once had, especially here.’ He ran his fingers through his curls. ‘Let Nathaniel rise a little longer before we review our terms. We’ll rise with him soon enough.’

Mummy said nothing, but bent to position her croquet ball next to Julian’s. Setting a foot firmly on her ball, she knocked Julian’s across the court.

‘Well played, Mrs Stephenson,’ said Julian with a little bow.

Livvy laughed. ‘Phee shows her true mettle on the croquet court.’

Daddy whistled to Dickens, and pulled a lead from his pocket. The old dog sloped forward reluctantly, loathe to be tied. Impeccably trained as Dickens was, Daddy still stuck to the rule of all dogs except sheepdogs being restrained around sheep.

With a last, hurt glance back at Teddy, I stuck my hands into my jodhpur pockets and strode off with Daddy and Jamie, out past the cow pasture to the divided sheep enclosure set against a dry stone wall near the bottom of the hills. The enclosure Teddy had been only too happy to work on with me yesterday.

Nathaniel was shutting the gate on the lambs as we approached. They milled and jumped, unused to being caged.

‘Morning, Nathaniel.’ Daddy and the shepherd shook hands, and Daddy looped Dickens’s lead over a post.

Nathaniel nodded to me and Jamie. ‘Good day for it.’ He cocked a countryman’s eye up at the sky, overcast but dry.

Both Nathaniel’s sheepdogs sat guarding the enclosure, bodies stiff, dark eyes alert. As the lambs circled closer to the gate, the younger sheepdog stiffened, edged forward. The older one nipped his shoulder. He snapped back.

‘There now, lads.’ Nathaniel tapped them with his crook.

‘What’s the matter with Tip?’ I asked. The older sheepdog was usually a model of placid self-control.

Nathaniel grimaced. ‘He’s getting too old, and knows it. Nine years this spring. Beck knows it, too. They both zense the pecking order is changing, and Tip don’t like it.’ He turned to my father. ‘Happen as I’ll be looking for a pup to train zoon.’

I fondled Tip’s ear gently as I slipped through the gate. Poor dog, he understood Nathaniel. I could tell by his eyes.

Moving swiftly, Jamie and I cornered a stocky lamb between us. I straddled it firmly, head facing backwards, and felt around its loins, along and across the backbone.

‘Your turn.’ Jamie did the same.

‘Near eighty pounds,’ I guessed.

Jamie nodded. ‘I agree.’ He eased open a hurdle and I pushed the lamb through to the other side of the enclosure.

The four of us worked our way methodically around the flock, checking each lamb’s fat cover. Finally, Daddy leaned against the stone wall, stretching his back. ‘They seem ready for market, Nathaniel. Let’s hope for a good auction price. How many ewe lambs are you keeping this year?’

‘Well, you d’know in May I sold them twenty full-mouthed ewes.’ He rolled his tongue over the word: “yeow”. ‘An’ I think it be worth keeping as many.’ The shepherd pushed his cap back on his head. ‘That is, if you still be keen on experimentin’ with sheep’s milk cheese next year?’

‘Why not?’ said my father, with a glance at Jamie, whose idea it had been. ‘It’ll take several years to perfect, so there’s no pressure. And it could be a good extra source of income for us both.’

‘P’raps so.’ Nathaniel shook his head. ‘The sheep fairs baint half what they were when I was a lad. Flocks used to be driven down from the hills in their thousands to be walked to the May markets.’

‘True.’ Daddy knew better than to whitewash the situation with a Dorset man. ‘But farmers in the grass counties still need our stock for cross breeding. It’s your rams that will bring in the money right now. And down the line, maybe the cheese.’

Nathaniel shifted from one foot to another. ‘You’ll be raising the rent, come September?’

Daddy shook his head. ‘Not this year.’

The shepherd relaxed. ‘You’re fair, Mr Stephenson. Not like some ’round here.’

Inspection over, I left them talking cheese, intending to make for the path that led up into the hills, where Nathaniel pastured the flock. An hour with the lambs had dissipated my irritation with Teddy, and though I wanted to resent Julian, he was so charming and gorgeous, it seemed petty. I sighed. I could share my cousin for a couple of weeks.

At the thought of Julian, I glanced down at my lanolin-stained jodhpurs and grubby hands. On a whim, I spun on my heel and hurried back to the house to speedily wash and change into pedal pushers and a fresh blouse and brush my hair. I stared in the mirror at the freckles spattered across my nose. Did I look too countryfied? I’d laughed at my friends who painted their freckles with lemon juice, but maybe I should have given it a try.

Ten minutes later, back on the narrow, foot-worn track, I soon spotted Teddy and Julian on the peak of a ridge above me, silhouetted against the sky, tall, slim, shoulder to shoulder. Teddy raised his hand in rejoinder to my wave, and I reached them in a few minutes, striding quickly and effortlessly over the hillocks familiar to me since before I could walk.

Teddy gave me a squeeze. ‘We were waiting for you.’

Julian turned his head. ‘Impressive view.’

I followed his gaze over the rolling green and white chalk hills, giving way in the distance to the dark brown and purples of the heathland, a glimmer of sea at the edge of the horizon.

‘Yes,’ I said simply.

His mouth crooked in a smile. ‘How are the condemned innocents?’

Was he teasing me? I couldn’t tell. After all, I had known him less than twenty-four hours. Teddy’s ribbing was merciless and affectionate. Surely my cousin wouldn’t have a friend who was mean, especially someone as golden as an angel?

‘They scored well,’ I said.

‘He won’t understand you,’ said Teddy. ‘Not many sheep in Belgravia.’

‘We assess their weight,’ I explained. ‘I grip them between my legs and feel along their loins…’

Julian gazed at me, blue eyes darkening. ‘Tell me more,’ he said slowly.

Next to him, Teddy bit his lip, shoulders shaking.

I stopped, comprehending, embarrassed, then angry at their childishness. ‘Some farmers think the males grow better if castrated,’ I continued. ‘To do that, we – ’

‘Are you hungry?’ Teddy interrupted. He hefted the rucksack from his shoulder. ‘We asked Mrs Scadden for elevenses, but I think she gave us twelveses and oneses as well.’ He sat and unpacked a wide flask, enamel mugs, doorstops of fruitcake and thick, crumbling wedges of cheddar. ‘There’s some hard-boiled eggs and apples in here, as well.’

Julian and I followed suit, settling either side of Teddy onto the cropped, springy grass. Julian unbuckled his smaller rucksack.

‘What did Mrs Scadden give you?’ I asked.

‘Nothing. I just thought the coffee might need a little zing.’ He drew out a hip flask.

I sat up straight. ‘I say, you two didn’t take that from the drinks cabinet?’

‘Of course not.’ Julian looked hurt. ‘First rule of being a good guest – don’t pilfer the host’s alcohol. My father told me to bring a bottle of Macallan as a present, and I happened to pick up two. We had a whole crate, he won’t care. I thought it would be just the thing for a country holiday.’

Teddy handed me a steaming cup of coffee. Julian tilted the hip flask towards me.

I set my hand over the cup. ‘I daren’t. If Mummy smelt whisky on my breath I’d be dead.’

‘How would she notice?’ asked Teddy. ‘Just say it was the fruitcake. Mrs Scadden puts enough brandy in it to fell a drayman. You’ll need to learn to drink responsibly at Cambridge, so I might as well teach you now.’

‘Only if she wishes.’ Julian turned a smouldering stare on me. ‘I’d never offer a young woman anything she didn’t want.’

I stuck out the cup. ‘Just a little.’ My voice squeaked.

Julian leaned over Teddy’s legs, resting a hand on his friend’s knee as he poured a dribble into my coffee. He smiled up at me. ‘Try that for starters. Ask me if you want more. Adorable freckles, by the way.’

He drew back, hand still on Teddy’s knee. ‘I know you’ll want more than that.’ He added a generous shot to my cousin’s drink.

I stuck my nose into the mug, letting the steam disguise my rosy cheeks. The strong caramel sweetness of whisky coffee heated my throat, matching the warmth I felt within. I peered over my drink to catch Julian watching, an eyebrow raised.

‘Is that good? Do you want more?’

Teddy elbowed Julian. ‘That’s enough,’ he snapped.

‘For now,’ said Julian lightly.

‘When do we get to see the new yacht?’ I asked, desperate the change a conversation whose trajectory I didn’t comprehend, except to sense it was going somewhere dangerous, and that perhaps I liked it too much.

Teddy’s eyes lit up. ‘After the cricket match. You’ll love how Stella handles.’

‘You’re a yachtswoman as well as shepherdess and farmer?’ Julian reclined on his elbows, blonde hair falling back from his forehead. ‘My talents feel small. I don’t sail, I’m afraid.’

‘But he rows brilliantly,’ said Teddy. ‘As well as he plays cricket.’

Casting my eyes over Julian’s lithe frame and sculpted shoulders, I could believe that.

Julian picked up a hunk of fruitcake. ‘But I won’t let them know at Cambridge because I’ve set my heart on the cricket team.’

Teddy rolled an egg on the grass to crack the shell and peeled it meditatively. I balanced a piece of cheese on a slice of fruitcake and chewed. We finished elevenses in quiet, the wind whipping at our hair. Below us, Tip and Beck herded the lambs from the enclosure, guiding them back up onto the hills to join the flock bleating for their return. The young sheep needed no prompt to bolt for freedom. Poor Tip, I thought again. I’d watched him from a pup. He’d barely needed training, as though he was born to the job.

Like me. I gazed down the hill to the fertile valley of our farm, across the fields, the roofs of the barns and animal sheds glinting in the slim shafts of sunlight fighting through the clouds. The pang I had felt so often this year hit me in the stomach.

‘Ready to go?’ asked Teddy.

I handed him mugs and waxed paper. ‘Thanks for being the factotum.’

Julian stood and stretched, long fingers spread across slim, tilted hips. My gaze trailed upwards over the triangle of his torso, his solid chest, that perfect face raised towards the sky.

He looked down at me, caught my stare. I turned my face away, embarrassed.

‘Ros.’ His tone was somehow a question. He bent forward, reached for my hand. ‘Teddy guided me up. Maybe you can take me down.’

‘You had the complete tour from me,’ Teddy muttered. He gathered the egg shells and stood.

Hand clasped in Julian’s, I sprang up.

‘Ros must know details you don’t. And it’s different with a woman.’ Julian lifted my hand towards his lips. Anticipation crested in my chest, surged and fell as he kissed the air above my knuckles, his breath dancing across my skin. Outrageous as his behaviour was, however silly this whole scene of flirtation and fruitcake, I wanted more.

Teddy threw the egg shells viciously into a bush. Julian dropped my hand and shifted towards my cousin, with a piercing expression I could not fathom. He ruffled Teddy’s hair, then flung an arm around his shoulder. He whispered in Teddy’s ear, laughed low. Teddy scowled for a moment, then relaxed, and joined in the laughter.

I turned to lead the way down the hill, unsettled by the distinct sense there was a subtext going on here. More than a protective cousin irritated with his flirtatious friend. But Teddy and I had our own insider’s language, I reasoned. Why should I feel jealousy?

Yet I did. I glanced back at Teddy. Worse, I didn’t know which one I was jealous of.





Chapter Eight


The day of the cricket match dawned with the revelation that my mother and Livvy would not be attending.

‘I don’t care what Phee’s duty is as lady of the manor,’ Livvy announced over breakfast. ‘You have all clearly overworked her, and we are going to spend two nights away at a luxury hotel outside Salisbury, which offers beauty treatments. A friend telephoned last night to say she had to cancel her booking and has offered it to me.’

‘Isn’t all that spa stuff for fat, rich people?’ said Harry.

Livvy tugged his ear. ‘And under-appreciated mothers. Ros can take Phee’s place at the cricket match.’

I groaned. ‘Livvy, pouring tea for hordes of men is Sisyphean to me.’

Julian raised the teapot. ‘Then I will personally pour my own cup after the game. May I pour you one now?’

‘There can be exceptions.’ I glared at my brothers to let them know they were not included.

One would think it impossible to make serving a cup of tea seductive, but somehow, with the twitch of a smile, and glances from beneath a hooded gaze, Julian infused the action with a hint of more than milk to come.

It was his character, I told myself. Nothing personal. But then he handed me the cup, his long fingers brushing mine around the saucer. Electricity shot across the back of my hand. ‘My sister is on the women’s cricket team at Cambridge.’

‘Do they make their own sandwiches beforehand?’ asked Teddy.

He shrugged. ‘Probably. Women do everything better.’

‘I am glad someone at this table appreciates our sex.’ Livvy smiled at Julian. Even she, the charmer, had fallen under his spell. Beneath the table, I rubbed my tingling fingers down my thigh.

Mummy smoothed her napkin. ‘I’m sorry to ask you to take on extra work at the last minute, Ros.’

‘Nonsense,’ said Livvy. ‘Ginny Vaughn is organising the tea. Ros merely has to represent you.’

My mother’s hesitation sent a wave of guilt through me. She deserved time with her best friend, and a little pampering. ‘Don’t even think of attending the match. I promise to wear a frilly apron and do my duty. But I will not collect up sweaty uniforms,’ I added.

‘If you don’t go quietly, I will carry you to the car over my shoulder,’ Daddy chimed in.

She laughed. ‘We can’t have the umpire injured before the game. I will think of you the whole time.’

‘I’ll make sure you don’t think of them at all,’ said Livvy sternly.


✽✽✽

Like my family, the villagers had, of course, been sizing up the Bovington men for weeks, trying to guess which newcomers would have a place on this year’s team. There were many knowing nods and mutterings as the army cars and lorries drew up at the field and the few white-clad cricketers separated from the khaki crowd.

Daddy looked up from buttoning his long white coat to acknowledge Major Peter Frobisher, umpire for the army’s side. He limped across the green, walking stick in hand, to inspect the wickets, checking as he went for holes that remained from the football season.

Major Frobisher was a relative of sorts, the brother of Daddy’s brother-in-law. Both he and my father were elected umpires under the assumption that the family connection would ensure fair play for both teams. According to an adult conversation I overheard years before, the type when parents are so keen to gossip that they convince themselves the children are not listening, Major Frobisher was a paper-pusher at Bovington before the war. Afterwards, he returned to his desk, the difference being that he had apparently astonished everyone by saving three of his men while under heavy fire. He earned the Victoria Cross, and now only sat at a desk job because he lost part of a foot during this act of bravery. After that conversation I spent quite a while wondering which part and stared at his boots every time I saw him.

Julian strolled over, cricket gloves clutched in one hand, arrayed in gleaming white, newly pressed flannels and a crisp shirt. The early afternoon sun created a halo around his golden hair. All I could think of was the Transfiguration of Christ in our church window. Good job Ginny Vaughn over at the pavilion could not hear my blasphemous thoughts.

‘Are you going to wish me luck, Ros?’

‘Do you need it? I hear you were captain of the school team.’

He screwed up his face. ‘So has everyone. Puts the pressure on one.’

‘Wearing your school jumper does not exactly hide it,’ I pointed out.

He tucked his chin to look at the navy school badge, the embroidery beneath denoting his captaincy. ‘I suppose not. But I haven’t earned the right for the Cambridge get-up yet, and they didn’t have a spare village jumper in my size. Do you usually watch the match?’

‘Yes. Well, most of it.’

‘Really?’ He tapped his gloves against a copy of My Cousin Rachel protruding from my tote bag.

‘A little literary relief for when the match gets too exciting. I will watch you play, I promise.’

‘I’ll quiz you on my inning afterwards.’ He leaned forward, lips close to my ear, his breath caressing my neck. ‘And if you fail…’

‘Jules!’ Teddy loped over. ‘Could you come and talk with Frank Robbins? He’ll be your other batting partner.’

Julian straightened and swung his gloves. ‘Sandwiched between a bird and a Bear.’

I joined in Julian’s laughter.

Teddy glared. ‘See you at tea, Rose-a-moaned.’

Julian flashed his grin from one of us to the other. ‘All the childhood nicknames coming out? Rose-a-moaned has its charm.’

‘Jamie is to thank for that,’ I said. ‘But that nickname died over ten years ago. Unlike some.’

Julian put an arm around each of our waists. ‘Now, children. Sticks and stones and all that. Both nicknames are splendid. My sister called me Goldilocks.’ He released me with a little squeeze that reverberated deep in my stomach. ‘Farewell, fair Rosamond. Onward to the breach, dear Teddy.’

In their wake, I turned my attention to the Bovington team, a mix of National Service and career army men. Clipped Oxbridge accents struck against London ones, fast city dialects riding over slow country drawls. In such a diorama of England, it would be easy to catch a non-local accent or face that called to mind someone familiar, as happened to Mummy the other day. I scanned the crowd for a face I could link to any of our old photographs, but no one struck me.

I could not refrain from a little sizing up of my own, but decided it was impossible to tell which men appeared confident due to cricket prowess or army discipline. Right ho, time to report to Ginny and discover what task she had in mind for me. But first to make sure that Grandfather was settled. I turned to the spot under the willow trees where he and his friends usually had their deckchairs. There he sat, within a circle already smaller than last year. A little spot of cold hit my chest despite the warm day.

I trotted over to them. ‘Have you ordered drinks at the pub yet?’

Grandfather tipped back his panama hat. ‘Yes, thank you, my dear. The barmaid came and took our orders.’

I accepted the usual teasing and compliments from his comrades and excused myself with reluctance to show my face at the pavilion. Inside, Ginny and another church member wiped plates and cups with dry tea towels as they unloaded them from boxes.

‘Hello, Ros, thank you for checking in. You have a lot of men to care for. I received your mother’s apologies. I must say, I wish the Reverend Vaughn would send me off to recuperate at a spa hotel.’

I made a noncommittal noise. ‘What would you like me to do today, Mrs Vaughn?’

‘Set up or serve, your choice. Two pairs of hands are fine for right now. Not that there is much to do by way of serving, except pour the tea and make sure we don’t run out of plates.’

‘I’ll set up.’

‘Are you sure you want to miss the end of the match? It might be exciting. Oh, there’s a chipped plate. Better put it aside for the helpers.’

‘It rarely is. I’ll come back when the last four men are in.’

I watched the toss, won by the village team, grabbed a faded deckchair from the stack against the side of the pavilion, and shook it open under the shade of a chestnut tree a short distance from Grandfather’s group. I needed a little solitude if I had to mingle on Mummy’s behalf later.

Valerie scampered up. ‘May I go to the playground with the other children? Billy Sheppard’s big sister will look after us.’

I stroked back her fringe. ‘Of course, darling. Do what Billy’s sister tells you.’

Jamie opened at bat with the blacksmith’s apprentice. Poor thing, double pressure as first on and the ‘squire’s boy’. He managed a decent twenty-four to give our side a respectable start before being caught out, and retired with a relieved expression.

I clapped my hands above my head as he strode past, and Grandfather raised his beer with a ‘Good show!’

The blacksmith’s apprentice held on for another seven runs. I mechanically watched and applauded through the succession of batters until Frank Robbins walked on. Julian would be next. I bent forward in my deckchair, not wanting to wish Frank’s partner out, but eager to see Julian play.

After ten minutes, he was in. My stomach fluttered as he strode to the wicket, the bat tucked under his arm. Behind me, Grandfather lauded Julian’s credentials.

Frank soon fell to an unlucky LBW, and Teddy came to partner his friend.

Julian exuded the persona of an athlete. The smooth swing of his limbs as he hit the ball across the pitch, the sheer grace of his gait, the way he touched the crease with his bat without even seeming to stretch, proclaimed he had been born to move. He and Teddy had obviously partnered many times: a subtle gesture here, a fleeting meet of the eyes as they passed on a run, formed an unspoken dialogue on their partnership. The captain had chosen well for the final batsmen. The two employed skill rather than flashy play, sending the ball between the mid-fielders with steady strokes, to build up the runs two and three at a time.

What did Julian think of me, I wondered? He had certainly slipped effortlessly into mine and Teddy’s summer partnership in the past couple of days, but did his intimate manner mean anything more? Surrounded by brothers and male cousins, I was good at being friends with boys, but not at flirting. No one from the village would dare approach me in that way, and the only young army officers who ever came to tea in the company of Major Frobisher had been carefully vetted to be as dull as dishwater.

Valerie returned to interrupt my thoughts, happy and flushed, seeking the bottle of lemonade stashed in my bag. I handed her a surprise bag of fruit salad sweets to share, which earned me a strangulating hug around the neck. When I looked up, Teddy was out, and the inning finished. He and Julian gained almost forty runs before the village team was dismissed, taking our total to a solid one hundred and sixty-four.

Our team gathered jubilantly outside the pavilion for refreshments. Their score would be hard to beat, though the other side had the advantage of a goal to reach. I did not interrupt their strategising on the bowling order and arrangement of fielders, but instead delivered another drinks order to the pub for Grandfather and his friends, then wandered briefly over to the park to hand a packet of fish paste sandwiches to Valerie, who was playing house under the slide with a little friend. I had dutifully watched our side batting, so, as the team gathered back onto the pitch for the army’s inning, I drew my novel from my bag, glancing up whenever there was a particularly loud noise from the spectators, using the scoreboard to keep track of when I should leave. Valerie returned to snuggle into my arms and quickly fell asleep.

Four batters left, and the army tally stood at ninety-eight. Simon stepped up to bowl the next over. Time for my shift. I slowly twisted to slip Valerie from my lap into the deckchair and covered her with my cardigan. A couple of soothing strokes, and she drifted asleep again. After ensuring that Grandfather would keep an eye on her, I wandered over to the pavilion, book in hand. I arranged sandwiches in pyramids and covered them with greaseproof paper, stacked tea cups, and set napkins in an artful pile, cultivating an air of enjoyment of these womanly accomplishments. I hoped my mother and Livvy were having fun, and that Livvy could fulfil the request I whispered in her ear before she left.

‘All ready, and the match is still going,’ said Ginny. ‘Well, shouldn’t be long now. Last two batters by the look of the scoreboard, and they are only at a hundred and seven.’

Outside, I leaned against the rail of the pavilion and opened the novel again. Immersed in the flip-flop of Rachel’s guilt and innocence, it took a while to notice the rising level of the crowd’s response. As I peered over my book, the soldier in bat whacked the ball far across the green. Grandfather caught my eye. ‘Second boundary,’ he called.

I closed the novel to pay attention as the wide lead steadily narrowed. Simon was not a fast bowler, but he had the knack of delivering surprise bowls with accuracy. Yet this batter seemed to anticipate his every trick.

Simon launched a spinner, then took a step back, grimacing as he rotated his shoulder. Unfazed, the batter sent it flying. Jamie shouted grumpily at Harry as he missed the ball whizzing low past him in deep field. Don’t lose your nerve now, I willed our team.

The score mounted to a hundred and fifty-five. Some of the army lot chanted and stamped until they were silenced by a sergeant for not being ‘at a bloody football match’.

Simon retired, his face set in grim resignation. Now the army team was only three runs behind.

A brief collusion of heads on the village team, and Julian stepped up to bowl. With the merest glance at the batter, he rubbed the ball on his trousers, staining the white flannel a dull red. He took several strides backwards and paused. Then he bolted forward, took a skip, swung his arm in an arc, and the ball launched from his hand like a rocket. The wicket keeper jumped back as the wicket smashed apart.

‘Out!’ called Major Frobisher.

The village erupted in cheers. The batsman strode forward to shake Julian’s hand, and he returned it with a nod and clap on the back. As if called by the Pied Piper, children skipped across the green from the playground, under trees, and behind cars, drawn to the trestle table set up for their drinks and biscuits. Tea urns were hauled to the front of army lorries for the ranks. Any officers, of course, took tea in the pavilion with the teams.

I hovered near the tables while the first onslaught of hungry cricketers hit the spread. As the crush petered out, I flung off my apron and went in search of Teddy and Julian.

‘Not bad, Jamie,’ I said, bumping past him.

‘Thanks,’ he spluttered through a mouthful of ham sandwich.

Julian and Teddy stood just outside the door in a ring of young men from the village, plus a few of the army men, still spouting about cricketing. Julian glanced round and raised his cup with a wink. Teddy caught the movement, and in a moment they flanked me in grinning triumph.

‘Hello, Ros. Did we manage not to bore you this year?’ asked Teddy.

I grinned back. ‘I only read about five chapters of my book.’

‘My Cousin Rachel is compelling stuff,’ said Julian. ‘You never see Rachel through her own eyes, so you can never tell who she truly is. I stayed up most of the night to finish it.’

I put up my palm. ‘Don’t tell me. You two had nerves of steel out there. I was impressed.’

‘That army chap nearly scuppered all the work,’ said Teddy. ‘I hear he played for Cambridge. But Julian is a first class finisher.’

‘Talking of bowlers, how is your father’s shoulder?’

‘Not too bad. It’s been playing him up for a while.’

‘Let me know when you want me to drive you home,’ I said.

‘Some of the young men are going over to the forge.’ Teddy indicated towards the blacksmith’s apprentice. ‘George has arranged for a keg and some fireworks, so you can go home when you are emancipated from teatime servitude.’

A villager turned to beckon.

‘Got to get back. See you tonight, or probably tomorrow. Don’t wait up.’ Teddy gave my arm a quick squeeze.

Julian offered a parting wink. ‘Do wait up for me, please. I want you to finish My Cousin Rachel so we can talk about it.’

Rankled with my cousin, I stomped back inside. Teddy talked a lot about making this summer special, but he certainly jumped at every other chance to do something without me.

The Reverend Vaughn nodded greetings. ‘Manor Farm acquitted themselves well today, Rosamond. We’re grateful to your guest for sealing the victory.’

‘Excuse me.’ The army batsman whom Julian had bowled out stood in front of me. ‘Forgive me for asking without an introduction, but did I hear you are from Manor Farm?’

I considered the young man. He was well spoken, dark-haired with a hint of red, about a head taller than me, green eyes glinting beneath a wide brow. His cricket jumper hung over his shoulders, his shirtsleeves rolled to show lean forearms, still gleaming slightly from the sweat of all those runs.

He held out a hand. ‘Miss Stephenson, I am Gareth Easton.’

I transferred my cup and saucer onto my empty plate. ‘Rosamond – Ros – Stephenson. You almost snatched victory from the proverbial jaws of defeat out there. Were you a Blue at Cambridge?’

He shook my hand. ‘Only a Half Blue, not quite good enough against that excellent bowler. It was almost a privilege to be felled by a swing bowl of that calibre. Glad to finally meet the Stephensons. I have a question, well, several questions for you concerning a distant cousin of mine who used to live here.’

‘Really?’ Gareth’s name and appearance did not strike any chords with me.

‘The name of the man is Captain Alex Milne. When I discovered I was coming here for National Service, an aunt of mine mentioned he worked at Bovington in the ’30s. Apparently he lived in a cottage owned by your family, a little way outside the village.’

I shook my head. ‘The name isn’t familiar. We rent out a few cottages, mostly for villagers or holiday makers, but your cousin would have been there before my time, or before my memory, at any rate. And you said “served”, in the past tense?’

‘He died here about twenty years ago. I am trying to dig up a little family history, but it’s a barren branch of the old family tree. Both his brothers died in the Great War, poor chap. No one alive in my family knows much about his movements here. Apparently, he was not very communicative.’

I stifled an exclamation. Could he be a candidate for my mother’s stranger? What a stroke of bad luck she wasn’t here.

‘My father must remember him.’ I looked around and saw Simon, but no Daddy. ‘Maybe he’s with my grandfather. Let me set down my tea things, then I’ll take you to him.’

Gareth stretched out his hand. ‘No, please, allow me.’

After Gareth returned my cup and plate, we strolled outside and around to the other side of the pavilion. A gap stood where one of our cars had been.

‘Oh,’ I exclaimed, deflated and frustrated, ‘our car is gone. My father must have taken Grandfather home. I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

‘No matter. Here’s a free bench. It’s awfully stuffy back there. Shall you sit while I fetch some fresh tea?’

Perhaps I should have said no, but the sting of Teddy and Julian’s desertion still smarted. ‘Thank you very much,’ I smiled and sat.

Gareth soon reappeared with tea and a plate piled with cake and cheese straws. ‘I begged for this tray, but I will have to return it soon or risk the wrath of a tea lady.’ He sat at the other end of the bench, the tray between us. ‘Would you like to swap ends? Mine is shadier.’

‘Thank you, but I’m used to the sun.’ I attempted a delicate bite of pastry, which crumbled onto my lap. ‘Are you a local historian, a genealogist, or something?’

Gareth stirred his tea. ‘Perhaps the “or something” at this moment. I finished my archaeology degree last year, so now I am doing my National Service. I signed up for the four-year officer stint, as it sounded less dreadful. My hope is for a post abroad where I can keep my hand in with some history and archaeology.’ His voice was deep, gentle, an oasis in the raucous babble echoing around the green.

‘But you were consigned to Bovington. Well, Wessex has plenty to keep an archaeologist happy, even if iron age burial mounds aren’t as glamorous as the pyramids.’ I tried to brush crumbs surreptitiously onto the grass.

‘And at least I can sate my curiosity about this Captain Milne. Nice to have a little detective puzzle to occupy me.’

And maybe the answer to my mystery as well. ‘Is he buried here?’ I asked. ‘I’m a bit of a graveyard haunter, but I don’t recall any non-local name among our more recent headstones.’

Gareth smiled. ‘Then we have something in common, but no, he’s not laid to rest at your village church. Your vicar suggested I try Saint Nicholas church at Studland. I intend to tootle over there on my day off if I can commandeer a car.’

The sound of Julian’s laugh pulled my glance away. He held court on the porch, basking in the glory of several admirers. Teddy’s hand rested on his shoulder.

I turned back to Gareth. ‘I could drive you.’

Gareth’s eyes widened, his expression curious, as if gauging my words. ‘I didn’t bribe you with cake in order to get a lift, Miss Stephenson. That would be inappropriate.’

Oh Lord, I had dropped myself in it now. I took a deep breath. ‘Of course I didn’t assume that of you, but I’m always running errands in that direction, so it would be no trouble. You’ve piqued my curiosity. I can’t recall your relative’s name ever being mentioned. In the meantime, I could ask my father or grandfather for more information.’ Enough babbling. I clamped my mouth shut.

Gareth saved me with the merest of gentlemanly shrugs. ‘Alex Milne was probably nothing more than a tenant to your family. I only hoped you might have another nugget of information to add to the others I have dredged up.’

My empty tea cup offered the excuse to escape before I got myself into trouble. ‘I’ll take the tray back. I am supposed to be helping with tea.’

Gareth stood. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Stephenson. Perhaps we shall talk again soon?’

‘Perhaps. Nice to meet you,’ I said blandly.

‘Ros,’ said Jamie, as I reached the pavilion, ‘I’m telling Mum you were sitting alone with a soldier.’ He put on his future-head-of-the-family voice for public show.

I sniffed. ‘He has a connection to the family. And for your information, he is an officer with a Cambridge degree and a Half Blue in cricket.’ Not to mention rather intriguing eyes. Funny, I hadn’t thought about that while we were deep in conversation.

‘What was he talking to you about?’

‘A question for Daddy or Grandfather. Not your business, James the Third.’ I emphasised the last word. ‘Go play with the other boys. I expect Mummy will keep the cocoa warm for you. I won’t be waiting up.’





Chapter Nine


I sat crossed legged on the sitting room rug, helping Valerie sort buttons from Mummy’s button tin. Opposite us, Simon bent over the side of an armchair, back stiff as a board, while Livvy perched on the other arm and pressed an ice pack against his shoulder. Grandfather sat in the matching armchair, brow furrowed over the Times crossword, while Mummy occupied one end of the sofa with the mending basket, darning my brothers’ socks.

I pushed a tiny mother-of-pearl button towards Valerie. ‘This should fit your dolly’s dress.’ I stretched up to the sofa for the needle case and thread.

Livvy looked up from her ministrations to Simon. ‘Phee, do you want me to help you reupholster that sofa while I’m here?’

Mummy sighed. ‘I bought the material, but we’d better wait until Wilfrid settles down. He’s already chewed a leg.’

I stabbed the thread through the eye of my needle. ‘How is Harry going to succeed in the army if he can’t train his own dog?’

Daddy entered, Dickens at his heel, sporting his better Barbour jacket, hair combed as flat as it could get. That meant a formal visit somewhere. Mummy set down her darning to pour him a cup of coffee from the tray on the side table.

‘Are you going to Devon today?’ I asked.

He dropped his tweed cap on the sofa and took the cup from Mummy. ‘Thank you, my love. Yes, Ros, Mr Banbury telephoned to ask if I could fetch the cattle as soon as possible. He’s about to take several calves to market, so would like to minimise disruption to the herd.’

Daddy was keen to improve our expanding herd, and this farmer in Devon had gained a reputation for his Swiss Brown cows.

Simon raised his head. ‘Will you be back by dinner? The kids challenged us to a croquet match this evening, old folk versus young, and I feel rather old today.’

Daddy settled on the sofa. ‘I should be back by early afternoon. The farm’s not too far over the border.’

Dickens nosed my ear, then stuck his head in the button tin before flopping down at Valerie’s side.

Livvy adjusted Simon’s ice pack. ‘You really are going to have to give up at least one of your sporting activities, darling.’

He winced. ‘Nonsense, I did this shoulder in trying to make my senior partner look good at tennis doubles. It was an anomaly.’

Livvy rolled her eyes at us over his head.

Daddy stirred cream into his coffee. ‘I bumped into Douglas Thorner yesterday. He is rankled because I didn’t buy his cousin’s stock.’

‘Douglas Thorner is still furious that Phoebe beat him to a place on the local agricultural committee during the war,’ Livvy pointed out. ‘The man can hold a grudge like a Scotsman holds his whisky. Keep still, Simon.’

My mother smiled quietly, head bowed over her darning.

‘Is his cousin’s stock inferior?’ Simon asked.

‘Yes. But I also want to avoid dealings with Thorner’s family. They are all too quick to anger, and too close to the Ministry of Agriculture. Thorner’s son works for them. The less interference from the authorities the better, in my opinion. They gained too much power during the war.’

The telephone rang in the hall. A minute later, Darby appeared. ‘A call for Miss Stephenson.’

Valerie stopped dancing her doll along Dickens’s back. ‘Me?’

‘Of course not, silly.’ I tossed the doll’s dress into the mending basket and got up. Who might it be? A school pal? The Wareham bookshop, to say my latest order had arrived?

I picked up the receiver from the hall table. ‘Rosamond Stephenson speaking.’

‘Miss Stephenson, this is Gareth Easton. Please forgive the short notice, but I managed to wrangle some time off today and wondered if you might be free to visit the church in Studland. That is, if you still wish.’

I held the phone away from my ear for a moment. I’d assumed that on reflection, Gareth would have dropped the matter. After all, I’d invited myself along without any encouragement from him.

I fumbled for a reply, torn. An outing with a near stranger, even if he was an officer (or as good as) and gentleman, smacked of impropriety. On the other hand, I was pretty flattered that a university graduate thought it worthwhile to spend time with me. And what if this army-related investigation got me closer to uncovering my mother’s mystery man? That final thought tipped the scales.

‘We’re sailing at the end of the morning,’ I said at last. ‘I could meet you if it is fairly soon.’

‘I’m terribly grateful. I can get the bus back. Some of the men are headed for the Lulworth shooting range, and they can drop me off at the end of Bovington Lane if that’s convenient.’ He paused. ‘Or perhaps you should take me to Manor Farm first so I can properly introduce myself.’

I stepped closer to the wall and hunched over the receiver. ‘Most of the family met you at the cricket match.’

‘But not your parents.’

A formal introduction under the eyes of all my family and a bevy of cousins? Not on my life. ‘My father is about to leave for Devon. I’ll tell him. It will be fine.’

‘If you are sure… Look, I’m phoning from my office. The number is Bovington 936 if you need to change your plans.’

‘What time?’

‘About eleven?’

I clutched the cord. ‘I’ll meet you there.’

Daddy entered the hall as I set down the receiver. ‘Who was that, Ros?’

It was on the tip of my tongue to say that I was giving a friend a lift to Studland. I don’t know if I was more surprised at my temptation to lie, or at the stupidity of the idea. Taking a stranger somewhere local, the odds were good we’d bump into an acquaintance, who would in turn mention it to my parents. I straightened.

‘Someone I offered to help the other day. One of the National Service officers who was on the cricket team. Gareth Easton, the Cambridge graduate with the Half Blue in cricket. You met him, of course?’

Daddy raised an eyebrow.

‘The one who batted last at the cricket match and nearly won it for the army. He – actually, I promised to ask you, but forgot – he had a relative who lived in one of our cottages a long time ago, and is trying to find out about him. Alan, no Alex something, last name beginning with “m”. I speculated that you and Grandfather knew the man.’

Daddy glanced back towards the dining room. ‘What about him?’ he asked softly.

‘You remember him?’

‘Yes, but I barely had anything to do with the man. He lived alone in Dog Rose Cottage, not that it had a name then, back before we renovated it. He was pretty much a hermit. He conducted land surveys for the army.’ He hesitated. ‘What does this Gareth want to know?’

I relaxed, relieved the more awkward questioning was so easily deflected. ‘He’s tracing some family history. Apparently this distant cousin died here, but was not buried in the local churchyard, so he wants to check the graves at Saint Nicholas Church.’ I paused. ‘Did Mummy know him?’

Daddy started. ‘Your mother? She isn’t from here, so how could she? He came before her time.’

‘Oh.’ Maybe a dead end, then. Anxiety and anticipation played tug-of-war within me. Should I pull out of this awkward non-date? Gareth had given me the option to cancel. But did I really want to? I chewed my lip, glanced back at the telephone.

Daniel, our chief farm hand, popped his head in at the open front door. ‘The trailer is hitched, Mr Stephenson.’

‘What? Oh, of course.’ He turned to me. ‘Ros, tell the young man that I am sorry, but I can’t help him. I didn’t know his relative very well at all. If I had…’ He clutched his cap. ‘Well, must go.’

As Daddy left, I realised I had not actually said Gareth and I were going to drive to Studland. But surely, I had implied it.

The boys clattered down the stairs above me.

‘Was that your cricketing admirer?’ asked Jamie over the bannister.

‘What admirer?’ Livvy trilled from the sitting room.

‘No admirer,’ I called back. ‘I answered a National Service officer’s local history questions at the cricket match, and Jamie thinks he can rat on me because he has never fully left the nursery.’ I glared at my brother. ‘If you must know, I’m giving someone a lift to Saint Nicholas Church. Daddy knows.’

Teddy took the final few steps in one leap. ‘What about the boat launch? We’re about to leave for Poole Marina. I thought you planned to join us. Please don’t bail out.’

Gareth was the one I ought to bail out on, but I had given my word. ‘We already planned to dock at Studland for lunch. You’ll take ages to get the boat ready at Poole, then probably decide you are ravenous and eat the picnic before sailing around to Studland. I’ll only be down the road from the beach. I can meet you by twelve.’

Julian rested his chin on the bannister. ‘Do come, Ros. I haven’t sailed much, so I am relying on you and Teddy to tutor me.’

That melting smile: always offering, never attainable. Would Julian treat me differently if he thought a more mature man was interested? The thought of turning the tables sent a little shiver of excitement down my spine. I leaned against the table and smiled back, aping the models in Ginny’s magazines. ‘I promise to be there.’


✽✽✽

Not keen to face a gaggle of soldiers, I made sure to arrive at the meeting point a little past the appointed time. Gareth waited at the crossroads, a camera slung across his shoulder. I did a double take at seeing him in khaki battledress. In his cricket uniform, he might have been one of us; now, he was part of the army. Certainly good-looking in that polished, military way, but more restrained, less himself.

He slipped into the passenger seat of the Morris. ‘Thanks awfully, Miss Stephenson.’

‘Ros, please.’

‘Then you must call me Gareth.’ He glanced across at me. I had originally grabbed one of Teddy’s old tennis shirts for practicality, but then decided I should dress up to meet Gareth, so I sported a blue and green short-sleeve knit top over my navy pedal pushers, but stuck with my worn, trusty boating shoes.

‘Did I interrupt your sailing expedition?’ he asked.

I started the engine. ‘Not at all. It will still be low tide at Studland right now, and the boys have to sail the new boat around from Poole.’

We pulled away from the kerb and trundled down the road. An awkward silence descended. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. Should I be driving off on a jaunt with a stranger? Again, what did I really know about this man? Besides, I’d practically committed to flirting with Julian this summer. Entertaining two men at once was bad form.

On the other hand, everything about Gareth spoke of his being a gentleman. He’d offered to meet my parents, for goodness’ sake. I pretended to check the road to my left, and observed his face, quiet, serious, perhaps nervous like me. My gut instinct was right. I could trust him. Besides, this morning would probably be nothing more than a local history outing. We would search for the grave, then part ways, and it would all be perfectly polite. Maybe we would never speak again. My stomach dipped with relief.

Or was it disappointment?

‘Nice camera,’ I said to break the silence.

‘Thank you. It’s a new Contax model. Are you interested in photography?’

‘Not especially, but my younger cousin, Aidan, is already a talented photographer. I’ve picked up some know-how from him. By the way, I am afraid I forgot to speak to my father about your relative until you telephoned. Daddy told me that your cousin, Captain, erm…’

‘Milne,’ he offered.

‘Milne, thank you. Captain Milne rented one of our cottages outside the village, not too far from Bovington, but Daddy didn’t know him personally. He described your relative as a hermit.’

Gareth fingered the camera strap. ‘The same information as I got from my own family, and one or two older men at Bovington. Either this Captain Milne is a man of secrets, or a boring old relative.’

I steered into a passing gap alongside the hedgerow to let a bus go by. ‘Did you ask Major Peter Frobisher? He is my boring old relative by marriage and has worked at Bovington forever as far as I know.’

‘I haven’t had a chance. He makes a point of not fraternising much with the National Service junior officers. But now you’ve given me an excuse to approach him.’

‘Nearly there.’ I turned off the ferry road into School Lane and then Church Road, which dead-ended at the entrance to St Nicholas, and parked the car next to the brand new church hall, the sun glinting off its pale brickwork and gleaming slate roof. ‘So here we are. This church is lucky. It managed to escape the bombs dropped around here. Several other buildings didn’t, especially in Swanage.’

