Torn. Karen Turner

he began. “There’s … unexpected news.” He looked at me significantly, “Her post at court has been terminated.”

      “Oh dear,” Anne murmured.

      “Yes.” Simon continued, and his voice seemed deeper, “She didn’t say a lot, but I am given to understand her return to Broughton Hall is permanent … and it seems,” here he paused and gave a slight grimace, “Mother’s return is on the King’s orders and that man, her escort, is to be … well, they’re to be married.”

      Instantly, Anne burst into a flood of tears while I stared at him in stunned silence. Now, I was not an unfeeling girl. Certainly I had felt Papa’s death in some manner all those years ago. But I had never thought Mother might remarry, though she was young enough, perhaps no more than her late thirties. So, I received this news with a strange kind of allegiance towards Papa.

      Anne continued her sobbing and Simon reached for the bellpull, rang for a maid, and we watched dispassionately as our younger sister leaned heavily on Janet and was led away.

      “She would not do it without an audience,” Simon commented drily as Janet closed the door.

      I murmured something distractedly; I was wondering what Mother’s return might mean for Simon. Since Papa’s death, Simon had run our estate well and efficiently, despite his youth. He wouldn’t officially take over his inheritance until his majority, yet I wondered, would Mother’s return, with a new husband, change all this?

      “Sime?” I waited for him to look at me. “This is so strange … I mean, what do you think it means … for you and everything?” My expansive gesture included the house, land, tenants, everything Simon was currently responsible for.

      “We’ll see. Collings has practically run this place for years and shall continue to, I expect. But it’s not something you need to worry about. I think Mother’s first duty would be to marry you and Anne off to some ageing farmers who need good women to knead their bread and bear their children.”

      I stared at him in alarm but he quickly smiled, “Stop snapping those brown eyes, Zan! I’m not serious.” Then sobering, “Mother is in a bit of a mood. Being sent home has aggrieved her.”

      I nodded, knowing as he did, that to be expelled from court was no small matter. Yet my 14 years of life-experience was too limited to imagine what could have caused such dishonour, and I said as much.

      He considered for a moment before answering. “We may never know, but one thing is certain – we will see some changes around here.”

      We sat stiffly correct at supper that evening, not daring to speak. Mother directed Simon to the head of the table while she sat opposite. Lord Thorncliffe, ruddy and damp-browed, took the seat to her right. Maud, Cook’s new girl, served a vegetable broth followed by stuffed goose and roasted vegetables. The steaming, fragrant bowls and platters were arranged before us, then Maud discreetly withdrew.

      Cook’s offerings remained largely untouched as Simon, Anne and I merely picked at our food, such was the brittle tension in the room. Only Lord Thorncliffe seemed to have an appetite, addressing his plate with gusto and quaffing enough wine to fill three farmers.

      When Mother spoke, it was almost with relief that we placed our cutlery politely on our plates and turned to her.

      “You have eyes – you know that I am with child.” Her stony gaze rested on each of us in turn. “The child is due in five months – early in the new year. As I’m certain Simon has advised you, Lord Thorncliffe and I shall be married.”

      We nodded in unison and I shot furtive glances at my siblings. Simon was staring at Mother, his lips clamped firmly together. Anne’s eyes were glassy with unshed tears, her fingers pressed to her mouth.

      Meanwhile, Lord Thorncliffe studied the intense ruby-colour of his wine, his mouth unconsciously turned down.

      Mother, having paused to allow us time to digest this news, now continued. “The wedding will take place next month. It shall be private – the three of you and Lord Thorncliffe’s children. They will travel from my lord’s estates in the south. Afterwards, they will live here with us.”

      Mother served herself from the teapot and the only sound in the room was the heavy pouring of the steaming liquid into fine china.

      Finally, Anne broke the silence. “Mother, if you please,” she said, tentatively. “How many, and how old, are Lord Thorncliffe’s children?”

      “Patrick is almost seventeen, of age with Simon, and …” Mother turned questioningly to Lord Thorncliffe but he remained diverted by his wine. “Gerrard?”

      He started slightly. “Er … sorry, m’dear?”

      “How old is your daughter, Gerrard?”

      “Oh, Maeve,” he gave a short laugh, more like a bark, and tugged at his earlobe. “Well, er … let me see now … she was born in ninety-six so she’d be … er … twelve.”

      Mother looked around the table at each of us. “Anything else?”

      We were silent as we filed from the room. And later, alone in my bed, I knew instinctively that the only life I’d ever known, was gone forever.

      I was born Alexandra Rose Broughton on 22 May 1794, one of three children to Lady Miriam Broughton and Sir Dudley Broughton. We were not an important family, but my mother brought money to her marriage.

      My Papa had been a naval officer and, in this class-conscious time, a baronet with estates and tenants. He had a respectable lineage but not a farthing in his cash-tin. Mother, daughter of a successful merchant, married him for the potential she saw in his title: he married her for her wealth. He presented her to the King, where from gratitude of her husband’s fidelity to the crown, she was offered a posting in Queen Charlotte’s court. Papa promptly returned to sea, making only infrequent visits to England which resulted in Simon, myself, and Anne – in that order – and we grew up as orphans in the reign of mad King George III.

      Prudent investing of Mother’s money had made us prosperous. Our house and estates – Simon’s inheritance – were well maintained and brought steady income: our tenants were happy and healthy.

      Yet these were difficult times for England under the reign of a King whose declining sanity resulted in public faux pas at best. In this age of debauchery, despotism and unrest, he was known to be utterly faithful, even boring, though his eldest son, George IV, was the opposite. Prinnie to his chums, was extravagant, impulsive and known to have a fondness for the ladies. It was to this group that Mother gravitated.

      Meanwhile, across the Channel, the French had executed their King and much of their aristocracy and at the turn of the century Napoleon Bonaparte had proclaimed himself Emperor of France. By 1803, England was again under French attack – by Napoleon’s Continental System, intended to cause considerable damage to Britain’s trade.

      But I was only a child and content to be so. My brother, sister and I ensconced in our country home in Yorkshire, were blissfully unaware of the future gaping before us and how European events would shape our lives.

      And this night, after Mother’s unexpected return, I drifted on the cusp of sleep, and was vaguely aware of the lady gliding silently through my room. I cannot recall when it was that I first saw her. It seemed that she had always been there, floating without a sound from room to room with a strange, purposeful expression. I never thought of her as a ghost, for weren’t ghosts expected to frighten you? And she was pretty, if somewhat oddly clothed …

      And while I lay there, stirring restlessly, the winds of change swirled and cried about our house.

      CHAPTER 2

      The following morning, I rose at my customarily early hour