Torn. Karen Turner

responding flatly, “No.”

      She stared, aghast, as he left the room. “Your son, Gerrard, is a future earl. He ought to dress and behave as appropriate.”

      “He’s quite aware of his lineage, Mim.”

      “Nevertheless, you must speak with him.”

      Lord Thorncliffe tugged his ear lobe and nodded absently.

      I was not the only one fascinated by our new brother, for Simon joined Patrick’s orbit and began to enjoy his company where he’d once enjoyed mine. Despite my own attraction to him, I felt the first steely jab of resentment. In my childishly naive way, I considered Patrick an intruder and hoped to deter him with frowns and smart remarks.

      And as my irritation grew, so my behaviour deteriorated. One morning I virtually shoved him aside in order to take my seat beside Simon for our lessons. Patrick merely regarded me with an expression of bored contempt.

      The brother and sister were quite opposite – where Maeve was bubbly and excitable, Patrick was distant, with a quiet dignity. They were the last of a historic, well-bred lineage, and Maeve, with her easy smile and delicate manners, did her noble ancestry proud. Patrick, on the other hand, was brooding and irreverent, denying any claim to aristocratic roots by his dishevelled attire.

      Soon enough, Anne, too cunning by half for one so young, also took to studying him. One afternoon, he lounged casually in a chair by the parlour window reading a book. My sister’s gaze was focused intently, her eyes sagaciously appraising, and it was one of those moments when you know something intuitively; and I knew then that, already at her tender age, she was weighing up his social and financial worth.

      I studied him myself and found a paradox; a young lord shunning the pretensions in which his kind voraciously indulged. I saw intellect and humour lurking in his eyes and, though he was gifted with a quick mind, he remained a private thinker who kept his opinions to himself. My sister saw none of these things.

      So Anne sat, with one glossy curl twirled about her finger and a cheeky pout at the ready, waiting for him to glance her way. Engrossed as he was in his book, he must have felt the tingle of being observed and looked up. The smile this 13-year-old coquette offered was designed to entice him as surely as it did the lads in the stables. But he merely lifted a mocking brow and returned to his reading.

      Blushing with the sting of rejection, Anne dropped her pose and stalked from the room.

      Mother’s marriage to Lord Thorncliffe was, as planned, a very quiet affair presided over by Wolstone’s vicar. The five of us, and Eleanor and Jeffrey, joined the bride and groom.

      Mother wore a lovely, velvet gown in deep blue with white lace trimming the high-waisted bodice, effectively concealing her pregnancy

      Lord Thorncliffe wore buff trousers that hugged his paunch and tapered neatly to his polished, Hessian boots. His blue coat was the colour of Mother’s gown. It buttoned tightly over his belly and white lace frothed at his cuffs.

      The ceremony complete, the earl and his new countess’ health was drunk and Cook, Janet and Mrs Grainger were invited to join the toast.

      In the weeks following, the days shortened and the last of the autumn leaves drifted across the terraces.

      Winter brought grey and rainy days with lead-bellied clouds and promises of early snow that forced us all indoors, though rarely in one room. One afternoon, we five Broughton-Washburn siblings were engaged in various activities in the parlour. Anne and Maeve were reading poetry to each other while Pat and Simon played chess by the window. I was writing a letter to Julia.

      Eleanor slunk into the room and regarded us down her sloping nose. “Miss Broughton,” she announced, her eyes on Anne, “the Countess requests your assistance with a piece of needlework she believes you are particularly able with. You will attend her rooms immediately.”

      Anne shrugged, “If she feels I can do a better job.”

      “She clearly stated that it must be you – not your sister.” The woman jerked her pointy beak in my direction. “It is well known her work with the needle leaves much to be desired.”

      Anne grimaced apologetically at me and passed the poetry book to Maeve.

      “Well that was an important piece of information,” Patrick drawled. Pausing, Eleanor eyed the young man speculatively. He had risen from his chair and was leaning casually against its back.

      “I did not address you,” she remarked caustically.

      Patrick shrugged. “In any case, a quick word, if you would be so kind.” Her painted eyebrows rose in bored inquiry. “It never ceases to amaze me, just how – I’m not sure how to say it – how a delicate flower such as yourself, Miss Eleanor, has never ensnared a husband? I’m completely bemused.” He approached her, hands out in supplication.

      Clearly confused and uncertain as to the direction of his thoughts, Eleanor hesitated, curiosity outweighing suspicion.

      “Do you deliberately withhold your favours? Do you enjoy frustrating the gallants with your elusive charms, your almost …” he searched the ceiling for the right word, “surreal beauty?”

      He sighed melodramatically and I felt the first flicker of unease as I saw an unidentified expression cross his face. I would recognise that look in years to come, but for now we were all transfixed as he drew close enough to touch Eleanor’s cheek in a strangely intimate gesture.

      “What man could resist the stir in his loins, his quickened heartbeat?” A flicker of wariness flashed across Eleanor’s pinched face but she was trapped in the moment. His hand dropped to tenderly stroke her neck. “Perhaps in the stringy folds of her throat he could find such strength.”

      Eleanor’s face registered concern, and the room grew tense as we all sensed something terrible was about to happen. Eleanor went to speak but Pat placed one finger lovingly against her lips. “Nay, mistress, I wouldst have thou silent, for it could possibly be the spite that drips from these thin little lips, or the acid from this forked tongue.”

      Turning quickly he announced to his audience, “Oh no – ‘tis none of these fine attributes. The reason the lovely Miss Eleanor will die a virgin spinster is …” suspended for an interminable moment we waited as he paused significantly, “this bloody-ugly wig!” And with a flourish he grabbed Eleanor’s chignon and wrenched it from her head.

      None of us had ever suspected that it wasn’t Eleanor’s real hair. The woman screeched in horror and I have the image of her mortified face forever burned on my memory.

      For what felt like minutes she stood screaming and screaming, her hands vainly attempting to hide the stubble on her pink-grey scalp before she stumbled from the room.

      Patrick, the wig held aloft like a trophy, swept the floor with it in a most courtly bow before booting the door shut.

      “Disgusting thing”, he muttered regarding the limp clump of hair distastefully, then with a mock shiver, tossed it into the air where it hooked on the ceiling candelabra, swinging jauntily. “Disagreeable, bitter and twisted old crone,” he continued and, returning to the chessboard, moved his knight, and declared calmly, “Check.”

      Maeve recovered more quickly than the rest of us, having no doubt experienced her brother’s unpredictable cruelty before. As for Simon, Anne and me, we’d never witnessed such malice and, though I had no love for Eleanor, I could not help but feel sorry for her.

      “I’d best attend Mother,” Anne said in a subdued voice.

      I doubt Eleanor reported Pat’s stunt to Mother, in fact it was never spoken of again, but as the rest