The church sat before us a few yards from the entrance gate, sunk below the undulating graveyard that surrounded it, as if nestled among green eiderdowns of the sleeping dead.

Gareth pushed open the little wooden gate and held it for me. ‘Do you mind if we walk around the perimeter of the church first? The architecture looks Norman.’

‘The church is roughly Norman, built on the site of a Saxon church allegedly founded by Saint Aldhelm, but I suppose you already read up on the history. Is that your period?’

Gareth shut the gate behind us. ‘In general, though I’m most interested in the early Middle Ages. I don’t have a specialty yet. National Service interrupted that.’

‘So you plan to return to academia?’

‘Unless something changes my mind in the next four years. What about you?’

‘I have a place at Cambridge – Girton – for the Michaelmas term, to read English. I inherited that strength from my mother.’ I was glad I had that achievement to boast of.

Gareth stopped to face me. ‘You sound uncertain.’

His penetrating gaze seemed to forbid an evasive answer. ‘I haven’t decided whether to accept the offer or stay here and work full time on the estate. It’s hard to know which path to choose.’

I faked a laugh, disconcerted he had so easily drawn that confession from me, something only my family knew. ‘But you don’t need my life story. Where do you want to begin our – your – quest? The Bankes family tombs are in that corner, if you are interested in the local nobility.’ I indicated to my right.

‘The church first.’ Gareth craned his head to survey the stone decorations running under the eaves of the south side. ‘The corbels are quite notable,’ I muttered, ‘quite notable’ being a euphemism for ‘rather pornographic’, which suddenly seemed less amusing when viewed shoulder to shoulder with a good-looking young man.

Gareth halted to gaze at the copulating couple nestled against the ridge of the little entrance porch roof, almost hidden from sight. ‘The porch is obviously newer.’ He angled his camera for a shot. ‘A past incumbent must have disapproved of the stonemason’s creativity.’

‘That’s what I always thought.’ I clapped a hand to my mouth. Was that too unladylike? But Gareth didn’t hear, or at least didn’t reply. He already forged ahead, rolling on the camera film for the next photograph.

I trailed Gareth around the corner to the west side of the church. He stepped up onto the edge of the low stone wall for a better view of the corbels. Although worn by time and the damp, salty air, many were still recognisable as animal heads or human caricatures. Less easy to spot, unless one was an expert, were the stone man and woman proudly displaying their huge genitalia.

‘A sheela-na-gig.’ Gareth nodded appreciatively at the squatting woman. ‘Fine Norman architecture here.’ He raised his camera for a few photographs.

‘Is that what it is called?’ Heat rising in my cheeks, I turned to stare across the fields down to Little Beach. No sign of a yacht.

‘Some think they are a nod to a goddess, or fertility rites,’ Gareth said. ‘Others say they are an ancient gesture to ward off evil.’ I swivelled back, expecting a smirk, but Gareth’s expression was earnest.

I froze for a moment, confused how to react. Julian could say so little and yet be so suggestive. Yet here was Gareth talking about explicit matters and implying nothing. Did it mean he had no romantic interest in me, or that he saw me as an equal? I shook myself. ‘Do you wish to look inside the church?’ Somewhere cool and dim suddenly seemed inviting.

‘Later. Let’s hunt for my relative.’

‘The more recent graves are mostly over there.’ I pointed to the west. All around us, gravestones leaned higgledy-piggledy over the humped grass, mostly low stones, punctuated with taller crosses. Besides the Bankes family vaults, there were only a couple of tombs, reflecting the modest status of the parishioners.

We tramped across the grass. ‘Keep reminding me to focus on finding Milne,’ said Gareth, ‘or I’ll get distracted by interesting graves.’

‘It’s hard not to. Look there: someone who “passed peacefully away” is right next to a woman “taken suddenly”. You can’t help but wonder what the stories are, and the gravestones look like little doorways into people’s lives.’

‘What a perfect way to put it,’ Gareth said. ‘I see why you would read English if you went to Girton.’

I smiled, happy to impress a scholar, however modestly.

A grave-by-grave search of the area revealed no one by the name of Milne.

‘Let’s see if he got tucked in somewhere else,’ said Gareth. ‘I’ll take the area in front of the church.’

‘I’ll take the outskirts,’ I said, suddenly fired for the hunt.

I skimmed the headstones mottled with age and grey-orange lichen, scanning for something brighter. Despite our mission, I lingered by a tall headstone I had often contemplated before. An angel – whether a guardian angel or an angel of death was unclear – gazing ominously on a small child who looked up from its game in the bottom corner of the stone. Three children in the same family, drowned in a sailing accident at Studland on the thirtieth of July 1927. Angela and Lawrence Marten, aged twenty-one and seventeen, young Henry, their brother, only eleven. The two elder children gave their lives in a gallant attempt to save their younger brother and sister, it read.

I wandered to the edge of the graveyard, or at least, the current edge, because a small rectangle of empty land lay to the side, awaiting new occupants. A spreading birch tree offered shade. Out across the bay, a couple of sails bobbed, but still nothing distinctive. Those drowned siblings, my age, had set out on a July day like this. And their grief-stricken parents had turned their grave into a memorial, giving them a story for the life they would never have. A breeze whipped through the tree branches and across my arms.

I shivered, looked down to rub my goose bumps. Then noticed the grave tucked almost behind the tree trunk. Milne.

I swung around and waved to Gareth. ‘I’ve found it!’

He jogged over, and we examined the unadorned marble headstone together. ‘Alex Rawleigh Milne. Born May 14, 1895. Died July 26, 1934.’

‘That’s the chap. Well done, Ros!’ Gareth flung out his arms. For a moment, I thought he might hug me. My breath hitched. Then he stepped back, clasped his hands behind him, and smiled awkwardly. ‘Um, good detective work.’

Embarrassed and a little crestfallen, I quickly turned back to the grave and read on. ‘And in memory of his beloved brothers John and Thomas, fallen in France. May their souls rest and rise together. How sad.’

‘I agree. I mentioned that branch of the family died with him. That’s one reason I can’t dig up any stories about him or his brothers.’

We stood in silence for a few moments.

‘Thirty-nine.’ I calculated. ‘He must have fought in the Great War as well. July 1934 was just before my parents got married. No wonder they took no notice of him or his death. They were busy falling in love that summer. Well, my father fell in love first. He begged my mother not to leave Dorset, and she suddenly realised she loved him, too.’ I stopped with a laugh. ‘Sorry, family legend.’

Gareth surveyed the surroundings. ‘I wonder why the grave is out here, almost at the edge. I suppose it is because of the family plots.’

‘And he was not a local. People here are picky about that, even in death,’ I joked.

Gareth squatted and adjusted the camera’s focus before taking a couple of photographs of the grave.

‘Would you like me to take one of you standing by the headstone? I hope that didn’t sound too morbid,’ I added.

‘Not at all. I would have offered to do the same. Yes, please take a photograph. I might send a print to the aunt who knew a little about the Milnes.’ He unwound the strap from his neck and cradled the camera in my hands, his fingers cool against mine. He tapped the little window. ‘You use the rangefinder and adjust the focus with this wheel at the top. It’s pretty easy.’

I stepped back to get the whole of Gareth into the frame. Next to the memorial to his dead cousins, it took my fancy that he might have been one of those soldier’s ghosts rising from the grave. ‘Just one more in case I mess it up. There.’

Gareth checked his watch. ‘The bus is due to arrive in half an hour. There’s time to squeeze in a peek at the church. You should get down to the beach and your family. I have kept you from your fun long enough.’

I handed back the camera. ‘Actually, I enjoyed solving this mystery. And thanks to you, I missed all the preparation work and get to enjoy sailing a brand new, expensive yacht.’ The motive of playing Julian at his own game receded. I wanted to prolong this outing, get to know Gareth for himself.

‘That seems fair after you suffered all the drudgery at the cricket match.’

With a glance back at Alex Milne’s grave, we walked the few yards to the church. Inside, the stained-glass windows cast red and green light across the floor, and the smell of ancient wood rose to greet us. The chipped flagstone floor stretched towards the altar, the smooth columns and arch forming a cathedral aisle in miniature.

‘I think the place must have some ancient protective spell on it, because it escaped modernisation as well as bombs,’ I said.

Gareth surveyed the little space. ‘The stone is very plain in here. The mason must have expressed his creativity on the exterior of the church.’

I rested in a rear pew to give Gareth the space to wander the few steps up and down the church, with its simple altar at the front and the plain baptistery and narrow gallery squeezed across the back. I studied the faint traces of paint on the wall above me, wondering what it had depicted before the Puritans, most likely, scrubbed the offending picture away. Above the nave, verses from Psalm eighty-four proclaimed, ‘My soul hath a desire and longing to enter into the courts of the Lord: my heart and my flesh rejoice in the living God.’ I could not help thinking instead of the desire and flesh of the carvings outside. Was it like our fleshly longings compared to our inner souls?

Gareth slipped into the pew beside me. ‘Quite a hidden gem, especially that font.’

‘I’m glad you appreciate the font. People think it’s awfully plain, but it must predate this building. Can you imagine squalling Saxon infants being baptised in it?’

He slipped his arm over the back of the pew. ‘You seem to be quite a local history buff.’

‘My mother assigned several history projects when she taught us during the war. She used to be a governess, and she’s a writer, so that made her a pretty good teacher. Plus, of course, subjects such as geography and history were limited to the books in our library, or what we could purloin from the closed schools.’

Gareth leaned in a little closer, his warm, musky scent drifting like incense in the cool church. ‘Whatever path you eventually choose, Ros, I am certain you would flourish at Cambridge. You have the curiosity of a scholar.’

A glow suffused me. Not the heat that Julian engendered, but something quietly satisfying. ‘So,’ I added, spurred by his approbation, ‘are you going to research your relative further, or are you satisfied to have found his grave?’

Gareth ran a finger across the hymn book on the rack in front of him. ‘I didn’t really have a plan. To be honest, the search has been a diverting puzzle, a relief from army duties. When the powers that be found out I could type and organise, they put me on extra office duty. I get ribbed by the others for being privileged, but in truth I’d rather be outside crawling in the mud than subjecting my brain to mental drudgery.’

My heart sank. Somehow, it didn’t seem right to end the search here, with a cold stone. Milne deserved a story, like those drowned siblings.

‘Captain Milne was not that old. I wonder how he died,’ I mused.

‘I think it was some sort of accident.’

I shifted to face Gareth. ‘There may be a local newspaper report. I wouldn’t expect an obituary since he was not a local, but an accident might make the news.’

At the mention of research, Gareth’s face grew animated. ‘I was thinking the same. If the local papers don’t keep their own archives, I could try a library. Maybe Poole or Bournemouth library is large enough to archive several newspapers.’

‘Dorchester is closer, and it’s our county seat. They keep local records.’ Excitement rose as I considered. ‘But someone in your family must have overseen the burial. Who else could have known about his brothers, to add that inscription to the headstone?’

‘An army friend? If he had any friends, which doesn’t sound likely thus far.’ Gareth glanced at his watch again. ‘Sorry, I need to catch that bus. Thank you for helping me today, Ros, and for those leads.’

‘I enjoyed the quiet outing. It’s a bit of an all-boys school at our house right now.’

Gareth laughed. ‘The same for me in barracks.’

We emerged, blinking, into a day rapidly warming up.

‘Do let me know what you discover,’ I said. ‘I will talk to Grandfather. Back then, he was more involved in running the estate, so he might remember Captain Milne better than Daddy.’ I hesitated. ‘Major Frobisher visits occasionally, and brings guests. If you mention you are acquainted with us, he might invite you. The house has Elizabethan origins, and the estate is even older, so it might interest you. From a historical point of view,’ I added, quickly.

‘I’d be very interested.’ A smile quirked the corner of his mouth. ‘From a historical point of view, of course.’





Chapter Ten


After pointing Gareth in the direction of the bus stop, I left the car outside the church to walk the short distance to the Middle Beach jetty. I crossed the field at the back of the church, past the Bankes Arms pub, humming a tune as I skipped down the shady, unpaved avenue that wound between banks of trees and bushes to spill onto the narrow shoreline of Little Beach.

​At the edge of the road, where the dirt merged with the flint-strewn sand, Jim – general boat hand, beach hut maintenance man, part-time fisherman, and unofficial beach caretaker – perched on a stool outside his shed. He held a mug of mud brown tea in hand, his pipe hanging down over a tobacco-stained beard.

​He nodded upon seeing me. ‘Mornin’, Miss Ros. Not taking yer boat out today?’

​‘We’re giving our cousins’ new yacht a trial. Something a little unconventional,’ I added, almost apologetically.

‘Well, watch the currents. Spring tide today, and the water won’t have zettled after yesterday’s storm. It’ll be bumpy out there. We had a whole tree trunk wash up on shore, needed a tractor to drag it away.’ He pointed his pipe to where a deep indentation ran across the sands.

‘I’ll remind them. See you later, Jim.’

Piles of seaweed traced a wavy line along the sand, its sour saltiness invading my nostrils. The memory of yesterday’s storm lingered in the brisk wind that drove grey-edged clouds over a choppy, dull green sea. The incoming tide left only a narrow strip of beach between the sea and the scrubby heathland that crept down to the shore. I paused sporadically to poke through the debris thrown up by the sea and pocketed a new fishing float, leads still attached, but had to pass on a large, ivory-pale piece of driftwood. A pity I was headed for the boat. Beachcombing would be good today.

Past the headland, a few people were scattered along the sandier Middle Beach, a couple snoozing in deckchairs, a father building a sandcastle while his young children ran back and forth to the sea with buckets of water for the moat. Several small boats lay anchored on the sand, bare masts pointed at an angle to the sky. Early in the season, and on a weekday, the beach was quiet, with only one unmanned pleasure boat jostling the end of the jetty. Dorothy Bankes, who ran the Beach Cafe, sat by the door of her establishment, soaking up the scant rays of the sun while reading a newspaper.

I slipped off my shoes to paddle the couple of steps to the wooden jetty and climbed up. Straight ahead, out to sea, someone on a yacht raised his hand. Oh my, was that the new craft? Her crisp blue-and-white paint was a pointed reminder our old boat needed more attention than we could afford.

Fresh paint aside, her design was rather startling, rounder than any other boat I’d seen, her hull a bulging curve from the waterline to the deck rail. If she had been designed to garner attention, it certainly succeeded. She stood out on the water like one of the exotic migrant birds blown off course here in winter.

Teddy manoeuvred the yacht gently against the end of the jetty while Jamie stood, mooring line at the ready.

‘Did you hear that inboard engine sing?’ Teddy asked as I clasped his outstretched hand and stepped down into the boat.

Julian patted the space next to him in the cockpit. I slid onto the long, cushioned bench and slipped on my shoes. ‘Luxury! We’d barely squash into our boat.’

Harry, sitting apart from the others, glared at me.

‘But our boat was built for this coast,’ I added. ‘We’ll take you out in her some time, won’t we, Harry?’

Harry harrumphed.

‘Did you drop your friend off?’ Julian asked.

‘Yes. We located a family grave at the church.’ So few words to describe such an expansive experience.

‘Sounds a little dull.’

‘Not dull at all.’ I smiled at the memories fresh in my mind. ‘The preserved Saxon and Norman architecture, especially the corbels, rival any cathedral. And the graves…’ I stopped myself. ‘Well, every one of them has a story. If you’re into history or archaeology, it’s fascinating.’

Julian shrugged. ‘I’m not the studying type. I don’t plan to take a degree at Cambridge, just get “finished off”, and keep Teddy company as he slogs through law.’

‘Let’s not think about books on a day like this.’ Teddy grimaced as he reached down to ease the gear into forward, then nudged the whipstaff gently aside to move the boat’s nose away from the jetty. ‘We’ll head out past the breakwater where we have plenty of room, and up sails.’

‘Obviously,’ Harry muttered.

‘Not to Julian,’ I pointed out. ‘We’re educating him, remember?’ Honestly, did Harry only come along to spoil the day?

‘I’m yours and Teddy’s willing pupil,’ said Julian.

His leg brushed mine, golden hairs glistening against biscuit pale skin, raising the hairs on my thigh. In contrast, the legs of my seafaring brothers and cousins already sported summer tans, Aidan’s knees reddened from a recent sunburn. Yet somehow, their sportiness seemed clumsy against Julian’s beautiful athleticism.

Closer to Little Beach, a small boat bobbed as its occupant cast and reeled in his fishing line, two seagulls circling above his head. Far off to the right, a ferry slid out from Poole harbour. A cormorant shot up like a torpedo beside us, then back beneath the waves, to appear several yards away, a fish flapping desperately in its beak. Aidan raised the camera slung around his neck.

We caught the wind and set out at an angle. Old Harry rocks loomed next to the cliffs on our left, the waves driving through the archway at the foot of Old Harry himself. Half a dozen gulls hovered hopefully in the wake churned by our boat.

Julian turned his face to the breeze, which rippled through his golden hair. I stole a peek at the perfect bow of his lips. How would it feel to kiss him? I swallowed, caught off guard by my thought.

Julian stretched his arm along the back of the bench, fingertips resting on my back, as if he had read my mind. ‘This is what I missed living a landlocked life,’ he sighed.

‘There is no freedom like the sea,’ I agreed rather heartily, trying to focus on the waves and not his fingers playing lightly up and down my spine.

He traced a circle on my back. ‘I suppose you have all been sailing since you were knee high to a navvy.’

‘Not quite, but close. Once the eldest of us was around twelve, our parents let us out on our own.’ My laugh reverberated against the gentle pressure of his fingers.

Aidan lowered his camera. ‘Dad raised us on a deck. He says the wind over the water is the only thing that can blow the cobwebs of the judicial system out of his head.’

Startled out of our little bubble, I jerked away from Julian’s touch. ‘So, what have you learned?’ I asked him.

‘A lot.’ He winked. ‘But if you mean the boat, first, that a rope is never a rope. Which is confusing, because how can I “know the ropes” if they’re all lines and sheets and halyards? And that,’ he pointed to the stick in Teddy’s hand, ‘is not a tiller.’

Teddy turned his head ‘A whipstaff. It would be a tiller or rudder if it was at the end of the boat.’

‘You can steer from the front or back?’ Julian raised an eyebrow at Teddy. ‘You’ll have to show me both ways this holiday.’

Teddy shook his head and turned away, biting a smile.

‘How many berths below?’ I asked Aidan.

‘Six. Lifejackets are down there,’ he added.

‘Sounds like a trip is in order,’ I said. ‘How about Sark?’

‘Why stop there?’ asked Teddy. ‘This craft could cross an ocean.’

We talked over each other, laughter growing as we suggested more and more exotic places to visit. Except Harry, who stared morosely back to land. How could he still have a chip on his shoulder about the new boat? We had land, our cousins had money. It had always been that way.

Jim was right about the condition of the sea. We no sooner cleared the protection of the breakwater than Stella put her nose into a heavy green wave, splitting it into thousands of glittering drops arcing to either side of her bow.

‘You should have seen how quickly Teddy and I brought her round from Poole,’ said Jamie.

‘It was the weather,’ said Harry. ‘My dog could have managed it.’

I shot an anxious glance at Jamie, willing him to ignore Harry’s barbed remark. I understood the fears that drove Jamie to be overbearing – he would inherit the estate, even though I was a born farmer and Harry a natural leader. But at least he had a direction. Harry and I must strike out on our own.

Just let it go, all of you, I pleaded silently, though the set of Harry’s chin did not bode well.

‘Let’s get the sails up,’ Teddy said, a little too calmly. ‘Jamie, take the helm.’

Harry twitched as though he’d been stung.

I jumped up. ‘If you grind the winch, I’ll tail,’ I told Harry. He gave a curt nod.

Teddy clambered onto the deck to untie the lines that furled the mainsail to its boom. I worked with Harry, picking up the slack as he wound the jib sheet.

‘Ready?’ Teddy called as the canvas slid sideways to puddle near his feet.

Jamie nodded, easing Stella’s bow into the wind where she bucked uncomfortably in the heavy chop as Teddy hauled at the main halyard. The line rose in its track, whipping madly in the cool breeze.

Harry looked up across the bow. ‘I’ll go forward and get the jib ready.’

‘I’ve got it,’ Teddy replied. He fastened the halyard onto its cleat, then flashed a warm smile in Julian’s direction. ‘On a boat like Stella, the foresail’s called a jib.’ He moved forward. ‘Right now we have the jib rolled up – see? – and tied to the bow pulpit to keep it out of the water.’

‘Sorry, the what?’ said Julian.

‘Bow pulpit – this bit sticking off the end of the boat.’ Teddy indicated. ‘We could leave the jib on deck, but that would risk it getting a bellyful of water and going overboard. So someone needs to go up and free it for hoisting, like this.’ He freed the jib from the lines that secured it to the pulpit.

I threw Aidan a questioning look. What was up with his brother? Teddy wasn’t the type to show off, but I swear he would have made this a one-man sailing show if he could.

Aidan shrugged. ‘Dad read us the riot act about taking care of this boat.’ But I heard the lack of conviction in his voice, and observed that he conspicuously kept out of Teddy’s way, albeit under the guise of a photographer.

Back at the mast, Teddy raised the jib halyard and secured it.

‘Fall off to port, Jamie,’ he called.

Jamie hesitated, waiting for the next wave, then eased the whipstaff over. Stella stalled briefly before letting the sea push her bow to the left. Teddy slid down into the cockpit to haul on the mainsheet until the sail filled. Stella eased onto her side and began to move forward.

Harry reached to free the jib sheet in preparation for winching the now flailing sail into position.

‘Did you wrap the winch right, Harry?’ Jamie teased.

I winced. What happened to our lifelong crew? ‘We’ve all fouled the winch. It’s easy enough to do.’ I directed this remark to Julian, but meant it as much for Harry.

‘I haven’t,’ said Jamie.

‘Don’t listen to him,’ Aidan murmured as Harry set in the winch handle and began cranking angrily, tightening the jib sheet.

Quiet descended as Stella slid through the waves. Our task finished, Harry and I sank back into our seats. This should have been the best part of sailing, the only noise the wind in the rigging, the sound of the sea, and the cries of birds. Not the insults of a pack of half-grown boys.

Excepting Julian. I turned in his direction, but his gaze was transfixed on Teddy. ‘How do you know when to do all these things?’ he asked.

Teddy brushed back his cowlick, set his feet apart, every inch the captain. ‘A lot of it is instinct you acquire over time.’

‘Where’s that instinct, Teddy,’ Harry jeered. ‘It’s time to tack.’

Teddy bristled. ‘You’re talking to a junior Cowes medal winner.’

Harry glared back. ‘That was last year, and you were the runner-up. I know boats as well as you.’

‘I’ve been sailing since before you could wipe your own backside.’ Teddy glanced sideways at Julian.

A tension shimmered across the boat like the hazy sun. I surveyed faces no longer as boyish as they had seemed minutes ago. This ribbing had a hard, masculine edge to it. For a moment, I wished to be back in that cool, quiet churchyard.

‘Shut up, Harry,’ put in Jamie with classic brotherly tactlessness.

‘Why don’t you show your guest who really knows the boat?’ Harry stood, but was promptly forced back down when a hard gust heeled Stella sharply over, putting her rail well into the water, catching the edge of the jib and jerking her further down.

Teddy jumped forward to release the main sheet. ‘Watch out!’ he cried as the boom swung sideways.

‘Release the bloody jib sheet, Harry!’ Jamie yelled. ‘Damn it!’

‘Don’t tell me how to sail!’ Harry shouted back.

‘Calm down!’ snapped Aidan. ‘Don’t be blasted fools!’

Julian half rose, hands grasping the seat for balance. ‘Why don’t we settle this over a pint and a pub game back at shore?’

I flung a hand across Julian’s chest. ‘Stay seated. They have sea legs, you don’t.’

Aidan’s outburst stalled Jamie and Teddy, but had no effect on Harry, now oblivious to all but his anger. He glowered at his brother before struggling to uncleat a line already under tremendous pressure. The sheet jerked itself out of Harry’s grasp, somehow spinning free of the winch.

Stella began to right herself, only to have the unfettered boom slam over to the opposite side, rocking her over. Caught sideways to the sea, she took a hit to her starboard side and rocked back, the boom swinging with her. Harry, leaning over the side to see what was happening with the jib, over-balanced and plunged into the water.

Jamie leapt for the lifebuoy, tugging it free. By some miracle, he tossed it directly into Harry’s hands as Teddy wrestled the boom under control.

‘Take the helm, Ros,’ Teddy ordered, bending down to start the engine. ‘I’m going to get the jib out of the water.’ He straightened, turning to see Harry reaching for the swim ladder, then froze. ‘Bloody Hell.’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘There,’ he pointed out to sea.

A little ahead, something bobbed in the waves, round, draped in seaweed, a monstrous head emerging from the deep. Black spikes poked through the mass of weed. I opened my mouth and screamed like a banshee.

‘A mine!’





Chapter Eleven


The boys froze.

‘Abandon ship!’ Teddy yelled.

Without hesitation, I stepped onto the bench and leaped. The next moment, sea water whooshed in my ears as I struck out blindly underwater, my only thought to escape being hit by the boat. I surfaced, gasping, a few feet away. A quick count of bobbing heads told me all was well – for now.

Treading water to my right, Teddy wriggled out of his jumper. His brother swam one-armed, the camera held above his head.

‘For God’s sake, Aidan, let the bloody thing go!’ Teddy sputtered.

I kicked off my shoes, wishing I had worn Teddy’s old shirt, after all.

‘Christ Almighty!’ Julian’s face had turned as green as the sea. He had no experience of living with these dangers on the coast.

I doggy-paddled around to face him. ‘Don’t make for shore yet, swim out to sea. Away from the direction of the current.’

Like a pod of dolphins, we turned as one and struck out, away from the mine, fighting against the tide intent on pushing us back. With each stroke, I braced for the possibility of an explosion. What to do? Dive? Would we even stand a chance? And then, incongruously, I am going to die, and I’m still a virgin. I’ve never even properly kissed a boy. I lifted my head and surveyed the others around me. What were they thinking?

Ahead of us, the fisherman dropped his rod and grabbed his oars, turning his boat in our direction. Between our gesticulations and those of Jim on the shore, he realised the danger, and held back as we thrashed through the water towards him.

‘Here, miss!’ The fisherman held out an oar. I grasped it, trying not to pull too hard until he had me up to the boat. As he heaved me aboard, dripping, I felt very relieved to be wearing trousers.

‘There’s room for one more,’ the man called.

‘Julian, go with Ros. We know these tides and the beach,’ Jamie panted.

Julian spat out a mouthful of seawater. ‘I can manage. I’m a strong swimmer.’

‘Please,’ gasped Teddy, ‘it’s safer for everyone.’ He shoved Julian between the shoulder blades.

Julian nodded and lunged into an impressive front crawl. In less than two minutes he hunched beside me on the bench. The man dragged a small tarp from beneath his seat. ‘The boat cover is all I have, but it’s better than nothing.’

‘It’s very welcome.’ Julian draped the grubby tarp around our shoulders and pulled me against him. The canvas stank of sea water and scraped our bare skin, but it was as comforting as a silk shawl.

‘I can row,’ Julian panted. ‘Let me take an oar.’

The fisherman shook his head. ‘You know the young lady, I know my boat. Best care for our own girls.’ He waved at the people on shore and settled down to the oars. ‘We’re going to land further along, away from that mine.’

I looked towards Little Beach, where Jim was launching one of his hire boats. A sudden clanging drew my attention along to Middle Beach: Dorothy Bankes stood outside the café, banging a spoon on a pan, sending the few beachgoers scrambling off the sands.

Back out at sea, the mine and our boat bobbed back and forth towards each other in a tentative dance of death, mere feet apart. Visions arose of our own names on a headstone. My breath came in hiccoughs.

Julian wrapped the canvas closer and laced his fingers through mine. ‘It’s going to be all right.’

I shook my head vehemently. ‘I, I’m so ashamed of screaming like that.’

‘Oh, Ros.’ Julian squeezed my fingers and began to laugh. I let out a giggle, then we broke into helpless laughter, clinging to one another. Our rescuer looked on in mild confusion.

At last Julian sighed, guided my head to his shoulder and kissed the top of my wet hair. I fought an insane urge to pull his face down to mine and kiss him back furiously.

Ahead of us, Harry, the strongest swimmer, waded to shore in chest-deep water. A man jumped through the waves and caught him as he stumbled. Jamie, Aidan and Teddy huddled in Jim’s boat. Finally, blessedly came the feel of our boat sliding against the sand. Julian climbed out. ‘I’ll carry you.’

‘I can manage.’ I set a foot on the side of the boat.

Julian winked. ‘But it will make me look so heroic.’

‘If you insist.’ I wrapped my arms around his neck and let him carry me the few feet to dry sand. His heartbeat thrummed against my breast, our clothes so wet we were practically skin to skin. The shiver that ran through my body had nothing to do with the cold.

‘Can you stand? Ros?’

I jerked back to reality. ‘Of course.’

He set me down, then turned back to help the panting fisherman draw his boat further up the sand.

Jim bustled around, herding us together like a sheepdog. ‘I’ve radioed the coastguard. They’ll be here with a bomb disposal unit. Maybe the boat will drift in far enough to rescue it, and we can winch her up.’

Teddy stripped off his dripping shirt. ‘Best get the mine blown up or deactivated first. No boat is worth more than a life.’

‘Ours aren’t going to be worth much with Dad if that mine hits the boat,’ Aidan muttered.

‘I’ll run up the red flag,’ offered the fisherman.

Jim gave him a friendly slap on the back. ‘Leave it to me, Bob. Yer arms must be knackered. You rowed like Old Nick was after you.’ He turned to us. ‘You’d all better get in the shed before that thing explodes. I’ll run up the lane and borrow some more blankets.’

I shook my head. ‘Thanks, awfully, Jim, but if there is nothing we can do, I think we should get home and tell our folks the news.’ A glance out to sea told me that thankfully, the boat appeared to be drifting away from the mine.

‘Not without a cup of tea,’ Jim insisted. ‘You’ll catch yer deaths going home wet like that. I already have the primus stove going.’

Ten minutes later, we huddled on benches, barrels, and the floor in the cramped boat shed with Jim and Bob, blankets and quilts slung around our shoulders, a motley array of mugs clutched in our hands. Jim passed around a tin of evaporated milk. Aidan mournfully examined his camera.

I wrapped my hands around my chipped enamelled mug. ‘You’ll all have to squeeze into Mummy’s Morris. I hope we don’t ruin the seats.’

Teddy wiped a trickle of seawater from his cheek. ‘I’d better stay to talk to the coastguard, since it’s Dad’s boat.’

‘Shame the old Crossley is at the marina,’ said Jamie. I did not point out that it was Daddy’s favourite car. He drained his mug and stood. ‘Thanks, Jim. And sorry. We might have had time to sail to safety, but we were arguing. We’d best be off to face the music.’

To his credit, Jim did not read us the riot act, but wagged his beard. ‘You didn’t dredge up that mine. How many more years are we going to be dealing with those bloody things? Pardon my French, Miss Ros.’

Jamie peeled a ten bob note from a sodden wallet. ‘Here’s something for the pub for you and Bob. We’ll thank you better when –’

A boom rattled the little windows of the hut. We dived together to the dirt floor, cups clattering.

‘There goes a rope.’ Julian pointed through the door to the debris flying towards shore. ‘No, not a rope, a – damn it, whatever.’


✽✽✽

The coastguard sailed into view as we emerged from the hut. Jim waved us off. ‘You’d best all get home. There’s nothing I can’t tell ’em. They can call Manor Farm if need be. I’ll pile up the salvage for you to zort through.’

I stared at the floating, tangled heap of debris that had been my cousins’ new boat. ‘Please, God, don’t let them call before we make it back,’ I whispered.

‘Amen,’ muttered Teddy. He squeezed my arm.

We trudged, heads down, along the lane, half of us shoeless. Several people milled outside the row of cottages near the Bankes Arms, throwing questions and sympathy, offering clothes and more hot tea. I don’t recall what politenesses we returned as we shuffled past.

Back at the car, I dragged a picnic blanket from the boot to cover the driver’s seat.

‘Try not to lean against the backs of the seats,’ I told the boys.

‘Ros, we barely fit,’ Jamie protested from somewhere under Teddy.

I pulled out the starter. Time to face the court martial.

Mummy descended the stairs as we limped damply into the entrance hall, wafting an aroma of seaweed. Like me in the water, I saw her take a quick head count before asking, ‘Is anyone hurt?’

‘No,’ said Jamie. ‘But the boat…’

‘Damaged?’ She took in our silence for a moment. ‘Sunk?’

‘Completely gone,’ Teddy said.

‘Was it an accident?’

‘Not exactly.’

Her clenched hand on the banister told me she guessed the gist of things. ‘Upstairs. Hot baths, before you catch a chill. Explanations can wait. Meet us in the living room in an hour. Don’t forget to bring your wet clothes down to the laundry first.’

An hour. Plenty of time for our parents to devise a punishment. But we still got steaming mugs of cocoa delivered outside our doors while we took turns in the two bathrooms.

Alone in my room, I towelled my hair vigorously, as if trying to catch the memories of the incident that jumbled in my head like the roll of the waves. What could I say to my parents that might mitigate the circumstances? It might help if I told them the boys were showing off in front of me, but that was a blatant lie. I was sure my brothers and cousins barely registered the fact I was a girl.

No, it was jealousy over the new boat. Money had come between us. And how could we tell our parents that?

As I stepped out of my room, Teddy and Julian emerged from the bathroom, rumpled and glowing.

‘You’re not at school, you don’t have to share showers,’ I said.

Teddy reddened. Julian ran his fingers through his wet hair. ‘No point in wasting time.’

Teddy strode forward and planted a smacking, and reassuring, kiss on my cheek.

‘Morituri te salutant?’ I asked.

‘Exactly. Let’s enter the arena.’

When we assembled downstairs, we found the inquisition awaiting. Everyone, including Grandfather, lined on one side of the room, extra dining chairs pulled up beside the armchairs. Daddy and Simon stood; Daddy still wore his field clothes.

We squeezed onto the sofa opposite, Teddy and Jamie perched on the arms. Wilfrid bounded up to Harry, who grabbed his collar and pressed him against his knee. Behind Grandfather’s wingback armchair, Valerie quietly bandaged Dickens’s leg with knitting wool.

Daddy and Simon exchanged a look. Simon cleared his throat. His words came through clenched teeth. ‘So, you sunk the boat on its first day out.’

‘No, actually,’ said Teddy. ‘It blew up.’

‘It hit a sea mine,’ Jamie explained.

Simon went visibly white.

‘A mine?’ whispered my mother.

‘But obviously, we abandoned ship in time,’ Teddy added. ‘And there must be insurance for being hit by a mine. Or compensation from the Ministry of Defence?’ He looked hopeful.

Livvy opened her mouth and shut it again. She was never at a loss for words. We were in deep trouble. Valerie abandoned nursing Dickens to wriggle underneath the armchair for a better view.

Simon clutched the back of Livvy’s chair. ‘Why did you have to abandon ship? You’ve got a motor.’

It was our turn to exchange glances. No one was going to rat on Harry and Teddy. Our stupidity stabbed me in the ribs. Why didn’t we consult each other upstairs?

‘I suppose, as the eldest, I am ultimately responsible,’ Jamie began.

‘No,’ Harry cut in. He clutched Wilfrid’s collar. ‘It was my fault.’

‘And mine,’ added Teddy. ‘Harry and I lost our tempers with each other. The others told us to stop.’ The sofa creaked as Julian shifted towards his friend.

Simon let out a deep breath. ‘Let’s have the sorry story, lads.’

Harry and Teddy related the disaster, stressing their culpability and the exoneration of the rest of us. Sandwiched between Aidan and Harry, I barely listened. Small details of the room jumped out at me. The slow tick of the mantlepiece clock, the large garnet on Livvy’s ring, wisps of hay sticking from Daddy’s gilet pocket. The future I had been worrying about seemed vague compared to now, this moment I was alive.

Even if we were about to be skinned.

The boys tripped over each other’s explanation as Simon paced up and down. Finally, he stopped at the sideboard to pour out a gin, his face suffused with anger. ‘Anyone else need a drink? Not you lot,’ he added.

‘G and T,’ said Livvy.

‘A whisky for me,’ said Grandfather.

‘Soda water,’ added Valerie.

I caught the tremble of Simon’s hand as he passed around the drinks. He resumed his pacing in a now silent room, each step raising the tension like a crescendo. Valerie crawled out to sit at Grandfather’s feet. At that moment, I felt as small as my little sister.

Simon spun on his heel to face us. ‘Why?’ The word exploded like a bullet. ‘You understand the sea, all of you. How could you be so bloody feckless, and with the most expensive boat we’ve ever had?’ We shrank as one into the sofa. ‘Every damn penny I spent might be down the drain. Compensation from the MoD? You think those fu –’

‘Darling!’ Livvy shouted over the expletive.

‘Sorry,’ he muttered.

Grandfather lifted Valerie onto his knee. ‘No one is hurt, remember that. A boat can be rebuilt, our children can’t.’

‘There’s no rebuilding this one,’ said Aidan. His cheeks flushed red.

Daddy shook his head. ‘We are barely a week into the holiday, and you have topped anything you have ever done before. And half of you are practically adults. Good God, we might have lost the lot of you!’

Mummy squeezed his hand, with a warning nod towards Valerie. ‘Was there any hurt or damage to others?’ she asked.

‘No,’ we chorused.

‘There weren’t many people around, thank goodness,’ Jamie added.

‘I forgot.’ The recollection churned in my brain. ‘Jim reminded me to be careful after the storm in a boat we didn’t know well. I said I would tell everyone. It’s partly my fault.’ I was grateful to be wedged in so tightly on the sofa. If I had an inch of room, I would be shaking uncontrollably.

Teddy threw me a look of compassion. ‘We all knew that, Ros. Not saying it aloud made no difference.’

‘Absolutely,’ said Simon.

‘What more is there to tell?’ asked Livvy.

We related the rest of the saga in bits and pieces.

Daddy ran his fingers through his hair. ‘We will need a list of everyone who had to help you out of this escapade. Obviously, there will be apologies and reparations. I will visit Jim and get the rest of the story, then we will decide together what is to happen with you.’

‘All of us?’ asked Harry. ‘But Teddy and I explained it was our fault. It’s not fair to punish the others.’

‘As your father said, we will get the whole story before we decide,’ Simon snapped. ‘That is final,’ he added as Teddy opened his mouth.

Aidan hung his head and gulped.

Simon softened. ‘Here.’ He handed over his gin. ‘For shock, son.’

Mummy took a deep breath. ‘Well,’ she said with false brightness, ‘I assume that cocoa was not enough and you are all ravenous. Mrs Scadden has been preparing sandwiches. Hurry into the dining room.’

‘But I want sandwiches, too,’ piped up Valerie.

‘You may have a tray in the nursery,’ said Daddy. ‘With milk and cake.’

We knew dismissal when we heard it. We practically fell over each other to leap from the sofa and rush towards the dining room. Except Julian. He lingered, then closed the door behind him. The others did not notice, but I stopped outside the sitting room. He must be asking if his parents would be informed.

As I waited, I recalled Julian’s lips against my hair, our bodies pressed together. I finally understood why older people were so fond of saying carpe diem. This might have been my last day on earth before I became a story on a headstone. Now I had been handed tomorrow. What should I do with it?

Moments later, Julian slipped out, relief suffusing his face. ‘What did you say?’ I asked in a low voice.

‘Don’t tell the others, but I said that the argument was precipitated by my presence. They were showing off for a guest. Especially Teddy.’

‘That doesn’t make it your fault. Anyhow, what did our parents reply?’

He shrugged. ‘The same as you, but I needed to get it off my conscience.’

I took a deep breath. Would Julian also be willing to seize the day?

‘Out there. In the sea, I mean.’ I forced a laugh. ‘I thought we were going to die, and the only stupid thing that went through my head was, I’ve never even been kissed. Of all the silly –’

‘Ros.’

Julian locked eyes with me. Slowly, he leaned forward, pressed his finger under my chin and tilted my face towards his.

‘I already said you had only to ask,’ he said.

I closed my eyes as his lips met mine. His kiss was soft, slow, gentle. Practised. A storm of emotions crashed through me. I wanted to moan, laugh, fling my arms around him, run away.

After five seconds – after all it was my first kiss, so I didn’t forget to count – he pulled away. I fisted my hands, wide-eyed, chest heaving, staring at him. Julian stood calm, lips barely parted, blue eyes dark. With pleasure or amusement?

‘There. Now you’ve been kissed, Rosamond Stephenson.’

My mouth opened and shut like a fish. ‘I… I…’

A moment of silence hung between us.

‘You get to choose what happens next.’ Julian reached down and grabbed my hand. My heart jolted. He grinned. ‘Come on, those sandwiches will be half gone by now.’





Chapter Twelve


Two afternoons later, I stopped by the village shop to ask the younger Mrs Dyett if she had any letters for us. We had secretly invited some of Grandfather’s old comrades to his eightieth birthday celebration, and the postmistress kindly kept the replies back from delivery to Manor Farm. The boys were at Studland, clearing debris from the beaches and under general orders to skivvy for Jim and Mrs Bankes. As one, they had gallantly refused to take me along, hence my afternoon of errands in lieu of hard labour.

Mrs Dyett nodded in answer to my request. ‘I’ve got a letter out the back, love.’ She put a finger to her chin. ‘I put it somewhere safe. Now, where was that? Wait a moment and I’ll ferret it out for you.’ She slipped into the sorting room.

While I waited, my mind went back to that kiss. There had been no second. Julian was true to his word when he said he would leave it to me. But I didn’t know how to ask, despite practising in different voices and poses in front of my mirror. He was flirting, I knew it. But Teddy was right. If I was going to go to Cambridge, I should be more versed in the ways of the world. And after nearly dying only two days ago. I was determined to say ‘yes’ to life, including another kiss or two.

‘Hello, Ros.’

I jumped round to find Gareth behind me.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.’

