Torn. Karen Turner

my sister, was rushing across the lawn towards me.

      Breathing heavily and with her chestnut curls escaping her cap, she leaned over me. “I thought I’d find you here – lying in the grass with that dog. Look at the state of your dress!”

      “Who cares about my dress?” I drawled grumpily, shading my eyes as I squinted up at her. “I was dozing – you scared six months out of me.”

      “Sorry, miss.” She did not look apologetic in the least. “Sir Simon sent me to fetch you urgently.”

      I sighed resignedly. “What does he want?”

      “A pair of coaches arrived.”

      “So? Why does he need me? Who are they?”

      She shook her head. “Don’t recognise the colours, miss, but they look important.”

      I nudged the dog with the toe of my boot. “C’mon, Jemima. Up you get.”

      Janet briskly led the way up the lawn to where a path met the terraced walkways of the gardens behind our house. Broughton Hall had belonged to my family since the second Charles. It was grey with age and lichen, with large mullioned windows like all-seeing benevolent eyes watching over the park, gardens and bordering forest.

      As we rounded the side of the house, my eyes slid towards the drive and porch to where two shiny wine-red coaches, each with four well-matched grey horses, and bearing an unfamiliar gold crest, stood rocking gently. Their occupants had not yet emerged and my siblings waited at the foot of the porch steps. I ranked between them in age and was the proverbial thorn between two roses, for Simon and Anne were extraordinarily attractive.

      A young wine-liveried footman opened the door of the lead coach and unfolded the steps.

      Jemima fussed around the horses’ hooves causing them to move restively. I clutched her collar tightly and watched a rotund, fair-haired gentleman appear from within the coach.

      “Gently now, m’dear,” he said as he offered his hand to a second person behind him.

      As the woman stepped down Anne gave a small gasp and I consciously closed my mouth.

      “Remember yourselves,” Simon hissed, for our manners were momentarily forgotten at the unexpected sight of our mother. Pausing before us, she straightened and regarded us haughtily, her early yet obvious pregnancy displayed defiantly.

      Simon was the first to recover. “Welcome home, Mother,” he stepped up to kiss her cheek. “We had no idea you –”

      “Oh Mother! You’re home!” Anne cried and her excitement caused Jemima to leap and almost jerk me off my feet. The horses stirred, clanking their harness, and unsettling the coaches.

      “Alexandra, control that dog!” Mother commanded. The chastisement stung and I tightened my grip on Jemima’s collar. Mother did not respond to my siblings’ greetings. She appeared tired, her eyes shadowed and the blue of her travelling gown lent her face a sallow tinge.

      Our housekeeper appeared beside me. “Lady Broughton, you look weary, may I –”

      Mother raised a silencing hand and proceeded towards the porch leaving Mrs Grainger to silently draw up her bosom.

      The young footman waited beside the coach. His appraising eyes swept over us, pausing, if only for a moment, on Anne. He had a pleasing face and appeared no more than 18 or 19 years old, and I made a mental note to suggest Simon should keep an eye on our pretty sister.

      Finally, Mother’s maid and companion emerged from the coach and I wondered, as I always did, why Mother kept her around. Eleanor, a waspish creature, was tall and rail-thin with a face that looked as though she perpetually sucked a lemon. Her hair was exactly the same as every other time I’d seen her – bright orangered and clawed back in a tight chignon.

      She was utterly faithful to Mother and I reminded myself to be careful as her eyes rested on me. To avoid her gaze, I studied the big, rather jolly-looking blond fellow now offering Mother his arm as she ascended the stairs. As if I had voiced my curiosity, she paused on the porch and faced the gathering of her children.

      “This is Gerrard Washburn, Earl of Thorncliffe. He will live here.” Turning, she presented her straight back to us and entered the house.

      I was too stunned to remember my manners, but Anne sank into a practised curtsy as though King George stood before her.

      Lord Thorncliffe hesitated and his hand toyed with his ear lobe. Offering a quick, apologetic smile and nod to the three of us, he then addressed his young footman. “Very well, Jeffrey. Have the coaches unloaded.”

      I looked at Simon and he shrugged. “Annie?” he said.

      Turning to our sister, I saw with dismay that she had already sidled over to where Jeffrey was directing others wearing the wine livery in the unloading of the coaches. Easily distracted though, he made Anne a courtly bow with a somewhat jaunty lift of one eyebrow.

      I quickly grasped my sister’s shoulders. “Come, Annie, it’s almost time for dinner,” and shoved her towards the porch.

      “We’ll have to watch that one,” Simon said, pointing with his chin in Jeffrey’s direction as Anne disappeared into the house.

      “She won’t discourage him,” I said. “And she won’t be able to resist the flattery either.”

      “No, she won’t.” My brother made a rueful expression, then bent towards my ear. “Council assembly … bring Anne … my office in an hour.”

      As we climbed the porch steps Janet was waiting by the door. She glanced doubtfully at my boots. “Mrs Grainger’s had the maids beating the rugs. She’ll skin you alive if –”

      “Pooh to Mrs Grainger! I’m going upstairs. I’ll be in my room. Come, Jemima.”

      Holding my skirt in one hand, I pushed open one of the two enormous oak doors at the front of our house and stepped into the cool entry hall. It smelled of old wood and beeswax and had a great staircase directly before me and rooms either side; the parlour on the right and a morning room on the left.

      True to form, Mrs Grainger stood guard, one large, square hand resting on the newel. With a face that threatened thunder, she held the power to strike fear into disobedient children with a single glance. She regularly examined our boots and clothing before grudgingly allowing us entry into our own house. Not even Simon, for all his looks and charm, could escape her inspections, and while he and I were forced to endure her recriminations about wallowing in stable-muck like commoners, Anne’s proud perfection extracted merely a grunt.

      Mrs Grainger’s dignity had taken a blow with Mother’s disregard but she seemed to have recovered well enough, for now she watched disdainfully as my dog and I headed for the grand staircase and slid past her, effectively avoiding her scowl.

      An hour later, I gave the briefest of knocks before Anne and I entered Simon’s office. It was an entirely masculine domain with dark wood-panelled walls and unfussy furniture, unchanged since our Papa’s death some five years ago.

      The room was chilly. Being rarely used – Simon generally did his estate paperwork in the library – no-one had thought to light a fire and since the windows overlooked the eastern boundary of our property it did not enjoy the afternoon sun.

      Simon was seated behind Papa’s heavy old desk. I took a seat opposite and Anne did likewise, sitting primly upright and flawlessly turned out, as though we were expecting exalted visitors.

      My brother was more practical than my sister. Simon wore an old linen shirt beneath a green woollen waistcoat and a pair of dun-coloured trousers, attire perfect for a country gentleman – though he would look as well in rags for he was tall and in good proportion for his 17 years. His merry nut-brown eyes and beautiful smile reduced sturdy milkmaids and broad-shouldered washerwomen to giggly, brainless twits before him. It