Torn. Karen Turner

      As had ever been our habit, Simon and I, with Jemima in tow, passed our study-free afternoons roaming the park, but winter’s rapid descent forced us to remain indoors playing cards, music, or, in Simon’s case, reading the papers from London.

      He was fascinated with the progress of the Peninsular War, often reading aloud and questioning the decisions of the leaders. I didn’t pretend to understand military strategy, but was intrigued by Simon’s interest that resulted in much tutting and sighing over his adjudged ineptitude of the two commanders, Sir Hew Dalrymple and Sir Harry Burrard.

      In August that year, the French, led by Junot, had been trapped by the English in Portugal and cut off from their supplies. Soundly beaten, they called for an armistice that the English accepted, resulting in the Convention of Cintra being signed.

      Though victorious, the events that followed did nothing for English military pride, for Dalrymple forced the English to transport the French, with all their arms and supplies, back to France in English ships.

      Simon veritably exploded as he read this latest. “So much for a military coup! What was the Government thinking of putting those two old farts in charge? That young fellow – what’s his name, Moore – he’d have made a better fist of it for certain, or that Wellesley chap.”

      I nodded judiciously with absolutely no idea who these fine gentlemen were, though I did note some weeks later, that Dalrymple and Burrard had been recalled to Britain where their resignations were accepted and they were replaced by Sir John Moore. Simon smiled, satisfied, as though the appointment had been made on his express advice.

      But my brother was changing; the increasingly rare moments when I had him to myself were no longer spent cheerfully exchanging village gossip, or dissecting British military strategy, for his interests expanded to encompass our new brother and his ostensibly impressive history. Patrick has been to court, you know; Patrick has been to Ireland. Patrick, Patrick, Patrick!

      I made my displeasure known by sulking and offering only monosyllabic responses to which Simon seemed oblivious. He invited Patrick to join us in our afternoon pursuits and, more often than not, the invitation was accepted. I was feeling cheated of my special time with Simon, and observed their growing camaraderie resentfully. With the cumulative wisdom of my 14 years, I endeavoured to make the newcomer so uncomfortable he would remove himself. Yet, having witnessed Eleanor’s humiliation at Patrick’s hand, I operated warily.

      I decided to ignore Patrick as if he didn’t exist, and it did seem, for a time, that I was succeeding – until I chanced to see Pat and Simon exchange a contemptuous roll of their eyes. Disappointed, I realised they were in accord and that I risked alienating Simon altogether.

      To further confound me, as I grew to know Patrick better, I discovered that I rather enjoyed his presence during our lessons. Stubbornly I renewed my efforts, making full use of my talent for sarcasm, but even then my campaign wilted when he turned to Simon and said, “Am I expected to believe this puerile little nonentity is related to you and Anne?”

      Good for the soul, was how Janet described him. Perhaps he had charmed her as he charmed everyone – my sister, our servants, and even Mrs Grainger called him, the young lord. He definitely had his attractions with his dishevelled, careless manner and witty repartee, but he was an interloper, and it riled me no end that no-one else could see it. Simon’s behaviour was a betrayal of our partnership, but he merely shrugged off my displeasure and accompanied Patrick into the park to shoot arrows at targets on trees.

      Meanwhile, Maeve was bewitching and likeable, a fact that only served to increase my moodiness. She and Anne had become immediate companions and passed their time before a cheerful fire; reading, talking or sewing together, with Missy curled on the settee between them.

      Alone to contemplate my position, I became even more disagreeable. So much so, that Patrick cornered me late one afternoon in the parlour. I was watching from the window as Collings made an inspection of the rose garden.

      “I know what you mean by all these infantile displays,” he said, startling me.

      “I –”

      “Don’t bother. Any denial insults us both.” His normally pleasant looks were transformed by his scorn and I prayed he would go away but he made no move to leave.

      Very well, I thought, rising slowly. I faced him and blurted out, “We didn’t ask you here to disrupt our lives.”

      He moved explosively, his hand shooting out to grip my chin and force me to stare into his hard, emerald eyes.

      “Now, you listen to me,” he snarled, and I whimpered stupidly in surprise. “I couldn’t give a tinker’s cuss what you think, but I’m here and so’s my sister and you’d better get used to it. I’m not interested in your petulance, nor is Simon, thank God! Even your scheming sister’s less unpleasant, so stop behaving like a spoiled little bitch!”

      He flung away from me, slamming the door on his way out, leaving me in the gathering dusk, trembling and stunned and with a renewed wariness of his cruel capabilities.

      It was early December and Patrick celebrated his seventeenth birthday. Lord Thorncliffe surprised his son by arranging for Pat’s horse to be brought up from their estates. Equus was as beautiful a creature as I’d ever seen; a black mare, strong and tall with a fine, intelligent head. Now my stepbrother enjoyed a new freedom; galloping through the woods, hurdling fences and charging through the park – fearlessly and dangerously. Simon attempted to join him on the laughably inadequate Oliver, who grudgingly responded to Simon’s urging, and took every opportunity to loiter in the lush grass at the edge of the forest.

      Other times, with their saddle-bags bulging, the two boys disappeared for entire days. In my more grown up moments I knew my resentment was churlish and unreasonable, but watching their easy camaraderie as they laughed at some shared joke only built on my towering sense of betrayal.

      Simon’s tolerance ran out one clear, frosty morning. We were enjoying unseasonably pleasant days for December and I stood on the neatly-raked gravel drive while he waited before me, hand extended, “Come on, Zan,” he said, smiling beguilingly, “we’re going to follow the stream and eat lunch. The snow will be here soon and then we’ll not be able to go out.”

      I could have saved myself, but like a lemming, I ran obstinately to my own destruction. “No!”

      “C’mon, we’ll have fun – just like we used to.”

      “It can’t be like it used to,” I snapped, angling a significant glare over his shoulder to where Patrick lingered. My stepbrother’s face was inscrutable, but he was studying me closely, his eyes like cold jewels.

      “Leave her, Sime.” He turned and stalked away.

      “You go to hell!” I shouted at his back and saw Simon’s brow pucker.

      “Zan …” he began sadly, then shook his head and turned to follow Patrick.

      Dropping to the ground, I scraped a handful of gravel and threw it with all my passion at Simon’s retreating back. I’ve always been a good shot and this was no exception. The stones hit their target but my brother’s steps did not falter.

      And so, as Christmas approached, I drifted about, reading or wandering through the woods with Jemima. Simon was despondent and sought occasions to talk with me that usually ended unhappily because he couldn’t understand how I felt.

      “If you would only get to know him, you’d like him – he’s fun, Zan.” We were sitting over the chessboard in the library as rain beat steadily against the windows.

      “I don’t like him,” I said, replacing his bishop with one of my knights.

      “Hmm, you’re getting good at this,” he muttered thoughtfully. “Why don’t