‘No, no. I was miles away, er, daydreaming. I shouldn’t be long. Just waiting for a letter.’ I stared down at my shoes.

‘Still looking,’ Mrs Dyett called out from the back. ‘I know it’s here somewhere.’

I peeked up at Gareth. A smile hovered on his lips before leaping to light his green eyes. ‘No matter, I have the whole afternoon free. I’m here to pick up some books. For some reason, the bookseller thought they’d get censored if he sent them to Bovington.’

Did Gareth think he was the reason for my coyness? I mean, he was, but not in the way he must be guessing. Thoughts of Gareth, Julian, and kisses sent my heart pattering. I struggled to steady my breathing, stop my rising blushes. Books. Books were a safe topic. ‘What did you order?’

‘A book on British prehistory, and one about folklore in the southwest. Living so close to Stonehenge made me curious to read more about the region. Plus, the latest archaeology book by my Cambridge supervisor, with a couple of novels thrown in for good measure. Hardly objectionable stuff.’

Sounds of shuffled letters drifted out from the sorting room, while the squeak of glass penetrated from outside as the elder Mrs Dyett cleaned the front window.

‘There’s a good antiquarian bookshop in Dorchester if you want more obscure local history books,’ I said. ‘Talking of obscurity, any more luck with your elusive cousin?’

‘Not much. I haven’t had time to investigate further. We spent several days on a simulated campaign, crawling around on the Kimmeridge cliffs and fighting “Jerries” house-to-house in Tyneham.’ Gareth grimaced.

‘Shh, that’s a sore point here.’ The army had requisitioned the whole of Tyneham village during the war, promising that the villagers could return at the end of the conflict. So far, they showed no sign of making good on that promise.

The squeaking stopped. I glanced over Gareth’s shoulder and caught the elder Mrs Dyett’s eyes fixed on us. With a curt nod, she resumed scrubbing at a more vigorous pace.

Busybody. I swivelled with deliberate nonchalance to lean over the counter. ‘Mrs Dyett,’ I called, ‘while you are there, do you have anything for a Mr G. Easton?’

‘I do, love,’ she called back. A few moments later, she padded out, my envelope balanced on top of a fat parcel.

Gareth stepped forward to take the bundle. ‘Thank you.’ He inclined his head politely towards me. ‘Miss Stephenson, may I help you to carry your shopping?’

Catching Gareth’s eye, I suppressed a giggle, tempted to curtsey à la Jane Austen. ‘Thank you, Mr Easton, but I only came for the post.’

A sudden idea struck. I turned back to the postmistress. ‘Mrs Dyett, do you remember an army man, Captain Alex Milne, who lived in one of the Manor Farm cottages? He died here about twenty years ago. Mr Easton is related to him.’

Her gaze darted from us to her sister-in-law entering the shop. ‘That’s a long time ago. Plenty of our own people have died since then. I think I remember the name. Milne?’ she repeated, still looking past us.

‘You shouldn’t be bothering a respectable young lady like that,’ the elder Mrs Dyett piped up, shaking her chamois at Gareth. ‘She knows nothing about the man. He lived outside the village. Never spoke to anyone, then he died.’ She snapped the cloth straight as if settling the matter.

‘He just died?’ I asked, piqued by her reprimand. No doubt the next parent to enter the shop would hear about my associating with a soldier.

She gestured vaguely. ‘An accident, out Studland way. Best ask your own family, young man. No one here had anything to do with him.’

‘No one?’ I began.

Gareth placed a hand lightly on my arm. ‘Thank you for your help. I’ll take your suggestion. Good afternoon, ladies.’

I followed on Gareth’s heels out of the shop, too irritated to keep up the pretence of only a vague acquaintance. ‘If it were not for that headstone at St Nicholas,’ I huffed, ‘I would begin to doubt the existence of your relative. Encounters with him seem rarer than any white stags or black dogs you’ll read about in your folklore book. May I please have my letter?’

‘Sorry. Here.’ Gareth handed me the envelope, then gestured for us to move along the street, out of sight and earshot.

‘Is it my imagination,’ he said when we stopped again, ‘or did their hackles rise at the mention of Alex Milne’s name?’

‘Something riled them.’ I considered. ‘If your cousin kept to himself, maybe his off-handedness offended folks. We are generally friendly here. Really,’ I added at his raised eyebrows. ‘But lots of people in these parts feel ambiguous about the army’s presence. As I told you, losing Tyneham makes them distrust the armed forces.’

Gareth’s face clouded. ‘Some of us in the army feel ambiguous about it, too.’

Gareth stood in his army uniform, the parcel of books clutched to his chest, stranded between the worlds of war and learning. A sudden longing gripped me to rescue him from the former for the afternoon, to provoke that deep, scholarly expression that I somehow found endearing. Carpe diem, I reminded myself.

‘We could test your theory. If you have time, why don’t we ask a few more people about Captain Milne? You can store your books in my car if you don’t have your own vehicle.’ What harm could it do? Besides, if I were spotted brazenly about the village with Gareth, it would paradoxically seem more innocent. Which it was, of course.

He hesitated. ‘I didn’t have any plans apart from settling in the tea shop to read, but are you free?’

I nodded. ‘I’m not under any time constraints. It’s a pity the old vicar has passed on,’ I said as we strolled down the road towards the village cross. ‘He was fanatical about preserving local history, past and present. I’m sure he would have had information, even if your cousin was not a churchgoer.’

‘Alex Milne sounds like a monk, perhaps, but not a churchgoer. Who else from twenty years ago is the sort of person who would know everyone? The pub landlord, the village bobby?’

‘The old policeman retired to Weymouth. How about the garage owner, Mr Legg? If Captain Milne lived outside the village, but worked at Bovington, he might have owned a vehicle to get to work.’

‘Good thinking.’

I felt my smile from head to toe. Somehow, a look of admiration from Gareth seemed every bit as exciting as Julian’s kisses.

I opened the back door of the car and shoved aside some bags of old clothing waiting to be delivered to Ginny Vaughn for a jumble sale. ‘You can put your books on the floor behind my seat. I’ll walk you to the garage.’

‘You don’t have to come with me.’

I regarded him severely. ‘After the reception you got from both Mrs Dyetts, you need a local bodyguard.’

We traversed the High Street, past the tea shop and Black Sheep pub, and skirted the village green. Legg’s Garage sat a little beyond the houses, as if respectful that the dirty business of engines should not mar the clean village. A cattle trailer stood parked by the side of the corrugated iron workshop. In front, on the sparse grass, Eric, Mr Legg’s son, bent under a car bonnet.

‘Good morning, Eric,’ I said.

He uncurled himself and dropped his rag down into the engine. ‘Good morning, Miss Stephenson.’ He stared at Gareth.

‘This is Mr Gareth Easton,’ I said.

‘Yes?’ He displayed greasy hands. ‘I won’t shake. What do you be needin’ today?’

‘We were, um, on the way to look at one of our holiday lets,’ I said, ‘and Mr Easton told me about a relative who used to live here. I thought maybe your father remembered him.’ Fingers crossed Gareth understood my white lie.

‘Dad!’ Eric called back into the workshop.

Mr Legg emerged, spectacles perched on his bald head.

‘Eh, what’s that? Good afternoon, Miss Stephenson.’

Eric cocked his head in Gareth’s direction. ‘This army man says he had a relative used to live here. Wants to know if you remember him.’

‘Captain Alex Milne,’ Gareth said.

Mr Legg settled his spectacles on his nose and inspected Gareth.

‘Relative?’ he said slowly.

‘Third cousins, to be precise,’ said Gareth.

‘An’ that would be…’

‘Around twenty years ago.’

‘Apparently he lived at Dog Rose cottage,’ I added.

Mr Legg drew a handkerchief from his overall pocket and polished his spectacles. ‘I’ve a terrible memory for names,’ he said, not looking up.

‘That he has,’ agreed Eric. ‘But Dad, weren’t he the captain with the motorbike? I was motorbike mad in those days,’ he explained to us.

Mr Legg held up his eyeglasses for inspection. ‘Maybe.’

‘He had that accident out Studland way, Dad. Surely you remember?’ Eric gave a sheepish smile. ‘I’m ashamed to say I just hoped we’d get the motorbike to sell or repair. It was a Triumph. I was only ten.’

‘Studland?’ said Mr Legg. ‘I’m not sure. An’ I think it were a Norton bike.’

‘I know my motorbikes, Dad.’

Mr Legg shook his head. ‘Memories are strange, lad. Just yesterday, yer mother and me were talking about that time we had a holiday, twenty-five years ago. I swore it were Bognor Regis, but she said it was Worthing. Going daft, I guess.’

Eric laughed. ‘You’re not going daft yet. But maybe you and Mum need a second holiday.’

This was going nowhere. ‘Well, thank you,’ I said briskly. ‘Better get on.’

Eric nodded. ‘Good day, Miss Stephenson. Mr Easton. It was a smashing motorcycle. Four-valve, I think. Bet it would still be going strong today.’

‘Good day,’ echoed Gareth.

We made our way down the street. Mrs Dyett was outside the Back Sheep, talking to Mrs Riggs. Their heads swivelled towards us. Gareth apparently didn’t notice. He strolled along, head down, brow furrowed, making his broad forehead seem even more erudite. ‘You would think an accidental death was a memorable event. Are people always toppling from the cliffs around here?’

I laughed. ‘Not like lemmings. Some cliffs on our coastline are more unstable than others, such as the shale at Kimmeridge. Landslides aren’t unusual, either, but less so in summer, unless we get a lot of rain. The danger is an everyday reality here.’ I paused. ‘Even so, we’re only a small village. Twenty-year-old news is usually still good for gossip.’

‘Does Mr Legg really have a bad memory, or was he being politely silent?’

‘He’s a man of few words. But maybe Captain Milne never tried to fit in. It takes a lot of work. Just ask my mother.’

We arrived back at the car. Gareth opened the door for me. ‘Thank you, Ros. I intend to follow up on your previous idea to check the newspaper archives the next time I’m given some leave.’ He paused. ‘I should let you get back to your afternoon. I would invite you to take tea with me and peruse my new books, but tongues would wag.’

The flutter in my stomach was part regret at parting, part pleasure that he, too, wanted to prolong the moment.

What was this pull I felt for Gareth? Julian set my pulse pounding, though surely, he had that effect on every warm-blooded girl. But I sensed a different connection with Gareth. Friendship, intellectual kinship, the excitement of solving a mystery – or something deeper?

What did it matter? The rules for life were different now, I reminded myself. Besides, it wasn’t as if I was playing Julian and Gareth against each other.

I took a deep breath. ‘How about if I really do drive you to the cottage where Captain Milne lived? We won’t be able to examine every nook and cranny because we have a holiday tenant there at the moment, but it might give you a little more context.’

He ran a hand along the top of the car. Not a spot of dirt, thanks to the thorough valet cleaning Teddy and I had given it yesterday. ‘Do you think you ought to? I don’t want to get you into trouble.’

Why not? If I was late back, Mummy would assume Ginny had kept me talking. I grinned, bolstered by my own daring. ‘We can truthfully tell any busybodies that I was showing you a holiday let. We have two witnesses to that. Besides, given the trouble my brothers, cousins and I are in right now, giving a lift to an acquaintance is nothing. I’ll tell you some other time,’ I added quickly. No need to spoil the afternoon with tales of our disgrace. ‘But you’ll want to roll the window down. The back seats are still drying out.’


✽✽✽

I parked at the entrance to a field close by Dog Rose Cottage so as not to block the driveway for the current tenant. Densely-packed cowslips, interwoven with pink and white bindweed, rioted along the fence to within six inches of either gatepost, where a severe trimming by our gardener kept nature in check.

I unlatched the gate and we tramped the short distance down the narrow driveway to a gravelled forecourt barely large enough to turn a car around. The little, two-storey cottage greeted us, age sinking it down into the narrow flower bed that ran its length, half concealed by the eponymous dog roses trellised against the brickwork and underplanted with snapdragons. A now useless but brightly painted pump stood at the end of the bed by way of a rural garden sculpture; it was my mother’s idea to create the sort of country cottage that urban holidaymakers expected from the pictures on boxes of fudge. A double-door shed stood sentinel to the left, painted green like the woodwork on the house. The old wall at the back of the property had been extended to encircle the drive. Beyond that stretched a little copse, all designed so that our gardener-come-maintenance-man did not have to drive over more than once or twice a month.

Gareth turned slowly, taking everything in. ‘It’s tiny.’

‘It used to be smaller, with no plumbing, probably no electricity, either. The bathroom was built onto the side when I was quite young.’ No need to point to the obvious one-storey addition to the right of the entrance.

‘It sounds primitive back then.’

‘Not so terrible for around here. Maybe you didn’t grow up in the country. My parents had to practically threaten to evict some of their older tenants to modernise their housing. I remember Daddy complaining that in one of the cottages the light switches were stuck fast with grime. They had never been turned on since electricity was installed.’ I swept my gaze over the cottage. ‘Actually, it’s a coincidence that this is the place, because one of my earliest memories is from here.’

‘Really?’ Gareth’s eyes lit up.

‘Oh, it’s not that interesting. My mother brought me over here one day when I was quite little, perhaps three, to organise the renovations. The place was fairly overgrown. I presume it must have been unoccupied for a while. The only reason I remember the visit is that while she was inspecting the bedroom, I wandered away and fell down the stairs. Of course, I screamed my head off, and Mummy and the workman belted to the rescue. I still have a teeny scar on my forehead where I hit the edge of a step.’

I lifted my fringe and fingered the mark, a tiny silver dent just below my hairline. Gareth leaned in close. I smelt the faint residue of whisky on his breath, and the woody notes of aftershave on his throat.

‘It’s barely noticeable.’ He spoke softly, his face mere inches from mine.

‘Hullo?’ A middle-aged gentleman cruised to a stop on his bicycle beside us.

I spun around and held out my hand. ‘I do beg your pardon. I’m Rosamond Stephenson. From Manor Farm,’ I added at his bemused stare. ‘I’m showing the cottage.’

‘Ah, of course.’ He shook my hand, then Gareth’s. ‘Delighted to meet you. Would you like to come inside and view the place before taking it? It’s quite tidy.’ He balanced his bicycle against the shed door.

‘Thank you, but I don’t need to see inside,’ said Gareth. ‘A relative used to live here, that’s all.’

‘Of you both?’

‘Mr Easton’s cousin,’ I said, a little sharply. ‘As I recall, the cottage was completely gutted, so there wouldn’t be much trace of any previous occupants.’ I nodded to the holidaymaker. ‘Well, we shan’t disturb you. I hope you are having a pleasant stay.’

‘Very much. Do tell your parents. A secluded cottage holiday is the perfect antidote to Norwood.’

‘I wonder if it was an antidote for my cousin to live here,’ Gareth mused as we left. ‘By your description, the place was a perfect hermitage for a recluse.’

‘He apparently liked it enough to be buried in these parts. If he had a choice.’

Gareth exhaled. ‘I am beginning to think that no one in the family wanted to pay to take the body back for burial.’

An unexpected pang struck me for this lonely shadow of a figure. ‘That would be sad, to die and have no one left behind who loved you.’

Gareth opened the driver’s door for me. ‘Well, you would have a whole village to mourn you, if the vigilance of those ladies in the shop are anything to go by.’ He paused. Already, I recognised that characteristic: not shyness, more a careful choosing of his words. ‘Talking of evading your guardians, did I see a notice for a tea room at the farm we passed near the edge of the village? Would that be a more discreet place to repay you for your help?’

‘Mmm, Mrs Farwell’s. She makes the biggest and best scones around here.’ I cast a reluctant glance at the bags of clothes sitting behind the front seats. ‘I can’t oblige today, there’s still several errands on my list and another round of the family summer croquet tournament before dinner.’ Even blowing up a boat did not cancel croquet.

‘Another day, then? I’ll borrow a car and take my turn at being the chauffeur. If you wish.’

‘There’s no choice. We’re co-conspirators now.’ Despite my joke, my nerves were in a jumble. Teddy and I had a straightforward plan for this summer. Fun. How had life become so complicated all of a sudden?

‘That would be nice. I suppose it would make a change from khaki company,’ I ventured.

A hint of a smile crossed his face. ‘You are more than that.’

‘What more?’ I tossed the ball nervously back into his court.

His smile broadened. ‘We won’t know that unless we take the chance to get better acquainted, will we?’





Chapter Thirteen


‘There’s a parking space, Ros.’ Teddy leaned between the seats to point towards a gap next to a farm lorry, just wide enough for the Morris Minor.

‘Well spotted.’ Finding a place to park on a market day in Dorchester was a lottery. I mentally ignored the horse dung squelching beneath the tyres. It should come off on the drive home.

We were taking Grandfather to meet Daddy in Dorchester, as a dentist’s appointment in Wareham had kept him from the start of the market day. Teddy had brought Julian along to explore the town’s Roman history, partly because of his genuine interest, and partly as one of the ruses we increasingly had to devise to curtail, if not put an end to, Grandfather’s driving days. But today I had another motive to get Grandfather on his own, away from the house.

We spilled out of the car, Julian and Teddy twinned in sports jackets, pleated trousers and dark tan brogues. Presuming I would brush shoulders with the farmers, I had donned a pair of fawn corduroy trousers topped with Jamie’s outgrown tweed jacket over a blouse; purposefully more the farmer than the farmer’s daughter.

‘Are you going to show Julian the Roman villa first?’ I asked Teddy.

‘Yes, especially since those rain clouds trailed us on the way here.’

‘I’ll take Grandfather for coffee and a newspaper, then meet you at the villa, say in about forty-five minutes to an hour?’

‘You picked me for a date over these two young men?’ Grandfather set his Homburg on his head with a pleased air.

‘Always.’ I squeezed his arm. So thin now. Where were those solid arms that swung me onto his shoulders when I was a little girl?

We parted ways, Teddy and Julian towards the tree-lined avenue that bounded the town and stretched along to the Roman townhouse, Grandfather and I to wend our way through the farmers’ market, marked out like its own little Roman grid town with metal pens in the stead of villas and shops. At the edge of the market area, a few sheep huddled in wicker hurdles, though it was not one of the larger sheep fairs of the year. We paused to admire a Dorset Horn ram, its heavy horns spiralling out from its placid face. Nearby, the rapid patter of an auctioneer marked a sale in progress at the long, open-sided produce sheds.

We skirted a lorry pulled up to load a couple of cows, and crossed Fairfield Road to a little café off the corner of the market, stopping at a newspaper stand on the way. A faint smell of livestock and sawdust wafted into the cafe after us, giving way to warm aromas of yeast and coffee.

I settled Grandfather at a table by the window and paid a shilling for coffee and rolls at the counter. He was deep into the obituaries when I brought the tray over.

‘We were in luck. A fresh batch of rolls just came out of the oven. And extra butter, just for you.’

Grandfather folded his copy of the Times and drew the plate towards him. His face crinkled in a smile. ‘I think I’ll stay old forever. The service is superb.’

I returned the tray, then poured his coffee and added cream while he tore off a piece of the roll and added a generous dab of butter. I handed him the cup. ‘I hope the coffee isn’t too hot after the dentist.’

He tongued his tooth. ‘Not sure I have many nerves left in my mouth at my age. Damned inconvenient, this National Health Service, making you wait for an appointment and then demanding you come on a market day. Doctor Chaffey’s father was much better. Knew all his patients’ habits and never rushed you in and out like he had more money to make.’

My childhood memories of tooth extractions by the old Doctor Chaffey did not exactly live up to Grandfather’s opinion, but I let that slide. I had other fish to fry.

‘I have a question,’ I began. ‘It’s about your time as a magistrate.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Ah, so this was not just a date. That covers a lot of years, but ask away.’

‘A date with a purpose,’ I hedged. ‘I met a National Serviceman at the cricket match whose relative lived in Dog Rose cottage about twenty years ago. The tenant’s name was Captain Alex Milne.’

Grandfather’s finger tightened on the cup. A little coffee splashed over the edge. ‘Careful.’ I leaned forward to mop the coffee beading across the Formica table top.

He smiled with effort, as though his tooth did pain him, after all. ‘Sorry. You gave me quite a surprise, my dear. Haven’t heard that name for years.’

Hopeful, I continued. ‘Well, Gareth Easton, the young man I mentioned, has been trying to find out about his distant cousin. That branch of his family died out and his immediate relatives have little information. We asked around the village and got as far as discovering that this Captain Milne died in an accident near Studland. And I thought that, since you were a magistrate at the time…’

‘I might have presided at the inquest.’ He popped a morsel of roll in his mouth and sat silent for several moments, head down, chewing.

So, he had been involved. I held my breath, not knowing what to expect next. Slowly, he raised his head, lips set in a firm line. ‘Yes, he fell from the cliffs at Old Harry rocks. Sad business. Obviously ventured too near the edge, and it crumbled. As I recall, I recorded a simple verdict of accidental death.’

Grandfather smoothed the newspaper at his elbow, as if caressing the names of the dead. ‘I was Milne’s commanding officer for part of the Great War. He was not a Dorset native, as you must know if you met his relative, but the army transferred men all over the place then, as they are doing with this National Service lark. He ended up in our regiment. Milne was a good man. Not a born soldier, but he did his best, as so many of us had to. After the first of his two younger brothers was killed, he began to show signs of a breakdown. He held himself together in front of his men, but I could tell.’

I cradled my coffee, eager for and dreading what might be unfolding. ‘Gareth said that both of Captain Milne’s brothers died in the war.’

Grandfather nodded. ‘The other was killed at the very end, escaping from an internment camp. Terribly tragic. Captain Milne was posted elsewhere by then, but he wrote to me with the news. When everything was over and we were back in England, I paid him a visit. Clearly, he was suffering from shell shock. They got better at treating it in this last war, but back then men were often handled brutally, labelled cowards. Some were even shot. Thank God there were a few forward-thinking doctors around. One set men to work on nearby farms in Devon for rehabilitation. It gave me an idea. I knew Milne holidayed here while growing up and had a love for the place. I offered him a cottage and helped get him a quiet job at Bovington, surveying. Something to keep him active and out in the fresh air.’

‘You knew him well?’ A bubble of excitement welled up. Maybe he possessed the key to the mystery.

Grandfather shook his head. ‘Kept to himself. We were friendly, passed the time of day when we met. There was more in what we did not say, if you understand what I mean. I left him alone.’

My shoulders sagged. ‘That’s what everyone has been saying, that he was a loner.’

‘Everyone? Whom have you asked?’ An unaccustomed edge grated in Grandfather’s voice.

‘Gareth learned it from his aunt originally. Then we asked the two Mrs Dyetts and Mr Legg at the garage and got pretty much the same story, or lack of it.’ I counted the people off on my fingers. ‘He seems a ghost of a man.’ I watched Grandfather’s face closely as I talked. What was in what he was not saying?

The cream in the coffee coated my tongue, stifling the question that leapt to my lips. ‘Was he surveying when he had the accident? I mean, if not…’ Had my grandfather committed perjury in his own court to spare a friend?

Grandfather understood my implication. ‘There were no witnesses who could give an account of what happened, no suicide note. I had no concrete evidence that the fall was anything other than an accident. Besides,’ he gave a grim laugh, ‘throwing yourself off the cliffs at Old Harry is a dodgy business. You might not even die, which would be worse.’

True. I shuddered. Imagine lying shattered, helpless, waiting for a slow drowning death as the tide rose.

‘I couldn’t help him enough in life.’ Grandfather’s voice was wistful. ‘ So I tried to do the best for him in death.’

I pushed a little further. ‘He died the summer Mummy came to Dorset, didn’t he?’

‘How did you know that?’ His voice was quietly commanding, as if he was on that magistrate’s bench again. Had I a reason not to tell the truth, he would have drawn it out of me.

‘I helped Gareth find his grave at Saint Nicholas’ church,’ I explained. ‘Daddy said she didn’t know him, but I wondered, because the other day, she saw a serviceman who reminded her of someone, and it gave her a real shock. It made sense to me that the person might have been Gareth, if he resembles Captain Milne.’

‘It’s possible.’ Grandfather stared into the dregs of his coffee cup. ‘Though their lives here overlapped such a short time. Your mother’s sensitive. She has a feel for things, people, places. She took to Manor Farm as if she’d been born to it.’ He swirled the cup. ‘But memories, and our brains, are strange things, especially as you get older. Your grandmother died thirty-five years ago, yet sometimes I swear I hear her voice in the house.’

‘Perhaps you can talk to Gareth some time,’ I suggested. Tell him about your stint in the army together. I think he’d appreciate that.’

‘Most war stories are best left in the past, Ros.’ Grandfather sounded weary. ‘All Milne wanted was to be left alone. This relative should honour his wish and let him rest in peace. God knows he had little of that after the war.’

Reluctantly, I let it drop. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. Gareth got me interested in his little family mystery, that’s all.’

Grandfather perked up again. ‘It is Gareth, not Mr Easton?’ His rakish smile brought out the ghost of past good looks.

I repressed a smile of my own. ‘He is almost my age. It’s first names nowadays between young people. It means nothing.’

Grandfather shook his head. ‘I didn’t call your grandmother “Valerie” until I proposed to her, and I was nearly thirty.’

I leaned over to top up his coffee. He rested his hand on my wrist, dark blue veins tracing their way to swollen arthritic knuckles. ‘You have her pluck. I have always loved you for that, and for yourself, Rosamond.’

‘Of course.’ Tears pricked my eyes. At the thought of his wife, the grandmother I had never seen, dead so long ago of the Spanish flu, perhaps he was contemplating his mortality.

‘Ros, promise you will talk to me first before you bring the matter up with anyone else. With someone as reclusive as Captain Milne, people make things up, but I knew him better than anyone else around here did.’

It seemed to me that people were more intent on saying nothing than inventing facts, but I humoured him. ‘Promise.’ I presumed that promise did not include Gareth. I glanced at my watch. ‘Daddy should be here soon.’

‘You didn’t touch your roll.’

I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket. ‘I’ll find some ducks to feed while I’m with Teddy and Julian.’

Amusement sparkled in Grandfather’s eyes. ‘That Julian is a handsome young man. Good family connections, too. And I daresay you will be at Cambridge together for the Michaelmas term.’

I wagged my finger at him. ‘I’m not going to listen to your teasing. And here’s Daddy.’ I waved at him through the window, one farmer out of the many in their worn tweed market suits and flat caps. He joined us inside, drawing up a chair next to me.

‘Did you see the whelps?’ Grandfather asked. Daddy had arranged to talk with a man who had a promising litter of sheepdog pups, on behalf of Nathaniel.

‘Poor old Tip.’ I swallowed and looked up at my father. ‘Do you think we have room for another dog?’

Daddy squeezed my shoulder. ‘Ros.’ Quiet admonition tinged his voice. As a farmer’s daughter, I should know better than to interfere with the inevitable end for an old sheepdog. A rock around the neck for a slow drowning, or a quick shot from a twelve bore if the shepherd was merciful. Only the lucky dogs retired, to drain money from their master’s scant income.

Grandfather tucked the Times into his jacket pocket, and we strolled outside. Flanked by the men I loved best, I felt pride and something that could only be described as a rightness. I had been attending the Dorchester market since my nose barely reached the lower rails of the pens. Market day brought out the Dorset man in father and son, gave an ease to the southwest burr that broadened as they passed the time with fellow farmers as equals, not gentlemen.

We rounded the corner back towards the pens and came up short against a stout figure tucking money into his waistcoat pocket as another man sped across the road. Douglas Thorner.





Chapter Fourteen


‘Morning, Major, Mr Stephenson. Out with your, er, daughter, I see.’ Douglas Thorner glared at my trousers with disapproval. I stuck both hands in my pockets and stared him in the face.

‘Morning, Mr Thorner.’ Grandfather nodded, echoed by Daddy. They moved to one side, but Thorner took a small step in parallel.

‘Got those new cows from Devonshire, then?’

‘Yes,’ Daddy replied. ‘If you will excuse us, we are meeting someone.’

Mr Thorner attempted to fold his short arms over his barrel chest. ‘My cousin’s Swiss Browns are fine specimens, and have every inoculation available, plus some new milk-increasing drug. We get special access to the latest scientific…’ he trailed off, searching for the word, as though he had come to the end of his vocabulary. ‘… scientific findings through my son in the Ministry, you know.’

Daddy nodded again. He had refused to put his cows through that sort of stress since the war period, when it was unavoidable.

‘Got to keep up, or go under.’ Mr Thorner puffed out his stomach. ‘Could’ve put you in the way of all that technology if you’d bought your cows from a fellow Dorset man.’

‘Different ideas keep us all on our toes.’ Daddy tried to sidestep him again, but Thorner was clearly not finished. He pointed an accusing finger at my father’s chest.

‘Ah, but who knows what your cows might catch if you’re not careful?’

‘We find that letting our cows live naturally promotes health and immunity,’ I inserted.

Mr Thorner’s hand dropped. He gaped at me as if I had sworn, then harrumphed. ‘My daughter was married and expecting her first at this one’s age,’ he said, as if I didn’t exist.

‘Rosamond is headed for Cambridge University. We wouldn’t waste the best brains in the family,’ said Grandfather. ‘Good day, Thorner.’

We escaped down the road.

‘That man has a brick on his shoulder, not a chip,’ said Grandfather. ‘Still, don’t let what he says worry you, James.’

Daddy shook his head. ‘His words are bluster, but his actions are insidious.’

‘Ten to one he was undercutting the public sales with a private deal back there,’ Grandfather agreed.

Daddy’s eyebrows knit. ‘I met one of his tenants earlier. The man was in a sorry state. Thorner sublets his land for far more than it is worth. He traps those desperate to make a living where they were born, on land they should be entitled to, then sneers at us for being gentleman farmers.’

‘We have the advantage of the long view,’ said Grandfather. ‘Are you coming to the cattle sale, Ros?’

‘I promised to meet the boys within the hour,’ I said.

Grandfather patted my cheek. ‘Have a good morning, my dear. Keep the young men in line.’

Daddy reached into his inside pocket. ‘Do you have money for lunch?’ He handed me a pound note from his battered wallet, and I kissed his cheek in thanks.

I turned down Weymouth Avenue, past the open gates of the Eldridge Pope brewery, the name emblazoned across its huge arched sign, its narrow, towering chimney stack belching smoke into the sky. The bitter tang of beer-making trailed in my wake as I picked up the south side of the Walk to follow in Teddy’s and Julian’s footsteps. Hugging the western side of the old town boundary and crossing the broad, sloping High Street, I strode along under the canopy of lime and chestnut trees to the north-west corner of Dorchester, the site of the Roman villa.

Ahead, through the gap in the town wall near the corner of Colliton Walk, I spied the shoulders and heads of Teddy and Julian in the hollow of the partially excavated Roman town house, a patchy grid of little square rooms marked out with low stone walls. Looking every inch the Cambridge students they were about to be, the boys stood out from the Dorset locals as much as if a Roman himself had arisen from the remains of his home to pace the streets of Dorchester. Teddy had spent a quarter of his life here; he usually seemed more in keeping with the place. But this summer he was indefinably different. Perhaps it was their public-school air, or perhaps being with Julian highlighted a side of Teddy I’d never known.

And Julian. My heart beat a little faster. I had never prided myself on being beautiful, and certainly wasn’t in Julian’s league, but something in his manner gave me a tiny hope that his flirtations stemmed from finding me truly attractive. Stupidly, Mr Thorner’s remarks had stung, although my family had never entertained the notion that a girl proved her worth by getting a man. Besides, I could not imagine being married and pregnant at my age, even though surrounded by village girls who had more than one child before the age of twenty. I would hate to be Thorner’s daughter, tied to the house and nursery.

Still, it meant she had experienced something I hadn’t. Lovemaking. What was that like? What would it be like with Julian? To feel those lips on other parts of my body…

Teddy turned and raised an arm. I blinked myself back to reality as the boys climbed the bank to meet me. Except reality was still incredibly gorgeous. I cleared my throat. ‘Sorry if I’m late. Of course, we ran into someone we knew on market day.’

‘Make any deals, farmer?’ asked Teddy. I put my tongue out at him, then instantly regretted my juvenile reaction in front of Julian.

‘There’s a way of wearing men’s clothes that makes women look extra feminine and alluring,’ said Julian. ‘You carry it well, Ros.’

It hadn’t been my intention, but if he liked the Katharine Hepburn type, why argue? I thrust my hands in my pockets and squared my shoulders with what I hoped was Miss Hepburn’s confidence. ‘What do you think of our Roman villa?’

‘Fascinating. That’s a pretty well-preserved mosaic floor. One forgets how important this part of England used to be.’

‘I’ve been irritating Julian with my patchy knowledge of Dorchester’s Roman past,’ said Teddy.

I took the cue. ‘When the Romans arrived here, the native Britons were settled in hill forts. By native, I mean Celts, the Durotriges. Maiden Castle, close to here, was the major settlement. But that became redundant when the Romans conquered it to make their usual point with the natives, and then established this town as a garrison. Its Roman name was Durnovaria. Stop me if Teddy has already told you all that.’

‘Not at all.’ Julian actually looked serious for once.

‘When the garrison moved on, many of the locals decided that being Romano-British and having houses, hot baths and running water beat living in pits on Maiden Castle. It became a market town back then, and it’s been one ever since. I suppose Teddy pointed out the section of Roman wall on the way here, at the corner of Prince’s Street?’

Julian nodded. ‘We stopped to admire the well-preserved Roman bicycles propped up by the fence.’

‘There’s a grass amphitheatre stuck between the railway lines.’ I indicated vaguely south, back towards the market area. ‘Maumbury Rings. It was a Neolithic henge originally, but don’t get excited, it’s just earthworks, nothing like Stonehenge or the Colosseum. Apparently, the Durotriges had no qualms about dishonouring ancestors and turning it into pleasure grounds.’

‘Ros tells it well,’ said Teddy proudly. ‘That’s what happens when you have a writer for a mother.’

I shrugged. ‘If that’s not enough culture for you, there is a county museum in the High Street. And opposite that is where Judge Jeffreys lodged when he came down here to hang everyone after the Monmouth Rebellion.’

‘Or if you want a break from being edified, the river is close, just past hangman’s cottage,’ put in Teddy.

‘I have a bread roll to feed the ducks,’ I added.

‘Let’s not stand in the way of your philanthropy to our feathered friends,’ said Julian. ‘A riverside walk it is.’

We strolled around the end of Colliton’s Walk, down the narrow stone steps towards the little row of thatched cottages that curved towards the riverbank. Centuries of repairs and alterations had rendered their façades an uneven patchwork of stone and brick. The end cottage sat lower than the others, as if shy of the constant scrutiny. A bedspread flapped on the washing line in a small garden around the back.

Julian paused by the front gate. ‘Rather charming for a hangman’s cottage. But I suppose even an executioner deserves a well-earned rest at the end of a busy day.’

‘I wonder if Judge Jeffreys paid overtime,’ said Teddy.

At the end of the row of cottages, a low, arched brick footbridge took us across to the paved path on the other side of the River Frome. The trees, in full leaf now, muffled the broad, quiet stream, one of several that the river split into as it meandered through Dorchester to reunite with itself outside the town. Little ferns peeked over the edge of the bank above clumps of iris leaves, while beneath the surface, ribbons of water weed waved in the current. On our right, the old water meadows stretched out behind a tangled hedgerow of grass and brambles, blackberries blushing into ripeness.

‘It just came to me, Ros,’ Julian said as we meandered along, ‘that with your reddish hair and masculine clothing, you could be one of those British women on Maiden Castle, fighting off the Romans like a Boadicea.’

‘I’ve fought with her, so I can vouch for that,’ said Teddy. ‘I still have a scar on my leg from a sword fight when we were about seven.’

‘The scar was from falling onto that sharp rock, not my wooden sword,’ I pointed out. Did Julian like strong women? I would have pegged him as someone who preferred a polished debutante. For once in my life, I wished I had spent more time with young men rather than cows.

Teddy glanced down. ‘Damn, I left the umbrella at the villa. I’d better dash back before the rain gets here.’

‘We’ll stroll slowly,’ I said.

Julian and I paced on in silence. In the distance, a duck lifted its head, instinct telling it food was near. A terse quack, and the rest of the group turned tail as one to sail towards us. I took the bread roll from my pocket.

The wind flung clouds out of nowhere, spitting rain. I shivered, fumbled with one hand to button my jacket.

‘Let me.’ Julian bent close. With a glance from under long, golden lashes, he ran his hands down the lapels of my jacket, drawing the buttons and buttonholes level. His lithe fingers traced the inner curve of my breasts as he fastened the top button. A tingling sensation washed over my entire torso, travelling to the pit of my stomach. I breathed deeply in a futile effort to calm my body, aware of the rise and fall of my breasts under his gaze as he worked his way down to my waist.

‘There. Warmer now?’ His hands still poised against my pelvis, the most delicious, wicked smile stretched out across his face. ‘You haven’t asked for a second kiss. I confess to being a tad disappointed. Didn’t you like it?’

‘I did. Like the kiss, that is.’ I gulped. How could I think of nothing else but him when he was in front of me? ‘A lot. Another one would be – but not right now. Teddy will be here any minute.’ I looked back desperately along the path.

‘Yes, Teddy. Now I’ve seen you together, I understand how close you are.’ He leaned in a fraction. ‘May I speak to you with the same frankness you share with Teddy?’

My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth. I nodded. Whipped by the wind, the trees bent towards us, as if eager to catch our secret.

Julian lowered his tone, drawing his voice from deep within. ‘I have, let’s say, an instinct for sensual matters, and you, dearest Ros, give the air that you are distinctly interested in more than kisses. You’re ready to become a woman.’

Oh God, he had seen the lustful thoughts in my face. A silent groan, equal part shame and pleasure, echoed through me.

I didn’t know how to reply, but apparently, words weren’t necessary. Julian leant closer, his lips almost brushing my ear, though there was no one to hear us. Goosebumps prickled down my neck. ‘Trust your body, and leave Teddy to me. If you want to gain a little experience with a good friend whom you can trust not to create an entanglement, I will make the first time beautiful for you.’

His fingertips trailed up and down my coat. I was surprised the heat in my cheeks did not turn the raindrops to steam. Julian didn’t read my mind, he read my body.

‘The offer is there. No strings attached.’ Julian moved slowly, his breath travelling across my cheeks, until the tip of his nose just touched mine. ‘I love how you are not afraid to be yourself, Ros, at least on the outside. But I want to know the woman inside that beautiful shell. I want to know what it’s like when you are completely yourself with someone.’ He pressed his thumbs against my pelvic bone, sending another wave of desire down through my body. ‘Just ask me.’

‘I… I’ll think about it,’ I whispered tremulously. It was what I wanted, wasn’t it – the cake, with or without the icing?

But Julian had already snapped his head up. ‘At last!’ he called.

I turned and saw Teddy racing towards us, the umbrella pointed like a sword before him. Anger and confusion struggled on my cousin’s face. He had seen us, but could he guess the proposition Julian had just made?

‘Julian was buttoning my coat,’ I blurted. ‘My hands were full.’ I lifted the bread roll by way of exonerating evidence.

‘And the poor ducks are getting wet waiting for their food.’ Julian reached for the roll, but Teddy snatched it from my hand and tossed it into the river.

‘Ow!’ I shook my fingers.

‘Forget the ducks,’ he snapped. ‘What did you think you were doing, Jules? You can’t behave that way in public. What about Ros’s reputation?’

‘Reputation?’ I flung the word back at him. ‘I told you, Julian was doing up my coat. What do you think of me, Teddy?’ Guilty or not, it wounded that my cousin, my closest friend, didn’t trust me.

Teddy thrust the umbrella at Julian and took me firmly by the arm. ‘Come on.’ He marched me down the path. Julian hurried behind, opening the umbrella above our heads as the rain beat down around us.

I shook the arm Teddy had locked in his. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘Teddy,’ Julian reached out to place a hand on Teddy’s shoulder. ‘It was a little flirtation. You know I can’t help it. Ros didn’t mind.’

Teddy shrugged off his touch, sped up. I stumbled along beside him.

‘We weren’t breaking any laws,’ I protested.

Teddy flinched but marched on, hauling me through the driving rain, literally trembling with anger. I hadn’t seen him this enraged since that time Aidan had been bullied. Fear for him, for what he might do, pushed other feelings aside.

‘You said I had to be prepared for Cambridge. Shouldn’t I learn how to handle men as well as drink?’ I spoke lightly, willing him to agree this was all a joke.

‘Prepared. Not spoiled.’

I gasped, halted. He yanked at my arm.

‘Teddy!’ Julian caught up and swung him around, forced him to stop. He threw the umbrella down on the path and grabbed Teddy’s shoulders. Teddy fisted his hands. ‘Calm down,’ he ordered. He rested his forehead against my cousin’s. A trickle of water rolled from Teddy’s cowlick down Julian’s nose. ‘Calm down,’ he repeated softly. ‘I buttoned up Ros’s jacket. Anything more was merely the temptation of the moment. Give Ros more credit for knowing her mind.’

‘But does she know yours?’ Teddy’s voice was weary, monotone.

‘Why don’t you enlighten her?’ Julian held Teddy’s gaze hard. Teddy set his lips, turned away.

‘I’m getting to know,’ I retorted, subbing my sore arm, resentment rising. Julian’s words were true, yet it stung to hear them aloud. But Teddy was worse. We had always been equals, and now he treated me like an inferior. Only a girl.

I swiped my sodden hair back from my face. ‘Don’t you trust me, Bear?’ I demanded. Silence. I shook his arm. ‘Answer me!’

Teddy looked from Julian to me, and back again. He hung his head. ‘I shouldn’t have said those words.’ He took my hands. ‘Ros, I was out of line. What I said was crude and unfair. Please try to forget it.’ He enveloped me in a hug, pressed his damp cheek against mine.

I took a few deep breaths against his chest, waiting for his pounding heart to slow to my rhythm. His hurt and anger vibrated through me. Yes, Teddy should have trusted me, but Julian and I bore part of the blame, too. Not that I was convinced Julian felt much.

I hugged him back. ‘You were being protective. It’s okay.’ Though what was okay, I wasn’t sure.

