Torn. Karen Turner

bristled at his description of my home but decided not to test our tentative ceasefire. “You’d like to travel then?”

      “Yes, but not for travel’s sake. I’d like to go to the Iberian Peninsula and actually do something worthwhile.”

      “You mean the war! How would killing and being killed be doing something worthwhile?”

      He shrugged. “Napoleon’s a little upstart – everyone knows it, and we all complain, but what do we do about it?” I watched him as he pondered his own words. “Yes, that’s what I would most like to do.”

      “Maeve would be devastated, and your father wouldn’t be happy.”

      “I’m old enough to buy an officer’s commission – Father wouldn’t stand in my way.”

      “Funny,” I snorted, “my mother might. She’s ever been focused on Simon making a good match – by that she means wealthy – his family responsibility and all. She will probably be the same with you.”

      “She already has plans for me. Another reason to go abroad.”

      I grimaced in commiseration. “Mother carries your father’s child, doesn’t she?”

      “Without doubt.” He shot a wary glance at me before continuing. “Our parents have been engaged in a liaison for some time. So, the problem – which worked well for your mother – was that the King, mad though he may be, is a very prudish man. He ordered their marriage as punishment, and for the benefit of the child. Their banishment from court demonstrates the King’s disapproval; convenient for your mother since she is now a countess and wealthy beyond her wildest fantasies.”

      I was quiet while I took this in. Finally, I said, “Are you worried for your inheritance?”

      “No – the bulk of that comes from my maternal grandfather – it’s secure, along with Maeve’s portion. I disliked your mother since I first met her at court. She’s a schemer, a fortune hunter.”

      “I can’t deny that!”

      “Have you read King Lear? No? Well, you should. You’d recognise her among the characters.”

      We fell silent and the only sound was the wind howling outside and as I watched him, his eyes softened and he seemed to be looking into the distance. “Some day you must visit Waterville Place,” he said pensively. “I think you’d be fascinated with its history – although it’s quite unusual, it is very beautiful. My grandfather, aided considerably by his fertile imagination, re-designed it after he bought it.”

      “There is every chance we – the family, I mean – shall visit.”

      “In any case,” he said, with an abrupt change of subject, “what do you think of your family now? I mean, after our talk. Shall we be friends?”

      I drew up my knees and wrapped my arms about them. “I think we may be friends.”

      “You’re not sure?” he said, teasingly.

      “My hobby-horse has been put out to pasture. We can call a truce,” I announced magnanimously.

      The crooked half-smile he gave transformed his face, and I liked it. His lips were full and expressive and curved down at one corner. “Truce,” he agreed, and we shook on it like farmers. “Equus likes you,” he commented matter-of-factly, as the horse leaned towards me and snorted into my hair.

      I laughed spontaneously; her steamy herbaceous breath tickled my neck, and I was rewarded with another lopsided smile.

      Rain had begun clattering on the shingle roof creating a warm and cosy atmosphere within the stall. I stretched with unladylike ease in the straw and Jemima snored lightly at my feet. Patrick lounged casually beside me, his book forgotten.

      “So, what happened to your mother?” I asked.

      He blew out his breath. “She died.”

      “I supposed that much. Was it –?”

      “A long time ago. In childbirth … the baby was lost too.”

      “Did you know her?”

      “I was about seven at the time, so I knew her only as much as a seven-year-old can.”

      “I don’t mean to be nosy …”

      He smiled again and his eyes held a glint of irony. “Yes you do, but I don’t mind.”

      “So your father raised you?”

      He nodded. “In a fashion. Like I said, he was away a lot – at court. Maeve and I spent time in Ireland with my mother’s family – we have cousins there.”

      “So what’s court like?”

      “See, you are nosy.”

      “Perhaps I’m getting to know my new brother,” I rejoined quickly.

      “Ask Maeve what sort of brother I am.”

      “I’ve already seen a few sides to you,” I said arching my brow significantly and thinking of the Eleanor incident. “Did you like it at court? How old were you when you went there?”

      “I was fourteen. I only stayed for two years. Father secured me a posting in the Queen’s stables.” He considered his horse for a few moments. “Equus’s mother was one of the Queen’s horses – Father purchased her for me when she was only a few months old. When I returned to Waterville I took Equus with me.”

      “And now you’re here.”

      “And now I’m here.”

      “But what about court – is the King mad as they say? And the ladies – are they as beautiful?”

      He laughed lightly. “Yes to the first and no to the second. The King does not involve himself in court society. All the interesting events are held by the Prince of Wales – now that fellow knows how to enjoy himself.”

      “So he’ll make a good king some day?”

      “Doubt it. Parliament is pushing to have him made regent but I think he’s too irresponsible … too interested in throwing parties to be reliable. Let’s not forget we’re still at war – Napoleon is determined to control Europe and hold Britain to ransom. Parliament and the Queen are trying to keep the Prince under control and they can’t manage that now – imagine if he were Regent! It will be worse when he’s King.”

      “But –” I was interrupted as Equus shifted her stance and a low rumble crept from beneath her tail. “Oh Equus!” I exclaimed, laughing freely for the first time in months.

      Pat held up his hand. “Wait for it.”

      “What?”

      “Horse fart,” and just as he said it, the stench of fermenting vegetation filled the stall, leaving us gasping and giggling. We covered our faces as best we could, scrambled to our feet and ran to the stable door, pushing it open to breathe the newly-cleansed air. I turned to Patrick, and his face was made attractive with laughter. “Hungry, brother?” I asked impulsively. “I believe Cook has baked orange biscuits and if you distract her, I shall steal a handful for us to share.”

      He grinned, with no hint of mockery for once. “Very well, L’il Sis, let us see what we can purloin from the kitchens.” He shoved the door closed behind us, and we ran, leaping puddles and mud on our way.

      Christmas descended quickly and Mother’s condition progressed so that she made only brief appearances outside her rooms.

      The festive season had previously been celebrated quietly by Simon, Anne and me, with only a brief exchange of gifts. We had always purchased gifts for the staff, and Simon had instructed Collings to distribute coins and food to the tenants.

      This year,