Torn. Karen Turner

my face. Anne, conversely, demanded her hair be coiffed every morning as though a visit from Queen Charlotte herself was expected.

      Following Janet into my sister’s room I found Anne before her mirror – 13 years and already the coquette! “Good morning, sister,” she greeted me brightly. I watched her preening – preferring to squint into the mirror than wear spectacles – as Janet brushed her glorious mane and twisted it into a shining plaited rope that hung down her back.

      My sister was a rich brunette with dazzling hazel eyes and a rose complexion. Her leaning towards plumpness would doubtless see her become a voluptuous beauty, though Simon and I, faithful to sibling tradition, teased her endlessly with chants of, “Butterball! Butterball!” Anne, seemingly the quietest of us, exacted her revenge last week by filling my riding boot with custard – a reprisal I discovered by squelching my stockinged foot into it.

      “You seem to have recovered well,” I said, thinking that Simon’s cynicism about Anne was warranted.

      Her face fell dramatically, “Oh Alex, I’m trying so hard to be brave.”

      “I see. In any case, it will be lessons as normal this morning so I trust your bravery holds out.”

      She wrinkled her pert nose. “Lessons … pooh! Who needs lessons? Soon, Mother will obtain a position for me at court. I shan’t need lessons then.” Her musical voice and sibilant lisp were not affectations but she was already aware of their power. The stable lads, target practice for her as yet imperfect skills, tumbled over each other like puppies for a mere second of her attention.

      “It appears there’s no court position for Mother let alone you and besides, you know if you don’t attend lessons Master Baxter will report it to her.”

      “Mother won’t be home long and when she returns to London, she’ll doubtless take me with her. You’ll be sorry you poked fun at me.”

      “Ooh you’re a right one, young Miss,” Janet said, angling a wink in my direction and tying off the plait with a silk ribbon, the same lilac shade as Anne’s dress. “Come get a wriggle-on. If you stare into that glass any longer you’ll wear it out.”

      Simon was already seated at the breakfast table as Anne and I entered. Cook was laying out a basket of freshly-baked bread and a bowl of honey. The spherical woman greeted us with a broad-faced grin.

      “Where’s Beth?” I asked, setting my napkin over my lap.

      “Abed, Miss Alex, with the ‘ead cold. There’s fruit compote for any wantin’ it.”

      “Thank you, Cook,” Anne said feebly, “but I haven’t much appetite today.”

      Simon looked at her. “Unwell, Annie?”

      I snorted scornfully, “She was well enough two minutes ago. Stop the theatrics Anne.” I turned to Cook, “Compote would be lovely, thank you.”

      Anne made a face at me and poured herself a cup of tea. Undeterred, I dripped honey on a hunk of bread and applied myself with great enthusiasm, taking perverse pleasure in forgetting my table manners before Cook. She was constantly reminding me of my birth station and my mother’s expectation of a good husband for me. “Yer name will count for naught if yer cannot eat like a lady,” she warned as she returned with a steaming bowl of stewed fruits. “What gentleman will want yer for his wife if yer shovel food into yer gob like a smithy shovelling coal?”

      Simon leaned over and commented sotto voce, “Or Agnes shovelling swill.” I erupted with mirth at Simon’s reference to our scullery maid, whose father was a local pig-farmer.

      Cook shook her head and made a tutting sound. “Sir Simon, I’d expect better from yer. As lord an’ master, yer needs to learn respect for those beneath yer.”

      “As lord and master, Mistress Cook, you needs must learn respect for me,” he responded in mock pomposity.

      Immediately the large woman dropped to her knees, her pinny twisting in her hands, “Oh kind sir, pray have mercy upon a lowly matron such as I!” Then, hauling herself upright, she glared ruddy-faced around the table. “Get on with them meals yer disagreeable lot before I take the broomstick to yer!” We broke into laughter as Cook haughtily returned to the kitchen.

      Lessons were conducted in the library where sharp-faced Master Baxter reigned. My papa had been more liberal than his contemporaries and had instructed Master Baxter to expose Anne and me to the same subjects as Simon. Consequently, our lessons included history, Latin, English literature, music and mathematics. I was good at history and literature, but I excelled with figures which, though amusing, was useless since I was destined to make a good marriage, breed children to further my future husband’s line, and fall in love – probably in that order. I should have no use for mathematics.

      Twice weekly, music and dance were included in our curriculum. The day following Mother’s return Master Baxter, repairing to the parlour, stationed himself at the piano and barked his instructions. Compared with Simon and Anne’s grace, my dancing was barely adequate despite my love of music.

      “No, no, no!” Master Baxter cried. Leaping to his spindly legs and standing before me, he demonstrated. “Like this, young leddy, one … and two, one … and two – try it … other foot first – no other foot!”

      Behind me, Anne sniggered but I ignored her and tried again. Master Baxter exaggerated a sigh. “Stop!” he commanded. “Young leddy, do you derive pleasure from this?”

      “No, I –”

      He leaned his vulpine snout towards me and his beady eyes narrowed. “It escapes me why a girl-child – gifted in the masculine study of numbers – should be so inept in the pursuit of social arts.”

      Immediately incensed, I opened my mouth to release an angry retort.

      “Master Baxter,” said Simon, effectively slicing my reply. “If you would be so kind as to resume your seat at the piano, I shall step my sister through the dance.”

      Simon turned to me, “Zan, try –”

      “No!” I responded angrily. “I’ve no desire to learn the stupid dance anyway.”

      The front door slammed behind me as I escaped into the late-afternoon sunshine. The trees in the park cast thin shadows across the lawn and neatly raked gravel drive, and the dying scents of summer hung in the air as I stomped to the ancient oak tree adjacent to our house. With my skirt hoisted unseemingly high, I found my foothold and scrambled into the branches, then shimmied on to a sturdy bough to relax with my back against the trunk. This was my favourite hiding place. I loved to perch here, unseen by anyone below, breathing the verdant foliage and surveying our beautiful, terraced gardens, orchard and long, curved drive.

      At length, Simon emerged from the house with Jemima at his heels. I watched as he leaned on the porch balustrade and scanned the gardens and park. His eyes eventually rested on my Great Oak. Grinning good-naturedly, he straightened and descended the stairs, strolling unhurriedly towards me.

      “Do you plan to stay there all night, you grouch? Shall I have your supper sent up?”

      “You could join me – if you dare climb this high.”

      From climbing trees, to seeing who could spit the furthest, my cheerfully irreverent brother had led me into all manner of hoydenish activities. Ordinarily he’d find my challenge irresistible, but his response surprised me. “Not now. I agreed to ride over to the Goodmans’ place with Collings this afternoon to have a look at their roof. It’s in need of repair before winter.”

      He turned and I watched his receding back in dismay. Until now our lives had melded into one wondrous round, and Simon and I had been inseparable.

      This life was all I knew and Broughton Hall the only home. The winters here were icy – the stone of our house seemed to absorb the cold and no fire roared enough to dispel it.