The rain began to ease. I stepped back, squeezed his fingers. ‘We’re all supposed to be friends. Together for the summer. Like the three musketeers.’

Julian picked up the umbrella and held it over us. The rain drummed big, slow drops like a dirge.

‘There’s not room for the three of us.’ Teddy’s face was pale, blank. ‘Someone will have to be out in the rain.’





Chapter Fifteen


Mummy stopped me on the stairs in her usual after-breakfast flurry of activity. ‘Ros, could you fetch the picnic blankets from the airing cupboard?’

I sighed. Letting out the pigs would have to wait. ‘I’ll be right down with them.’

I hurried back up and along the corridor to the airing cupboard, almost big enough to be a room with its broad slatted shelves and one small, high window for ventilation. Generations of blankets and linens towered around me, some not used for decades.

The dark, narrow confines of the room suited my mood. Despite his apology, Teddy had been remote since we returned from Dorchester. Julian stuck to his side, and I felt cut out. Why could we not get along? Any combination of two of us worked, but the three of us together seemed to produce a dangerous chemistry.

I rummaged through the outdoor blankets, morose. Of course I knew what I ought to do. Teddy came first. Always. A summer fling was not worth our lifelong friendship.

But Julian... I sighed. He was so damn gorgeous. I wanted that second kiss. Maybe more.

Unbidden, Gareth pushed his way into the picture. To be honest, if there was anyone I felt I was deceiving, it was him. I might have only agreed to help Gareth in the first place because Teddy and Julian had annoyed me, but I had really enjoyed our outings. We both had, I was sure. There was more than mere attraction between us. We connected.

But nothing had happened with Gareth. Not a hint. Well, maybe a hint. But that invitation to tea certainly hadn’t yet arrived. I tossed a couple of picnic blankets to the side. The scent of dusty lavender wafted through the cupboard. Why couldn’t I spend time with Gareth and Julian? It was called playing the field, wasn’t it? Girls were allowed to do that.

Teddy’s words could not be forgotten, and they rankled. Boys were not considered ‘spoiled’ because they slept with a girl. All of these rules, being protected, were because I was not a boy. Not the one who could inherit land or lead the family. Be in charge of my life.

I slammed the picnic blankets into a pile. Look at me, trapped here in the house. Daddy treats me as an equal out on the farm, but I’m still expected to cook, tidy, fold the sheets. You don’t see Jamie darning his own socks.

I snatched up the blankets and stomped into the corridor, kicking the door shut behind me, at odds with everyone and everything.

As I reached the landing, Daddy dashed in through the front door, mud flying from his boots.

‘James?’ My mother clutched the banister.

‘We need to call the vet. I think…’ He sank down on the stairs at her feet. ‘Two of the cows, at least. I found them licking hard at their lips, foaming at the mouth. They have a few blisters.’

‘Oh, James.’ Mummy climbed down beside him. ‘It could be anything.’

‘Or it could be Foot and Mouth,’ I whispered from above, not daring to voice the words louder. All griping forgotten, I dumped the blankets on the landing and rushed down to join them.

Mummy rested her hand on Daddy’s shoulder. ‘There have been no local cases recently.’

‘Yes, but I just returned from Devon. Maybe I picked it up there.’ He ran his fingers through his mop of curls. ‘Or from last week’s market.’

Mummy shook her head. ‘If any cases originated at the market, we would have heard by now. Surely the same from Devon.’

‘You’re right. But –’

‘Chances are it’s something else.’ Mummy dug her fingers into his gilet. ‘Before you call the vet, go back out.’ She steadied her voice. ‘Take Ros. Has Daniel looked the cows over?’

I was halfway to the kitchen to fetch my wellingtons before she even finished her sentence. When I returned, Daddy stood by the door, ready. ‘Keep a cool head for me, Ros.’ He sounded anything but calm. He closed his eyes for a moment, composing his face into resolution. ‘We should search the pasture inch by inch. Perhaps a poisonous plant escaped our last inspection.’

‘I’ll gather everyone who’s around,’ said Mummy. ‘Don’t give up hope yet.’

We raced back down to the pastures, past Valerie playing happily around the old Morrison air raid shelter we had converted into a playhouse after the war. Intent on making mud pies in a motley collection of pails and tubs, she did not notice us, thank goodness, or she would have thrown a tantrum about tagging along.

Outside the pasture, two cows stood tied to the fence. One was cropping the grass, but shaking her head after every few bites, the other rubbed her flank lazily against the rough wood.

‘Mr Stephenson?’ Daniel waved as he strode across the pasture. ‘I saw you separated them cows, so I had a look. I don’t know…’ he trailed off.

Daddy shook his head. ‘I don’t either.’

Daniel pulled off his cap, twisting it between his stubby fingers. ‘I haven’t seen Foot and Mouth in person, no more’n slides in that Ministry lecture we went to a couple years back.’

‘No farmer would go around getting closely acquainted with it.’ Daddy sighed. ‘Let’s check them again.’

Daniel wrapped a brawny arm around the neck of one cow, forcing her head upwards. Daddy eased down her lower jaw. Foamy saliva ran down the tiny blisters along her thick lips. One obvious symptom of Foot and Mouth. None of us needed to say it aloud.

‘What about the feet?’ I asked, each word landing with a thud in the pit of my stomach.

‘Stand back, Miss, this one’s a kicker.’ Daniel leaned against the cow, forcing her against the fence. He bent her back leg, staggering as the indignant animal tried to shake her foot out of his hand. After a struggle, we inspected all four feet.

‘No blisters there,’ Daddy breathed. ‘Let’s check the other one. Here, girl.’

The other cow, Dora, a matriarch of our herd, proved more placid. She had much the same symptoms. Mouth blisters, but no lameness.

‘That’s one positive thing. And the new cattle don’t have symptoms?’ I could not keep my voice as steady as my words.

Daniel shook his head. ‘They were the first I looked over after I saw these two. At a distance, of course, Mr Stephenson. Didn’t touch ’em. We only let them join the herd a few days ago.’

By the time we three washed our hands by the dairy, the household had appeared en masse, led by Mummy in galoshes. Teddy and Julian trailed her, a towel was cast over Julian’s shoulder. The two had been giving the Morris a second cleaning to rid it of the persistent reek of seaweed. Teddy still clutched a sponge, his shirt half untucked and wrongly buttoned. Despite the crisis, I was irked. Why did Julian get forgiven so easily?

‘Harry is at Studland helping Jim,’ said my mother. ‘Mrs Scadden will keep half an eye on Valerie and make sure the dogs stay inside.’

Simon gave Daddy a reassuring clap on the back. ‘What are we looking for?’

‘Anything out of the ordinary.’ Daddy addressed everyone. ‘Let’s line up, those who know their plants in between those who don’t. Father, do you agree?’

Grandfather inclined his head.

Daddy continued. ‘That will be me, Major Stephenson, Daniel, Mrs Stephenson, Ros. Then William, Joe, Mr Thomas,’ he indicated the other two farm hands and our gardener. ‘Ellen?’

Our maid shook her head. ‘I just know ragwort and nightshade, Mr Stephenson.’

‘Aidan, you’re a botanical painter. Do you know your poisonous plants?’

Aidan nodded. ‘Pretty well.’

‘Good. Let’s get in line.’

‘I’ll check the hedges,’ said William. ‘I cut and rewove that hedge only this past winter, but it’s possible something like yew could have sprung up since then.’

‘Wild parsnip and giant hogweed.’ Mummy checked names off on her fingers. ‘Look for a plant with long, feathering leaves, or something spreading, with jagged fingers and a thick stem.’ She stretched out her hand to illustrate.

‘Cuckoo pint,’ I added.

‘I know that one,’ said Livvy.

‘If you are not sure, ask,’ said Daddy. ‘I would rather us be wrong a hundred times than miss one poisonous plant.’

‘And look for any rubbish, anything spilled,’ added Daniel. ‘I haven’t caught any walkers cutting across our fields lately, but you never know.’

Daddy nodded, looking hopeful. ‘Yes, something caustic could have done it.’

We spread out against the west fence, swapping places a few times until we had the plant people suitably spaced to help the others. Pacing slowly, bent double, we inspected the meadow step by step.

An hour later, backs aching, we leaned glumly against the opposite fence. Nothing. This is only the first step, only the first step. The words were a mantra to the pulse beating in my ears.

‘I need to call the vet.’ Daddy sounded mechanical. ‘Thank you, everyone, for your help.’

‘Everyone must get back to the house and scrub up before they enter,’ said Mummy. ‘Leave your shoes for us to disinfect. Mrs Scadden said she would pile soap and towels outside the kitchen door. We can use the old trough. There will be a buffet lunch for everyone in the Great Hall. Livvy will organise chairs and tables.’

‘And no one can leave the estate in case of infection, correct?’ Simon asked.

‘Correct,’ said Grandfather. He turned to the farmhands and Ellen. ‘If any of you need to send a message home, discretely please, you are free to use the telephone.’

Mr Thomas looked at the others. ‘None of us is expected home yet. We’ll wait, won’t we?’

They nodded.

‘Thank you,’ Daddy repeated. But his voice sounded lighter this time, buoyed by their loyalty.

‘Harry?’ I asked.

‘We could call the Studland post office and ask the telegram boy to take a message to him,’ suggested Mummy.

‘Tell him not to stop on the way home,’ said Daddy.

‘Best not say why,’ put in Daniel. ‘T’would be terrible to spread a false story. The lad barely comes near the cattle, and he only went down to the sea today. He’s not likely to have spread anything.’

We trooped back, mostly in silence, except for Daddy and Grandfather, who conferred in undertones. Possibilities buzzed in and out of my head. Not wooden tongue, the cows were not eating hay. Nor heat exhaustion. The weather was not hot enough, and anyway, old Dora always hogged the shade. Perhaps Daniel’s guess about careless walkers was correct. Please, let it be that. The dreaded conclusion returned, stinging and relentless as summer flies on cattle. Or dead cattle.

We let Daddy wash first and go indoors to call the vet and the Studland post office. Mummy and Ellen next so they could pitch in with Mrs Scadden to finish the buffet. I held Grandfather’s jacket while he scrubbed his hands.

He straightened, shaking water from his gnarled knuckles. I passed over a towel.

‘Thank you, Ros.’ He handed it to Daniel, then held out his elbow to me. I crooked my arm in his. ‘Don’t give up,’ he said, looking at my downcast face. ‘I don’t believe it’s Foot and Mouth, and I told your father so. An old farmer’s hunch.’

I pressed my arm tight against his, drawing on the warmth of his body and words to fight the chill creeping through my spirits.

We joined Daddy, Simon and Livvy in the hall as Daddy replaced the receiver on the telephone. ‘The vet will be about half an hour. His wife is telephoning him. He is out tending to Douglas Thorner’s hunter.’

I groaned. ‘It would be Douglas Thorner. I hope Mrs Allen is discreet when she telephones.’

The boys trooped in behind us. Livvy silently shooed Teddy and Julian upstairs. Teddy patted my back as he passed. Jamie lingered with us.

Simon rubbed his strained shoulder. ‘It could be lots of things. You said yourself the cattle only have one symptom.’

‘Grandfather doesn’t believe it either,’ I added.

Daddy leaned against the table, head down. ‘The dairy is the only part of this business that makes us any money.’ His voice broke. ‘All the rest is merely subsistence.’

Livvy shook his arm. ‘Don’t think like that, James. You and Phee have never given up. Not in the war, not in the floods. Not on each other.’

‘We don’t know the worst, Dad,’ said Jamie. ‘And whatever happens, we will work together, like we always have.’

Normally, I would have retorted that he did not set foot on the farm half as much as I did, but I bit back my words. He was right, we had to pull together.

‘There’s nothing to be done right now,’ said Livvy. ‘Let’s get the Great Hall set up for a buffet lunch for everyone.’


✽✽✽

Part way through a substantial but somewhat funereal lunch, where I forgot to have even one lustful thought about Julian, wheels crunched on the driveway. I dropped my sandwich. Daddy, Daniel, Jamie and I rushed out as the vet leapt from his Range Rover wearing a boiler suit and gloves.

Daddy stood at a distance. ‘Good of you to come so quickly.’

The vet nodded. ‘I didn’t call ahead to the Ministry. Dorset is Foot-and-Mouth free right now, so let’s hope it’s something else.’

Valerie caught up with us. ‘I’m a vet, too,’ she announced.

‘Not now, darling.’ Daddy patted her head absently.

‘What’s he doing?’ she persisted.

‘He’s going to look at the cows,’ I said. ‘Run back to the house.’

‘But I already gave them med’cine.’

We stopped in our tracks as one.

‘You gave them real medicine?’ Daddy’s voice wavered between relief and anger.

She nodded, a little wary.

The vet crouched down. ‘Valerie, do you still have the medicine?’

She pointed to the Morrison shelter.

‘Let’s take a look.’ The vet stretched out his hand. ‘You can teach me how you made it.’

She slipped her hand in his. ‘You can use my med’cine if you want to.’

Two muddy buckets sat on the metal roof of the Morrison shelter. Daddy poked at the greenish purple sludge with a stick. ‘What is in here, Valerie?’

‘Dandelions, grass, Ribena, sun plant.’

‘Sun plant?’ the vet asked.

‘Behind the shed.’

I raced over to the shed. One glance confirmed it. Euphoria washed over me. ‘Wild parsnip,’ I called over. Poisonous enough to cause blistering in the cattle, but not deadly. We were saved.

‘How much?’ asked Daddy. ‘How much?’ he demanded.

Valerie’s bottom lip quivered. ‘One flower. It was all right, it wasn’t one of Mummy’s flowers.’

I checked back behind the shed. ‘She’s telling the truth, Daddy. Only one flower head has been broken off.’

The vet unbuttoned the top of his boiler suit, smiled, and eased it from his neck. ‘That’s not enough to do any lasting harm. I’ll check on those cows of yours, James, but I think we can say case closed.’ He knelt next to Valerie. ‘I need you to listen to me carefully, little lady. I want you to show me or your daddy any medicine you concoct before you give it to an animal because some things can make them very sick. Do you understand? And if your daddy tells me you have been a good girl and done as I asked, the next time I come out to the farm I will bring you real veterinary supplies. Do we have an agreement?’

Valerie brightened. ‘I want a real bandage, and a plaster, and a bottle –’

‘Ros, take Valerie back to the house and straight to the nursery. And leave her there until I come. Alone.’ Daddy’s expression was rigid. ‘Jamie, go and tell everyone the news.’

I swooped my little sister up as she began to weep.

‘She’s nobbut a little one,’ said Daniel. ‘Go easy on her.’

Daddy shook his head. ‘She lives on a farm. Endangering the animals means jeopardising our livelihood.’

‘Come on, Valerie,’ I whispered. I did not dare kiss her, but I brushed my nose against her hair as I obeyed Daddy and carried her indoors to the nursery.

After depositing her in the room with an extra squeeze, I slipped into a box room nearby and left the door cracked open. Daddy’s punishments had always been tempered with love, but he was beyond furious, and Valerie was my little sister. I should be on hand to comfort her afterwards.

Blinds half shaded the room, formerly Mummy’s bedroom. She slept with us here when we were newborns, and later when we were sick as little children. Since then, there had been a lot of shunting around of rooms as our family grew and we repaired the manor inch by inch, penny by penny. Now the room stored an antique side table with a cracked leg and a chair with a frayed, embroidered cushion, both waiting to be repaired before going on display for visitors, plus assorted boxes of outgrown clothes and toys.

On the wall behind me hung a picture that had always been a favourite of mine, much more inviting than the dark, old ancestral portraits in the Long Gallery. Three young men lounging on Studland beach, two of them sandy haired, the other blond. The speckles of paint gave the impression of sea spray and sand splashing out of the canvas. I used to climb onto a chair to touch the brushstrokes, and asked Mummy every time about why she had the picture, because I loved hearing her answer: ‘Remember how Snow White’s mother pricked her finger while sitting at a snowy window, and wished for a little girl with skin as white as snow, hair as black as ebony, and lips as red as blood? Well, I wished for a little girl with hair kissed by the flames of the sun, and I got her.’ Much more romantic an explanation for my unusual hair colour than being a ‘throwback’ in the family tree.

Below the picture sat Mummy’s old bedside table. On a whim, I opened the drawer. Inside was a ribbon bookmark, a pencil stub, and a tiny photograph. For a moment, a thrill of discovery rippled through me, until I recognised my dead uncle. I’d already dismissed him as my mother’s mystery man. She would have said if she saw someone who resembled her brother. I shoved the drawer shut, feeling rather dishonest for snooping around my mother’s things.

Mummy and Daddy entered the hall, conferring in undertones. I crept towards the door, leaned my ear against it. From the nursery came the sound of Valerie’s dolls’ pram trundling up and down.

The nursery door clicked open. A few squeals of ‘No!’ then a scream. A pause. The scream redoubled. More shock than pain. I let out the breath I didn’t know I had been holding.

I peeked through the crack and saw Daddy march back out into the hallway, swiping at his eyes as the wails continued behind him. He slumped onto an ancient chair, the twin to the one in the room with me. It creaked dangerously under his weight.

He cradled his head in his hands. ‘I couldn’t do it, Phoebe. Just a couple of smacks, I couldn’t give her a proper spanking. God, I hate myself even for that. I have never lifted a finger to a daughter of mine.’

My mother crouched at his side, her hands on his thigh. ‘No, you were correct. This was life or death. She must never do something like this again.’ She straightened. ‘I’ll go to her. You take a drink or go for a walk with Simon.’

As soon as they disappeared from the hall, I escaped the house. I couldn’t tell whether the tearfulness suffusing my face was joy or sorrow. I had seen the newsreels about Foot and Mouth, whole fields strewn with slaughtered sheep and cattle, families’ lives shattered as the herds they nurtured across generations of man and beast were wiped out. And I wept for Valerie, who experienced something I never suffered, a sense of betrayal by her daddy.

I wandered as far as the walled kitchen garden, where a tell-tale wisp of smoke told me that Livvy was sneaking a cigarette. I peeked in. She waved me over.

‘I needed a secret smoke after today’s events.’ She held out her cigarette case. I shook my head.

‘Good girl. I only smoke about a pack a year, but I like to keep them with me, just in case.’

I brushed my palm over a tomato plant. ‘Thank you for rallying Daddy. He thought the bottom was going to crash out of his world.’

‘I meant it. He and your mother, well,’ she paused, ‘they have grown together through a lot.’

‘You mean after they got married so quickly?’ I asked.

Livvy cast me a slanted look through a puff of smoke. ‘I suppose. They had to get to know each other after they got married, and your mother had to learn to be the lady of the manor although she is so shy. Completely capable – you know never to underestimate her – but not someone who wanted to lead. Yet she did it for him.’

‘She had no boyfriends before Daddy?’ I figured it was worth a final try at Mummy’s mystery.

Livvy coughed, but turned it into a laugh. ‘No boyfriends, no beaus.’

‘Livvy.’ I hesitated. ‘How do you know?’

‘We’ve always been close.’

‘No, not you and Mummy. I mean, how does a person know when their feelings are real? How do you know who the right person is, and when you should act on those feelings?’

Livvy flicked ash onto the earth and fixed me with an inquiring smile. ‘Do you mean romance, compatibility, or sexual desire?’

‘Oh…’ A blush spread up my cheeks.

Livvy took my arm and steered me to the bench. ‘Sit down. Has your mother given you the birds and bees talk?’

‘I live on a farm, Livvy. Mummy gave me a booklet to read, but I didn’t ask any questions. I don’t think she would want me to.’

She drew another cigarette from the packet. ‘It’s not quite the same. Men aren’t completely consumed by animal instincts, even at their most lustful moments. Rosamond,’ she tapped my knee with the unlit cigarette, ‘the time has come for me to give you the talk that your mother secretly wants me to give you. You’re going off to college – eventually – and you might meet a young man who lights such a strong flame that the two of you can’t keep your hands off each other, regardless of your virtuous intentions. And trust me, I think you should try this cigarette before I begin.’

She lit it and drew a puff before handing it over. I choked at the first drag, and don’t even recall when I took my next breath, as she proceeded to explain, in great detail, things only hinted at in every novel I had read, plenty of things I had never dreamed of (one or two of which sounded quite interesting), and brought me down to earth with a stern lecture on contraception.

‘But remember,’ she said, taking the stub from my fingers, most of which had burned down untouched, ‘before you sleep with someone, make sure you feel it in three places: your pelvis, your heart, and your head.’ She tapped the body parts as she listed them. ‘If you do nothing more than check those three points, you and the man can figure out the rest together.’

‘Mum!’ Teddy’s voice echoed outside the gate.

‘Perfect timing,’ Livvy whispered.

Teddy peered around the garden door. ‘I thought you would be outside smoking somewhere.’ He strolled in, clutching a paper bag. ‘I brought some peppermints to suck before you go in and breathe on Dad. Were you and Ros having a spot of girl talk?’

‘You are a good son to your mother.’ Livvy took the outstretched bag, and Teddy settled between us, an arm around each. I relaxed into his shoulder, accepting his tacit olive branch.

Livvy picked out a peppermint and offered me the bag. ‘Bribery won’t wheedle our secrets out of us.’

Teddy sniffed in my direction. ‘Ros, did you smoke?’ He widened his eyes in mock horror.

‘I attempted to, very badly.’ I rolled the peppermint around my mouth, trying to get rid of the taste of tobacco. ‘How are things indoors?’

‘Dad and the Major took James for a walk with several hip flasks. Harry is back and sorry he missed the excitement. Valerie is cutting pictures of toys from a catalogue with Julian’s help, and he strangely seems to be enjoying it. Your mother is booking a restaurant for tonight. Apparently, she fed most of our dinner to everyone at lunchtime.’

Livvy rested her head back against Teddy’s arm. ‘What a holiday it has been so far. What next?’

‘Oh, I almost forgot.’ Teddy fished into his pocket. ‘This note came for you in the post, Ros.’





Chapter Sixteen


I perched on the edge of my bed, fingering the note from Gareth inviting me to tea that afternoon at the Farwell farm. He had purloined a car from a friend and would call for me at three.

I glanced at the bedside clock. Quarter past two. The second hand circled relentlessly, like Livvy’s advice swirling in my brain. Head, heart and pelvis. If I really wanted to lose my virginity this summer, was either Julian or Gareth the right one?

One smouldering glance from Julian, and my insides melted, though I knew full well I had no deep, romantic feelings for him, nor he for me. But I had only to ask, and he would open a whole, new, sensuous world.

Gareth, on the other hand, had already opened the door to his academic world and shown me the pleasures of being treated as an equal. But he hadn’t even tried to hold my hand. Did this invitation mean he hoped for a deeper friendship, or something else?

I pressed the note to my heart as if I could extract his true feelings, to help me make a decision. Nothing. I huffed. Seizing the day had muddled my life, not made it more exciting. The clock hand ticked on, the beat to the litany in my head: experience or romance, university or the farm. Why did there have to be choices? So much easier to be little Valerie, free to have all the dolly mixture in the bag.

I jumped at the creak of the door. Teddy poked his head in. ‘Good news or bad news?’ he asked. ‘That face says you’re suffering internal warfare.’

‘An invitation to afternoon tea.’ I whipped the note behind my back as he leapt to snatch it.

‘Man troubles, then? It has to be the one you met at the cricket match. Gawain?’

‘Gareth.’ I didn’t credit Teddy’s detective genius because who else could it be?

Teddy grimaced. ‘I thought you were going to hike to Corfe with Julian and me today, and eat at the Greyhound. Don’t bail on us again.’

I looked him straight in the eye. ‘Stop putting on an act, Teddy. We’ve always been truthful with each other. You can’t pretend everything is back to normal when you’re constantly scrutinizing me and Julian. You haven’t permitted us a moment alone since Dorchester.’

Teddy turned to push the door shut, then dropped onto the bed and slid his arm around me. He let out an audible breath. ‘Ros. This whole situation…’ He stared out of the window. ‘I need to explain. I swear, I only didn’t say anything at first because I thought you understood. But I was wrong. You’ve misconstrued the truth.’

I rubbed his back. ‘I understand perfectly, Bear. Julian is flirting with me. Rather drastically. But it’s never gone further than I want.’

Teddy’s body sagged. ‘Really?’ He kept his gaze on the window. ‘He’s expert in persuasion,’ he murmured.

It was my turn to sit silent for a few moments, not wanting to admit the truth in Teddy’s statement. But I had to give what I demanded. ‘Maybe his actions do speak louder than his words,’ I began slowly. ‘But nothing’s going to happen when you’re around to defend my honour. Anyway, if Julian’s so dangerous, why is he your friend?’

‘Julian’s not a bad person. He’s generous, open, fearless, very loyal in his own way. And,’ Teddy smiled, ‘he makes you feel like you’re the only person in the room. It’s just that he has wider boundaries than the rest of us. It makes him exhilarating to be with. But not always safe.’

‘You’re the one who encouraged me to widen my boundaries,’ I pointed out gently.

‘I suppose so. And I wanted you and Julian to hit it off.’ Teddy scrunched the bedspread in his fist. ‘I’m used to your being my cousin, not thinking of you as a girl. I didn’t realise the impact you might have on Julian, and when I did, it frightened me.’

‘Bear.’ I shook his shoulder, cajoling. ‘Don’t worry about me. I know Julian’s behaviour ultimately means nothing. I enjoy it. How far I go is my choice. It needn’t harm our friendship.’ Why couldn’t he see that?

Teddy hesitated. ‘In the abstract, your love life is none of my business, but it would change our relationship if… I mean, you do realise…’ He twisted the bedspread back and forth.

‘Why?’ I demanded, half an eye on the clock. ‘I bet you’re not a virgin, but it makes no difference to what I think of you.’

‘It is different for me, Ros. For Julian and I.’ He let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Don’t you understand?’

‘That men can be experienced but girls have to be pure?’

‘That’s not my point.’

I sighed. ‘Then make your point, Teddy.’

‘The point is.. the point is…’ Teddy slapped the bedspread. ‘Oh, screw it!’ He waved his hand towards the note. ‘Why spend time arguing, or with a stranger when this could be the last summer we are all together?’

It wasn’t all about Julian? I didn’t know what I had expected, but not that. My fingers closed on the note. I took a calming breath, on safer, less personal ground with Gareth. ‘Yes, I like Gareth’s company, but honestly, I’m enjoying solving the mystery of his relative. I discovered that Captain Milne served under Grandfather in the Great War. Afterwards, Grandfather found him a job here. He even presided as magistrate at Milne’s inquest. Our family was involved in his life and death. I feel some responsibility.’

‘Does that mean you have to be involved in Gareth’s life?’

‘I’m not involved, except with this minor mystery,’ I objected. ‘I know barely anything else about him or his family.’

Teddy shook his head, but his expression lightened. ‘Oh ho, that’s suspicious. You should know who he is before you gallivant about the country with him.’

‘It’s not suspicious, it merely proves that all our interactions have concerned this business about his cousin.’ I threw up my hands. ‘If it makes you happier, I’ll grill Gareth on his background and prospects and report back to you.’

‘You accepted the invitation?’ Teddy narrowed his eyes. ‘Then why did you look so conflicted when I came in?’

‘Perhaps because I knew I would get the thumbscrew treatment from my family,’ I retorted. ‘Also, I have upwards of a dozen people ready to shield me from imagined harm. Not even a Bluebeard could fight his way through that.’

‘You mean you have too many people who love you.’ Teddy ironed the bedspread with his palms. ‘Julian won’t make you happy,’ he murmured, looking down. ‘But Gareth sounds promising.’

‘Teddy!’ I lay my hands on his, stopped the incessant movement. ‘I know all that. But my whole life, I’ve never had to make choices. Everything I could ever want: this place, a life I love, family, and –’ I pressed the backs of his hands gently ‘– my best friend, has been right in front of me. Suddenly, I have to make the biggest decisions of my life. Shouldn’t I get a taste of those options first?’

In the silence that followed, the clock hands whirred. ‘Twenty minutes! I have to get ready.’ I jumped up, scanned the bedroom wildly.

Teddy grasped my hands, locked as in prayer, a tight-lipped smile across his face. ‘Swear to confess all afterwards, and I promise to help you get ready and sneak out with a minimum of fuss.’

‘How do you know I haven’t told Mummy and Daddy?’

‘Because Cousin James and Dad are not patrolling the driveway with shotguns.’

Our shared laughter broke the tension. I kissed his cheek.

‘I’ll tell you all about it,’ I promised. I had already warned Gareth to wait for me at the entrance to the estate, and what could happen in Mrs Farwell’s back garden?


✽✽✽

I led Gareth through the side gate to the garden behind the Farwells’ farmhouse, empty apart from a group of hikers who occupied a wooden trestle table, backpacks balanced against their shins. The upper half of the stable door to the kitchen stood open, and the faint whistle of a kettle drifted out.

The ride over had been quiet. I was still shaken from my spat with Teddy, uneasy that we hadn’t truly got to the bottom of whatever was coming between us. Over that lay a simmering anticipation of the afternoon. I couldn’t bombard Gareth with my discoveries, because I had to let him concentrate on driving along unfamiliar roads. In turn, he hinted at new information, and the worn, leather zipped pouch on the back seat of the car spoke enticingly of secrets.

I leaned over the little shelf of the farmhouse door. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Farwell.’

She turned from the kitchen sink. ‘Good afternoon, Miss Stephenson. Nice to see you.’ She gazed with interest at Gareth, who hovered a few feet behind me.

‘May we have scones and tea for two? I drove this way the other day to show Mr Easton one of our rental cottages, and he noticed your tearoom.’ It was the bare-bones truth.

She dried her hands on her apron. ‘Zertainly, Miss Stephenson. You can take that little table over there. Feel free to move it anywhere on the lawn. There’s a pleasant bit of shade under the apple tree. I’ll bring tea right out.’

‘Shall we sit under the tree, or would you prefer another spot?’ Gareth asked.

‘Under the tree is fine. I’ll take the chairs.’

‘No, allow me. You don’t want to get dirt on your dress.’

I glanced down at my dress. Still clean, thank goodness. Teddy had absolutely vetoed another outing of my beige pencil skirt, so I wore my new white cotton summer dress with its riotous daisy print, topped with a lacy white cardigan Ginny Vaughn knitted for me. I had buffed my nails but refused make-up, because I did not see Gareth as the type of man who liked a girl in lipstick.

Sharing coy glances, we positioned the round, metal table and old kitchen chairs under the spreading branches of the apple tree bending with its burgeoning crop. Gareth wiped down the back of my chair with his handkerchief, then held it as I smoothed the full skirt under me to sit.

Gareth unbuttoned his battle dress jacket, hung it on the back of his chair, then rolled up his beret to tuck under his shirt epaulette. He loosened his tie a smidgen. ‘That’s better. No one makes an itchy wool jacket like Her Majesty’s army.’

‘You said you have something to show me,’ I said. ‘I presume it’s in that pouch?’

A little smile of triumph lit Gareth’s face as he unzipped the pouch and removed a grubby manila folder. He set it on the table, facing me. ‘Alex Milne’s file.’

‘How on earth…?’ My gasp turned into a smile that reflected his.

‘I deliberately ran out of things to do in the office and offered to organise the overstuffed filing cabinets.’

‘They let someone of your calibre do something so menial?’

He shrugged. ‘Most army service consists of those in charge inventing various drudgeries to break our spirits. I almost regretted the task once I got started, because the older records were horribly out of order. I thought it would be the proverbial needle in a haystack.’

I reached out, stopped, my hand hovering over the file. Gareth pushed it closer. ‘Go ahead. I saved the grand opening until we were together. You deserve it after all the help you’ve given me.’

I shook my head. ‘I can’t believe you restrained yourself.’

‘I wanted to share the moment with you. Besides, whatever is in there won’t change my life.’

With me? I ducked my head, fighting a wider smile. ‘Actually,’ I said, ‘we were both keeping back surprises. I got some information from my grandfather. But this probably covers much the same ground, so I’ll fill you in as we go.’

I flipped open the folder. Gareth shuffled his chair closer. Our sleeves brushed as we leant over the file together. The leaves above us quivered in the breeze, like the fluttering in my chest. How much was due to Gareth’s proximity and how much to our discoveries, I couldn’t tell.

Inside the folder lay a slim pile of yellowed sheets of paper, fastened with a couple of rusting paperclips. I pushed gingerly at one of the paperclips with my fingernail. A scrap of paper flaked away.

‘Oh.’ I snatched my fingers away.

‘Cheap army paper. Don’t worry, probably, no one but a historian will ever read this again. More likely, there’ll be a mass burning of old papers before anyone gets to them.’ Gareth twisted the other paperclip off fearlessly.

He scanned the first page. ‘These are the re-enlistment orders. I don’t see a physical examination report.’

‘My grandfather said that he and your cousin were comrades during the war. Afterwards, Grandfather intervened to get him a quiet job at Bovington, to alleviate the effects of shell shock.’ I paused, waiting for a reaction.

He tilted his head towards me, green eyes intent. ‘Go on.’

‘None of that surprises you?’ Disappointment tinged my voice.

‘I have faith in you, Ros.’ He smiled. ‘I sensed you had a researcher’s instinct for taking the right track. Besides, those facts fit perfectly with the picture of Milne as a recluse, and answer the question of why he returned to Dorset.’

‘Grandfather thought the country air would be therapeutic,’ I continued, mollified. ‘Maybe he used his influence to skip procedures like a physical exam that might disqualify Milne. I doubt if the army would document nepotism.’

‘Good point. And from what I understand, things were very much in flux at Bovington after the war. They had been a centre of tank warfare training, but it wasn’t clear at the time that tanks would ever be used again. It probably wasn’t too difficult to slip a man into a position in an out-of-the-way garrison.’ Gareth turned over the pages carefully. ‘Here’s a brief summary of Milne’s war record. It’s signed by him, and in the first person, so he must have typed or dictated it.’

He bent closer to the words. Was he a tad short sighted? In my imagination, I saw past the young man in ubiquitous khaki green battle dress to an academic in dark-rimmed glasses and a chunky cardigan surrounded by books. Still neat, but relaxed, with his shirt collar undone. One button, maybe two…

‘Here you go.’ Mrs Farwell interrupted my thoughts to deliver a tin tray of tea and scones. Her beam revealed she had caught me mooning over Gareth, who didn’t help the situation by hurriedly scooting his chair back around the table. Julian, I was sure, would have stayed where he was and flirted with her. Somehow, I found Gareth’s reaction more endearing.

Gareth pulled the folder onto his knees to make space for Mrs Farwell to arrange our tea on the table. I sat straight, hands in my lap.

‘Come to the kitchen if you want more hot water. I’ll keep the kettle simmering. Here’s a nice big napkin for that pretty dress, Miss Stephenson.’

‘Thank you.’ My gratitude was genuine. I was mortally afraid of dropping jam on my white clothes. ‘How is business this summer?’

She tucked the tray under her arm. ‘Not bad. We get more walkers come through now we cleared that right of way. My son cut back the brambles and repaired the signpost on the path. He and his dad don’t like trespassers, but I told ’em there’d be a lot more trespassing if folks couldn’t walk where they’d a right to. It’s not predictable business, but I’ve always got plenty of hungry mouths on the farm to finish up any leftovers.’

‘Have you thought about asking the Mrs Dyetts to put an advertisement in their shop window?’

‘Do you think people would come out just for tea?’

‘I would for these scones. Your walnut cake, too.’

Mrs Farwell beamed. ‘Thank you, dear. I’ll leave you two alone to enjoy your tea.’

‘She’s right,’ said Gareth as she left. ‘About your dress, I mean. You look pretty. I wanted to say so earlier, but didn’t know if you cared for compliments of that nature.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, momentarily confused. Didn’t every girl care? What did it mean if he didn’t see me as ‘every girl’?

Gareth cleared his throat and reached for the dish of curled butter pats. ‘How about you pour tea and I butter scones?’

If, despite his warning about strangers, Teddy’s plan in helping was to render me irresistible to Gareth and thus supplant Julian, he obviously had an uphill slog.

‘That’s very egalitarian, but why don’t you read aloud while I do the honours? We don’t want to grease the war record, even if my grandfather greased Captain Milne’s way into a job.’

Gareth’s laughter swelled my pride at coming up with that pun. I supposed I must prefer compliments that went more than skin deep. Gareth had seen that.

‘Before I start, do you mind if I roll up my shirt sleeves? It’s getting warm.’

‘Of course not. This is a farming community, not a drawing room.’ I was surprised, and touched, that he asked.

Gareth unbuttoned his cuffs. Fold by fold, he carefully rolled his sleeves up to the elbows, over sinewy forearms brushed with reddish brown hair. I noticed his right arm, his batting arm, was slightly broader than the left.

‘Let’s see…’ Gareth traced the rusted paperclip under the words. ‘Milne enlisted in 1915, from the Officer’s Training Corps, of course. He must have been among the last to get a direct commission. My grandfather told me they stopped that short-sighted classism halfway through the war in favour of men with at least some experience. Thank you.’ He took the cup of tea I proffered and sipped thoughtfully.

‘But he made the rank of captain,’ I said. ‘That must say something about his abilities. On the other hand, he could merely have been in the right – or wrong – place, when some other poor unfortunate was killed.’

‘Yes, it says here that he got a field promotion, less than six months after he was sent to serve in Gallipoli with the Fifth Battalion of the Dorsetshire Regiment. That makes sense, we lost tens of thousands in that campaign. No copy of the citation, if there was one. Pity.’

I nodded. ‘The Fifth Battalion was Grandfather’s regiment. That’s how he met Captain Milne.’

‘It notes here that the whole battalion was sent back to France in July 1916. But Milne didn’t stay with the regiment. He was posted to an administrative position behind the front lines before the end of the war.’ Gareth set down his teacup. ‘Perhaps he had a breakdown.’

‘Grandfather’s exact words were that Captain Milne held himself together in front of his men,’ I assured him. ‘Maybe a compassionate superior moved your cousin on before his condition could be discovered, to avoid a dishonourable discharge. I wonder if Grandfather was responsible for that, too?’ I stopped. ‘That’s speculation. I should stick to the facts.’ I took a bite of scone to silence my racing imagination and tongue.

‘No, it’s logical, given what we know. So, Milne received an honourable discharge, and after a couple of years in civilian life, took this new job at your grandfather’s suggestion.’ Gareth flipped over the page. ‘Here are the discharge papers, or a copy, at least.’ He paused, his face downcast. Across from us, the hikers stood and hauled on their rucksacks.

‘Well?’

‘The file ends here, with a report of his death, very brief.’ He tapped the paperclip on the final full stop, a tiny hole stamped through the paper, as if whoever typed it was emphasising the end of Captain Milne’s life. ‘It states that he was not on duty at the time, so the army was not responsible in any manner.’

‘And that all army issue items were returned except for a belt and one vest,’ I read. ‘Sounds like the quartermaster was a stickler.’

Gareth passed the folder to me and settled back against the chair’s blue gingham cover. ‘And that’s it.’

I leafed through the papers that Gareth had summarised. ‘It fits with my grandfather’s story, at least if you read between the lines. And as you said, if Captain Milne had shell shock, that accounts for his reclusiveness and the diffident reports we’ve had from the few locals who recall him.’ I lingered over Milne’s signature, as though I could extract his character from the few faded strokes of ink.

‘There’s one more detail,’ I said.

‘Yes?’

‘I didn’t know that Captain Milne was in Grandfather’s regiment before he and I talked. The real reason I approached him was because he’s a retired magistrate, and I guessed he may have presided over the inquest on Captain Milne’s death.’ I glanced at the signature again. What really happened that day, Alex Milne? What were you thinking on that cliff?

Gareth sat up straight. ‘Don’t hold back, Ros. It’s not like he was a beloved relative.’

‘I was correct. Then, putting together the facts, as you said, I speculated the accident was actually suicide. While Grandfather didn’t admit the possibility, he didn’t exactly deny it. He said there was no evidence to record anything other than accidental death.’ I neatened the papers and closed the file with gentle reverence.

Gareth returned the papers to the pouch. He sat silent for a moment, playing with the zip. ‘Milne is buried at the edge of St Nicholas’ graveyard,’ he said quietly. ‘Maybe the doubt was there.’

‘Yes, but that really could be because he isn’t local. They’d want to leave room to expand family plots.’ Was I reassuring Gareth or myself? ‘I’d question Grandfather further, but he made clear his opinion that we should leave Milne’s memory alone.’

The light danced through the leaves of the apple tree, playfully dappling the teapot, at odds with our sombre topic. I lifted the lid and stirred the contents of the teapot. ‘Do you want more of this pot, or fresh?’

‘Fresh, please. I don’t want the disappointment of stewed tea along with the contents of Milne’s file.’

Funny, I thought, crossing the grass, I completely forgot to be awkward, or to analyse my feelings for Gareth, those moments when we delved into the mystery. We worked well together. Perhaps academic life could be fulfilling, after all. And Cambridge meant bon vivants like Julian as much as serious scholars like Gareth.

My toe caught a rut. I stumbled, thrusting the teapot at arms’ length to protect my dress from splashes. Served me right for drawing up a scorecard.

Mrs Farwell was leaning over the door as I approached. ‘Glad you didn’t trip. That’s a good-looking young man. You said you were out here showing him Dog Rose Cottage, maybe for a visitor? Are you in charge of renting for the family now?’ Her expression begged for gossip.

‘I help where needed,’ I said vaguely, handing her the pot. ‘Please may we have some fresh tea?’

She took the teapot into the kitchen. ‘He’s only here to do his National Service?’ she said over her shoulder. ‘Seems familiar to me.’

‘Perhaps you saw him at the cricket match.’ I tried to sound open enough that she would not think it worthwhile to gossip too much. Thankfully, farm work was ramping up for the summer, along with visitors, so perhaps she would have forgotten us by the time she went down to the village.

‘Here you go, dearie. Ask if you want more. I wouldn’t fill it up for free a third time for walkers, but locals are always welcome to as much as they can drink. And I’ll put some of yesterday’s scones in a bag for that young man to take back. He’ll need them if he’s surviving on army food.’

‘Thank you.’ She meant well. I should be ashamed of my uncharitable thoughts.

