Torn. Karen Turner

some years back?”

      Mother nodded absently and failed to notice as Simon jabbed his elbow slyly into Patrick’s ribs. That individual, roused from reading over his father’s shoulder, turned to Simon.

      “Isabella Camelleri has two of the most charming daughters a fellow could meet.

      “Is that a fact?” Patrick responded, with interest.

      Simon began extolling the virtues of the two young ladies, descriptions that were aided in some large measure by imagination, for many years had passed since their last visit.

      Lord Thorncliffe watched the boys’ exchange indulgently for a moment before returning to his paper. “It says here – wait-on, I’ve lost the spot, ‘Napoleon himself, led two-hundred thousand men into Spain’, there – Spain. Nowhere near your friend in Italy.” He continued. “ ‘The thirty-thousand British soldiers, led by Sir John Moore, fought their way through Burgos, Sahagun, Benavente and Cacobelos. Finally, after valiantly defending La Coruna, Moore was killed, resulting in an evacuation of the British troops. Napoleon has passed control to Nicholas Soult, and has returned to France.’ ”

      “That tyrant must be stopped or Europe will not know a moment’s peace,” Simon stated with conviction.

      “And when he’s done with Europe, he’ll march on Britain,” Patrick added. “You know, Sime, they’re always after soldiers – they’ve commissions available.”

      I swallowed hard, awaiting Simon’s response, but it was a moment before he spoke, “Yes, but I’ll wager they’ll want doctors too. If I could gain some medical training first, it would go well.”

      As one, Maeve and Anne cried, “You can’t go to war!”

      “You could be hurt,” Maeve reasoned.

      “Or killed,” Anne added dramatically.

      Mother spoke without raising her eyes from her needlework, “You each have responsibilities at home – it’s out of the question.”

      “They accept junior officers,” Patrick continued.

      Mother sighed and put aside her work. “Gerrard, say something!”

      “They’re right, they do accept junior officers.”

      “That’s not what I meant!”

      “Madam!” Patrick said suddenly, his eyes blazing vividly, “You may bully your son, but you may not bully me. What I choose for my future is no concern of yours.”

      Having not heard anyone speak so to Mother; Simon, Anne and I stared in open-mouthed amazement.

      With great dignity, she raised her chin and said, “Be assured you have my unconditional blessing to go and get yourself killed. But you’ll not take my son with you. Eleanor, gather my needles and things, I shall retire now.”

      Two nights later, I was awakened in the small hours by the sounds of a banging door and the pounding of urgent feet along the hall. Jemima leapt from her basket and I poked my head into the corridor in time to accost a pair of scurrying housemaids carrying hot water and linen. Eleanor, poker-straight and empty-handed led the way.

      “Judith!” I whispered hoarsely to one of the maids. “Is it Mother’s time?”

      “Yes … oh dear,” she said, flustered and glancing nervously at the frowning Eleanor. “Why do babies always make you feel so unprepared, even though you know they’re coming?”

      “Has someone been sent to fetch the midwife?”

      “Get a move on,” snapped Eleanor, glaring at me. “This is no place for you – go back to bed.”

      “Yes, Albert …” the maid threw over her shoulder as she disappeared down the darkened hall.

      “So, to bed I returned, but not to sleep. By the glow of a single candle I awaited news, but it wasn’t until the sun was above the horizon and I’d broken my fast that Lord Thorncliffe, far too excited for a man supposedly giving his name to another’s child, announced that Margaret Maria Washburn had arrived at 8.07 am that morning, 17 February 1809.

      With her pretty, little face and fine, blond hair, she bore no small resemblance to Maeve, if slightly pinker – a fact that was noted by all but mentioned by none. Recalling our conversation in the stables four months earlier, my eyes met Pat’s knowingly over the crib.

      Meg was an unsettled baby who cried a lot and Mother quickly engaged a wet-nurse. In her early thirties, round and cheerful, Clara was full to the brim with the latest village gossip. She was alone in the world, having lost her own child five months earlier and her husband a year ago in a farming accident. She moved in to the nursery and took up her position in our household with calm efficiency.

      When Clara was not busy feeding Meg or taking care of other baby associated tasks, I visited. Unlike Mother, Clara was fond of Jemima and didn’t mind the dog being in the room with us, and before long my afternoon routine included visiting Clara and Meg. Many hours were spent in cheerful conversation over tea and biscuits and, though there were some years between us, I enjoyed her company and we soon developed an unlikely friendship.

      But the days remained short and cold, and the snow deep. It piled against our house in sodden mounds and weighed heavily on the naked branches of the trees in the orchard. The Great Oak looked forlorn; its only companions in winter were a family of squirrels. The pines in the park and forest glittered with a million icicles where their needles had frozen, while the other trees sagged like weary old men.

      I was feeling stifled. Generally the melt would have started by now but the long winter was continuing to make a desert of our garden, restricting my outdoor excursions to brief strolls along the terraces. From frustration, I suggested Simon accompany me on a walk through the forest. Feeling the strain himself, he agreed and invited Patrick to join us.

      The residual traces of resentment over Pat’s friendship with Simon lingered, but their departure to Oxford was imminent so I stoutly contained my annoyance and forced a smile.

      The mist swirled and floated between the trees, lending an enchanted feel to the forest as we crunched through the snow. Simon chattered excitedly about the upcoming trip to Oxford, though Patrick remained quiet and kept his thoughts to himself.

      They strode out, their long legs carrying them with ease, while I, hampered by my voluminous winter skirts, struggled behind.

      As the snow began to fall again, they moved in and out of view between trees and over logs, and when they rounded an enormous oak, Jemima bounded after them and they were lost from sight.

      I navigated the giant tree – tugging irritably when my skirt snagged – and their voices grew faint, and then were gone.

      I stared about me with irritation. Their tracks should have been visible and easy to follow, but they disappeared round the base of a tree so broad a man on horseback might have hidden behind it. And with the snow falling as it was …

      I studied the ground and found only my own tracks. “Blast,” I swore out loud. The grey and white landscape gave nothing away. The skeletal trees, with their limbs protruding from the mist like gnarled fingers, were making me feel slightly jumpy.

      “Simon!” My voice fell dull and flat, blanketed by the snow. “Jemima!”

      Nothing.

      “Damn and blast!” The snow was quickly obliterating any remaining foot-prints and the enshrouding mist didn’t help – white on white. I circled the tree once more, increasingly frustrated.

       “Simon!”

      I listened hard. Nothing.

      They had been heading towards the river. I shot a glance behind me and paused. Was I mistaken or was that a flash of blue from Simon’s coat disappearing