Torn. Karen Turner

grass, wildflowers and disgruntled bees, with Jemima galloping alongside.

      Anne found our outdoor pursuits dirty and undignified. I was aware that in a corner of her heart she resented the closeness between Simon and me, but in my childishly-selfish way, I gave it little thought.

      Annually over summer, our escapades were interrupted by the arrival of our Mother, always with a contingent of friends from court – coachloads of them. During this time we were painfully reminded of our manners and behaviour.

      Our quiet country estate was transformed by glamorous ladies in the most sumptuous silks and satins, gliding sensuously about, laughing with affectation and tinkling with jewels. The gentlemen fawned over them and competed for their attention in high-collared shirts, elegant coats and long leather boots, with glinting, rakish swords hanging at their hips.

      Anne would sigh dreamily over the extravagant clothes and glittering jewels. “I simply cannot wait until I may wear such beautiful clothes. I shall have a ring on every finger and all the gentlemen will vie for my attention – just like Mother.”

      One hot night, I lay restlessly on my bed as the sounds of clinking crystal, music, and laughter drifted up from the gardens below. Unable to sleep, I slipped unnoticed, outside by the servants’ stairs.

      The grotto was a secluded corner of our garden, walled by a tall hedge on three sides and stone on the fourth. It had been designed by the builder of Broughton Hall – a wealthy merchant who had owned several ships that plied their trade between Bristol and the Indies. According to local narrative, he’d never lost a ship to either pirate or element and, crediting God as the source of his luck, built and dedicated the little corner garden – complete with statue of Our Lady, a trickling fountain, and stone benches – to grateful contemplation of his good fortune.

      We Broughtons were not a religious family, but maintained the grotto for its tranquillity. Seeking solitude, I was drawn there on that night, but as I approached, I thought I heard vague whispers and sighs. Innocently curious, I pushed aside a curtain of foliage and silently slipped inside. I paused in surprise.

      The light of a single lantern revealed my mother, leaning against an ivy-covered wall, one slender leg on the bench, her skirt lifted to expose her stockings and garters. A man was leaning over her, his face buried in her bosom, his hand working between her thighs.

      I could only see his back, but recognised the shiny grey coat he wore for I’d seen this young man, not more than Simon’s age, only that afternoon toasting my mother and her cronies with champagne beneath the Great Oak.

      Neither was aware of my presence, or that I hurried away, sweat dampening my young forehead, confused and inexplicably frightened by what I’d seen. I told no one of my experience, but the image was burned forever on my memory.

      While our summer visitors were here, our house bulged with people and Cook always brought in two or three village girls to assist in the kitchen.

      One of these girls was discovered in a pantry with a gentleman visitor. Young as I was, I did not understand the ensuing trouble. The lass was dispatched in disgrace to her family while Cook groaned and became even more harried.

      Finally, after what felt like six months but was in reality only one, they all departed in a frenetic storm of dust, perfume, servants and horses to their own estates before returning to London’s winter round of parties and balls.

      My mother lingered, passing the heat of summer in the relative relief of the country. But as August arrived she was gone and the trees in the park began turning gold and red, and our tenants prepared to bring in their wheat harvest.

      Before the dust had settled behind her, Simon and I had donned old clothes and joined the farmers in the fields, sharing their back-breaking toil, their rations and their cheerful freedom, all the while delighting in the scandalised outrage of our sister, for such work ought to be beneath us.

      Cutting and bailing was hard graft but culminated in a great celebration, revelry in which my brother and I participated to the full.

      But all this was about to change. Mother was home under mysterious circumstances with a new husband, and my brother, my friend and partner in crime, was already growing away from me.

      CHAPTER 3

      Summer was well gone and the trees in the park were red and gold, their leaves beginning to fall. The last of the fruit in our orchard was ready and I had agreed to help Simon gather the plums. Dashing quickly to my room, I changed into my favourite attire – a cast-off pair of Simon’s breeches. They were comfortable and practical, affording freedom of movement; I’d wear them all the time if I could, since I regularly tripped on the hem of my dress and earned Anne’s contempt.

      I was in a hurry lest Simon began picking fruit without me. Jemima and I bounded down the staircase and on my way along the hall I caught a glimpse of someone in the parlour. Ever watchful for Mrs Grainger, I slowed to a decorous walk and cautiously peeked into the room. Rather than our fearsome housekeeper, I was surprised to find a well-dressed girl about my own age.

      “Hello,” I said.

      Startled, she whirled around and returned my greeting with a quick curtsy and genuine smile. I decided it would be foolish to curtsy in breeches so bobbed my head in response.

      She was wearing a lemon-silk dress with white-lace edging, which did nothing to hide her chubby figure. A white bonnet hung carelessly from one hand and white gloves were scrunched in the other. She cocked her head as she looked at me and, rather than coquettish, the glance was quite charming and entirely artless.

      “Hello,” she replied. Her smile made her eyes shine and she had an unfashionable spattering of freckles on her nose.

      “I’m Miss Alex Broughton. Is your mother visiting with mine?”

      She nodded and her glossy, auburn curls bobbed about her face. “We’ve only just arrived. Is that your dog? I do love dogs – I’d love to have one of my own. May I pat it? Does it bite?”

      “This is Jemima,” I said. “She’s a girl, and you may certainly pat her.”

      Instantly my acquaintance dropped her gloves and hat on a table and crouched before Jem, whose tongue and tail responded enthusiastically.

      Remembering Simon in the orchard, I shuffled restlessly and craned my neck to see through the window though I knew the view didn’t extend that far.

      “How long will your mother be?” I asked. The girl straightened and Jemima sat between us looking from one to the other, baring her teeth in a wide grin.

      “Oh, she’ll be ages – she can talk forever when she gets started. I was looking for a book or something to read while I waited. I hope you don’t mind.”

      “No, but … who are you?”

      An apricot flush washed the skin beneath her freckles. “Saints alive! You must think me entirely rude! Miss Julia Chapman.”

      She extended her hand and we held each other’s fingers as our mothers would do. Her hands were lightly tanned, as were mine, and her eyes were like chestnuts. I liked her instantly.

      “I’m supposed to be helping my brother in the orchard. You can come if you like.” She smiled faintly and then to my own surprise, I added, “Do you climb trees?”

      Her reaction told me all I needed to know. Her eyes glinted mischievously and her mouth twitched. She said, “Only if you don’t tell Mama.”

      I rejoined with an air of solidarity, “If you don’t tell mine. My brother’s waiting. We’re picking plums.”

      She winked slyly and gathered her gloves and bonnet. “Then let us get started.”

      By the time we reached the orchard Simon had a wooden crate ready. Julia, unlike other girls who met my brother, did not go all daft when I introduced them, and I liked