‘Unless he’s getting fed at Manor Farm?’ she added.

‘Absolutely not.’ I escaped back to our table with the hot, steaming teapot.

‘What now?’ I asked as I sat down.

Gareth cut a scone in half. ‘I need to ruminate on the facts for a while. Let’s talk about something different. You mentioned the other day that you and your cousins were in disgrace, but you never told me the story.’

‘All right, but don’t think badly of us.’ I related the details while he tucked into the rest of his scone. At the mention of the mine, he set down his knife, concern clouding his face.

‘I heard about the dislodged mine at Studland, and to be honest, from the details, I suspected it was your family.’

I frowned. ‘Then why didn’t you ask?’

‘You wanted to tell me in your own time. But thank goodness you are safe.’

I shuddered. ‘I try not to think about those moments with the mine. It comes back to me too vividly.’ My voice trembled as I continued. ‘In those moments, I would have done anything to live. I can’t help wondering, what was Captain Milne’s desperation in that last moment on Old Harry rocks – to live or die?’

Gareth slid his hand halfway across the table, then stopped at the tea strainer. He had a tiny nub on his middle finger, the result of too much writing. ‘Maybe your visit to the church roused Milne’s spirit and saved you from death. Perhaps even my cousin’s spirit. I’m glad you came with me.’

Whether or not he was serious, I had no wish to put a supernatural tinge on an already scary encounter. I poured another cup of tea. ‘I think years of living on the coast among undetonated mines protected me as much.’

He took the cup. ‘Ahh, a practicalist.’

‘Half romantic, half practical. You have to be that way for a life in farming. The sort of farmer my father is, at least.’ I dolloped strawberry jam onto my last morsel of scone, ignoring the pinch of the dress’s wasp waist, and rounded off the story of our trek home and punishment.

‘My turn,’ I finished. ‘Are you going to pursue the story of Captain Milne any further, or is it case closed?’ I popped the scone into my mouth and wiped my jammy fingers on the napkin.

Gareth let out a deep breath. ‘Now we have this much of his history, I’m curious about the details. We should respect your grandfather’s privacy, but there must be newspaper reports about the accident and inquest. Maybe an obituary, although that’s more likely to be published back in his home town.’

I stretched the napkin taut between my fisted hands. ‘Do you think there was another reason everyone claims to know nothing about him, apart from his being shell-shocked and anti-social?’

‘A scandal?’ Gareth cocked his head to one side. ‘My aunt didn’t hint at anything. So, either no, or the truth is something completely unmentionable.’

‘Or a secret mission during the war? Something he could never talk about?’

‘Perhaps losing his brothers was dreadful enough.’

‘Yes,’ I said quickly. ‘That was thoughtless of me, sorry. I got carried away with our theories.’

‘Don’t be sorry. I find that having flights of fancy often enables me to look down and see the truth. And dashing spy for a cousin would be much more exciting than a taciturn army surveyor.’

‘Dorchester is the first place you might look for archives. It’s our county seat. There is the courthouse, government offices, the library.’ I counted places off on my fingers. ‘Poole would be the next place, or Salisbury.’

‘I gather you’d like to come along?’

‘Absolutely. After all our investigations, Captain Milne has become real to me. I need to know the truth.’ I stopped, surprised at my realisation.

Gareth steepled his fingers, suddenly serious. ‘Ros, I’ll take you to Dorchester with me on one condition. I must meet your parents first. For your own sake, you can’t carry on excusing our acquaintance to everyone we meet. Are you afraid of getting into trouble?’

I studied the peeling paint on the table top. ‘Not trouble exactly. I’m hesitant to introduce you myself, because…’ I trailed off.

‘They might make certain assumptions?’ Gareth finished quietly. ‘You’re not of age, Ros. They have a right to be concerned about you.’

‘I’m above the age of consent,’ I retorted. My face heated as I realised what I had said. ‘And remember,’ I added quickly, ‘I have two brothers and two male cousins. They would be insufferable to us both.’ Not to mention that one was my confidante. ‘Being with you, pursuing this mystery, is a respite. Something has changed with them this summer.’

Gareth nodded. ‘They’re growing up. Suddenly they have to prove themselves to you.’

‘Why? We ran around in nappies together.’

‘That’s the problem. They want you to see them as men.’

I clattered the teaspoon onto the saucer. ‘Well, nearly killing me was not a very good way to do that.’ I huffed. ‘If all young men are that stupid, forget college, I might have to hie myself to a nunnery.’

Gareth let out the deepest laugh I’d heard from him. ‘Somehow, Ros, from the little I know of you, I am convinced that a nun’s life is not your vocation.’

My cheeks blazed. Hurriedly, he turned to stacking the teacups and plates. I pitched in, and we fumbled over the tea things together. What would he think if he really knew? He’d been matter-of-fact about those erotic stone carvings. But I wasn’t stone.

He reached into his pocket. ‘I’ll pay Mrs Farwell.’

‘She has some extra scones for you to take away. Thank you for tea.’

He stood.

‘You really should ask Peter Frobisher to introduce you to my family,’ I said. ‘Explain how I am helping you. He is frightfully proper, so he’s sure to do it. Especially since my cousin Lavinia is here. He’s always had a bit of a crush on her.’

‘Do we want to wait that long?’ He held my gaze for a moment, then turned away.

A teaspoon slipped, clattering down the pile, like the agitation running down my spine. Why did Gareth want to spend time with me? Was I a useful research assistant? A pupil for an academic without a classroom? In a sudden flash, I comprehended why my brothers and cousins wanted to be seen as men. I wanted Gareth to see me as a woman.

I bit my lip. Gareth was not devastatingly attractive like Julian (but really, who could live up to that perfection)? Yet he was attractive in a different sense of the word, drawing me to him without a hint of flirtation. He lit up my mind, made me want to achieve my best. And he took me seriously. Julian seemed to take nothing seriously.

But Julian offered to fulfil my wildest desires. Gareth offered tea and meeting my parents. I huffed, flicked at the peeling paint. Something in between a gentleman and lover would be nice for once.





Chapter Seventeen


‘Someone really blasted a swimming pool out of the cliff face?’ asked Julian as we hiked along the chalk path towards the coast.

‘For the prep school in Langton Matravers,’ I replied. Teddy and I were initiating Julian into a local secret. Dancing Ledge, one of our favourite secluded swimming spots. A good chance to escape the house, too. Every time the telephone rang, my heart jumped into my mouth, terrified that it was Gareth calling my father. What if Daddy said no? What if he said yes?

The sun glared relentlessly overhead, threatening to atone for a soggy spring with a scorching summer. At least it augured a good beginning to the harvest. The three of us passed through the courtyard of Hallett’s farm and tramped down the coastal footpath among the chalk hills that rolled towards the cliff edge. Further up the slope, patches of an old stone wall poked out from between stretches of gorse hedge. The grass, cropped by sheep and kept short by wind, rippled back and forth in the breeze, mirroring the waves of deep blue sea ahead of us.

From beneath my sunhat, I stole a glance at Julian beside me, the tip of his nose peeling from a touch of sunburn. Truth be told, after my afternoon with Gareth, my overwhelming lust for Julian had cooled, his youthful carnality paling in contrast to Gareth’s shy courtesy. Even so, he radiated desire like the sun radiated heat.

A stile brought me and my thoughts up short. Julian followed Teddy over then turned back to me.

‘I don’t need help.’ But I took his hand, anyway.

‘What do you need?’ he asked softly. Holding my gaze, he circled my palm with his thumb oh so gently. The rivulet of sweat that trickled down the back of my neck was not wholly due to the sunshine.

Teddy turned. I dropped Julian’s hand, leapt down from the stile and studiously contemplated the hills. ‘The sheep have almost forced a hole between the hedge and wall over there,’ I observed. ‘I wonder if Mr Hallett knows? There’s a lot of brambles, too. They could easily injure the ewes.’

‘We’re not doubling back to the farmhouse,’ Teddy warned. ‘Two minutes with a farmer, and you’ll be talking manure and foot rot.’

‘It’s called scald,’ I said.

‘What is?’

‘Common foot rot in sheep.’

‘Good grief, Ros!’

‘It’s sweltering. I want to get to this pool and take my clothes off,’ said Julian, already ahead of us.

‘We’re coming,’ said Teddy and I together.

Gravity propelled us down the slopes created by eons of multiple landslides; I thought for a moment of Captain Milne slipping to his death from this very coastline, not so far from here. An accident or suicide? Or did he simply heed the siren call of centuries and follow the land to its end in the sea?

Goodness, that sounded like something my mother would write. Was I less my father’s child than I realised? Could I fit in at Cambridge after all? With a shake of my head, I hastened my pace, and we trekked down the steps to the first level of the quarry.

‘That wasn’t as difficult as you claimed,’ said Julian. Then he caught sight of the final descent, a drop of perhaps a dozen feet with no visible way down for the uninitiated. ‘Ah.’

From the top, we paused to watch the waves cresting the ledge and dancing across the myriad hollows of the blasted rock face, the effect which gave the place its name.

Julian whistled. ‘I know gym teachers are sadists, but this looks pretty dangerous for small children. How many kids have been swept out to sea?’

‘None from schools,’ I said, ‘but you’re right, the sea here is for strong swimmers and those who know the currents well.’

Teddy straightened his knapsack. ‘Follow us.’

To the stranger, the final descent might look like a desperate slide down the almost sheer rock face, but we veterans of the pool knew the route that revealed itself step by step as you lowered yourself down the cliff. Teddy went first, me behind Julian, guiding, heeding every footfall.

Once down, we flung our small knapsacks on the rocky surface. Above us, beds of stone rose, layer upon layer, while around us the jagged coastline stretched out, dotted with caves both natural and blasted by quarrymen. My heart beating faster, I stood tall and pulled back my shoulders. Now for my moment.

I threw off my sunhat, grasped the hem of my polo shirt and slipped it over my head to reveal the top of my two-piece. Livvy had of course done me proud on her secret shopping mission: a nylon halter top in green with white polka dots that beautifully elevated the red tones of my hair.

Teddy wolf whistled. ‘Mum would approve.’

‘She bought it for me in Salisbury.’ I fought to stop my hopefully sultry smile from stretching into a silly grin.

Julian openly looked me up and down with eyes more smouldering than the midday sun. ‘Do we get the full fashion show?’

I fumbled to undo my waistband. Every hair stood up on my thighs as I slipped my shorts down to reveal the matching green bikini bottoms, covered with a tiny, hip-skimming ruched skirt. (‘For a token of modesty,’ Livvy had whispered as she handed over the package.)

‘Gorgeous.’ Julian’s voice was low and husky. Despite the heat, goose pimples ran down my arms.

‘You need to sunbathe in that, Ros, and get rid of your tan line,’ Teddy said.

Julian cocked his head to one side. ‘I think the tan lines are cute. They tell a story about how you have been out in the sunshine, enjoying life to the full.’

With a fluid motion, he ripped off his shirt. Golden hair ran down across his chest, but his flat, pale stomach was almost bare. I stood, stock still, as he lowered his shorts. Navy swimming trunks clung to his buttocks, a blue and white belt accentuating his abdominal muscles. My own stomach flipped.

He winked at Teddy. ‘Your turn.’

Teddy’s jaunty striptease revealed a bright red pair of swimming trunks, his torso leaner than Julian’s, chest hair darker. So familiar, I barely registered it as a man’s body, except now, next to Julian.

‘You’ve got a tan line, too,’ I pointed out.

Julian tugged me towards him, a hand in the small of my back, pressing me against his swimming trunks, bare midriff against bare midriff. ‘When does the dancing happen on Dancing Ledge?’

He waltzed me around, humming a low tune. His trunks brushed against my bikini skirt, sending tingling low through my pelvis. Was he teasing, tormenting, promising? When I dared glance up, his face was impassive. He pulled me a tad closer, against the hardness of his stomach. I bit back a whimper.

Excitement and fear shot through me, and the fear snapped me into clarity. I wasn’t ready for what Julian offered. Not yet. Teddy was right. This overstepped the boundaries of choice.

I pretended to stumble. We broke apart, and a brief rush of air cooled the sweat between our bodies. I turned to see Teddy frozen, shirt still in hand.

Unfazed, Julian swung round to grab him. ‘Can’t let you be a wallflower.’

It was my turn to be transfixed as Julian waltzed Teddy across the rock, fingers splayed across his buttocks, smiling into his eyes, Teddy obviously annoyed, but laughing. My lips parted, heart racing, I felt Julian’s eroticism pulse across the hot rock as he swayed side to side with Teddy, their hips rocking together. He was his own universe of desire, dragging us into his orbit.

With a final twirl, they stopped. Julian kissed Teddy’s hand and offered an exaggerated bow. Little indentations of Julian’s fingers clung to Teddy’s trunks.

My breath drained from me. Something I couldn’t name had happened between the three of us. Some moment of passion now dissipated into the shimmering air. As if spent with ardour, we spread our towels in silent accord and lay down on the hard, pitted rock. If Teddy and I were alone, we might have gone skinny dipping. It would not have been the first time. I glanced at Julian’s swimming trunks. Was he all blond underneath?

I closed my eyes, covered my face and thoughts with my sunhat and let the sun penetrate my bones as I listened to the waves and birds, the screeching of gulls, the honking of the guillemots in the clifftops. Next to me, the breathing of Julian and Teddy as we dozed on the rocks.

At last – I don’t know when, time seemed to stop – I raised my hat and gazed at the two boys side by side, each so beautiful in their way, and thought of that picture in Mummy’s old room.

‘I wish I had Cousin Livvy’s talent,’ I murmured. ‘I would paint the two of you stretched out on the rocks, with the sea in the background.’

Julian opened one eye. ‘I brought a camera.’ He leaned on his elbow to fish around in his knapsack, then handed me a small Kodak camera. ‘Sit up, Teddy. Ros, will you do the honours?’ He flung an arm around Teddy’s shoulder and drew him close. They leaned back, grinning at me through the camera.

Through the safety of the lens, I let my gaze travel across Julian’s delicious body. Livvy’s advice swam through my head once more. I couldn’t deny my bodily attraction for Teddy’s friend. But did I want really to lose my virginity to him after all?

‘Let me take a photograph of you and Teddy.’ Julian jumped up and took the camera. I nestled against my cousin as we smiled for Julian.

He lowered the camera and paused. ‘Well, aren’t you going to take one of us?’ he asked Teddy.

Teddy shrugged. ‘If you want.’

Julian knelt behind me, a hand on my shoulder, all propriety as Teddy took a picture. Julian’s moods danced like the surface of the sea today, and I could tell that Teddy as much as I was wary of the currents beneath that mercurial glitter.

‘Do you want a dip?’ I asked the boys.

‘When I’m hot,’ said Teddy.

‘That’ll make it worse. You know how cold the pool is. But suit yourself.’

I lowered myself into the little pool, catching my breath as I slipped down into the icy water. Lace seaweed caressed my calves. I pushed off the edge, diving down. A few strokes would take me the whole length, but I spread my arms wide in a slow breaststroke, feeling the water glide over my skin. Eyes open, I watched the seaweed and anemones beneath me, life sensuously swaying to my strokes. Another moment, and I rose to the surface, crossing my arms on the ledge to rest against the side of the pool. Behind me, Teddy and Julian murmured low.

I blinked the water out of my eyes. Teddy was correct, it was stupid to waste so much of the summer on thoughts of romance or lust. I’d been so busy pursuing the idea of seizing the day that I hadn’t actually embraced the moments in front of me. This was happiness, this moment, the sea, the sun, the three of us.

I pushed up on my hands, balanced for a moment halfway out of the pool, head stretched back, taking in a breath that spread through my lungs, water streaming from my hair down my back, across bare skin, to hit the little ridge of the bottoms of my two-piece. I swung myself around to sit on the rock. Across from me, Julian tenderly tucked back a strand of Teddy’s hair as he kissed him behind the ear.

A hollow blasted in my chest, like one of the surrounding quarry caves. And, like the shattered stones that plunged into the sea, emotions crashed around me: betrayal, shock, rejection, humiliation.

And stupidity. The truth was right in front of me, and I had ignored it. Showering together, Teddy’s misbuttoned shirt, all those little touches and gestures. My cousin’s unreasonable reactions to Julian’s flirtations. For goodness’ sake, they’d practically just made love in front of me. Yet of all the explanations, homosexuality had never entered my head.

I stomped back around the pool. Wrapping my towel roughly around my shoulders, I hunched on the ground, my back to them.

A light touch on my shoulder. Teddy. ‘You always knew about me, didn’t you, Ros?’ he whispered. ‘Deep down?’

I studied the drips of water falling from the ends of my hair to the rocks. Eventually, I turned towards him. ‘I never thought about it. Why would I? Neither of us courted, we never had cause to talk about the subject. But why didn’t you tell me? I thought we had no secrets from each other.’

He bit his lip. ‘I thought – hoped – you just knew. Like Mum knows. When I realised you didn’t, I was afraid to tell you plainly. I couldn’t bear to say the words aloud and see disgust on your face.’

‘Oh, Teddy, never!’ I exclaimed. ‘Don’t ever think that. We’re the twins, remember? Nothing you could be or do would push me away. I’m not shocked or disgusted at you. I, I felt… it doesn’t matter.’

Teddy laid his hand on Julian’s thigh. ‘I warned you to tone down the flirting with Ros, but you wouldn’t listen to me.’

I clutched my towel around my shoulders. ‘You call offering to have sex with me flirting?’

Teddy’s eyes darkened. ‘You told me you didn’t outright offer sex, Jules!’

To his credit, Julian looked a little sheepish. ‘Not in those explicit words.’

‘I would make the first time beautiful for you.’ I spoke each word with quiet emphasis. ‘That’s not explicit?’

Julian pouted. ‘I can’t help flirting. Partly, it’s a smokescreen, but really, beauty has no sex as far as I’m concerned.’

Well, at least I counted as beautiful. Unless that was flirting, too. ‘I feel stupid,’ I said. ‘Both of you made a fool of me, over and over again.’

‘I tried to tell you, Ros,’ Teddy pleaded. ‘The other day, in your room.’

I put a hand to my mouth, replaying the scene. ‘Oh Teddy, you did. I was so full of my own selfish woes that I steamrollered your confession. But you,’ I rounded on Julian. ‘How could you proposition me when you’re Teddy’s lover? What were you hoping for? Three in a bed? No, don’t answer that,’ I said at the glint in his eye. ‘Your behaviour hurt Teddy, and I don’t know if I can forgive that.’

Julian pressed his hand atop Teddy’s. ‘Teddy knows he is first in my heart. But he also knows I’m not naturally monogamous. And I wasn’t trying to seduce you, just offering what you obviously wanted. I didn’t lie about my intentions.’

‘What the hell do you call your behaviour if it wasn’t seduction?’ I spat, all my former passion spilling into anger.

‘What did you offer her?’ Teddy interrupted. ‘The truth.’

Julian sighed. ‘Experience without entanglement.’

‘Were you going to tell Teddy if you bedded me?’ I demanded. ‘Were you going to tell me you were sleeping with him?’

Julian scrunched his face into a sulk, sending the little flake of peeling skin on his nose upright. ‘I wouldn’t have kept him in the dark. But I didn’t have a complete plan.’

Teddy’s face was suffused with an aching love that almost broke my own heart. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘You never do. It’s always carpe diem with you.’

Carpe diem. My motto took on a sour meaning now.

Julian hung his head. ‘To be honest, I was jealous. You two have been part of each other your whole lives, and I wanted that part of Teddy. I want all of him. So I had to have all of you.’

‘You wanted to get under Teddy’s skin by getting under my skirt?’ My shriek echoed off the rocks.

Teddy’s eyes went wide. Julian jerked his head up. ‘My feelings weren’t sordid, Ros. Please believe me. I did – I do – desire you. You’re incredibly attractive, all the more because you’re not conscious of it. You’re like a living part of this landscape, something of the earth itself, a goddess.’

‘Forget the goddess bosh,’ Teddy snapped. ‘You never once thought of Ros’s future. You know what the consequences could be for her.’

Julian’s hand tightened on Teddy’s. ‘And you know what they could be for us: disgrace and prison. If we can choose to be lovers despite that, why is Ros not allowed to choose sexual experience outside of marriage? Surely, she should have the same freedom. It’s what you say you wished we had.’

‘We’re not in your world of country house weekends, swapping bedrooms and partners, sleeping with whoever takes your fancy. Mine and Ros’s world is different.’ Teddy shook off Julian’s hand.

Despite my anger at Julian, I couldn’t bear to see Teddy so upset. ‘Don’t completely blame Julian,’ I pleaded. ‘He’s right, I did want to sleep with him. After that brush with death at sea, I was obsessed with not dying a virgin. I wanted to experience lovemaking. Julian guessed and offered me the chance. But if I’d known about your relationship, I wouldn’t have thought twice about him.’

A smirk played across Julian’s lips. ‘Not even twice?’

Teddy swatted him. ‘Don’t do that.’

‘Don’t do what?’

‘What you always do. Make me laugh, turn the conversation so I forget how angry I am with you.’

The catch in Teddy’s voice told me in that moment it wasn’t me who needed protecting. I buried my head in the cave of my towel. Tears and salt water stung my eyes. I’d almost betrayed Teddy. I had betrayed him over and over in my head.

‘I warned you not to hurt her,’ I heard Teddy say.

‘No, I feel so stupid and confused,’ I mumbled. ‘Because there’s Gareth as well. But he’s so shy he hasn’t even held my hand. I don’t even know if he’s really attracted to me. I’ve spent the last several weeks thinking about two men. What sort of person does that make me?’

I felt Teddy’s arm around me. ‘Human,’ he whispered.

‘Who is Gareth?’ asked Julian.

I peered out of the towel. ‘You didn’t know?’

‘Teddy refused to spill the beans about what you were up to with your little jaunts. Believe me, I tried a lot of persuasion.’

I kissed Teddy’s cheek. ‘You’re the best friend ever. A girl would have told.’

Julian scooted around to kiss my other cheek decorously. ‘Ros, I’m sorry for everything. I would have held back had I known you were seriously interested in someone. I’m not a Don Juan.’

‘I think you are.’ But I said it with resignation.

My towel slipped from my shoulders as I sat between them, thoughts and emotions swirling, my cool skin against their warm biceps, my slim arms guarded by their muscular ones.

‘So,’ Teddy said at last, ‘if we had all been open with one another from the beginning, this wouldn’t have happened.’

‘I don’t blame you for keeping my secret – or yours,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing to forgive on your part. But I should have been honest about how far I thought of going with Julian. I was angry at your double standards.’

Teddy kissed my shoulder. ‘I promise from now on only to protect you as a friend.’

‘I suppose I’m still under a cloud,’ said Julian.

I cocked my head. Julian sat there, golden hair crowned by the sun. He wasn’t the god I first imagined. He was living, gorgeous flesh, created for sensuality. I understood why Teddy loved him and forgave him over and over, though that knowledge made a little crack in my heart. I sighed. ‘Let’s not spoil what remains of the summer. We can begin again.’

‘And I know the perfect way.’ Teddy looked around. ‘No one’s here. We can go in the water.’

‘Swimming?’ said Julian. ‘Didn’t you just explain how that was dangerous?’

‘Ros and I will take you over the ledge, Jules. Think of it as a kind of baptism. Full baptism, a new beginning.’ Teddy grabbed my hand and pulled me up with a determination that told me exactly what he meant. He extended the other to Julian.

Julian rose to his feet. ‘We’re a bit of a blasphemous trinity.’

What did it matter? And I’d get to see Julian naked, even if he was in love with Teddy. ‘Time to lose our tan lines,’ I grinned.





Chapter Eighteen


A blessed distraction from both Julian and Gareth arrived in the form of Lord Northbourne’s visit.

‘Honestly, no one would think he was coming to see his beloved godson,’ Julian complained. ‘Everyone has the flags out for him.’

I turned from Teddy and Julian’s window, where I’d been watching for Lord Northbourne’s arrival. Julian lounged on his bed, one leg hooked over Teddy’s thigh, perusing my dog-eared copy of Look to the Land. ‘I never read a word of Uncle Walter’s before. Very earnest.’

I plonked down on the bed next to Teddy. ‘Is he like that in real life?’

Julian balanced the book over his knee. ‘Sometimes, if you get him going on a serious topic. But he has a good sense of humour. He always made me laugh as a child. I got the impression he preferred playing with children to talking with adults.’

‘Really?’ I eyed the book dubiously.

Teddy sniggered. ‘Careful, Jules, you’re making Ros’s saint sound like a human being.’

I elbowed Teddy in the ribs. ‘He is not my saint.’

‘Ow. You’ve been quoting from his book for two days solid, Farmer Ros.’ Teddy picked up the book and read sonorously. ‘The adoption of true mixed farming is the first step towards the perfection of the individual farm, and after it of the countryside in all its aspects, as a healthy organic whole yielding a true profit rather than only a financial profit…’

I snatched it from him. ‘This is about the future of our land. It affects everyone. The government forced us to poison our soil and animals for increased production during the war, but now it’s time to take back our earthly inheritance.’ I stopped, embarrassed, at Teddy’s sceptical expression.

‘Well said,’ Julian murmured. He ran his fingers lightly up and down Teddy’s spine. ‘I told you Ros is an earth goddess, but you accused me of talking bosh.’

He gave me an affectionate, not seductive, smile. I had to admit I liked Julian much better as a person now I was no longer in lust with him, but as my cousin’s lover, I was not so certain, nor so trustful. Teddy’s stint as guardian of my morals might be over, but as guardian of his heart, I was in for the long haul.

I jumped up at the sound of a car approaching the driveway. ‘He’s here!’

Downstairs, the household once again assembled in the entrance hall, not dressed up, but well-scrubbed and presentable, as Lord Northbourne had informed us by letter that he was eager to inspect the farm and sketch or paint with Livvy. I straightened the fraying jacket cuffs of my market-day jacket. I should take Teddy up on his offer of a shopping trip with Livvy before – if – I went to university. It would save Mummy money and face if he instigated the act of charity.

Grandfather leaned almost imperceptibly on his walking stick as he strode to the door, dapper as always, in dark olive plus fours and a herringbone jacket. ‘Julian, my boy, greet your godfather with me.’

Lord Northbourne unfolded his long limbs from his deep red coupé, a shy smile brightening an angular face dominated by a long nose, a small greying moustache peeking out below. His well-worn tweed suit and stout walking shoes proclaimed him a man ready for action. One of us. A farmer. Little butterflies of nerves and excitement collided in my stomach.

‘A Triumph Roadster,’ Harry sighed. ‘I’d like to get behind that wheel.’

Grandfather extended his hand. ‘Lord Northbourne, welcome to Manor Farm. Major James Stephenson. Please, call me Stephenson. It distinguishes me from the other Jameses in the family.’

Lord Northbourne shook his hand. ‘Walter. To everyone, please,’ he added, taking in us younger folks.

‘Hello, Uncle Walter.’ Julian shook his hand in turn.

‘How are you, young man?’

‘Having a wonderful summer here, thank you.’

Lord Northbourne clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Look in the passenger seat. There’s a gift for you.’

Grandfather led Lord Northbourne forward to continue the introductions as Julian headed for the car.

I took a deep breath and shook the hand that had written with such prophetic earnestness. ‘Pleased to meet you. I very much admire Look to the Land.’ I sensed Teddy’s smirk behind me.

He raised an eyebrow. ‘Indeed? I rarely have the pleasure of hearing that from younger people. You must give me a more detailed criticism while I am here.’

Mummy stepped forward. ‘We planned coffee outdoors in the orchard after a tour of the farm, unless you would like refreshments now. I reserved a table for luncheon at one at Knoll House Hotel for you, Julian and Teddy, as requested.’

‘Thank you. I was up very early and had breakfast on the way, so coffee later is fine. I’m ready to stretch my legs after the long drive and see your farm, especially after your description in our correspondence.’

‘Uncle Walter, this is magnificent!’ Julian loped up, swinging a gleaming cricket bat through the air. It looked like every other cricket bat to me, but I gathered from Julian’s facial expression this was something special.

Lord Northbourne smiled. ‘I hope it helps you achieve a Blue, even if it is against my own alma mater, Oxford.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m planning on it.’ The earnestness in Julian’s voice proclaimed his reply was no jest. He fully intended to achieve that Cambridge Blue. Did he ever fail to get what he set his mind to? Except perhaps me. A little feeling of superiority rose in my breast at the thought.

‘We won’t overwhelm you with the entire crowd on the tour,’ said Grandfather. ‘My son James manages most of the day-to-day running of the farm, so he will lead. I’m a little less spry than I was. Ros is our right-hand man, and has a keen interest in your ideas, so she deserves the privilege of accompanying us.’

‘Glad to hear it’ He studied me with keen interest. ‘We have several fine women students at Wye Agricultural College. I’m Provost,’ he explained.

I knew that. I had whizzed off to the library as soon as I heard he was coming and boned up on his biography in the latest copy of Who’s Who.

‘Jamie gave up the spot to me,’ I lied politely. My brother had no wish to ‘talk philosophy of farming with some old man’ and had not even demurred when I begged to show the farm in his place.

After a general exchange of conversation, our small band set off around the back of the house, past the small piggery and hen house adjacent to the orchard, towards the farm proper. I noticed that Lord Northbourne marked Grandfather’s steps carefully. He need not have worried. Grandfather could still outpace many a walker.

‘A nineteenth-century ancestor got the bug for estate improvement,’ said Grandfather. ‘Knocked down several of the buildings that formed part of the main courtyard in order to build another wing and a formal driveway. A real shame. We lost a thatched barn as old as the original house. Added that modern concrete piggery, too, but at least he had the forethought to plant an orchard close by.’

‘And Victorian concrete buildings are more picturesque than their modern counterparts,’ said Lord Northbourne.

He was particularly interested in our dairy venture and a keen taster, begging a wedge of our Dorset cheddar to take home. From the old dairy we made our way across the field where our cows were at pasture in the rich summer grass.

Lord Northbourne scratched the nose of a Swiss Brown as we stood among the grazing cattle. ‘So much of the population is still fed on tasteless blocks of pasteurised stuff they are told is cheddar. We country folk are lucky. Many townsfolk barely remember what real food tastes like after years of rationing.’

‘Or remember the price,’ replied Daddy ruefully. ‘I don’t blame the farmers who are going with the flow. They need the huge herds to offset the cost of feeding a cow to produce milk year round. You have to stay small to keep doing things your way.’

‘And you kept the new cattle building in the vernacular.’ Opposite the dairy, our Purbeck stone building, divided into stalls and a mechanised milking shed, squatted in a wide, bricked courtyard, two piles of manure stacked to the side, one waiting to have straw trodden into it, the other maturing nicely.

‘We’ll not have one of those concrete and asbestos monstrosities until the day we can no longer afford local builders,’ said Grandfather.

I studied the ground. The principle was fine, but Grandfather never sat with Mummy while she did the books. A tractor-operated grinder for cattle feed would be a better investment. We were still paying the bank for the piece of architecture that was a cow house, while ploughing profits into producing cheese the government currently forbade us from selling on the general market.

Grandfather knocked on the fence with his stick, warming to his theme. ‘It’s the estate-owning families who have kept Dorset from being paved over with car parks and housing estates. The gentleman farmer may be old fashioned, but he is key to preserving our agricultural heritage. Who can afford to take his place?’

Lord Northbourne nodded. ‘I think we will need many, many smallholdings across the country to demonstrate the efficacy of organic farming. But the struggle is enormous. Even on my Home Farm, I haven’t been able to return fully to organic farming fully since the war.’ He shook his head. ‘As chairman of the Wartime Agricultural Committee, I had to do what we demanded of others.’

‘We keep chemicals to a minimum,’ said Daddy. ‘We try to rely on manure. But we have a local market for our livestock feed and we can predict the yield we need. Most of our business doesn’t even make it to the farmer’s market.’

‘You have something precious here. Do all you can to protect it. So many have lost their focus in fixing their eyes on so-called “progress”.’

Daddy grimaced. ‘My father and wife held the estate together during the war. Phoebe still oversees the business side, otherwise my daydreams would send us into bankruptcy.’

Lord Northbourne gestured across the landscape. ‘I used to believe the whole answer lay in the land. Now I am not so sure.’

‘But you said yourself that the soil is vital to life. That its health is everyone’s problem,’ I blurted, then stopped short, afraid I had been too blunt.

Lord Northbourne bent his gangly frame so his face was level with mine. His eyes were kind, his expression animated. ‘Certainly, but now the farmer relies on far distant manufacturing for his tractor, or a city laboratory for the fertiliser that will give him the crop yield that the government asks for. Local farm workers gathering dung or the village smithy are less and less relevant. What must we do about that, Ros?’

I almost tripped backwards in surprise. I took a breath. ‘We’re not an organism any longer. As you wrote in your book,’ I added, superfluously. ‘But… I think we can apply that view to our modern reality and evolve into a new type of entity. I’m just not sure exactly how, yet.’ That was my whole problem this summer, searching for a better future that I believed was out there, but couldn’t yet see.

He straightened. ‘Yet, that’s the key word. Well said. The whole estate, not only the farm, used to be an organism.’ He smiled at my downcast face. ‘Don’t despair. Your family has three generations on this soil right now, and many stretching out before and behind you. Think about the hope you would like to pass on when you are mine or your grandfather’s age. And show me your manure piles. Manure is one of my favourite topics.’


✽✽✽

The trestle table from the Great Hall stretched out under the apple trees in the orchard, bedecked with a banqueting cloth. Several jam jars, bursting with a mix of wild and garden flowers, punctuated the plates of cake and coffee pots. Valerie ran in circles around the trees, chasing curious chickens. At least she was not dosing them with more of her “medicines”. The boys strolled up, unrolling sleeves. Harry tossed a cricket ball in his hand.

‘The bat is ace, Uncle Walter. Thank you again,’ Julian said.

Lord Northbourne settled into a chair. ‘So, lunch with these young men and an afternoon of art with Mrs Woodford?’

Livvy passed Lord Northbourne a cup of coffee. ‘I’m Livvy to everyone here, including you. I hope we are not wearing you out, but you are quite the celebrity at Manor Farm. I have been champing at the bit all morning to talk landscapes.’

Could an artist be considered part of the farm organism as well, I wondered? Beyond the Manor Farm tea towels that Livvy half-jokingly suggested whenever my mother ruminated on another money-making scheme?

‘Jamie,’ said Lord Northbourne. My brother jerked up straight. ‘Your father told me you take a particular interest in the dairy. What about dairy farming appeals to you?’

I nodded encouragingly from across the table. Jamie began hesitantly but soon warmed to his explanation. He loves this place as much as I do, I thought, listening as he shared the minute details of our new dairy. He just sees it through different eyes. I should be kinder to him. He had not even finished school, but the weight of the estate bore down on his shoulders.

I bit into a slice of walnut cake as the surrounding chatter lulled into the background, mulling over my own conversation with Lord Northbourne, until sharp little knees dug into me as Valerie climbed onto my lap.

‘Can I have your angelica?’

‘May I. There’s only walnuts on my cake. The angelica is on the fairy cakes.’

‘Oh.’ Disappointed, she plucked the nut off anyway and licked the vanilla icing.

‘May I have an apple?’

‘Most of them are still sour.’

‘That one’s getting red.’ She pointed.

Lord Northbourne looked over. ‘Do you want me to lift you up, young lady?’

Valerie ran forward. He stood and swung her onto his shoulders, then jogged to the tree. She tugged hard at the apple. ‘You can do it!’ he urged.

Mummy held her breath. I knew she was afraid for Lord Northbourne’s head. ‘Twist the apple, Valerie,’ she urged.

The branch pinged back. Valerie and Lord Northbourne laughed. He deposited her on the ground.

Valerie inspected her prize. ‘It has bird pecks.’ She stuck out her bottom lip.

‘Let me see.’ Lord Northbourne pretended to study the apple. ‘Maybe those are marks of fairy spoons. Eat it up, you might get a wish.’

‘Really?’ She looked around at the other adults for confirmation.

Grandfather cocked his head. ‘You never know.’

Mollified, she skipped off to her playhouse, chomping the apple and spitting out bits of skin on the way.

Lord Northbourne remained standing. He cleared his throat. ‘I have a tentative proposal.’ We fell quiet. ‘I still have a finger on the pulse of government, and believe the end is in sight for dairy rationing. I have friends in London, far-sighted people, with the same commitment to the land and organic farming as all of us: wholesalers, hoteliers, restaurant owners. I have a particular restauranteur in mind whom I think would be extremely interested in coming to taste your cheese. What do you say?’

Jamie raised his face in pride. ‘I say, one bite and he won’t serve anything else.’

Daddy glanced from Mummy to Grandfather. ‘We’d be delighted. Thank you. It could be a – a lifeline.’

‘That’s settled, then. I’ll telephone or write to him tomorrow.’

‘Lord Northbourne, may I ask you a question about Wye College?’ He had piqued my curiosity. ‘Do women study the same courses as men there? Not flower arranging?’

He laughed. ‘I happen to enjoy flower arranging. But yes, they study alongside the men. I suspect Neolithic women, not men, were the first farmers, tilling fields while their mates continued as hunters.’

‘Thank you.’ I sat back, playing with my cake fork, thinking.

After coffee, I watched the three men speed off, crammed on the bench seat of the car, Julian half sitting on Teddy’s lap, arm around his shoulder, their hair dancing and weaving together in the breeze. Hiding in full sight.

Nearby, a chicken pecked at a sour apple, sending it jumping across the grass with each jab. The orchard loomed before me: the apples ripening for the festive cider pressing come October, the hens pecking at rotting windfalls, enjoying free rein while the few pigs we kept were penned for today’s occasion. Gammon to go with the apple sauce from the windfalls we rescued from the animals. Manure for the fields, winter feed for the dairy herd, milk and cheese. Each harvest made way for a new beginning. What would mine be?





Chapter Nineteen


‘Wish me luck,’ I muttered to Teddy at the top of the stairs. ‘It’s the full gauntlet outside: Daddy, Grandfather, Simon. They’re going to put the fear of God into Gareth.’

Teddy grinned. ‘If you think that’s bad, imagine my making an introduction: “Mum, Dad, meet my new boyfriend. But don’t worry, he promises to have me home by nine.”’

I snorted. ‘You always know just the right wrong thing to say.’

He pushed me in the small of my back. ‘Go on down. You’ll be fine. Remember, no tongues on the first kiss, and don’t let his hands go further up or down than your waist.’

‘Teddy!’ I fanned my scarlet cheeks with my white gloves as I descended to join the not-so-welcome party.

‘Put those on,’ Teddy called down the stairs. I complied reluctantly. Ladies’ gloves felt fussy after wearing ‘proper’ gloves for farm jobs, but at least they would hide hands worse for wear after a day and a half of oat harvesting and straw baling. Livvy had come up trumps once again and lent me her powder blue summer suit from Hardy Aimes, with its chic, short sleeve jacket and full skirt.

Outside, the three men stood shoulder to shoulder, Daddy fidgeting, Grandfather straight as a rod, a haleness belied by the tell-tale trembling of his walking stick. Only Simon appeared relaxed, one hand in his jacket pocket.

‘Where’s Mummy and Livvy?’ I’d hoped for a female ally.

Simon glanced away from the driveway. ‘Visiting Ginny Vaughn.’ I narrowed my eyes at him. Livvy voluntarily visiting the vicar’s wife? Oh, Grandfather’s surprise party. Simon could not mention that aloud.

Daddy checked his wristwatch. ‘I need to help Daniel load up straw and hay for delivery, then check the dairy. Lord Northbourne’s buyer from London will be here in a few days.’

Despite the black mark for unpunctuality, I almost hoped Gareth would be late, and we’d be left to the more sympathetic greetings of Simon and Grandfather. But then the hum of an engine drifted into my ears, reverberating down into my stomach. After what seemed like an age, Gareth drew up in an old Jaguar, a couple of dents in the rear, but well-polished. Good for show, though an armoured vehicle might have been safer.

I scurried forward as Gareth stepped out of the car, still in his pristine, stiffly ironed battledress, but halted a yard away, aware of the family flanking my back. I raised my hand in a swift, awkward greeting. ‘Hello.’

‘Hello, Ros. Nice to meet your family at last.’ He turned on his heel, stiff as a rifle, to the triumvirate, a smile more on his lips than in his eyes. He’s nervous, too, I realised with a sag of relief.

Silence. Then, Grandfather held out his hand. ‘Major Stephenson. Pleased to meet you.’

Gareth shook hands. ‘Gareth Easton. Pleased to meet you, sir.’

Grandfather clasped the head of his walking stick. ‘I hear you are a distant relative of a past tenant of ours. Quiet, decent chap.’ He spoke offhandedly.

Gareth nodded. ‘I never knew him, although I can see why he chose to settle in such a beautiful part of England.’

That was diplomatic of both of them. Polite remarks, no names mentioned.

Gareth stepped with parade-drill precision towards Daddy. I held my breath. ‘And you must be Ros’s father.’ Gareth offered his hand. For a moment, I thought Daddy was not going to take it. Then he shook it short and hard.

‘Rosamond says you intend to return to academia after National Service.’

‘Yes, sir. Archaeology.’

‘You’ll be working somewhere exotic, I expect.’

I rolled my eyes. Why didn’t Daddy just wish him to Timbuctoo aloud? I jumped into the pause. ‘And this is our cousin, Simon Woodford.’

Simon shook Gareth’s hand more jovially. ‘Count yourself lucky. We’re only the thin wedge of the sprawling family,’ he joked. Gareth joined in with a short laugh. He appeared much younger in the company of the three older men.

‘So where in Dorchester are you taking Rosamond?’ Daddy asked.

‘For afternoon tea,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m famished after the baling work. Let’s get going.’

Gareth opened the passenger door and I almost leaped for the car. As I climbed in, Daddy put out his hand and grasped the top of the door. He looked Gareth in the eyes. ‘Have Rosamond back by half past six.’

Gareth made a slight bow. ‘Of course, sir.’

Grandfather winked. ‘Have a good time, Ros.’


