Torn. Karen Turner

and Patrick launched themselves into the festive spirit with a contagious fervour that helplessly infected their Broughton siblings.

      Pat, Lord Thorncliffe and Simon went into the forest and cut a fir which they dragged through the snow amid much stumbling and shouts of laughter. Maeve and Anne visited Wolstone Market and returned with a treasure-trove of coloured beads and baubles. The parlour sparkled brightly and the clean, sharp tang of pine permeated the rugs and furnishings and crept in to the hall to greet those entering the house. Some weeks earlier, Anne had charmed the stableman’s son, who had a talent for wood-carving, to produce a collection of miniature figures. These, she and Maeve had painted in red, green and blue, and now they hung in the tree from gold threads.

      Even Mother seemed relaxed. She observed our gaiety from her couch, smiling like a benevolent queen.

      Christmas Eve arrived and the household staff were invited to join us around the tree. Maeve and Anne danced to Simon’s piano and Patrick’s violin. There was much laughter and carolling and Cook was dispatched to the cellar for a third bottle of her special plum wine. My only sadness was that Jemima remained alone in the stables. Though I visited her daily, she’d been raised indoors, was part of the family, and I hated the thought of her being outside.

      Emily brought in a plate laden with marchpane holly leaves, and another with mincemeat tarts that were swollen with fruit and spices, and we ate, sang and swapped stories before a roaring fire. Some time later, I relaxed in my chair watching the glittering, cheerful scene, a forgotten smile on my face, and aware that I had enjoyed this evening more than any in recent memory.

      Suddenly Mother clapped her hands and we turned as one. “I don’t believe I can continue to look upon these mysterious parcels a moment longer,” she declared, indicating with a flourish the brightly wrapped gifts beneath the tree. “Maeve, Anne, will you ladies do the honours?”

      Maeve squealed with delight and threw herself with inelegant eagerness to the floor beside the tree.

      Anne, more dignified, joined her in handling each boxed package carefully, reading the tags and announcing the recipient’s name.

      “Simon!”

      “Mother!”

      “Ooh! Another for Simon and it smells so sweet it must be from a girl,” said Maeve, giggling.

      “Probably Katie, the farrier’s daughter,” suggested Anne.

      “Or her mother,” I added with a wink in my brother’s direction.

      Simon scowled with mock annoyance and read the label, “It’s from you, Naughty Puss.” Maeve glowed beneath the affectionate nickname, bestowed after the Missy incident on her arrival.

      “Father, this is from Mother.”

      “To Cook from the Countess.”

      “To Alex from Simon.”

      And so it went on.

      Much later, we each had a pile of gifts before us. I had received a lovely bottle of scent from Simon, a red leather-bound journal from Patrick, various trinkets from Anne and Maeve, and an assortment of books from Mother and Gerrard.

      Cook made a pot of thick, aromatic chocolate. I sipped my drink and reflected that Mother had been in uncommon good humour, regaling us with funny tales of the King’s misdemeanours and public displays of madness, though her descriptions of the parties held by the Prince had Anne’s eyes bulging.

      “There are rumours,” Mother said conspiratorially, “that Prinnie’s favourite is with child again.”

      “No!” Gerrard was genuinely surprised. “Again you say? To his mistress? High time that wife – what’s her name – gave him another.”

      “Caroline,” Mother supplied. “They have lived apart for … let me think, well, since Princess Charlotte was born. She has that boy, of course – claims she adopted him, but everyone knows the child is her own bastard. The Prince must get a son with his wife, but cannot stand the sight of her.

      “If it is true that the mistress is in … er … a delicate condition, then her star will most definitely be on the rise.”

      “Indeed, though if she’s with child, she’ll need to be on her guard.” Mother then described the outrageous lengths some of the court ladies would go to in order to attract Prinnie’s attention and their conspiracies behind closed doors to bring one another into disrepute. One had to be constantly on one’s guard against scandal. From the pleasure Mother derived in the re-telling, I judged she was among the agitators.

      Suddenly the door opened. Until that moment I hadn’t realised that Patrick had slipped away. When he came into the room my hand flew to my mouth and I stifled a gasp of shock. The gathering fell silent while I, unable to breathe, stared fearfully at Mother. Patrick was leading Jemima into the room.

      Mother nodded toward me with a small smile. “Alexandra, this is my Christmas gift to you,” she said, magnanimously. “Those disrespectful boys there,” she waved imperiously at Patrick and Simon, “confessed their crime and I have decided to forgive you all this conspiracy, and return that wretched hound to your care.”

      Jemima sat, uncharacteristically obedient, at Patrick’s side, though I sensed her excitement and desire to run to me.

      “Mother, thank you,” I said softly.

      “Hmm,” she said, grudgingly. “It is on condition.”

      “Anything …”

      “Your brothers have endeavoured to drill some manners into it – see that you keep up the training.”

      “Yes, Mother – thank you.”

      “Don’t thank me, thank them. I was furious when Simon told me my orders had been undermined. As head of this house, he must learn the consequences of his actions.”

      “Well … thank you in any case,” I said, reverently. “And the two of you also,” I added to Simon and Patrick and it dawned on me that Patrick’s daily visits to the stables were not for Equus’ benefit alone.

      “Needn’t thank Patrick,” Mother grumbled, “If he were alone in pleading your case, I’d have had them both, human and dog alike, knocked on the head.”

      Pat grinned – almost as handsome as Simon when he wasn’t guarding his expression – and passed the leash to me. “The mutt has received a reprieve, and is hereby returned to you.”

      So Yuletide came and went and it was the most joyous I’d known. Mother’s unusual affability no doubt contributed to the congenial atmosphere about the house. And a week later, when the parlour clock struck midnight on New Year’s Eve, hugs and good wishes were exchanged between Broughtons, Washburns and their combined staff.

      CHAPTER 7

      January crept slowly by. Heavy snowfalls transformed the park into a glittering white landscape and made it impossible to venture outdoors. Master Baxter was spending the festive season at Kendall with his family and had not yet returned, and so, free from lessons, I spent much of my time reading those books that were more to my liking than my tutor’s. I wept over Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers, knew irony in the tragedy of Oedipus the King, and marvelled at Donne’s image-laden words.

      Poetry was all the rage at court and I felt quite the modern woman one snowy afternoon with a companionable fire, Jemima at my feet, and lost in Shelley’s poetic visions of the moon. I closed my little book, and quoted from memory,

       Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth, Wandering companionless

      I thought I was alone until Patrick completed the last lines for me.

       Among the stars that have a different birth, And ever changing, like a joyless eye