✽✽✽

As we pulled out of the estate gate onto the road, a load lifted from my shoulders. I stole a glance at Gareth’s profile. The sunlight through the windscreen played across his brow, highlighting the red in his dark hair.

‘Sorry about the frosty reception,’ I said. ‘Simon is a lawyer, so you’re lucky they didn’t have a contract ready for you to sign.’

Gareth smiled. ‘I gather I’m not a popular choice for a date.’

‘National serviceman, older man, relative of Captain Milne, male… take your choice.’

He laughed. ‘Talking of Milne, why didn’t you want them to know we were going to the library?’

‘Thanks for keeping mum.’ I sighed. ‘Grandfather as good as said the matter was closed. And everyone seems so negative when we mention him, it seemed a bad idea. As it was, I barely thought Daddy would let you onto the property.’

I cringed, thinking of Gareth’s telephone call two days ago. Darby handing the receiver to Daddy with an air of doom. Daddy making the exact face as he did when he got a letter from the Ministry of Agriculture. ‘I still can’t believe you formally asked to take me out.’

Gareth glanced over. ‘Were you angry with me? It was the proper thing to do. And I flatter myself that I’m a decent enough chap for the daughter of the local gentry.’

‘That was the problem. I could tell poor Daddy really wanted to come up with an excuse to forbid me.’ I covered a nervous laugh by reaching for the notebook sitting between the seats.

Gareth nodded towards it. ‘I’ve been compiling information. This probably isn’t the correct small talk for a date, but I investigated how to acquire inquest reports in between typing letters in the office.’

‘And?’ I perked up.

‘I learned quite a lot. Apparently, an act of 1921 declared coroner’s offices no longer need to keep inquest cases older than fifteen years.’

‘So you could get a copy from a public records office?’

‘Not quite as easy as that. The records are sealed for seventy-five years except to next of kin. That can’t be me as I have older relatives living.’ He paused. ‘Sorry, am I boring you?’

‘No, it’s like a detective novel, but without the murder. I hope.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘I hope so, too, or I’ll be obliged to drive you home post haste lest you be tainted by a connection with such an unsavoury family. So, Miss Rosamond, tea or the library first?’

‘The library,’ I said firmly. ‘It’s been my impression that we only get information from people when we present them with facts. We need to discover the truth for ourselves before we demand it from others.’


✽✽✽

Leaving the main Dorchester–Bridport road, we skirted the edge of town and parked on the corner of Trinity Street. Gareth pulled the keys from the ignition. ‘Here we are, though a visit to a library isn’t much of a date.’

I clasped the notebook. ‘Surely you met plenty of girls at libraries in Cambridge.’ Was that fishing too shameless?

He turned towards me with a quiet smile. ‘I dated a little at Cambridge.’

‘The girls there must be very scholarly.’ Would a farmer’s daughter ever fit in?

Gareth shrugged. ‘You’d be surprised how many of them were only at university to look for husbands. I was the proverbial penniless student among the honourables and heirs.’

‘Well, no one need look to me to make their fortune. Church mice are wealthier than my family. Mummy opens the champagne if our net profit at the end of the year is zero.’

‘I didn’t mean to look at you at all.’ His voice softened. ‘You grew on me, Ros. You are smart and grounded, with your passion for research and your family farm.’ He paused. ‘Talking of the farm, there’s still a wisp of straw in your hair.’

Gareth leaned across, rounded his lips and gently puffed it away. ‘You smell of fresh hay. Of summer.’

‘You’re lucky I wasn’t turning the manure pile today.’ Rats, why did I say that? I’d missed the chance for a kiss.

Gareth threw back his head in laughter. ‘That’s something I never heard from a girl at Cambridge.’

As we stepped onto the street, Gareth offered his crooked arm. I slipped mine through his, my bare forearm rubbing against the material of his uniform. It didn’t turn my insides wobbly like Julian’s advances, but his touch was calming, comfortably warm.

Passers-by glanced at us. I supposed they thought me proud to be on the arm of a soldier. Or did they think we made a good-looking couple? While part of me distrusted Julian’s extravagant declaration of my beauty, the other part was flattered. Stray pieces of straw aside, I’d taken particular care with my appearance, even using a dab of powder (no chance of lipstick when I had to get past Daddy), and I’d looked into the mirror for an entire minute before I came out.

We strolled down Trinity Street, past the square-windowed Georgian buildings and string of art deco buildings that ranged incongruously from the Plaza cinema to the fire station, and, next to it, the County Council library building.

Gareth paused at the door. ‘Ready to discover the truth?’

I held his gaze steadily. ‘More than ready.’ Maybe his death would throw light on the shadows of his life.

Inside, the library buzzed with hushed activity, like the hum of a beehive in winter. Someone read a newspaper in an armchair, while a couple of housewives whispered in the novel section. The librarian, a middle-aged man with thinning hair, sat behind his desk, pulling return slips from a box, and inking dates with a rhythmic click of his metal stamp.

We stepped up to the desk. ‘Excuse me,’ said Gareth, ‘I telephoned a couple of days ago to inquire about examining your newspaper archives. Gareth Easton.’

The librarian pushed the box aside. ‘The young man from Bovington?’ He reached into his desk drawer. ‘Please fill out this card for temporary permission to use the library.’

While Gareth completed the form, I peeled off my gloves and flipped through his notebook. ‘The person in question died on the twenty-sixth of July, nineteen thirty-four, at Old Harry rocks. We’re looking for a report on the inquest. It was local. Major James Stephenson was the magistrate.’ Best not to mention my connection.

‘Do you know much about the incident?’ said the librarian. ‘Was it notable, something the bigger papers might have recorded?’

Gareth passed over the card. ‘We understand it was an open-and-shut case of accidental death. A fall from the cliff.’

‘Then I’ll start you with the Dorset Echo and Poole and Dorset Herald. Within two weeks of that date, I would say.’ He disappeared into the back rooms.

I turned to Gareth. ‘Sorry, I didn’t think of asking Grandfather how soon the inquest was.’

‘It was twenty years ago. He might not remember.’

‘Actually, his recollection of cases is amazingly sharp. I suspect he remembers more details than we’ll find in the newspapers.’

More than he told me?

We stood in awkward silence for a couple of minutes until the librarian returned with a trolley laden with stacks of newspapers, and indicated for us to follow him to one of the larger tables. He laid the first two papers on the table, smoothing them flat.

‘Mind the creases, please. I doubt you’ll have to read past the first eight pages for an inquest report. Ask me if you have any questions.’

‘Ready?’ Gareth asked. ‘I’ll take the Herald and you take the Echo.’

We took seats at each end of the table and commenced turning pages. The paper crackled in my fingers. I sometimes came across the odd ancient newspaper at home, wrapping some keepsake or tucked in a corner of the old laundry. Always, there was the thrill of opening a portal to the past.

I glanced up from the second copy of the Echo. ‘It’s hard not to be distracted when I see a name I know. Here’s an article about our old vicar giving a lecture to the Wareham Women’s Institute on Green Men and forest lore. I think I mentioned he was pretty keen on folklore. You and he would have got along well.’

He nodded distractedly. ‘Nothing here yet.’

He looked back down. My eyes lingered on his face, mouth set in a soft line, brows furrowed to a gentle v. There was something differently masculine, differently attractive about Gareth. Thoughtful, curious, always the scholar but never using his knowledge to dominate, even as a teacher. Instead, he invited me, too, to be curious about the possibilities before us. Julian, I realised with a pang, never really meant to let me choose. Consciously or not, he was always nudging me towards his choice.

No, Julian was not for me, and thankfully I’d realised that before disaster struck. I wasn’t sure he was for Teddy, either, but that wasn’t my decision. And, as Teddy said, Julian did have his good points. He never made me feel ashamed of exploring my sexuality. And gosh, he was gorgeous, even – especially – naked.

Hmm, would Gareth care to visit Dancing Ledge?

‘Ros? You had a question?’ Gareth stared at me.

I shook my head vigorously. ‘No, no. No. Just distracted by memories of the vicar.’ I closed my eyes for a second. If you’re looking down from heaven, Reverend, please forgive me.

I switched to the next edition of the Echo, two days after the accident, and scanned the first few pages. ‘Here!’ I stabbed the bottom of the paper. ‘A report on Captain Milne’s death.’ I set the paper in the middle of the table between us and read. ‘On the twenty-sixth of July, the body of a member of the Armed Forces was discovered at the foot of Old Harry rocks. The Coast Guard was alerted, and a lifeboat was launched to recover the body. Police are not treating the death as suspicious. It says the inquest is to be held on the thirty-first of July.’ I sat back in my chair. ‘I suppose they could not officially name him before the inquest, but who else could it be?’

Gareth turned to the stack of newspapers behind us and carefully thumbed through. ‘Here are the ones immediately after that date.’ He handed me the next batch and we recommenced. I could almost feel my pulse in my fingertips as I ran them across the pages.

‘Bingo!’ Gareth pointed down at his edition. I hurried to his side and leaned over his shoulder. ‘“Local inquest records accidental death of soldier at Old Harry rocks.”’ Disappointingly, there was only a single paragraph.

Gareth read aloud softly. ‘At the coroner’s inquest of July 31st at the Bankes Arms, Studland, presided over by Magistrate Major James Stephenson and coroner Mr David Brookfield, a jury of local men brought in a unanimous verdict of accidental death in the case of Captain Alex Milne, age thirty-nine. Captain Milne, a surveyor for the army tank corps at Bovington, was exploring the cliffs at Old Harry rocks when an apparent minor landslip led to his falling death. His motorcycle was discovered along the path a mile from the scene by James Stephenson, son of Major Stephenson, who alerted locals to the accident. Recording the verdict, Major Stephenson remarked that the tragic case underlined the fact that even those familiar with our Dorset coastline should always be wary of unexpected landfalls. He also noted that the deceased had no immediate relatives, but that the nearest of kin were being located by the armed forces.’

‘Daddy never said he was there. Nor did Grandfather.’ I struggled to keep my voice to a whisper. ‘Why would they leave out a detail like that? Why have they never said?’ A chill crept upwards from the pit of my stomach. Gareth turned a quizzical face towards me.

The librarian trundled his book trolley past and stopped to look over our shoulders. ‘I recall that case now. Hadn’t thought about it for years. They managed to keep the girl out of the papers. They wouldn’t be able to do that nowadays.’

‘A girl was involved?’ Inexplicably, bile rose in my throat.

‘Yes, she was with that man, but survived the fall. If I remember correctly, she was a young governess, down in Dorset on holiday.’

‘What happened to her?’ asked Gareth.

‘I don’t know. I’m a Dorchester person, and that’s not my part of Dorset. Are you all right, Miss?’

I clutched the table edge. ‘A… a little heartburn. I need fresh air.’ I rushed towards the door. Outside, I looked around wildly, then dodged down a leafy footpath. I leaned against a tree, a cold sweat seeping across my cheeks. My entire past, my parents’ lives, swirled round my head until I thought I would vomit from dizziness.

Gareth found me a couple of minutes later, my gloves sticking from his pocket. ‘Ros, what is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ He grasped both my hands, and spoke slowly, gently, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘I’m sure your father had a reason for not telling you he discovered the accident. Perhaps he was traumatised. Perhaps everyone just wanted to forget the notoriety it caused.’

I shuddered. ‘A young governess. On holiday. Gareth, the girl was my mother.’

Gareth said nothing, but slid an arm around my waist and steered me to a nearby bench. He sat down beside me, his fingers threading through mine. ‘You said your parents got married about the time Alex died, that they had nothing to do with him. And everyone has corroborated that.’ He spoke hesitantly, as if trying to sift the facts. If they were facts, I thought bitterly.

I tightened my clasp on his hand. ‘Who else could it be? They knew, and they have consistently lied to me. If it wasn’t my mother on the cliff, why keep silent? Why not say that Daddy raised the alarm? They were hiding something.’

Gareth let out a long breath. ‘It seems so.’ He rubbed his eyes. ‘Oh God, Ros, do you think Milne abducted her? Was he trying to assault her? Did he harm her in some way?’

I glanced down. Little nail marks punctuated the back of Gareth’s hand. I relaxed my grip and took a deep breath. ‘Why would Grandfather record an accidental death if there was a criminal offense like abduction? Or rape?’ I forced myself to say the last word aloud. ‘He was only a local magistrate and landowner, he couldn’t get away with hiding that sort of scandal. We’re not medieval lords.’

But there was another sort of scandal he could use his influence to hide. The oldest scandal of all.

‘Gareth, take me…’ I hesitated at the word, ‘… home. I have to finish this.’


✽✽✽

I barely registered the drive back to the farm, replying to Gareth’s remarks in monosyllables, turning the evidence over and over in my head. My mother hadn’t admitted to any connection to Alex Milne, and my father said he hardly knew him, yet both were present when he died. Even Grandfather, though open about his and Milne’s history, had not given me the whole story of the inquest. Yes, it was possible that they told the truth, that it was a coincidence my parents were out at Old Harry rocks that day. But unless the librarian remembered wrongly, the facts didn’t fit.

‘His motorcycle was discovered along the path a mile from the scene by James Stephenson, son of Major Stephenson, who then alerted locals to the accident.’

‘She was with that man, but survived the fall.’

All the words not said in the newspaper report… all the words not said over the years.

If all this was a coincidence, why did everyone in the village clam up when we mentioned him? Surely it had to be more than suicide to seal their lips? The Mrs Dyetts would not hold back on juicy gossip, that was for sure. And that chance remark from the holiday maker at Dog Rose cottage… I lifted clouded eyes to the window, to a blurry world that had once seemed so clear.

I made Gareth stop part way down the drive.

‘Are you sure you don’t want me to come inside or wait for you?’ Concern etched his face.

I crossed an arm over my churning stomach. ‘Yes. This isn’t your mess. Enjoy your break, if I haven’t spoiled it for you.’ I thought back to the drive out. What I wouldn’t give to have those nerves back again.

‘But it is my mess. Alex Milne was my relative, and I stirred up this history. You don’t have to face this alone.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘A third party might be a safety net, to keep things from spiralling too far.’

‘But you’re not just a third party. You’re a living reminder of Alex Milne.’ And of what I daren’t voice to you until I know for certain. ‘The family resemblance must be strong, because my mother saw Alex Milne in you at one glimpse. It’s obvious now why she wasn’t there to greet you this afternoon. Everyone’s been shielding her from you. Your presence might make whatever happened worse.’

Gareth hesitated, then nodded. ‘I’ll wait at the gate for half an hour in case you need me. Then I’ll be staying at the Linden Hotel, near the top of High West Street. Call if you need anything, or want to talk. I’ll come back in an instant.’ He leaned over and kissed my lips briefly. ‘Good luck. Be brave.’

I stormed down the driveway. My mother leant over the lavender bushes at the edge of the terrace, cutting flowers. She stopped, her face drained of colour, as she slipped her scissors into her apron pocket. Always precise. ‘Ros, why are you back so soon? Whatever happened?’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘Did he… do something to upset you?’

How ironic. I jabbed a finger up towards the box room window. ‘That portrait in your old room. Which one of those men is Alex Milne? Which one is my father?’





Chapter Twenty


The stalks of lavender fell from Mummy’s hand to scatter across the pathway. ‘Ros… Ros, I’m so sorry.’ She took a step towards me.

I put up my hands. ‘No, don’t come any closer. You, all of you, you’re strangers to me.’

I swung round and started running again. As if running somewhere – anywhere – could let me escape the truth. Before realising it, I reached the barn, and flung myself on a hay bale to release the racking sobs that had been building inside me since that moment in the library.

For several minutes my mind was blissfully blank, my heaving body consumed by grief, doubled over, my arms wrapped around my middle. Eventually the tears wrung themselves out and I curled into a ball, limp, my cheek against the scratchy, sweet-smelling hay. The bales I had so proudly helped with this morning, doing my part for our family, not knowing I was little more than a serf. The thought set fresh tears rolling down my cheeks.

The barn door creaked open. Daddy – no, not my daddy – entered. I scrubbed a hand over my face, closed my eyes. A rustle told me he had sat down close by.

‘Ros.’ I heard the tears in his own voice. ‘I’m sorry you had to find out this way.’

I opened my eyes and swung into a sitting position. ‘You lied to me.’ I fought to continue through my trembling voice. ‘You kept on lying, even when you must have known how close I was to the truth. I ignored all the clues, because I trusted you.’ I stopped, but only to gulp down another batch of tears.

Daddy ran his hands through his hair. ‘We hoped the danger might blow over. It was stupid of us. We wanted to protect you, Ros.’

Up in the barn’s high ceiling, a mouse rustled along the rafters, sending a wisp of hay floating down, golden in the shaft of late afternoon sunlight. How many harvests had I spent working here, mucking in with the farmhands and the extra village help, revelling in the heart of the community?

Thoughts of our community sent a surge of anger and humiliation through me. ‘My whole life has been a lie. The entire village must know I’m Alex Milne’s daughter. How could they not with this hair?’ I tugged savagely at my red-brown hair. ‘Even a stranger thought Gareth and I were relatives.’ My words stumbled over ragged breaths. ‘I believed you were my father but I’m just some soldier’s bastard. Did you marry Mummy because you felt sorry for her? You must have been so relieved when I was a girl.’ I threw out every accusation I could think of, not caring how his shoulders sagged a little more with each barb.

‘Rosamond.’ The crack in his voice silenced me. ‘I may not be your biological father, but I have always been your daddy.’ He wiped his eyes. ‘I loved you before you were born. And I loved your mother before all this happened. You are our daughter.’

A cold knife plunged into my heart. Some tiny part of me had hoped against hope he would deny Alex Milne was my father, or at least maintain the fiction until I could let myself believe it too. I covered my face.

‘Come here.’ He pulled me into his arms and I cried against his solid chest in a way I hadn’t done since a child and my daddy’s love could cure all hurts.

‘You are everything to me, Ros,’ he whispered against my hair. ‘You’re my child. I’d lie for you, die for you, kill for you.’

The last brought me up short. I shoved myself away from him. ‘What is the truth?’ I demanded. ‘The real truth?’

He straightened. ‘You need to come inside and talk with me and your mother. No more lies, I promise.’


✽✽✽

The house was as empty as the Mary Celeste, apart from Mummy, who sat on the living room sofa, mouth set in a line, playing with the buttons of her cardigan. She patted the seat next to her, but I took the armchair opposite. Daddy glanced at me for a moment, then took his place by her side and entwined her fingers in his, a small, habitual gesture of togetherness. A long conspiracy against me.

I plunged in with the attack. ‘It was Gareth Easton you saw that day at the shop, wasn’t it? The family resemblance to my real father was so strong, you realised the truth would finally come out. You’ve all tried to stop the dam these past weeks. Everyone, even –’ I choked on Grandfather’s name. ‘I’ve had enough of lies this summer. Now it’s time for the whole story.’

The clock ticked into the ensuing silence. Like our last interrogation in this room. Except this time it was not my behaviour on trial.

‘Well?’

My mother rotated her wedding ring with her thumb, her first words a whisper. ‘That summer, in ’thirty-four, Livvy invited me on holiday with her to Dorset. She’d rented Fox Hill cottage from Grandfather. All we intended to do was relax, paint and write. Of course, we met your – we met Daddy – straight away when he picked us up at the station. I thought him nice.’

‘You thought me obnoxious.’ A smile briefly played across Daddy’s tense face.

That part of the story was family lore, how Livvy had annoyed him with a tactless remark about yokels, and he had pretended to be a country bumpkin to pay them back.

‘And nice.’ She hesitated. ‘But I met someone else by accident at the beginning of the holiday, first at Studland beach then several other times.’

‘And you had an affair?’ My prim, conventional mother? I could have believed it of Livvy, but not her.

Her nails dug into the arm of the sofa. ‘Yes. No. Not exactly. We were together briefly before he died. He never knew of your existence.’

Was that supposed to make it better, that at least I was not a rejected bastard? ‘That’s it?’ I said. ‘The story of my existence in thirty seconds?’

Mummy looked up at my father. No, not my father, I had to keep reminding myself. He nodded. She faced me and started again, slowly. ‘It was a typical day at Studland. Cold sea, too much seaweed. When we arrived, I spotted an abandoned rucksack. Livvy wanted to rummage through it, of course, but I stopped her.’ She paused, her eyes focused on something internal. ‘We saw him later that day. He came from the sea. Goodness knows how long he had been swimming. He staggered out, white and gasping like a half drowned man. And scarred, all down his back.’ She shuddered. ‘After that, I couldn’t get him out of my head. Who was he? Where did he get those scars? Livvy laughed him off as some eccentric, but he’d got under my skin.’

Her eyes flickered back to mine. ‘The second time we met he was out running himself to death in the hills above Fox Hill cottage. I offered him my flask of water but he rejected me. His inner pain was so visceral, I could almost touch it. Without speaking, he had drawn me into whatever his terrible secret was. I never told Livvy, that would have seemed a violation. And part of me felt guilty, ashamed even, of my obsession with a stranger.’

I stared at my mother, as if I could penetrate her memories and see my father: someone decades older and a world apart from the relaxed, sandy-haired youth in that portrait. Soldier, swimmer, runner, scarred, tortured man. Nothing could be further from the father I grew up with: kindly, happy, strong, with a weathered handsomeness that spoke of his love of this life.

‘I never went in search of him.’ Mummy’s words broke into my thoughts. ‘I – we both ­– believed that fate brought us together again and again, though I suppose it was mere probability, given our proximity. Gradually, I discovered that underneath those physical and mental scars dwelt a quiet, cultured man. He loved literature, the countryside. Once, he had a family he loved, too.’

She clutched the hem of her cardigan. ‘He called me the Titanic to his iceberg. Maybe even then he knew where we, or he, was heading. He tried to warn me away from him. I tried, once, to break it off. Even then, I knew Daddy was an ideal match, but Alex consumed me.’

At the mention of Alex’s name, something in the air seemed to break.

‘It was my fault,’ said Daddy. Mummy snapped her head towards him in disbelief, as if she had never heard this confession. ‘How could you think that?’ she breathed.

He hung his head, stroking her fingers. ‘If I hadn’t tried to force your hand that day, if I hadn’t argued with you, you wouldn’t have run off and had the accident and met him again.’

‘Accident? The cliff?’ I was confused.

Mummy shook her head. ‘A bicycle accident. It wasn’t your fault, James.’ She turned back to me. ‘It was almost the end of our holiday, and Daddy begged me not to leave.’ Another story – half story – they shared when one of us children asked for the thousandth time how they met. The one I’d sharing, laughing, with Gareth in the churchyard that day we found Alex Milne’s grave. ‘He had the courage to confess he loved me, but I wasn’t ready to listen to common sense. Because of our argument, I spurned his offer of a lift and cycled home in the dark. My bicycle got clipped by a car and I sprained my ankle. Alex drove by and rescued me. He took me back to his cottage.’ She reddened. I stared hard at my knees, guessing the rest of that night. Had my mother just told me the story of losing her virginity? Was that when I was conceived?

‘But if I hadn’t tried to warn you about him…’ Daddy’s anguish pulled my gaze upward, but I needn’t have bothered. To each other, they were the only two people in the room.

Mummy clutched Daddy’s forearms. ‘You think you drove me into his arms to spite you? You’ve believed that all these years? That thread was spun the moment I saw him. Take that road, and we might say it began years ago, in my childhood and with Uncle Evelyn.’ She shook him. ‘Everything that happened – everything – only made me appreciate you and this life more.’

He reached to cup her face, traced a stray grey hair with his thumb. ‘I’ve given you a hard life, Phoebe,’ he said softly.

She twisted her head to kiss his palm. ‘You gave me a life in a place I love, surrounded by people I love.’

Isolated in the armchair, my head reeled. Why mention Livvy’s father? Secrets were tumbling out, the words like stray hay spat from the baler, spraying indiscriminately, getting under our protective layer of two decades of lies to scratch mercilessly at the skin. I half rose, then sank back.

‘What about me?’ My words both resentment and a plea for rescue. ‘What have your parents and Livvy’s father got to do with my story?’

My mother released Daddy’s arms to face me again. ‘Didn’t you ever wonder why this is Livvy’s adopted family as well?’

‘No,’ I said blankly. ‘We were all so happy together. I just thought families were like that. When I still thought I was family.’

‘Of course you are family,’ Daddy whispered.

James, James, James. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t force Daddy out of my head.

Mummy adjusted her cardigan. ‘My parents were distant, as were Livvy’s. Boys were always more important to them.’

That at least was one thing I could not accuse my parents or Grandfather of.

‘Uncle Evelyn was more insidious. He tried to molest me. Livvy shielded me as best she could, but she was barely more than a child herself, and then they sent her to school.’ She must have seen the confusion and horror on my face because she added, quickly, ‘It never went too far. Miss Blake found out and intervened.’ Sweet Miss Blake, Mummy’s old governess, who still spent visits with us. Another secret keeper.

‘I left home as soon as possible,’ she continued. ‘I became a governess because my own governess was the only adult who came to my aid. Her actions made me want to nurture and protect other children. And when I met a man obviously hiding secrets from his past, like me, inevitably, I’d want to help him, too.’

‘Hiding what?’ I braced myself for something worse than I’d already heard.

Her voice dropped, sad. ‘Both his younger brothers died in the Great War. He encouraged them to enlist and he never forgave himself for that. His life was spent punishing himself for their deaths. I couldn’t turn my back on someone who needed help. Even though the better man was standing before me, I chose Alex.’

The better man. Poor Daddy had been in love with her all the time…

His words in the barn leapt into my head. I’d lie for you, die for you, kill for you. A sudden terror wound its fingers round my heart. ‘You were all at the cliff. You killed him and covered it up! No, you fell, too. Daddy tried to kill you both?’ I pressed into the back of the armchair, fantastical fears coursing through me. Didn’t murderers have to kill the people who found out their secrets?

Daddy’s loud laugh, and the relieved look on Mummy’s face, startled me out of my stupidity.

‘Ros, darling, do you believe that of me?’ Daddy asked. ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Never. That day, I called at the cottage, and found Milne’s motorcycle there. I left, but waited close by. When the two of them drove by on the motorcycle, I followed at a distance. But not to commit murder.’

Mummy squeezed his hand. ‘Your father cautioned me that Alex had shell shock. He was afraid for my safety, and he was right. No one pushed Alex off that cliff. He committed suicide in front of me.’

Suicide. One guess I got right. ‘Then how did you fall?’

She stared at me. ‘You said that before. How did you know?’

‘Gareth and I found the report on the inquest at Dorchester library, and the librarian remembered the parts you managed to keep out of the papers.’

My mother’s face fell sober once more. ‘I reached out to stop him as he jumped, and was dragged over the edge by accident. At least, I think that’s what happened. I lost my memory of that part of the accident, and I’ve never recovered it.’ She looked me straight in the eye. ‘That’s the truth, Ros, not an evasion. I swear. I’ve played those moments over and over, hoping something will click into place, trying to find the detail that explains everything. It still tortures my dreams sometimes.’

‘You think your fall was an accident? Do you have doubts?’ Was I the daughter of a suicidal murderer? Well, I thought incongruously, this excuse would keep me off the church flower roster for life.

Daddy’s face showed he accepted that possibility. A conspiratorial moment flashed between us, then vanished at my mother’s pensive smile.

‘Alex wanted to die. Nothing I could do or give changed that. Inside, he’d died long ago. I accept that now. Part of me even wonders if the love I offered woke him from his torpor just enough to accomplish that final action.’

That sounded like a sentence from one of my mother’s stories. Anger simmered afresh inside me. She’d woven a fiction for me my whole life.

‘You’re not responsible for everyone, Phoebe,’ said Daddy through gritted teeth.

‘I’ve learned that lesson.’ She gave a little laugh at our cynical faces. ‘Sometimes. In some ways, it’s the not knowing that helps me to let go. But that day on the cliff: I remember from the point when I stopped my fall by grabbing a bush and climbed back up. Your father found me as I struggled along the path and brought me home. I recuperated here and married him at the end of the summer.’

The End, I heard in her voice. But I was not finished. I had hardly begun with the unravelling of my life. ‘Did you love my father?’ It was a cruel question to ask in front of Daddy, but I had to know. All this mess had to have a point.

Mummy hesitated. ‘I loved him, by some definition of love that felt real at the time. Now I think it was our mutual pain. We were drawn to each other by something stronger than either of us, a need to heal.’ She leaned her head against Daddy’s arm. ‘If there had been no Alex, I would have fallen in love with your father that summer. He knows that. And I did fall in love with him.’

I could not deny that. But I still wanted to hurt them, to make them feel what I was feeling now. ‘My entire life is a lie,’ I spat.

Daddy shook his head. ‘You are our daughter and we love you. That’s not a lie.’

My mother leaned forward. ‘Daddy knew I was expecting before we married. You weren’t some accident sprung on him.’ Sudden anger and anguish swept across her face. ‘What were our options? I could have hidden myself away until you were born, then given you up for adoption. I could have been badgered by my parents into a secret abortion. Livvy would have supported me if I chose to be an unwed mother, but what sort of life would we have had? I made a choice for us, and I’ve never regretted it. Not one moment.’

‘Well, I suppose I should be grateful for my existence,’ I sneered.

‘Ros,’ Daddy’s voice took on that soothing tone he used on Valerie. ‘This changes what you know, but it doesn’t change who you are.’

‘Yes, it does!’ I shouted. ‘It changes everything.’ I leapt to my feet. ‘I thought I was part of all this.’ I swept my arm around the room. ‘But I’m only a by-blow from God knows where.’

‘No!’ they said together.

My mother continued. ‘When your father asked me to marry him the second time, he told me if we brought the child up here, it wouldn’t matter who the father was, because it would be grow up to be part of the land. That’s what you are, Ros, even more than Jamie or Harry, I often think. It’s as if the land itself has adopted you.’

I clapped my hands over my ears. I did not want to hear that. It was cruel or correct, and I could not deal with either truth. ‘I’m going for a drive. I need to get away from here for a while.’ I stalked towards the door.

‘Ros.’

I turned back to my mother.

‘Be safe,’ she whispered. ‘Call if you need to. Come back when you want. Whatever you do, or say, or believe, this is always your home.’





Chapter Twenty-One


I parked against the kerb opposite the hotel and took a few moments to straighten my appearance as best I could. A dab of powder concealed the blotches on my cheeks, but nothing could hide my red-rimmed eyes. I stepped out of the car, brushed my hands down Livvy’s jacket, checked my stockings, lifted my chin high and crossed the road.

The Linden Hotel was small, one of several three-storey Georgian town houses along the high street that had been converted into genteel hotels. I climbed the short flight of steps and tried the front door. It was still unlocked. An open door to the right of the narrow hallway showed a front room converted into a sitting and reception area. A girl about my age leaned against the reception counter, filing her nails. Despite her polite expression, I heard the faint disdain in her ‘How may I help you, madam?’

‘Could you please tell me the number of Mr Easton’s room?’ I asked. ‘He would be the National Service man who booked in today.’

‘Mr Easton is downstairs, in the garden. Follow that passage through the conservatory to the back.’ The girl indicated the hallway with her nail file. I sensed her eyes bore into my back as I trotted down the hall, trying not to break into a run.

The garden was barely more than a courtyard with a few urns and uneven paving. Gareth reclined on a wooden lounger in the corner, his head in a book, a glass of wine on the ironwork table at his elbow.

‘Gareth,’ I said softly.

He bounced from his seat, the book thudding to the ground. ‘Ros. Are you all right? I was desperate to telephone you, but of course I couldn’t.’

Knees trembling, I sank down on the other lounger that flanked the table. ‘I needed to get away from the house, from everyone. And you deserve to know what I discovered.’

He looked sheepish. ‘I waited an hour. Then I drove a mile, turned round, and drove back again and waited another half hour. I wrote a note, but couldn’t think where to leave it.’

I bent to retrieve his book, shielding my involuntary smile. ‘May I please order a glass of wine? White.’

‘Of course. I’ll fetch the rest of the bottle.’

He returned in a few minutes with the bottle and another glass, and sat patiently as I drank in silence, and too fast. After about half the glass, I took the plunge and related what had occurred between my parents and me.

Gareth exhaled. ‘Oh, Ros. This is all my fault. If I had asked your father or grandfather my questions about Alex Milne, this would never have come up.’

I hesitated. Did I wish to still be living in ignorance? I took another sip of wine. And another. ‘Most likely, they would have cut you short and had you transferred. Perhaps it’s better that it was my journey of discovery, rather than finding out through a remark from a malicious person or someone’s slip of the tongue. And that was bound to happen sooner or later in a place as small as our village.’

He trailed a finger around the bowl of his wine glass, sending a trickle of condensation down the stem. ‘Do you believe their story?’

I raised my eyebrows over the rim of my glass. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘A tactless academic habit: question everything. Please, forgive me.’

I shook my head. ‘Don’t apologise. Trust me, I spent the drive here considering every permutation imaginable. Ugly as it sounds, my being a child of rape would look better for my mother than being the child of a whirlwind affair.’ Another sip. ‘A murder plot doesn’t hold water, either. My father, I mean, my official father, would be aware Milne might survive a fall from Old Harry rocks.’

Gareth opened his mouth, then shut it again. I smiled. ‘I know what you were going to say. Did my mother push Alex over the cliff, for whatever reason, and my grandfather record a suicide to save the woman his son loved from the gallows?’

‘I wouldn’t blame them, even if he was my relative,’ Gareth said quickly.

I gazed at the golden surface of my wine as if I could scry the past. Didn’t they say in vino veritas? ‘Their version makes the most sense,’ I said at last. ‘I can’t for the life of me imagine my official father murdering someone, and their reaction to that idea was so spontaneous I have to believe them. Marrying a pregnant woman in distress is exactly the sort of heroic, self-sacrificial thing he would do.’

I paused. ‘And I suppose we have to believe my mother about the love affair with Alex Milne, though I can’t imagine that, either.’

I set the glass on my knee, head swimming, forcing myself to think dispassionately. ‘Their story fits between what few facts we possess: Alex Milne, my mother and my father were here in the summer of nineteen thirty-four. Milne was known to have shell shock. He fell from the cliff, my parents married shortly afterwards, and I was born less than nine months later.’

‘And you never suspected?’

‘Nothing. Never. Top me up, please.’ I indicated the bottle. Gareth added a couple of splashes. ‘But I feel so humiliated. People in the village must more than suspect. I was born “early”, red headed like Alex Milne. My father.’ I rolled the word on my tongue. ‘Surely everyone heard that my mother was involved in the accident if even someone in Dorchester did.’ My voice caught. ‘It’s a family joke that I couldn’t wait to meet my cousin Teddy.’

Gareth set down the bottle. ‘But they accepted you, Ros. You are one of them.’

‘Would they have accepted me if I had been a boy? The heir to Manor Farm estate?’

Gareth took a slow sip from his own glass. ‘But you weren’t a boy. Nothing is at stake. You might not want to hear this right now, but it’s clear to me you are a beloved daughter and granddaughter. You have a home and a future, Ros.’

‘How secure is that future? If I get married one day, will I have to tell my husband I am illegitimate, or live a lie for the sake of propriety? What about my children and grandchildren?’ My voiced quickened, envisaging the line of shame spread out before me like the apparition of Banquo’s descendants before the murderous Macbeth.

Gareth raised a hand. ‘Slow down a moment. Think practically. How many noble families today are descended from the bar sinister? How many people are walking around ignorant of or hiding their true parentage? You’re not responsible for your birth, but you are a beautiful, intelligent, passionate young woman who can be responsible for her future. Any man who truly loves you will marry you, and keep your secret.’

I smothered a hiccup with a giggle. Was that a declaration? ‘My future,’ I said, ‘is more wine. Please order another bottle.’

He hesitated a moment, then shrugged. ‘Why not? I’ve seen it work for enough men. Just another glass or two, though,’ he warned. He gestured to the elderly waiter who hovered at the door.

The man stepped forward. ‘It is dinner hour, sir, if you wish to come to the dining room.’

‘Is it possible to bring us something on a tray out here? The young lady has experienced a small shock, and needs some fresh air. And another bottle of the same.’

‘Of course, sir.’ He stalked off.

I threw back the dregs of my glass. ‘Disapproval was written all over his face. He probably thinks you’re getting me drunk for nefarious purposes.’

Gareth furrowed his brow, stern, but it only made me stifle another set of giggles. ‘Well, I’m not. But under the circumstances, getting a little drunk is called for.’

The waiter returned, face impassive, with two trays of something roasted and a bottle of unchilled wine. The smell made me realise I had not eaten since luncheon, but turned my stomach as well. I toyed with a potato on my plate.

Gareth swallowed a mouthful of cabbage. ‘Try to eat something, Ros. You’ll have a horrible hangover tomorrow if you don’t chase down that wine with some food. And you’re not escaping pudding, either.’

I could not have felt less like eating, but tried a tiny forkful of potatoes and gravy on the edge of my tongue. It tasted as grey as it looked. I set down my fork and took another draught of wine. ‘Do you feel different about me?’

‘Of course not.’ No hesitation. Good. I relaxed a little and ate a sliver of cabbage.

‘We are distantly related now,’ I mused. ‘That is, we always were, but now we know it.’

‘Third cousins,’ he offered.

‘I don’t know how you can keep all that straight.’ I washed down the cabbage with more wine. ‘I bet those Mrs Dyetts in the post office spotted the resemblance. Mummy did the first time she saw you.’

‘You mentioned that this afternoon, but I don’t understand. I’ve never met your mother.’

I quickly related the incident that seemed so long ago now. ‘They must have been discussing what to do with you for weeks. I’m surprised they didn’t get boring old Major Frobisher to have you transferred.’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe they hoped the story was dead and buried with Milne.’

We finished the meal in silence. I studied my hands, automatically cutting the meat, raising it to my mouth. Were they different now I knew what blood ran in my veins, I pondered, with all the philosophy of a drunk.

And my mother, was she different? No longer the conventional, continually harassed farmer’s wife, desperately shoving all her talents into the holes of the crumbling dam of our estate, but the young woman who threw herself into an affair with a soldier, who in turn, threw them both from Old Harry rocks.

Gareth stood. ‘I’ll see what’s on the menu for pudding.’

I groaned. ‘Please, have mercy. I can’t stomach any more food.’

Gareth took the tray from my knees and held out a hand. ‘Then we should make a move. It’s getting chilly.’

I grasped his fingers and rose unsteadily. The yellow light streaming from the window lit up Gareth’s green eyes, played across his parted lips. My pulse quickened. I hated to admit it, but on one level I understood my mother. Caught between two men, she chose wrongly. Like I had almost chosen Julian. Was the other choice in front of me the right one?

And if he was not, did I care?

We were both more than a little inebriated by now. I think Gareth had outdrunk me to stop me downing too much.

I rested a hand on his chest. ‘I don’t want to go home tonight.’

He leaned his forehead against mine. ‘Quite right, it’s far too dangerous for you to drive. Better to book a room and sleep it off.’

I pressed my fingertips into his chest. ‘Do we need another room?’ I whispered.

‘Ros?’

I raised my face, felt the warmth of his breath on my lips. ‘I’ve already lost one type of innocence. I’m ready to lose another.’

He drew his head back, grasped my hand, and set it gently at my side. ‘Don’t do this to spite your parents, Ros.’

Despite his words, I caught the spark of temptation that flickered between us. I trailed a fingertip around his cuff. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all summer, before this happened. I want it to be you.’

He tucked my hand into the crook of his arm. ‘Let’s book you a room.’

The receptionist gave me a very dubious look as we entered the front room. I concentrated on walking in a straight line, and bumped into an armchair. Gareth halted and guided me down into it. ‘Wait here. I’ll speak to the receptionist.’

I heard his low voice, mutterings of cousins and car trouble, being too late to drive home, and so on. He leaned against the counter, his trousers curving around his buttocks. Warmth suffused my body. So what if my intentions went against everything I’d been raised to believe? My whole upbringing was a lie. Why not that?

Gareth returned, a key swinging from his finger. ‘All sorted, Ros.’ He grasped my elbow and eased me from the armchair to escort me out into the hallway and up the stairs to the first floor. We wobbled along the corridor until Gareth stopped in front of the second door on the right. ‘This is your room. Mine is the one next to it. Do you need help with the lock?’

‘Yes, please.’ He sounded so matter-of-fact, but he had to be anticipating the same scene as me.

After a little fumbling, he opened the door and flicked on the light switch. ‘There’s a hook for the key above the bedside table. I’ll put it there for you.’

I followed swiftly, shut the door behind me and stumbled towards the bed as Gareth turned around, bumping against him. He attempted to step back, but was wedged against the night stand.

I leaned in. ‘I meant what I said in the garden. Please, be the one.’ Thinking of the romantic films I had watched, I slid a hand around the back of his head, and pulled him to me.

The first kiss was hesitant, a brief meeting and parting of the lips. The second, deeper. I pressed harder against his mouth. Hands on my shoulders, he slowly separated us.

‘No, not like this. You’re not reasoning, Ros. I won’t take advantage of you.’ His voice was husky, desire mixed with regret.

‘I am perfectly rational,’ I slurred. I undid the top two buttons of my jacket top in what I imagined to be a very seductive manner, holding his gaze in mine. He could not help but glance down.

‘Time to say good night.’ He tried to edge around me. I grabbed his arm. Caught off balance, half drunk himself, he tumbled onto the bed. Undoing another button, I rested one knee on the bed, a screen siren. Gareth wanted to touch me, the battle showed in his face.

‘Ros,’ he whispered, ‘we’d both be ashamed in the morning.’

He wriggled backwards. I laid my hand on the inside of his thigh, like I had seen Julian do to Teddy.

As I slid Livvy’s jacket from my shoulders, past my brassiere straps, her advice flashed clear. Head. Heart. Pelvis. I wanted Gareth, I cared for him – and this was a really stupid idea.

I froze. ‘I’m sorry.’ The words choked out of me. ‘I don’t think I can go through with it after all. I should go home.’ I shuffled off the bed and turned away, fumbling with my jacket buttons. Damn, damn, damn.

Gareth scooted to the edge of the bed. He didn’t look at me. ‘Ros, stay the night. You mustn’t drive back in this condition. I’ll telephone your family and tell them you are safe.’

But I couldn’t stay, knowing he slept next door, thinking about what I had nearly done, though at that moment I couldn’t tell if I was more embarrassed about starting the seduction or not following it through. Before he could object, I ran headlong from the room, tripping down the stairs.

The girl in reception looked up sharply as I ran past down the hallway.

‘I think I left the gas on,’ I said, and scurried out of the front door.

Without a glance behind me, I sprinted across the road. After three attempts, I got the key in the lock and tumbled into the car. Luckily the road behind me was deserted as I backed out at high speed and spun round.

I hurtled around the junction at the top of the high street and down Trinity Street, barely missing a couple coming out of the Plaza cinema. Two roads down, a telephone box loomed in my headlights. I pulled over, rummaged for change in the glove compartment and yanked open the heavy door of the booth. Under the glare of my headlights, I shoved the pennies in the slot and gave the operator the number of Manor Farm.

The phone was answered immediately. ‘Ros?’

Mummy.

‘I’m in Dorchester. I am fine. I’m coming home.’

‘Oh Ros, I’m so glad you are safe.’

I caught the odd tone in her voice. ‘Mummy, is everyone else all right?’

‘Yes. I think. They went to look for you when you didn’t come back after dark.’

‘Even Grandfather? Mummy, even Grandfather?’ Were her silences emotion or something worse? I heard her draw a breath.

‘We didn’t have time to stop him. He took a car while we were still making plans.’

All my woes flew out of my head. I felt stone cold sober. ‘Grandfather went driving around at night by himself? Tell me he’s back with you.’

No answer.

‘I’m coming home now.’





Chapter Twenty-Two


I slammed the receiver down and heaved the telephone booth door open with my shoulder, spare change scattering across the pavement as I clambered into the car.

As I sped out of Dorchester, windows down to let the wind buffet my face and keep me alert, I thought hard about where Grandfather might have driven in search of me. Please, God, let him be home safe, I prayed.

Thank goodness the level crossing at Wool was up; I bounced over the railway line without slowing. My head rang with Grandfather’s words that day in the café when I asked about Alex Milne: You know I have always loved you, Rosamond. The meaning was clear now. He knew I was not his flesh and blood, and he did not care. Did I? Did I love him one whit less for not carrying his blood in my veins? I slapped the steering wheel. Mummy and Daddy and Alex Milne could go to hell, if only I could still be his Ros, and he was safe.

Nearer home, I slowed down, left the main Dorchester–Wareham road and took every back road I could think of to wind my way to Manor Farm, headlights bright, heart pounding as I swept my gaze from ditch to ditch. No car. Surely a good sign? Even so, each shadowy bush, every dark hump on the verge jolted my heart into my mouth, fearful it was a body. Jolting over the flint-paved roads through the deep twilight of the summer night, I thought of my mother’s own accident, and my beginning.

At last, our open gate loomed. The car’s wheels crunched up the driveway. Teddy stood by the garage, torch in hand. I barely swung both legs out of the car before he crushed me to him.

‘God, no, he’s dead!’ I screamed.

‘No, no. It’s all right, Ros.’ Teddy rocked me. ‘He’s in the hospital with a broken leg, but nothing worse. Dad and Aidan found the car crashed into a tree. He was alert.’

I clutched his shoulders with shaking hands. ‘Truth? You’re not lying to me? No more lies from you, Teddy.’

‘I promise. Why did you run away, Ros? Your parents won’t tell us kids, so it must have been an awful row.’ His face gleamed white in the torchlight.

I leaned close to his ear. No point in holding off, not from Teddy. ‘I found out that Daddy is not my real father,’ I whispered.

Teddy hugged me tighter. I clung to him. Suddenly, others were running out of the house towards us. He kissed my cheek. ‘Well, you’re still my real cousin,’ he whispered back as they descended on us. ‘That was never a lie.’

Family surrounded us. Mummy, a frightened smile on her face, Livvy reassuring, Julian kindly, my brothers uncomprehending. I could tell Harry was bursting to yell at me. The terror of my lonely drive home receded in this circle of messy, comforting familiarity.

I clung to my cousin. ‘Teddy told me.’

‘Your father joined Simon and Aidan at the hospital,’ said Livvy. ‘All the reports are positive.’

I opened my mouth. Mummy laid a hand on my forearm. ‘You can visit first thing in the morning if the doctor allows. Let him rest. I’ll telephone the hospital and make sure he knows you are back safely.’ She withdrew her hand, as if unsure she still had the privilege of touching me.

‘Well, let’s get indoors,’ said Livvy. ‘We’re all accounted for. Nothing more can be accomplished tonight.’ She slipped an arm around my mother’s waist and propelled her back to the house. The boys trailed behind them, and Julian lingered to walk with us.

‘Jules.’ Teddy’s voice was low. ‘Do you mind awfully swapping rooms with Ros tonight? I don’t want her to be alone.’

Julian smiled. ‘Of course not.’ He patted my shoulder. ‘I hope you will be all right, Ros.’

As I paced towards the lighted house, Teddy’s arm draped over my shoulders, I thought for the first time that day that maybe I would be all right after all.


✽✽✽

I awoke in the middle of the night with a raging thirst and downed the whole jug of water from the bedside table before dragging the covers back over my head and dropping into a coma. I finally regained consciousness later than intended. Sunlight stabbed my eyeballs. I rolled onto my back and stretched. Teddy lounged in his bed, propped on an elbow, reading a folded paperback.

‘Were you waiting for me to wake?’ I’d talked with him last night, but only briefly, worn out from hearing and repeating the story so many times that day.

‘No problem. Feeling better?’

I sat up. ‘Yes.’ A hammer pounded my brain. ‘No,’ I groaned, ‘but I will be when I see Grandfather. Oh, Teddy, I hope he will recover. Eighty is very old to break a leg.’

Teddy sat up. ‘He’s strong, Ros. By Dad’s account, he was his cheerful self when they got him to the hospital. That’s a good sign.’

A tap at the door. Julian popped his head in, wet hair glistening, nothing but a towel around his slim waist.

No attraction, I thought with surprise. Maybe it was the nausea.

‘I thought I heard you up on my way back from the bathroom,’ he said. ‘Shall I fetch a tray of teas?’

‘Tea and aspirin, please,’ said Teddy. ‘Mrs Scadden always keeps some in the kitchen. And ask her to make the breakfast extra greasy this morning. Trust me,’ he grinned at my gagging sound, ‘a big fry up will do you wonders.’

One cup of tea and two aspirin later, I was dressed and on my way to face the music. Downstairs, Livvy was on the telephone. ‘Yes, Rose, I know it’s inconvenient, but your father didn’t plan to break his leg. Of course you can’t delay your holiday in the south of France…’ She clapped a hand over the receiver, rolled her eyes at me. ‘Your mother’s in the library,’ she whispered.

I wandered through to the library, where my mother sat at the desk, a pile of letters to one side. I swallowed, my tongue thick. My jumbled thoughts had begun to settle, though the pain still seared, raw.

Mummy set down her pen, flashed a tentative smile. ‘Ros, how are you this morning?’

My stomach churned, but the throbbing behind my eyes was abating. Not the time to admit to a hangover, though. ‘Could be worse.’ I indicated the letters. ‘I suppose you are cancelling Grandfather’s party?’

‘As a precaution. He may be up to guests in a few days, but best be on the safe side.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

‘The blame’s not on your shoulders,’ she said quietly. ‘But – ’ she forced a brighter tone – ‘Your father telephoned earlier. Grandfather is doing well. We think we can arrange for him to recuperate at home with a nurse as soon as his plaster cast is on and set.’

I closed the door and approached the desk. Mummy leaned against the back of her chair, fingering the hem of her cardigan.

‘I can’t really talk about it quite yet,’ I began, ‘but I want you to know I partly understand, and that I believe you were trying to give me the best life you could.’ I paused. ‘And that you and Daddy both love me.’

Mummy nodded. ‘Whenever you are ready. You can talk to Livvy if you don’t wish to talk to me. She knows almost the whole story now.’

‘When can I see Grandfather?’

‘Anytime. Your father promised to talk to the doctor about overriding visiting hours for you. Simon and Aidan came back after you were in bed, but Daddy slept at the hospital.’

‘Is he still there?’

She read my mind. ‘Jamie is out doing the rounds of the farm. You can join him if you wish.’

I almost said yes. Which of us siblings knew the farm as well as I did? But I needed to let Jamie find his place on the estate. He was always going to inherit, even before I discovered my illegitimacy. I drew a deep breath. ‘I’ll leave him to it today and get over to the cottage hospital.’

Mummy smiled. ‘Daddy and Grandfather are waiting for you. Go to them.’


✽✽✽

The nurse at reception clucked her disapproval as I breezed through the hallway of the cottage hospital, but I ignored her. Teddy was correct. That huge, greasy breakfast had given me new life. Heart thumping, I rapped at Grandfather’s door and cracked it open. Grandfather lay propped against the pillows, eyes bright, but his face sagging.

Daddy stood at the window, wrestling with the catch. He spun around, took a step towards me, and stopped. ‘Ros! Just, ah, trying to get rid of that dreadful disinfectant smell.’

Grandfather held out his hands. ‘Hello, Ros, sneaked any whisky past Matron?’ I rushed forward to grasp his fingers. I thought I had cried myself dry yesterday, but tears stung my eyelids afresh.

Daddy hovered on the other side of the bed. ‘We’re glad you got home safely.’

I glanced at him. ‘I’m sorry for what I put you through. Daddy.’

‘James, let me talk to Ros,’ Grandfather ordered. ‘Get some coffee and fresh air.’

‘Don’t wear yourself out,’ warned Daddy. He was the one who appeared worn out, dark circles under his eyes, his habitually ruffled hair even more tangled than usual, the lines on his face deepened. Was that partly my fault?

‘Pull up that chair, Ros,’ said Grandfather, as soon as Daddy left.

I scraped the chair across the linoleum floor. ‘Does your leg hurt much?’

He tapped the bed cradle keeping the covers from touching his leg. ‘Trussed me up nicely under here. I get a plaster cast this morning. Thought I’d ask Livvy and Aidan to paint a mural on it.’ I noticed he did not answer my actual question.

‘It’s –’ I began.

He cut me short. ‘It’s not your fault. Everyone told me not to drive in the dark, but I’m a stubborn old mule, especially where my grandchildren are concerned.’

The lightness he gave to the word grandchildren was all the confirmation I needed. I leaned towards the bed. ‘Did you know from the beginning?’

‘Pass me that glass of water.’ He took a long sip. ‘Wish you’d brought that whisky.’ He handed the glass back, then settled against his pillows with a wince. ‘I could see your father was taken with your mother the moment I saw them together. I was over the moon. He was always too much the dutiful son, trying to make up for his mother’s early death and his younger brother’s immigration. Never looked at a girl. I liked Phoebe, too. She wasn’t bubbly like Livvy, but you could tell she was a deep thinker, kind and earnest. She seemed to fit right in, to this place, and our lives. I pushed the match, and so did Livvy. Didn’t know that all along she harboured a thing for Milne.’

He paused, his shallow breaths audible. ‘Your father said they told you the story. I’m still not convinced we know for certain what happened on the cliff, though I believe Milne committed suicide. Maybe I was wrong to direct the jury to declare an accidental death, but Milne’s troubles were over, and he deserved a decent burial. Given that your mother was alive and had partly lost her memory of the incident, why cause a scandal? The quick marriage seemed a happy solution. She’d fallen into the arms of her rescuer, all very romantic.’

‘You knew she was expecting me?’

‘Not at first.’

‘You didn’t suspect?’

He sighed. ‘Of course I did. She looked more pregnant than they were claiming. I’ve got three children, remember. And when you were born “early”, and with that red hair, it was obvious.’

I guessed that, but the truth still stung. I hung my head.

His hand rested gently on the top of my head. ‘Ros, look at me. That’s better. I loved you from the moment I saw you.’ He stroked my hair. ‘I had a little talk with your father after Jamie was born. Seemed a tactful time to clear the air. All’s well between us. You were born into our family, end of story. Goodness, don’t blub like little Valerie. There are some handkerchiefs in the bedside drawer.’

I rummaged in the drawer for a handkerchief and blew my nose. ‘But what if I had been a boy?’

To his credit, Grandfather did not pretend nonchalance. ‘That would have been… more difficult. But I’d be long dead and buried whenever the third generation took over the estate, so the point is moot as far as I am concerned.’

I disliked this morbid logic, but he started it. ‘It could have got nasty if the truth came out after I inherited.’ I sniffled.

‘And beggars would be tinkers, and all that. You’re a gal, and a pretty fine one, if I do say so, since I helped raise you.’

I laughed through my tears.

‘That’s the spirit. And remember, I broke my leg for you, so you’d jolly better stay in the family.’

A short knock interrupted us. Daddy opened the door but lingered on the threshold. ‘Matron says they are about to wheel you off for the cast. She was very particular that you’d have to rest this afternoon. We’ll come back later.’

Grandfather patted my hand. ‘Bring back something from Mrs Scadden if you can. Must be an ex-army cook in charge of the kitchen here.’

‘I’m sure she has a hamper half packed already,’ said Daddy.

I glanced from Grandfather to Daddy. Almost as incredible as the news of my birth was the strangeness of knowing that my parents, and my grandfather, had been part of a whole other tragic story that existed before I was even born. And though no one could ever know Alex Milne’s side of that story, the family in front of me connected me to him as surely as they connected me to themselves.

I blew my nose one last time and stood. ‘Come on, Daddy. You’re exhausted. I’ll drive us home.’


✽✽✽

We managed a civil luncheon back at home. Thankfully, the burning topic of the restauranteur arriving from London covered any awkward gaps. My brothers’ stares were more curious than hostile now. Teddy gave me to understand they thought the row was over dating Gareth. Perhaps one day it would be right to tell them the truth about me. For now, I owed poor Gareth something else besides apologies for last night’s behaviour. Though I dreaded putting pen to paper, I resolved to write to him today. He deserved that courtesy.

Daddy stopped me as we left the dining room. ‘Ros.’ He hesitated. ‘I have something to show you.’ I followed him in silence upstairs through the gallery and along to my mother’s old room, the box room where Alex Milne’s portrait hung.

‘It’s alright, I know about the painting,’ I began. But Daddy was pushing piles of boxes aside, making for the corner of the room. He dragged off a dust sheet and lifted a couple of crates and a small box from the piles beneath, depositing them into the middle of the room.

I sneezed, and Daddy fanned the dust away from his face. ‘Could you open the windows, please?’ With few staff at the manor, all doors and windows were only opened in the marathon spring and autumn cleaning sessions, and then only because Mummy insisted.

He crouched down, a hand resting on a crate. ‘After Alex Milne’s… after your father’s… death, we cleared out his cottage. No one ever claimed his belongings. This is all we have of him. It’s not much, nothing really personal, I’m afraid, no diaries or letters, but I thought you might like to look it over.’

I caught the embarrassed, furtive look on his face. ‘Does Mummy know you are showing me all this?’

He shrugged. ‘Not yet. I thought it better to have a fait accompli. But this is all yours, anyway. You’re the next of kin.’

I stood immobile, dust stinging my nostrils. Part of me wanted to fall on the crates, the other didn’t want to hurt Daddy by seeming too eager.

He backed away. ‘I’ll, erm, leave you to it, then.’

I waited until his footsteps faded down the corridor, then knelt on the floor. My inheritance. Perhaps I had a chance to understand something of Alex Milne after all.

Books crammed both crates, spines upward. Paradise Lost, the Iliad, Odyssey and Aeneid, the works of Descartes, Donne, Shelley, Clare, a few Shakespeare plays, and his sonnets, the Book of Common Prayer, the poems of Alexander Pope, Sterne’s Tristram Shandy in three brown leather volumes. Mummy mentioned he loved literature. Had he read all these books, or were they the gentleman’s library he thought one ought to have? Did I get my literary abilities from him as well as Mummy?

My fingers played across the spines. No tatty paperbacks to show what he liked to read as an indulgence. Did he favour detective stories, adventure, or was poetry his relaxation?

I wrestled open the flaps of the smaller box. A few miscellaneous items rattled around inside. One by one, I set them on the floor in front of me. A shaving kit in a faded khaki cloth roll, a metal comb, a simple brass paperweight, green around the edges, a rag tucked in the corner. I unrolled the shaving kit and tried to imagine his fingers around the worn handles of the scissors or grasping the razor. What were his hands like? I splayed mine out in front of me: small, like Mummy’s, nails not in the best of condition with a life on the farm and in boats.

Turning back to the books, I wriggled out the copy of John Donne’s poetry. The leather covers crackled as I eased the books apart, stuck together with age and life in a rarely aired room.

Inside the flap, a stamp declared the book once the property of Oxford City Library. No inscription. I flicked through. Lines, sometimes whole verses, were underlined here and there, in different inks and displaying a varied steadiness of hand. Were they even my father’s annotations, or the work of an errant library patron? Maybe the book came to him via a second-hand bookshop. I dropped it down on the floor next to me. There were several dozen books altogether; it would be a feat of detection to discern his hand among all the notes they might contain. Still, this opened a door to a whole new world. Not as fantastical as little Valerie’s Narnia books, but nonetheless, the magic awaited.

Would Mummy recognise Alex’s handwriting? Had he written anything to her, shared his favourite books? I sat back on my heels, thoughts dancing like the dust motes round my head. Daddy had meant kindly – no, nobly – when he brought me here, but he had uncovered more of an old wound for my mother. Of course he knew that, because he had not asked her first. Though I ached to know which words were my father’s, I could not ask her. Yet.

I selected a couple of other books to go with the Donne and shook out the rag to wipe off the mildew spots. The cloth turned out to be a vest, or what remained of a vest, with a large rectangle cut from both sides. I screwed it up to clean the books, then stopped. The texture felt familiar in my hand. How?

I rubbed it slowly between my fingers, eyes closed, searching for memories. I inhaled sharply. The little pillow from my cradle, encased in the broderie anglaise pillow case, the one I later used for my dollies, which now lay ragged and yellowing in Valerie’s doll’s pram. Mummy had sewn it from this vest. I had slept with my head on my father’s heart.

Fingers trembling, I tucked the paperweight into my pocket and selected a few other books at random to go with the Donne. Enough to begin with. I stood. The paperweight hung heavy, solid, a physical presence to go with the pillow. Alex Milne’s side of the story.





Chapter Twenty-Three


I slid off my gilet and hung it on the back of the dining room chair. ‘Daddy and Jamie will be in for breakfast in a few minutes.’

Mummy looked up from sorting the post. ‘That dairy couldn’t be scrubbed any cleaner.’ She set two envelopes aside. I cringed. So many letters of concern about Grandfather and regret for the cancelled celebration.

Teddy looked over from the sideboard. ‘Stay there, Ros, I’ll fill your plate.’

‘Thanks. I’m ravenous.’ Cows and pigs did not care about the circumstances of my birth. Whatever my state of mind, animals still needed feeding, manure turning.

I took my place next to Valerie, sweet and rumpled in the little nurse’s outfit she donned when Grandfather went to the hospital, and had since refused to take off. I glanced around the table. My relationship to half the people present had changed. I no longer fully belonged. So why did I sit here with the persistent feeling that I did belong?

I poured a cup of slightly stewed tea. ‘Ready to take care of Grandfather when he comes home, Val?’

‘Mmm.’ She poked at a blackcurrant in her jam. ‘Ros?’

‘Yes, poppet?’

‘Why don’t you put a thermometer in a person’s bum?’

Julian snorted his coffee over the table. I bit my lip. ‘It’s the other way around. We hold them in our mouths, but animals aren’t smart enough to do that.’

‘Bottom. We say bottom at the dining table, darling,’ said Mummy. ‘Letter for you, Ros.’ She passed the letter down to Livvy to hand across, still reluctant to touch me directly. Ironically, her quiet reticence drew me closer. At least she acknowledged the cataclysm of the truth. The other adults were strenuously carrying on as if nothing had happened.

The envelope was plain, my name and address typed. I flipped it over. On the back Gareth’s name was written by hand above a stamped address for the Bovington barracks. He had replied immediately to my note. I slipped the letter under my placemat, heart pounding.

‘Who’s it from?’ Hot-headed Harry had still not forgiven me for Grandfather’s accident. Any chance to get me into trouble.

‘Harry,’ warned my mother. ‘Letters are private. You’ll want that respected one day.’

Harry glowered, but shut up, and slipped Wilfrid a piece of bacon under the table.

‘Are you sure you don’t need me around the house this morning?’ I said. ‘You must be run off your feet with Grandfather coming home the same day as the man from London arrives. Oh, thanks, Teddy.’

My cousin set a heaving plate in front of me. After a good two hours’ work, I was ready to eat like a farmhand.

‘No, Ginny Vaughn is sending Violet to help clean, and we’ve plenty of men to move furniture. Daddy needs you on the farm.’

‘I certainly do need Ros.’ Daddy strode in, making straight for the coffee pot. ‘But don’t put your shoulder out again, Simon.’

Simon rotated his arm a few times. ‘Good as new, for now. Anyway, I’ll make the young blood do the heavy work.’

Daddy passed behind me. ‘You need fresh tea.’ He set down his coffee cup, picked up the teapot, and went in search of Darby. Despite his continual kindnesses, a pinprick of fear stabbed at my heart. We might be kindred spirits when it came to the farm, but could he really love me as much as he loved Jamie, Harry and Valerie?

‘Do you have the shopping list ready, Cousin Phoebe?’ asked Teddy. ‘Julian and I will leave for Poole soon.’

Aidan glanced up from his Kodak catalogue. ‘Could you get me some developer from the chemist’s, if that’s all right by Cousin Phoebe?’

‘Of course,’ said my mother. ‘The home nurse has given us a long list for the chemist’s, anyway.’

‘If we all set to this morning, there’ll be time to take you kids to the marina this afternoon,’ said Simon.

I lifted my eyes from my mound of eggs and bacon. Teddy’s driving ban rescinded, sailing allowed? Suddenly all had been forgiven. Did I have the same forgiveness in me? I was not sure, but I’d promised myself no more accusations, no rows until Grandfather was on the mend.

I touched the corner of the envelope with my fingertip. Did it contain forgiveness?

As soon as was decent, I excused myself, rushed up to my room and shut the door, ripping open the letter with shaking hands as I sank onto the bed. Inside were two thin sheets of paper, perfectly folded. My dear Ros, it began. I took a moment to savour the copperplate handwriting, slanting across the page, ink dark and thick as if each word had been carefully contemplated and written. So like Gareth.

I read on:

My dear Ros,

Forgive me for writing instead of speaking to you in person. My thoughts are always clearer when I set them to paper, and I doubted my presence at your house would be welcome.

So many thoughts have swum through my head these past few days, but they must be a drop in the ocean compared to what you have had to process. Yet, in the short time I have had the privilege of knowing you, I’ve seen an intelligent, fearless and positive young woman, one proud of her heritage. Don’t be any less proud of what you are, Ros, for discovering a new side to that heritage.

To explain my current emotions requires analysis that goes deeper than these past few weeks we have shared. Please, indulge me for a few moments. For good or ill, it is hard not to be myself.

A smile played across my lips. At least you know what you are, I thought.

I never seriously pursued a relationship at Cambridge because National Service was always looming, and after that, I hoped to resume my studies. What decent man would ask a young woman to wait for a penniless student, especially when some men never return from foreign service? For the same reasons, I wasn’t interested in dating a local girl while posted anywhere. My time would be over soon enough, and then I intended to work hard until I had something to offer the right person.

But then I met you at the cricket match that day. I admit, I felt an attraction to you at that very moment. You had an innocent boldness that captivated me.

Guilt stabbed me at that one. Oh Gareth, I was paying back Teddy and my brothers for ignoring me.

I began the search for my relative as an intellectual game to keep my brain from atrophying in National Service. Finding a partner in the chase was a bonus I had not envisaged. Your enthusiasm for the pursuit of truth made me feel anew the excitement of my own early days as a student. I revelled in watching you unfold, seeing, so ironically now, our search for Milne as a metaphor for your personal quest to discover your future. You became a colleague, a friend, and something more. Having you by my side in our research felt so natural.

To me, too. Images flashed through my head: wandering through the churchyard, sitting close at the tea table, and perhaps most precious of all, those journeys side by side in the car, cocooned from the world. I turned the page slowly, drinking in his words.

That is not to say that, even at the beginning, I did not know I was treading on thin ice by cultivating a relationship with a young woman. At first, I justified it on an intellectual level: you were possibly headed for university, and men and women have slowly been learning to work alongside one another in academia. Despite prevailing chauvinism, some deep intellectual bonds have formed in our universities. However, the stark truth is, that what I called being an academic, your village called meddling, and perhaps I should have listened to their common sense. My ‘diversion’ turned your life upside down.

I fear on some level, I have betrayed you emotionally as well. I did not intend our first kiss – yes, I imagined that day in Dorchester would culminate in our first kiss – to be one of cousinly encouragement as I reluctantly left you to face your family alone. That decision haunts me. Had I insisted on staying by your side, we would not have faced the scene in the hotel, and your grandfather would be safe. I should have been stronger. I let you down in your hour of need.

I shook my head. You were a perfect gentleman, I thought, as you are now for assuming the blame that’s all mine. And I might rue the circumstances, but I didn’t regret a single one of those kisses.

Dearest Ros, the honest truth is that I’m confused. Did I first feel the attraction of a man for a woman, or blood calling to blood? On some subconscious level, did we discern the family resemblance between us and build our relationship on that? Perhaps I am being too much the intellectual here, but I cannot fully understand what has blossomed between us until I recognise the root of those emotions. Is it cruel to venture that you feel the same, if you are even thinking of me right now, beyond what is recalled through reading this letter?

This is not a farewell, at least on my part. I don’t want to lose you, but at this moment, I will not impose on you or your family, unless you choose otherwise. You have so much to sort out between you, and my presence would be a distraction. Maybe eventually they would care to meet, to help me understand my own family’s past, and to allow me to apologise on behalf of Captain Milne. I would appreciate such magnanimity, although I have done nothing to deserve it.

However, I owe it to you to somehow make up for the turmoil I have caused within your family, though I pray that the truth, undergirded by love, will heal you all. I have nothing concrete to offer except myself, so let me state this: if you are ever in any need, material or otherwise, turn to me, Ros. Be it tomorrow, next month, or ten, twenty years hence, I swear to keep this promise.

I will keep you updated on my whereabouts. You need never reply to my correspondence, but know that I am always here, hopeful that one day, you will be here, too. Whatever our future, we are forever linked through our kinsman, Alex Milne.

Yours with respect and affection,

Gareth

I swiped at the tears spilling down my cheeks. Gareth wrote so beautifully, like a Jane Austen hero. Just to be the recipient of such a letter restored my sense of worth.

Turning back to the second page, I poured over his words that described so perfectly the confusion I shared. What were we to one another now? I missed Gareth, his gentle, professorial air, his quiet sense of humour, but I owed him space to analyse his own feelings. I didn’t want Gareth out of my life, but I wasn’t yet ready to face him with the memory of my drunken seduction.

I blew my nose and got up to fetch another hanky from my dresser. I’d pursued sex to the brink and discovered I wasn’t ready, but did I still want a romantic relationship? From the window, I spied Teddy and Julian meandering through the orchard towards the garage, arm in arm. Julian stopped, reached up, grabbed an apple, and held it to Teddy’s laughing lips. Sex was complicated – look at poor Teddy, in love with a man as beautiful and polyamorous as a Greek god. I only risked disgrace. They risked imprisonment.

And now, those passions spent, I saw clearly where this might have ended. What if I had become pregnant, like my mother? Gareth would have married me, but Julian? Honestly, the thought made me shudder. A lifetime shackled to a serial adulterer – if Daddy hadn’t killed him first – and even worse, enduring Teddy’s anguish. Or life with Gareth, relinquishing this beloved land to subsist in genteel poverty in shabby rooms in Cambridge while he struggled to support us and become a professor? Well, okay, perhaps that held a tinge of the romantic. But for goodness sake, Livvy had carefully lectured me on contraception, but I hadn’t given it a thought when throwing myself at either of them.

I folded the letter and slipped it back into the drawer of my bedside table, on top of Gareth’s previous note and my father’s book of Donne’s poetry, a little collection of mementoes of this new branch of my family tree. Leaning my arms on the broad windowsill, I glazed past the orchard and piggery, across the farm illuminated in the gentle light of an English summer morning. My mother had pursued her grand passion, but in the end she fell for a life – this life – and found love among the messiness of family, farm, and war. I had been side-tracked. My brush with death made me consumed with the notion of losing my virginity, as if that was all that growing up meant. My future was wider than that, and my choices were freer than my mother’s.

Love or friendship, academia or the farm, passion or romance, my heart or my head. So many ors.

Why not and?





Chapter Twenty-Four


The day of Grandfather’s homecoming found us in the Great Hall, busy creating a hero’s welcome. The dining room had been transformed into a downstairs bedroom, as it had the best view, opening onto the patio. A hospital bed now sat shining and incongruous against the yellowing floral wallpaper, the dining table dismantled and moved here into the Great Hall, where it jostled for space among the mess of decorations.

Along the central table, bottles of champagne reclined in buckets of ice, while quiches warm from the oven hid under tea towels from the summer flies buzzing in and out of the doors in lazy orbits. Mummy followed them, flitting between the dining room, Great Hall and kitchen, disappearing with a duster in hand, reappearing with champagne flutes or a broom, like a household magician.

Ginny Vaughn perched almost at beam level on a ladder-and-plank platform, hanging the garlands she wove for Grandfather’s cancelled birthday party. As Mummy said, we paid for them, and Grandfather’s safe return was even more of a cause for celebration than turning eighty.

‘A little higher, please!’ Ginny called out to Mr Thomas, the gardener, balanced at the other end of the platform like her twin figure on a Swiss clock. An ominous creak snapped my gaze up from the silver I was sorting, only to see Ginny cheerfully bent to retrieve another flower from the bucket at her feet, impervious to danger. She had the vicar’s-wife willingness to be a Jack of all trades, and enough experience with crumbling church buildings to make her fearless. Yet, even as I admired Ginny and her handiwork, I shivered at the thought those same flowers might have covered a coffin.

I forced my attention back to the place settings. Darby and I spent the previous afternoon polishing every item of silver tableware we could ferret out of cupboard corners, both for the champagne brunch and the afternoon’s cheese tasting with Mr Whyteleaf. Usually, Grandfather helped on the pretext he had always shared a beer over the job with Darby or his predecessors, though for a one-armed man, our present butler had an ingenious method of polishing. I turned over a chisel-looking implement, meant for the cheese tasting. I’d never even seen some of these pieces, let alone knew what they were for, but I supposed the man from London would be impressed.

Livvy emerged through the archway, a fat vase of flowers perched on each hip, leftovers from the garlands. ‘One for Stephenson’s bedroom and one for in here. I suppose the nurse will allow flowers in his room?’ Upon arrival, the private nurse had supervised much sanitising and airing out, and the aroma of pine disinfectant still wafted through this part of the house.

‘Nice arrangement, Livvy,’ called Ginny. She removed the nail clenched between her teeth and hammered it home above the doorway.

Livvy glanced up. ‘When you’ve done with your masterpiece, Ginny, will you lend a hand arranging the pots on the patio? Mr Thomas here has done us proud with a summer display to jolly Stephenson up.’

The gardener nodded acknowledgement, almost dropping the garland.

‘Steady,’ called Ginny. ‘Now, pull it a little towards you… wonderful!’ She climbed down the ladder to observe her work from the ground.

Mummy stopped for a moment. ‘You’ve done us proud, too, Ginny. Are you sure you won’t stay for luncheon? Mrs Scadden baked a cake big enough to feed an army.’

Ginny brushed petals from her blouse. ‘No, I won’t interrupt your family reunion. Besides, there will be quite enough excitement without guests. Edmund and I will call on you in a few days.’ She shook her head. ‘Men and their dogs. He is lucky to be alive.’

I ducked my head. The adults decreed we should spread the story that Grandfather crashed the car searching for Dickens, rather than cause gossip about me. Even though the poor Labrador was oblivious to the false accusations, I had driven especially to the butcher’s for a huge marrow bone to assuage my guilt. Two bones, because I couldn’t risk a squabble between him and Wilfrid.

Half an hour later, chaos miraculously became order: ladders folded, tables set, buckets whisked away, flies swatted enthusiastically by Valerie. Ginny pulled out from the driveway in her car just as the ambulance drew up. The rest of the family gathered as if by a summoning spell.

The van’s doors opened to the sound of Grandfather bantering with the orderly. ‘Got my steed ready? Jolly good. Give the poor man a hand, James.’

Daddy and the orderly settled Grandfather into the wheelchair. He beckoned to Valerie, who was hopping up and down in excitement. ‘Come on, little Val, ride on my lap.’

Daddy lifted her carefully onto Grandfather’s good leg and wheeled them up the newly constructed ramp and across the hallway. We broke into ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ as we paraded him into the hall.

He gazed around, joy suffusing his lined face. ‘All this is for me?’

I pressed my cheek against his, sinking into the familiar softness of his skin. ‘Happy birthday to my favourite grandfather.’

‘Watch out, folks,’ called Julian. He expertly popped a bottle of champagne to cheers. Teddy passed around the champagne flutes.

‘We didn’t forget you, Valerie.’ I handed her a tumbler of lemonade with glace cherries on a cocktail stick.

Grandfather raised his glass. ‘The good Lord has granted me eighty years to tend to this piece of his earth and this beloved family. Every day has been a gift, even the sorrowful ones –’ The telephone interrupted. Grandfather gave a wry smile. ‘I have been proud to uphold our great traditions, and welcome the new, well most of them.’ He indicated in the direction of the telephone with his champagne.

Darby entered, his face grim. ‘Mr James, Mr Thorner is on the telephone. He sounds, well...’ he hesitated. ‘Dangerous.’

Daddy gulped the champagne, set the glass on the mantlepiece, and strode out. After a few moments, we heard a thump. ‘Are you telling me the truth, man?’ he shouted. ‘Yes, I’m calling you a liar if it’s a lie.’

Mummy rushed out. Grandfather grabbed the wheels of his chair. ‘Jamie, give me a push.’

We crowded in the doorway. Across the hall, Daddy was shaking his hand. He must have smashed the table. His fist clenched as though he grasped Thorner’s neck.

‘He can’t do that. There’s…’ Daddy stopped short, the receiver limp in his hand. He looked back at us. ‘Thorner rang off.’ Mummy laid a hand on his shoulder. I crept forward, the others behind.

‘Thorner called to say… no, to gloat.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘Oh, God. His son in the Devon Ministry of Agriculture says that foot and mouth disease has been diagnosed in Banbury’s herd.’

I gasped. ‘The farmer we bought the new cattle from?’ How could that nightmare return?

‘The same. Somehow the ministry found out about the vet’s visit here, got the details, and decided to act out of “an excess of caution” since the vet didn’t test our cows. Thorner says the Dorset ministry is sending men over in a couple of hours to close off our farm.’

Daddy dropped the receiver, clutched the table. ‘Mr Whyteleaf is due to arrive. He was our last chance.’ His voice hitched. ‘It’s over.’

The room blurred in front of me. I didn’t realise I was swaying until Teddy threw a steadying arm around my shoulders.

Mummy picked up the receiver and held it towards Daddy. ‘Call Mr Banbury. Confirm the rumour. Perhaps it is a nasty lie. Those cows had a clean bill of health when you bought them.’

We held a collective breath, crushed around the little table, as Daddy asked the operator for the connection. Why we only had one telephone for the whole wretched, enormous house, I never understood. The place was big enough for its own party line.

‘Mrs Banbury, this is James Stephenson… Ah, you know why I called, then… I wouldn’t be so sure it was a mistake… Yes, yes, I understand… Someone will be here. I wish you the best of luck…’

At last, Daddy set down the receiver and turned to us with a shaky smile. ‘That was Banbury’s wife. She says their herd is in perfect health, but a terrible clerical error lumped their results with someone else’s. Her husband is somewhere between the vet’s and the Devon ministry right now, trying to set matters straight. When things are sorted, they’ll send a copy of the official ministry telegram to our post office...’ He paused. ‘But it could be too late for us. If Mr Whyteleaf can’t get on the farm, or if he gets a whisper of the words foot and mouth, it’s over.’

‘Clerical error my arse,’ said Grandfather. ‘It’s a conspiracy, and the Thorners are at the centre. Douglas Thorner has always had it in for us. He’s been waiting years for a chance like this.’

I shook off Teddy’s arm. The mist cleared from my vision with the sudden, terrible clarity of fury. Only a few days before, I had contemplated leaving this home for ever. Now I knew I’d fight to the death for it.

‘How could Thorner do this to us?’ I yelled. ‘All because of some petty local committee election ten years ago? Because my mother was better than him in every respect, and always will be?’ I looked Mummy in the eyes. What she had chosen, I chose, too.

Mummy hugged me briefly. ‘Thank you, Ros.’ She straightened, clapped her hands. ‘Now everyone, back to the hall. Time for a plan. A little more champagne won’t hurt, either.’

I lingered behind as they trailed into the hall. As soon as everyone disappeared through the door, I turned back to the table, picked up the telephone and waited for the operator. ‘Bovington 936, please,’ I whispered.

The line rang. I prayed Gareth would be in the office on the other end, perhaps harder than I had prayed for Grandfather’s safety the other night.

At last someone picked up. ‘Officer Gareth Easton, Bovington tank corps.’

I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. ‘Gareth, this is Ros. If you’ve truly forgiven me for the other night, and you meant what you wrote, I need your help now. Right now. But be warned. I’m about to ask you to do the most outrageous, and probably most illegal, thing you have ever done in your life.’





Chapter Twenty-Five


I raced up to my room, unbuttoning my skirt before I got to the door, and kicking it off my ankles as I reached for the jodhpurs slung over my chair.

‘Ros?’ Teddy’s face peered round the door. ‘Oh, excuse me.’

‘Don’t be silly, come in.’ I slid off my shoes and wriggled into the jodhpurs. ‘I need you and Julian, anyway.’

‘I thought you fled up here to cry. I was coming to offer my shoulder.’

I wrenched my waistband into place. ‘Crying is a waste of time. I’ll take the tractor. You and Julian – he can drive, can’t he? – can take a car each. We’re going to blockade the road.’ I bent to retie my shoes.

Teddy stepped inside and shoved the door closed behind him. ‘You can’t be serious? That’s criminal.’

I glanced up. ‘You’re right, we shouldn’t involve Julian in the blockade. How about we send him to the village to wait for the telegram?’

He leaned against the door. ‘Ros, they have all but given up downstairs, and… well, don’t you think they haven’t been through all the possibilities?’

I clapped my hands on my hips. ‘Well, I bloody well haven’t. This land is what connects me to the family. I’m not a Stephenson by blood. If I lose that, I lose myself. This fight is for our livelihood and my life.’

Teddy opened his mouth, then shut it again. ‘I’ll get Julian.’

‘Actually, I’m here,’ came a voice from the other side of the door. ‘Am I allowed in?’

Teddy moved aside as Julian slipped in with a salute. ‘Here and ready, my lovelies. A job for the three musketeers?’

Teddy saluted back. ‘Yes. Let’s just hope we survive the fray.’

I relayed my plan to Julian as we all hurried down the back stairs.

‘Do you think I could be faster than the telegram boy?’ he asked.

‘There’s no telegram boy in a village,’ I explained. ‘Mostly one of the Mrs Dyetts walks it to the recipient hoping to get filled in on the details, or they have the grocery delivery boy cycle it over.’

Julian laid a hand lightly on my arm. ‘Are you and Teddy enough to stop them?’

I jerked free. ‘We can block the road far enough down to make it a very long walk to the farm. There’s no other way for a car to get onto the estate without turning around and taking a long detour. And hopefully I’ve taken care of that possibility.’

Julian shook his head. ‘Leave the telegram to your post office ladies. I’ll block the other way, just in case.’ He held up a hand. ‘No argument. I love you both, and owe you both.’

We swept past a surprised Mrs Scadden sitting at the kitchen table dabbing her eyes, Darby with his one arm around her.

She blew her nose. ‘Where are you three off to?’

‘Trying to help,’ I said.

Darby raised an eyebrow. ‘Delaying tactics?’

I nodded. ‘I think the tractor is going to stall on the road.’

Darby grinned. ‘It if does, be careful not to flood the engine trying to restart it. You won’t get it going again for hours. Of course, I don’t expect youngsters to listen to advice.’ He patted Mrs Scadden’s shoulder. ‘There you go, Annie, I told you a Stephenson would think of something.’

‘Thanks, Darby.’ I swallowed the lump in my throat. ‘Better go.’

We raced to the garage sheds and paused, panting, at the doors. The moment of no return. Teddy held out a hand, palm down. Julian and I placed ours on top. Mine was trembling. ‘One for all and all for one.’ We flung apart with a flourish.

‘You know we’ll be sent down from Cambridge before we even go up,’ said Teddy.

I grimaced. ‘That’s worse for you, Teddy. I understand if you and Julian bail. But if Gareth pulls off his part, we might get away with it.’

Teddy grinned. ‘There’s no way I would miss this.’

‘Nor me,’ said Julian.

I shoved him towards the shed. ‘You go first. Take the Crossley. The key’s in the ignition.’

‘No, take Dad’s car,’ said Teddy. ‘I’d better take something old if we’re forming the main blockade. Plus, Dad can’t get too angry if you damage his car.’

‘Teddy, we’ll drive about a mile down the road. You go first.’

By the time I backed the tractor out of the shed, the boys had sped ahead. I eased up the gears, pushing it to its limits, not bothering to glance behind me to see if anyone had come outside to check the commotion.

I rarely drove the tractor off the farm, but now it was obvious why other drivers got so irritated when stuck behind one. I willed it to go faster, barely keeping Teddy in sight. At last I caught up to where he had stopped. I leaned my head out of the cab and waved until he rolled down the window. ‘Go further forward,’ I yelled, ‘then turn and pull into the passing space. Make it look as though you stopped to help.’

Teddy obeyed, making sure the car stuck out across the road just enough to be an impediment. I stopped the tractor in the middle of the road a few yards behind, and climbed down.

‘Now we wait?’ asked Teddy.

‘Now we wait.’ I drew a deep breath. ‘And hope.’

We stood quietly beneath the green canopy of trees that kissed branches across the road. I nibbled nervously at the skin on my thumb, and spat out the oily taste. The space to think was dangerous. It let me contemplate the stupidity of my idea. Then again, how many battles were won through actions that teetered on the line between heroic and idiotic?

‘So…’ said Teddy, breaking the silence, ‘Gareth agreed to help. That says something.’

‘He made a promise,’ I said quickly.

Teddy cocked his head. ‘You think he’s just being an English gentleman, keeping his word out of duty?’

I made a show of peering down the road. ‘I daren’t hope for anything else after what happened. Besides, we’re relatives.’

‘Only third cousins. Like Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip.’

From the corner of my eye, I caught the smile on Teddy’s face. ‘Don’t tease me at a time like this.’

Teddy chucked me under the chin. ‘Chin up.’

‘I’m trying.’

He caught my face in his hand. ‘No, really, chin up, there’s a smudge underneath. Makes you less kissable.’

I swiped his hand away, laughing. He flourished his hanky and made a show of licking a corner.

A rumble from up the road froze his hand in mid-air. My stomach lurched, both at the thought of Gareth and what we were about to do. After a minute that seemed an hour, an iron grey tank trundled into sight, faster than I would have guessed, its massive girth spanning the road. Gareth’s head poked out of the turret, a Union Jack in his hand.

The tank lumbered to a halt, facing the tractor.

‘The flag’s a bit over the top,’ I said.

Gareth waved it. ‘For your grandfather’s birthday. The boys wanted to give the old soldier a surprise salute so we drove the tank over. We were giving it a tune-up, anyway.’

‘It’s fucking stalled,’ came a voice from below.

‘There’s a lady present,’ called down Gareth.

‘Oh, sorry.’ A head popped up under Gareth’s armpit, shiny, smudged with oil. ‘’Scuse me, miss, the professor here’s been teaching me French in me spare time.’

I bit back a smile. ‘Any engineers in there good at breaking a tractor? But not too broken, please.’

The other lad stuck his head back down. ‘Job for you, Barney.’

‘One moment.’ Gareth disappeared, then a hatch at the back of the tank creaked open. Gareth leaned a hand on the edge and leaped out with the ease of practice. I had never seen him in actual army mode; to me, his uniform had been only a shell that clad the real man. Now, he seemed a part of it.

A stocky youth, presumably Barney, clambered out behind him, wiping sweat from a pink brow.

The other youth leaned out of the hatch. ‘I’ll stay and man the radio.’

‘Thanks, Bill,’ said Gareth. ‘We’ve got an armoured car lying in wait further down the road,’ he explained. ‘Oh, I apologise for not introducing you properly. Ros, this is Barney. Barney, this is my distant cousin, Ros Stephenson.’

Cousin, naturally. But the words still felt like a knock.

Barney put out a hand halfway and stopped. ‘I’m a bit grubby, miss.’

I stuck mine out straight. ‘I’ve been driving a tractor, you needn’t worry. And this is my cousin, Teddy.’

Barney grasped my hand. ‘Blimey, cousins everywhere. Sounds like my family.’

‘I wish we could radio the post office,’ Teddy muttered.

‘Is it possible they have a radio there?’ asked Gareth.

I shook my head. ‘It takes the two of them to work the telegraph machine.’

Barney’s head was already under the bonnet of the tractor. ‘Never had my hands on one of these. Not many tractors in Clapham.’

I guessed the alarm showed on my face, because Gareth laid a reassuring hand over mine. ‘Don’t worry. Barney’s been a mechanic’s apprentice since he was fourteen. He’s one of the few National Service chaps who is enjoying himself at Bovington.’ He coughed, then snatched his hand away.

I leapt for the tractor as if sprung from a trap, too embarrassed to look at Teddy or Gareth, and hovered anxiously while Barney whistled something tuneless as he fiddled with the engine.

‘That’ll do it,’ he said at last. He tucked the wrench back in his pocket. ‘Easily fixed if you know how. Not if you don’t.’

Bill popped up from the tank like a rabbit from its burrow. ‘The ministry car is on its way.’ He swung the turret around so that the guns faced down the road. My heart skipped a beat. I hadn’t requested firepower, but would we use it if necessary?

Five minutes later, the black ministry car sped into sight around the corner. The driver’s mouth opened in a silent yell as he saw the tank. Brakes screeched. I screwed my eyes tight. A collision with a tank could not end well. In my rash fervour, I had not considered that possibility. Would it be charges of manslaughter for the lot of us?

No crash. I opened my eyes as two men stepped out of the car, faces thunderous, almost alike with their black mackintoshes and trimmed, greying moustaches.

‘What on earth is going on here?’ asked Moustache One.

I pulled a face. ‘My tractor broke down, sir. I’m afraid the road is blocked. This helpful young man from Bovington Tank Corps was just taking a look at it.’

‘We need to get to Manor Farm pronto,’ snapped Moustache One.

‘I think there’s another way,’ Moustache Two began. ‘If we drive back to the crossroads –’

He stopped mid-sentence, mouth hanging open, as a khaki armoured car, clad in metal plates like a mini tank, belted up the road. Shouts echoed out from inside the car as the driver impressively hit the brakes and spun around spattering stones and dirt, and ended up with the rear wheels stuck across the ditch, effectively blocking escape for the ministry men.

Three more young servicemen climbed out to join our party. One circled the armoured car, inspecting, and tutting. He crouched down behind the rear of the car, out of sight.

‘Nice driving, Charley,’ said the second youth, slapping ‘Charley’ on the shoulder.

The one who had been inspecting the car popped into view again. ‘Except for the burst tyre.’

‘Soon fix that,’ said Charley. He opened a locker at the back and rummaged around, only to emerge with a scowl.

‘Damn S.M. making us take out all the tools to polish this morning. Don’t have the right size wrench.’ He surveyed the small crowd. ‘Mind if I check everyone else’s repair kits?’

I shrugged. ‘Sorry. I don’t have one. We usually only drive the tractor on the farm.’

The ministry men looked like they were about to explode. Moustache One was turning an interesting shade of purple.

‘There’s a farm here that needs to be shut down now,’ he sputtered.

‘OH-NO-THERE-ISN’T.’ The shouts came in bursts as the younger Mrs Dyett cycled up the road, pedalling furiously, legs tucked in voluminous knickers. The bike wobbled precariously as she waved a piece of paper in her hand.

I raced forward to catch her handlebars and snatch the paper. ‘Telegram from Devon!’ I yelled. ‘Confirming it was a clerical error. There’s no foot and mouth!’ I kissed Mrs Dyett on the cheek amid the cheers from the young men. Teddy raced forward to dance me around. We waltzed up to the ministry men and handed over the telegram. They bent over it and shook their heads.

‘It’s official,’ said Moustache Two.

‘But we’re still stuck,’ said Moustache One.

‘We’ve got several mechanics here,’ offered Gareth. ‘I think we can get you on your merry way in no time.’


✽✽✽

Less than an hour later, a honking, cheering parade crunched up the driveway, to the astonishment of the rest of the family, assembled, gawping, on the front steps. Mrs Dyett leaned out of the tank turret waving the Union Jack because she said she’d always fancied a ride. Her bike perched on the back of the swiftly mended tractor. The armoured car followed, with Julian and Teddy bringing up the rear, honking Happy Birthday.

‘We did it!’ I screamed, and burst into tears.

With their usual miraculous touch, my mother and Mrs Scadden rustled up enough extra food for the mini battalion of young men while Teddy pinned me down in a chair and plied me with a large gin and tonic. Grandfather immediately engaged Gareth in conversation. I peered at them over the rim of my G and T, but Gareth’s attention was completely focused on Grandfather. Or on avoiding me?

Around us, Simon and Julian dispensed spirits amid the general flurry of handshakes and introductions. Before any awkward silence could fall, the banqueting table stood replete with a row of wine and beer bottles, the quiches now squashed between platters of ham and corned beef, hot potato salad, pickles, and what appeared to be every ripe fruit from the kitchen garden.

Livvy sauntered in from the hall, glowing with triumph.

‘Well?’ Simon handed her a gin and lime, and slipped an arm around her waist.

She took a sip, then smiled. ‘I talked to Peter Frobisher. He probably burst a blood vessel or two during the conversation, but a jape to honour a war veteran deserves some leniency. I suggested that these young men serve their punishment by working on the farm.’

‘And get fed like this every day? Yes, please,’ said Barney.

Amid the general cheers and expressions of thanks, I slumped in my chair, grateful Livvy had worked her magic and got the young men off the hook. Especially Gareth.

‘Cousin Livvy has practise,’ said Mummy. They exchanged a conspiratorial look. ‘I remember the incident when she smashed the window of an army Rolls Royce and got Major Frobisher to forgive her completely.’

‘Really, Mum?’ asked Aidan.

She shrugged. ‘I’ll tell you about it later. It was righteous anger.’

‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Gareth. ‘We appreciate your intervention.’

‘No, thank all of you,’ said Daddy.

‘It was Ros’s idea,’ said Gareth. He raised his whisky tumbler; his eyes met mine in a smile like my mother gave Livvy. ‘We work well together.’

‘But Gareth pulled it off.’ My words and hand shook as I raised my glass in return. ‘He, and all these men who don’t even know us, put themselves on the line for us.’

‘I only asked the best men for the job.’ Pride rung in Gareth’s voice. ‘Not one of them turned me down.’

‘You asked the maddest and daftest,’ quipped Barney.

A gong clanged from the hallway. Goodness knows where Darby had rustled it up from, but it had the desired effect. All eyes turned to him as he bowed. ‘Luncheon is served.’

Daddy waved the young men to the table. ‘This is small reward, but please, help yourselves.’

‘Crikey,’ said Bill, ‘looks like the Officer’s Mess.’

‘Gareth, sit by me,’ said Grandfather. ‘And Ros, too. I want to hear the whole story.’

I jumped up to fetch a footstool and helped settle Grandfather at the head of the table. Gareth and I sat either side of him. The scene stretching down the table reminded me of the cricket match that seemed so long ago now: town and country, young and old, celebrating together. All the older men, of course, had military experiences to share with the National Service Boys, and talked easily with our guests. The younger boys watched on, Harry appearing envious, Aidan and Jamie nervous.

Over the clatter and cheerful chaos of feasting, Gareth and I worked together to relive the drama for Grandfather, picking up each other’s sentences, laughing at the recollection of the apoplectic ministry men, or Mrs Dyett’s bicycle ride. A little glow of happiness – or perhaps the gin – warmed me. Still, the doubt, expressed in his letter, lingered like a pall over the banquet. Was it the compatibility of blood or personality?

I sneaked a glance at my mother. She sat at an angle, turned away from Gareth’s direction, tagging on to Livvy’s conversation with one of the armoured car crew. Livvy’s arm draped protectively across Mummy’s chair. If only she knew how much I shared her reticence at facing Gareth. But Grandfather, bless him, instinctively eased the way, making himself the object of our attention, only interrupting our narrative to press more beer on the soldiers, as if it were VE Day again.

‘Gawd, what wouldn’t we pay your cook to do for us at camp?’ said Barney, heaping pickled red cabbage onto cold, sliced black pudding.

‘Take a jar back,’ offered Mummy.

Daddy cleared his throat for silence and raised a bottle of beer. He swallowed. ‘Once, almost twenty years ago…’ he turned towards Mummy, and she nodded… ‘a relative of yours, Gareth, also serving at Bovington, saved our estate.’

Gareth and I snapped our gaze from Daddy to each other, our mutual surprise evident. What did we not know about Alex Milne?

Daddy continued. ‘It wasn’t as spectacular a feat as you young men achieved. He wrote a report that declared the land unfit for army use. But it meant the world to us. It seems your family is fated to help ours.’ He glanced from Gareth to me. I blinked back more tears, for my father and my land.

Grandfather placed a hand on each of ours. ‘You’ve brought things full circle, my dears.’

Daddy saluted the group with the beer bottle. ‘To all of you,’ he said. ‘And I pledge to ensure that the future you saved is not only for our family, but for all of us.’

‘We all bloody deserve a cheer,’ declared Bill. ‘Hip, Hip…’

As the room resounded with hurrahs, Darby led in a suited man who appeared very bemused at the goings-on.

The butler bowed, a gesture he reserved for the most solemn of occasions. ‘Major Stephenson, Mr Stephenson. Mr Whyteleaf from London.’

Daddy almost knocked over his chair as he leaped forward and grabbed Mr Whyteleaf’s hand. ‘Come in, come in. We’re having an impromptu celebration, marvellous news all round. Here, sit down. There are samples of cheese already out.’

He pulled up another chair as Mummy pushed aside the mountain of food and set a cheese board in front of Mr Whyteleaf. Darby laid out the cheese knives with ceremony.

‘The 1915 merlot, sir?’ Darby asked my father in his best butler tone.

‘Yes, yes, please.’

‘And the 1922 port, please, Darby,’ said Grandfather.

‘Mr Whyteleaf is from a chain of London restaurants, here to sample our cheese,’ I explained to the confused National Servicemen.

‘I don’t know about wine, but it washes down a treat with beer and pickled onions,’ said Barney. ‘Want any?’ He rotated the jar towards Mr Whyteleaf.

‘In a moment.’ Mr Whyteleaf seemed very game about being thrust into our party. ‘You see, I have to taste the cheese unadulterated.’

Darby returned with the freshly dusted bottle and a glass. Daddy had now set several slivers of cheese in front of our guest, explaining as he went. ‘I suggest you begin with this. It’s made exclusively from the milk from our Swiss Brown cows. We age it for eighteen months.’

Mr Whyteleaf lifted a crumbly slice to his lips and bit. The table fell silent. He closed his eyes, and a smile spread over his face. ‘Heavenly. Yes, I’ll take it. Now, tell me more about this one...’

‘Don’t forget the pickled onions, mate,’ said Barney.


✽✽✽

An hour later we waved Mr Whyteleaf and the soldiers off, the former laden with cheeses and leaving promises of fat orders and recommendations to follow, the latter with a crate of food and beer. Mrs Dyett turned down Daddy’s offer of a lift in favour of a ride back to the village in the armoured car. She’d live off this story for weeks.

Gareth hovered a little behind the others returning to the tank. Taking my chance, I scurried over to him.

‘Thank you again.’ I kept my voice low. ‘I can’t believe you managed to bring all these men together to help us.’

He smiled. ‘They’re all good sorts, in their own ways. National Service is a great leveller.’

‘Like farm work.’ I sighed. ‘Well, you’ve fulfilled your promise to me.’

His green eyes shone softly. ‘I don’t recall writing that it was a one-time promise.’

‘This must have been several promises’ worth.’ I could accept a rejection, but suddenly knew I couldn’t stand the thought he only spent time with me because he felt beholden.

He hesitated. ‘We’re going to be gone for a while, camping and exercises on Salisbury Plain. I don’t know what’s next. May I contact you when I return?’

I nodded. ‘The ice is broken with my family.’ With Grandfather, at least. With my parents, too, I hoped.

‘Time to go. Take care, Ros. See you anon.’ Gareth rocked back and forth on his heels a couple of times, then leaned down. Heart fluttering, I tilted my cheek towards his face.

A wolf whistle echoed from the armoured car. We jumped apart.

‘Well, um, you’d best get back,’ I said. ‘Say hello to Major Frobisher from the family.’

Gareth laughed. ‘Will do, if there’s anything left of me after the Sergeant Major gets his hands on us.’

I returned to my family, and we watched the vehicles crunch down the driveway, waves all round, then turned back to the house with a collective sigh.

‘Shall I serve tea and coffee?’ asked Darby. ‘I think Mrs Scadden has taken her biscuits out of the oven by now.’

‘What about my birthday cake?’ asked Grandfather, wobbling on his crutches.

Mummy grabbed his arm. ‘I think we ought to save that for supper.’

‘Well, I hope I won’t be on bloody hospital hours by then and tucked in bed.’ He frowned at the nurse hovering on the steps.

‘Is everyone up to a family meeting?’ I asked. ‘I’ve got another idea for our future.’

‘Does it involve tanks?’ asked Livvy.

‘No. Not even an armoured car. Please, everyone, give me a few minutes of your time.’

The nurse consulted her watch and tutted. ‘Not too long. Major Stephenson needs to lie down.’

‘Nonsense, all this excitement has breathed new life into me,’ said Grandfather.

Daddy laid a hand across his stomach. ‘Since no one can probably walk more than a few yards after that celebration, we’ll have to hear you out.’

We returned to the blitzed dining table. Daddy gestured for me to take a place in the middle. Everyone took a seat, heads turned towards me.

‘Please, Darby, Mrs Scadden, sit down, too,’ I said. They looked at Daddy. He indicated the free chairs.

I took a deep breath and began. ‘I’ve had an idea brewing since Lord Northbourne visited. It’s to do with his vision of the farm as an organic whole.’

Daddy nodded. Livvy leaned forward.

‘Well, what if we expand that definition? What if we see the village, the whole estate as an organic community? What if we can persuade people to form some sort of business cooperative to promote the place, and also our goods and services?’ I warmed to my theme. ‘People occasionally visit the village, sometimes they stay in a holiday cottage or bed and breakfast. But do they know about our farm and manor house? What if they could buy what we produce direct from a farm shop, or down in the village? What if they knew about hiking or driving to Mrs Farwell’s farm for her delicious teas?’

‘What if all the walking routes were better known?’ put in Jamie.

‘Or if people knew the pub has accommodation and serves dinner several nights a week?’ added Mummy. ‘You are on to something, Ros.’

‘Or that there are art treasures here in the manor? Maybe even art courses in the summer?’ said Livvy. She shrugged at Simon’s raised eyebrows.

Teddy threw an arm around my shoulders. ‘She’s brilliant.’

Daddy smiled. ‘I agree. Let’s organise a village meeting.’

Grandfather raised a glass tipsily. ‘Jolly good fellow, my granddaughter.’

‘Now, Major Stephenson, it’s time for your rest,’ ordered the nurse. She rolled the wheelchair up to the table.

‘My charming girl, relax, have a glass of wine.’ Grandfather eyed her up and down with a flirtatious smile. I sincerely hoped he would not pinch her bottom on the way out.





Chapter Twenty-Six





Lammastide

The last strains of ‘Come, ye thankful people, come,’ dissipated through the church. On the altar, the huge, plaited Lammas loaf gleamed golden brown, baked with the first wheat and oats from our farm. The beginning of the harvest. A good one. Fine weather meant the combine harvester had made short work of cutting, stoking and carting the grain. Only Julian was disappointed. Romantic Constable paintings coloured his ideas of harvest, not the modern miracles of machinery.

Several of the women slipped out of the church before the vicar pronounced the final benediction, going ahead to ready the village hall for the Lammas feast – and the meeting.

Teddy slipped an arm through mine as we strolled through the churchyard. ‘Nervous?’

I nodded. ‘A little, but excited, too.’

Julian flanked me, hooking my other arm. ‘What’s all the to-do with Lammas? I mean, I’ve heard the name, but didn’t know anyone still celebrated.’

‘It’s the start of harvest,’ I explained. ‘You townies might have a harvest festival in the autumn, but that celebrates the end of all the work. We’re asking for a good harvest season. A final stretch of storms could ruin our hard labour.’

‘It’s pagan in origin,’ Teddy added. ‘The idea of the old god being sacrificed for the harvest. The Lammas loaf represents his body. There’ll be plenty of the old John Barleycorn abounding at dinner.’

Julian wrinkled his brow.

‘Ale,’ I translated. ‘Not to mention Mr Dyett’s home-distilled whisky. Daddy ordered in an extra barrel of beer to persuade people to hold off on the meal and have the meeting first. Trust me, meeting afterwards would not work very well.’

Indeed, as we entered the hall, Mr Riggs, the publican, was knocking open a beer barrel and fitting the spigot. He ceremoniously handed the first, foaming tankard to Grandfather. Balanced on his crutches, he raised it to the gathering crowd before taking a deep draught to a general cheer from the company.

At the front of the hall, chairs curved in a rough semi-circle around the low platform that served as a dais for official meetings, or a stage or orchestra stand for shows. Now, a table and chairs took centre stage for a committee. Us.

We traipsed up the couple of steps, Daddy assisting Grandfather, although he already got around pretty nimbly.

‘Can we get on with it?’ Mr Dyett piped up from the back, next to the barrel of beer.

‘Yes, just waiting for the vicar. Ah, there you are. Please, take a seat.’ Daddy indicated for the Reverend Vaughn to join us at the table.

Daddy cleared his throat. Reverend Vaughn knocked on the table for added effect. ‘I won’t keep you long from the excellent fare we have waiting. This is something for you to think about, not decide on today. First, I am sorry we are sitting up here like this, because what I have to say is about working together to help our village and our land survive into the second half of this century.’ He paused. ‘The idea came from Rosamond. It is this…’

The villagers listened as Daddy outlined our plan for a cooperative, some nodding, some looking dubious, others with their noses in their beers. Despite frequent pauses for comments, no one spoke up. I bit my lip. Was it a big mistake?

At last, after we listed the idea of better managing the bridleways and footpaths, Mr Farwell broke the silence. ‘Don’t know that I want more townies tramping on my land,’ he grumbled.

‘It’s true that some visitors won’t be as respectful of the rights of way as they should,’ said Daddy. ‘But the better we mark and maintain the paths, the more chance we have of keeping trespassing to a minimum.’

‘We could add warning signs. Polite ones,’ I added.

‘We could do with more regular tea shop business,’ put in Mrs Farwell.

‘Maybe you could sell your cakes and scones through the village shop during the summer,’ I said. ‘Or in the shop we’re considering for Manor Farm.’

‘Ay, well, she’s got a good head for business, has Mrs Farwell,’ said her husband.

His wife blushed a little.

‘We could have a register for bed and breakfasts at the post office,’ said the elder Mrs Dyett. ‘I went to Winchester, once, and there was a tourist office in the town hall where you could book a place to stay. They even telephoned the landlady for you. We could manage that, couldn’t we, Daphne?’

She turned to her sister-in-law, who nodded firmly. They would love that. Even more of an opportunity to know what was going on in the village.

‘And who’d be in charge, telling us what to do?’ asked Mr Dyett.

‘We would have a committee,’ said Mummy. ‘With a rotating membership. And we are not talking about telling each of you what to do with your individual businesses, but about giving us all a chance to coordinate, so we can best serve the village. Some things we would decide together, for example, establishing a car park if the number of visitors really grows, or maybe expanding events like the flower show to encourage more day trippers.’ She glanced at Ginny, who gave a thumbs up sign. ‘But the old estate system cannot be some fossilised institution. If we want the village to be for us and our families, we have to consider change.’

Reverend Vaughn raised his hand. Daddy nodded for him to speak. ‘Mrs Stephenson is correct. Many families have made a gift of houses and estates to the National Trust to avoid crippling death duties. It’s a worthy institution, but do you want it owning your homes?’

Several heads rose from their beers at this point.

‘Them that’s buying up Britain?’ asked the elder Mrs Dyett.

‘To be fair,’ Mummy said hesitantly, ‘they are protecting land and historic buildings, but the point is that, like it or not, change is coming. Do we want a chance to direct it ourselves, with a promise that everyone will have an equal voice in our future?’

‘Think about it,’ said Daddy. ‘We’ve got a lot of work to do in the fields right now. Let’s meet again when the harvest is winding down. Pick some spokespeople: farmers, businessmen and women, landladies, those who represent everything we do. We’ll decide together, everyone on an equal footing.’

‘Sounds a bit communist to me,’ grumbled Mr Farwell.

‘It’s not communist, it’s community, yer daft bugger,’ said Mr Riggs. He beamed, his face burning red with his wit.

‘Let’s eat,’ said Daddy loudly. ‘Vicar, grace?’


✽✽✽

An hour or so later, children were crawling under the tables or ran shrieking across the stage, their parents blissfully ignoring them to the happiness of both parties. Enormous urns of tea were brewing in the little kitchen for those who had enough John Barleycorn, while the women took it in turn to wash dishes. I wandered in to do my stint with the tea towel.

‘We’ll be here until midnight,’ said Mrs Scadden, setting another pile of dishes in the sink.

‘I saw a programme on my sister’s television set that showed people in America with dishwashing machines,’ said Mrs Riggs.

‘Get away with you, you don’t say?’ said Mrs Scadden. She stuck her head out of the back door. ‘John! Get another pig bucket in here.’

Mrs Riggs handed me a fresh tea towel. ‘That’s a big idea of yours, Miss Ros. But it might work. Goodness knows I’d rather be able to keep living here than on one of those council estates like my sister, television or no television.’

‘I couldn’t keep track of me knitting if I were staring at one of those screens,’ said Mrs Scadden. ‘Give me the radio any day.’

Mrs Riggs handed me a serving dish to dry. ‘I’ve been wanting to redecorate the pub’s guest rooms. Maybe even set up a breakfast nook in one of the back bar rooms. Mr Riggs might get on with it if he thinks the bed and breakfast business’ll be growing.’

‘You’ll set all this change in motion, then leave and not see it happen,’ said Mrs Scadden. ‘It’s a shame.’

‘You off to university, then?’ asked Mrs Riggs.

I shrugged and muttered something vague. Luckily, out in the hall, the chatter suddenly died away to a rapping that sounded like a tankard banged on the table. Mrs Riggs wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Time for the loaf.’

I draped my wet tea towel over the drying rail and joined Teddy and Julian as Mummy bore in the enormous Lammas loaf on a platter and set it before Grandfather. Our old vicar would have led the ceremony with gusto, but Reverend Vaughn was too evangelical for customs that smacked of paganism, though sensible enough not to interfere with our traditions.

Grandfather held the loaf aloft. ‘To a good harvest.’

Glasses were raised. ‘A good harvest.’

Slowly, he broke the loaf into four.

Teddy leaned against Julian’s arm. ‘Every farmer or smallholder takes a piece from each of the quarters of the loaf, to lay in the corners of their barn as a blessing on the harvest,’ he explained.

‘Is there a human sacrifice to follow?’ Julian whispered back.

‘Just a bonfire.’ Teddy could not add, because he was not here nine months later to see, that a spring baby or two frequently resulted from our harvest blessing. He did, however, give Julian an anticipatory smile. Actually, several poor village girls had been unsuccessfully sending the two smiles and looks all evening.

I stood. ‘Back to the dishes.’ I sniffed. ‘The real change will happen when the men are in the kitchen.’

Half an hour later, I sank down on the back step, hands damp and wrinkled, swapping the steam of the kitchen for the smokiness of the bonfire-lit green.

‘Hello, Ros.’ Teddy sat down next to me.

‘Where’s Julian?’ I asked.

‘Getting some bottles of beer from the Black Sheep. Then we’re off somewhere to be alone. Julian will have to leave soon. He’s already stayed longer than planned.’

‘He’s going to break your heart one day,’ I said softly.

Teddy smiled sadly. ‘I knew that from the beginning. But I love him with every fibre of my being. Even if – when – he breaks my heart, it will still have been worth it, to love someone like this and be loved back.’

I wrapped an arm around his shoulder. ‘What are you going to do next?’

‘We’ll go through Cambridge together. No one bothers homosexuals there.’

‘But then you have National Service.’

‘No one has to guess the truth. Neither of us are pansies.’

‘There’s been a crackdown on homosexuals. You must have read in the newspapers about that man, Michael Calvert, the one they call Mad Mike. He’s a war hero, but he was court martialled and humiliated. He wasn’t a pansy.’ I dug my fingers into Teddy’s shoulder. ‘I couldn’t bear it if you went to prison,’ I whispered.

He leaned his head against mine. ‘I’ll be careful. I promise.’ He shifted to face me. ‘What about you, Ros? Gareth seems a good sort, not a heartbreaker. And he must care for you if he put his career on the line to help us.’

I hesitated. ‘I do like him. A lot. But he wants to be an academic, and my heart is in the country. There aren’t too many places where universities and farms meet. I’ll just see where it goes. Perhaps we’ll end up good friends, and cousins.’

‘Like us?’

‘No. You’re special.’ I drew a breath. ‘Teddy?’

‘Yes?’

The words tumbled out of me. ‘I’ve decided that if I end up an old maid, we can get married. We’re always together, so people won’t be surprised. Then you can have whatever lovers you want, and you’ll be safe.’

Teddy hugged me so tight it hurt. ‘Ros,’ his voice wavered, ‘you’re the best cousin a person could ever have. I’ll never forget what you offered, but I wish true love for you, too. And I think, one day, you’ll find it, if not with Gareth, then someone else.’

‘There you are.’ Julian sauntered into view, beer bottles sticking out of his jacket pockets.

I gave Teddy’s shoulder a shake. ‘Go on, enjoy your evening together. But remember, it’s the croquet final tomorrow, and you’re on my team. Don’t get so sozzled you can’t shoot straight.’

Teddy and Julian followed the other young couples slipping away into the summer evening. The setting sun glowed golden, casting its own harvest benediction on the hills and fields below. I was tempted by a solitary walk to catch the last of its rays. A small part of me felt lonely. No boyfriend, my virginity firmly intact, and two failed romances.

I lingered on the step, staring into the flickering light of the bonfire. Perhaps if I let the magic of the Lammas evening wash over me, I could conjure up my future in the flames.

Gradually, in the blurry edges of the smoke, a figure appeared, familiar yet not familiar. Gareth. In civvies. Corduroy trousers, a light jumper over his shirt, almost as I had imagined him in his study. I pinched myself. No, this wasn’t a dream.

Wordlessly, he sat down beside me. I felt the warmth of his body, saw the slow, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, smelled the smoke clinging to his jumper. He was real.

‘How did you manage to get away from camp, and out of uniform?’ I asked.

‘You’ve been a bad example since that tank incident.’ He grinned. ‘And Barney happens to be on sentry duty tonight.’

There was a moment’s silence.

‘How was Salisbury?’ I asked.

‘Muddy.’

‘It must have been tantalising, playing soldiers over all those archaeological remains you couldn’t excavate.’

‘Ros.’ His voice was quiet, serious.

My heart sank.

‘They want to send me on a tour of Cyprus and Palestine.’

I swung round, my knees pressing against his. ‘My parents got Peter Frobisher to transfer you! How could they do that? I thought they had accepted you!’

He held up a hand. ‘Not your parents. A friend of my father’s was behind it. A colonel. He was trying to do me a favour. I’d have a chance to work at the archaeological sites.’

‘Oh.’ I stared hard at the ground, my chest tight. ‘Did you say yes?’

‘There are some fine examples of Crusader castles in northern Cyprus.’ Gareth’s voice washed over me, gentle but steady. ‘It would be a bridge between National Service and a return to academia.’ He exhaled. ‘I can’t expect to be left in Dorset for the whole stint.’

‘No,’ I said in a small voice. ‘And it’s a marvellous opportunity for you.’

‘Ros, look at me.’ I raised my head, held his gaze. ‘I told you I won’t ask anything of you right now. You’ve been through too much. But there’s something I want for you. I want you to be a woman who follows her passion. Hers alone, not swayed by anyone she loves or who loves her. Whatever we become to each other, I want us to be equals.’

In the shining depth of his eyes, I saw his dream. And mine, reflected.

‘Cyprus sounds exciting,’ I said. ‘You should accept.’

‘Maybe one day I can take you there. If you want.’

A collapsing log sent a fiery shower of sparks arching above us. Reach high, it seemed to say. I smiled. ‘I think I’ve decided what I want. For now, at least.’

He stood and held out a hand. ‘Fancy telling me about it on a walk by the river?’

I put my hand in his. He pulled me up, tucked my arm in the crook of his elbow. Without a glance back to see who might be watching, I went forward to meet my dreams.





Chapter Twenty-Seven


The late September sun fell in a warm haze across the platform at Wareham. I stood amid a pile of luggage, family and dogs, waiting for the train to Waterloo. Only, I would not be travelling through the capital to get the Cambridge connection. Instead, I was headed east to Wye and agricultural college.

Teddy thrust a slim, rectangular gift box into my hands, tied with string. ‘This is from Mum. She said to give it to you at the last minute. You’re to open it in private, apparently.’

I balanced the box on top of my holdall that contained a growing bundle of letters from Gareth. ‘That was sweet of her. And sweet of you to stay on after the others went back to town.’

Teddy shrugged. ‘There’s plenty of time until the Michaelmas term to spend with them. I’m sorry you’re not coming to Cambridge, Ros, but I admire you for going with your heart.’

I glanced over at my mother, a watery smile pasted on her face. To her credit, she had not murmured a word to me about my choice, though I knew she must have suffered a pang of disappointment that I chose not to attend her alma mater.

‘I wish you were here to coach me for the Cambridge entrance exams,’ said Jamie.

‘Reverend Vaughn will tutor you. You’ll sail through.’

‘It’ll be a slog. Ros?’

‘Yes?’

‘Dad and I have something to say…’ Jamie glanced over at Daddy.

‘Yes?’ I said again.

Daddy faced me, hopeful. ‘Will you consider officially being our estate manager-in-training? Jamie will inherit a tougher future than I had. We need to reinstate the position.’

Jamie nodded. ‘I’m good with the dairy and planning projects, but you have the best grasp of the estate as a whole entity. You always have.’

Yes, I thought. I did. As my parents said, I was of the earth. It did not matter who I was born of, but what I was born to. And it was this land.

‘Obviously, if you change your mind during your studies, that’s fine,’ Daddy continued, filling the gap of my silence. ‘And you’re not tied to us for life. Of course, you might decide to move on, and…’

‘No, no. I was just envisioning things… I mean, yes, yes, of course.’ I grinned. ‘There’s nothing I’d like better right now.’ I put my hand out to Jamie, and we shook solemnly.

Valerie tugged at my trousers. ‘This is for you.’ She held open a palm to reveal three rather sweaty pieces of dolly mixture. ‘In case you get hungry.’

I crouched down to kiss her. ‘Thank you very much.’ I drew a handkerchief from my pocket and carefully wrapped up the sweets.

‘Wouldn’t you like to share?’ she asked.

I laughed and opened my hanky to let her select one. Hovering behind her, Tip, whom we’d adopted from our tenant shepherd, Nathaniel, watched intently. Daddy was in the habit of bringing the old sheepdog everywhere to help him become socialised, but Tip had already taken to his new role as Valerie’s guardian. Goodness knows she needed a wise, old head to follow her around.

‘Here’s the train,’ said Harry.

‘Right.’ I took a deep breath as I double-checked my small pile of luggage, which of course included a generous tuck box from Mrs Scadden.

‘I’ll put the trunk in the luggage compartment, Miss.’ The porter hauled it into a dolly with Daddy’s assistance.

‘Changing at Southampton,’ Daddy reminded him.

‘Don’t worry, sir, the guards will transfer the luggage.’

Daddy claimed the first of the goodbye kisses. ‘I’m proud of you,’ he said, a catch in his throat.

‘She’s a credit to the family,’ added Grandfather. ‘And the next time you see me, I promise I won’t be using this stick. I’ll be waltzing you up and down the stairs.’

I squeezed him as hard as I dared. ‘Be careful, or I’ll hold you to that. Love you forever.’

Mummy embraced me. ‘I love you,’ she whispered. ‘You will do brilliantly.’

‘Good luck.’ Jamie kissed my cheek.

‘Write interesting letters,’ said Harry, then enveloped me in a bear hug.

‘Bye-bye,’ said Valerie mournfully.

Mummy scooped Valerie up into her arms. ‘Ros will be back for Christmas.’

‘Make sure you visit Cambridge for a weekend,’ said Teddy, snatching an extra kiss. ‘Lots of weekends.’

‘I will. Give my love to Julian and thank him again for the fountain pen.’ I bent to pat all three dogs.

‘Time to get on,’ said Mummy.

Spotting an empty compartment, I leapt onto the train and tossed the box and my holdall onto the seat, then returned to hang out of the window above the door, returning the waves and blown kisses amid puffs of steam until the train rounded the curve out of the station and I could no longer see Valerie’s fat little arms waving from her perch atop Daddy’s shoulders.

With a swipe at my eyes, I slid open the door to the compartment and flopped down on the seat, the silence ringing in my ears. Daddy would have driven me up to Wye, but I wanted to do this by myself from the beginning. Besides, this wasn’t Cambridge. I didn’t wish to look too elite, and even if we were the shabby genteel, the sheen of class still clung to our family like the patinaed upholstery on Daddy’s old Crossley.

Excited as I was about agricultural college, I still drank in the Dorset stations as we chugged in and out of woods and heathland towards the tiny station of Holton, past the engine sheds at Hamworthy Junction. Beyond the gold and russet trees, I caught a glimpse of a tractor ploughing a field for autumn wheat. The summer harvest giving way to new crops.

The train passed under a succession of small stone bridges to glide alongside the natural harbour at Poole. The arms of the land curved in an embrace of the grey, wind-whipped waters and bobbing boats, just as I clung to my last moments in the county, afraid lest the umbilical cord would break.

Silly of me. Grandfather had been as far away as Gallipoli, and come home. Alex Milne served with him. We had talked more of it in the past weeks. I did not yet have a comfortable word for Alex in my mind. ‘Daddy’ and ‘parent’ belonged to the man who raised me, whose child I truly was. ‘Father’ still sounded odd, though. Perhaps distance from everything would help. Or perhaps I would be too busy with college life, and the pain and confusion would gently resolve itself.

I stretched my hand across the seat and brushed the present from Livvy, almost forgotten amid the turmoil of leaving. Lifting it onto my lap, I slipped the string from the box. Inside, a package sat concealed within pale tissue paper. Something soft. Below the first layer of crumpled tissue lay a dusky blue twin set with pearly matching buttons. I lifted the cardigan. A silver cigarette case nestled beneath. I flicked it open. A note rested on top: For when you really need them. Love, Livvy. Under the note were half a dozen cigarettes – and two condoms.

I shut the case with a smile and gazed out of the window. Underneath me, the wheels raced around, forward to this new chapter of my life. But they would bring me back.

To where I belonged.





Afterword


I didn’t originally have plans for a sequel to A Dorset Summer, my novel that tells the story of Ros’s mother, Phoebe, but my imagination disagreed with me. When I caved in and began to write, I intended it to echo the style of the previous one, but Ros Stephenson isn’t an adult in the 1930s, she is a teenager in the 1950s, and she soon corrected me on that idea, too!

Historical fiction has to find a balance between the two words that define it. Following many authors, including Dorset’s most famous writer, Thomas Hardy, I chose to create a fictional farming estate and village for the Stephenson family, located in my mind somewhere between Studland and Wareham. The number of Dorset’s ghost villages, including the recent case of Tyneham, bolstered my decision. I drew the picture of National Service at Bovington with broad brush strokes, though visits to the Tank Museum helped inspire the scenes in the novel.

What I strove for above all was a faithful portrayal of Dorset life, particularly farming life, in the 1950s, and for this I am deeply indebted to the work of popular writer, broadcaster and Dorset native Ralph Wightman (1901-1971). A novel doesn’t have footnotes, but I don’t want to risk accusations of plagiarism, so I’ll state here that many details of country life, farming, attitudes, and even turns of phrase (especially those of Nathaniel, the shepherd) are paraphrased from his works, in particular The Seasons (1953) and Portrait of Dorset (1965).

Walter James, Lord Northbourne (1896-1982) is a real historical figure and a pioneer of organic farming. His ideas might have seemed oddball in his time, but they sound surprisingly modern to us today. Quotes and other references come from an anthology of his writings, Of the Land and the Spirit. I hope his descendants will approve of my thumbnail portrait of him.

As before, thanks of course go to my parents, who set me on a lifetime of reading and writing, willingly put up with my research expeditions almost every time I visit Dorset, and take care of my youngest child while I do so. I also owe a writer’s debt to the original Ros (not a Rosamund, by the way), a longtime friend whose personality inspired ‘my’ Ros. I meant to only use the name for the first draft, to stop me making Ros’s character too close to that of her mother, but somehow it stuck!

I know nothing about sailing, so I'm grateful to friend and fellow author (and sailor) V.L. Smith for her extensive help in drafting Chapter 10, including finding a yacht for the cousins to sail! Any mistakes are my own layman's adaptations of her amazing technical descriptions. Valuable photos and reminiscences about Studland came my way courtesy of the very helpful Studland History Group on Facebook.

My novel benefitted as always from the insights, comments, corrections and support of my historical fiction writing group. Special thanks go to the late, much missed, Katherine Pym, and to Maggi Andersen, Anita Davison, Colleen L. Donnelly, Julie Howard, Diane Scott Lewis, Rosemary Morris, Mirella Patzer, Jennie Pittam, Ursula Thompson, and Lisa Yarde-Bim. Please check out their work!





About The Author


Susan D. Cook



Susan Cook grew up on the edge of London, but always dreamed of life in a country cottage – and then inadvertently became an expat. She currently lives in Koper, Slovenia, on the edge of the Mediterranean coast. Although not a Dorset native, the county has played a major part in her life since childhood, and she is very thankful to now have her UK base in Swanage. Maybe one day…



Like her life, her blog/website have also been wanderers, but are currently consolidated at susandcook.com. Please visit it for news on her writing (slow, because she has a job and family!), and all things Dorset related.





Books By This Author


A Dorset Summer

The ancient land will not let secrets lie buried...

A holiday in Dorset with her wealthy, newly-divorced cousin seems the perfect escape from Phoebe's mundane life as a governess – until a veteran of the Great War staggers from the sea and into her life. As she is drawn into a relationship with reclusive, tormented Alex, the emotional walls each have built from their scars slowly begin to crumble. But the summer brings more upheavals: to her surprise and reluctance, Phoebe also finds herself courted by handsome, gentle landowner James. One man represents the home she yearns for, the other the possibility to finally redress her past.

The three form an uneasy triangle of lovers and allies resisting army encroachment on the Dorset countryside and its way of life. In turn, the land offers the chance to heal their hidden wounds – but at a terrible price. Trapped between desire and integrity, head and heart, Phoebe must make choices that compel her to confront the past and may well shatter her future.