Torn. Karen Turner

      Simon and I laughed but Anne dropped an elegant curtsy and rose, skirts lifted perfectly as she stepped up to an imaginary dance partner and held out her hand, “Your majesty, I would be honoured to share this dance with you.”

      We laughed again but Anne thrust her chin out. “You may laugh now, but there are big things in store for me, I can feel it.” She hugged herself rapturously. “I shall go to court, and ladies will envy me and gentlemen will fall in love with me. And you, dear brother and sister, you’ll be bowing to me.”

      Simon and I looked archly at one another and my brother said, “If you say so, Annie.”

      “I do, so you’d best be nice to me now, for I won’t forget it if you’re not.”

      “Really?” I asked. “So what are these big things that are in store for you, or can you not share them yet?”

      “Oh, you’ll see,” she lisped coyly.

      Simon nudged me, “Thinks she’s going to ensnare Prinnie and be a king’s favourite.”

      Anne looked smug. “Don’t laugh – Jemima get your wet nose off my skirt – you never know what could happen.”

      I nodded then. “That’s true, because I’ll wager you didn’t know you were going to fall on your backside in front of Jeffrey yesterday.”

      “Oh, be quiet about that!” Anne snapped.

      “What’s this?” Simon’s face lit up, mischievously.

      “Leave it be, Alex,” my sister warned.

      Ignoring her, I said, “Yesterday morning – remember it had rained? Anne and I were walking out past the stables, and Jeffrey was polishing Lord Thorncliffe’s coach.”

      “Alex, please don’t. It was embarrassing enough then, don’t have me relive it.”

      “I’m sorry, Annie. Simon, you won’t believe this – she lifted her skirt to step over a puddle, and just as she did,” I could barely get the words out for laughing, “she said, ‘good morning Jeffrey’, and at the very moment he looked up, she put her foot into a huge horse turd. She slipped in it – oh, it was so funny!”

      By this stage Simon was doubled over with laughter and I was breathlessly gripping my ribs. “She landed, plop, on her arse, right in a great pile of horse-pooh. Jeffrey ran over to see if she was alright, but even he was laughing so hard … she had to sit there in the muck until Jeffrey stopped laughing enough to help her.”

      Anne was looking fit to kill. “Well,” she snarled, “I hope you’ve enjoyed yourselves at my expense,” and with queenly dignity, swept from the room.

      Simon and I exchanged glances and broke into renewed laughter. When finally we sobered, Simon said, “Our sister’s going to be a handful. I pity the poor fellow who marries her.”

      “Oh, you’re such a hypocrite,” I said accusingly. “You play the gallant with every maid who glances your way. Now that our sister is proving to be a female version of yourself, you have a different view.”

      “Perhaps now, but the day I marry it shall be for life. All I’m saying is that Anne is our mother all over again. Haven’t you wondered why she’s the only one of us Mother has ever seemed remotely interested in? It will be all about money and position where our Annie is concerned.”

      I pondered his words momentarily. “I hope I marry for love. Promise you’ll not contract me for money or position.”

      “It probably won’t be up to me. I expect it will be Mother’s decision.”

      This gave me little hope, but what else was there? What else for any well-bred girl my age? A year, perhaps two, before the obligatory London season where I would be presented at court and shown off at an exhausting and pretentious round of balls and parties until a mutually beneficial arrangement could be made with an outwardly suitable stranger. Every girl wanted to marry for love. Plain little Laura Hindley – daughter of one of Mother’s Leeds friends – confided last week while her mother visited mine, that she’d already met her love.

      Laura had refused to divulge the identity of her suitor which then prompted a parade of eligible bachelors through my mind. With no result, either for Laura or myself, I decided it was not worth the effort for I had more pressing things to consider – a new brother and sister, Simon going away, Mother with child … only Jemima was constant, my beloved companion. Everything else seemed to be changing and the growing pains were sharp as my childhood began to slip away.

      “Look,” Simon interrupted my thoughts. He was pointing toward the drive. “They’re here.”

      CHAPTER 4

      Simon and I, followed by Jemima, clattered down the stairs and arrived, breathless and expectant, on the porch. Lord Thorncliffe was there, eager and ruddy-faced at the foot of the steps, Mother beside him and Anne beside her.

      The crested, wine-coloured coach had already rolled to a stop and Lord Thorncliffe’s children were stepping down as I grasped a handful of my skirt and stood between Simon and Anne.

      The two blond siblings, dressed in expensive travelling costumes and bearing the weariness of travel on their faces, turned to their father. Lord Thorncliffe embraced them fervently, his great bear-like arms pulling them both to his chest. I watched sullenly as he proudly introduced his son, Patrick, and daughter, Maeve. “Their mother, my late wife, was Irish,” he stated, unnecessarily.

      Patrick was, as my mother had said, Simon’s age. Though not as tall, his physique evidenced a more active lifestyle than my brother’s and the remnants of a summer tan spoke of long outdoor hours. Unsmiling, he pushed shaggy honey-blond hair from his eyes and appraised each of us in turn.

      He looked fatigued and his expression was distant, yet the structure of his face was such that I thought, if only he smiled he could be attractive – not like Simon, no-one could be attractive like Simon – but Patrick had a well-proportioned face, a straight nose and full lips and, while his thoughts were unreadable, his eyes were the most startling green, glittering with intellect and a touch of irony.

      Maeve was short, about Anne’s height, though slimmer than my sister. In contrast with her brother, her quick gaze darted excitedly to each of us with hopeful friendliness. Maeve was a very pretty girl, and her bottle-green-velvet travelling gown and matching hat, tied with gold-velvet ribbons, suited her fair colour. She had the bearing of an elegant lady coupled with the flighty little gestures of a sparrow. She studied each of us with an impish smile twitching her lips and I reluctantly conceded that I could come to like her.

      With no regard for decorum, she ran to Mother and hugged her enthusiastically. Unaware of that lady’s surprised expression and heedless of the lack of response, she threw herself in turn at Anne, me and finally Simon. She caught us up in a whirlwind of energy, leaving us quite taken aback.

      Completely oblivious to her impact, Maeve clapped her hands and executed a series of little jumps. “Oh, it is so perfectly marvy to have a new family,” she gushed. “Two sisters and a – oh, goodness! Missy!” In a flurry, she turned back to the coach and indecorously showed us the creased seat of her gown while she dragged out a wooden crate from which emitted faint mewing sounds.

      It was all too much for Jemima. The dog reacted before I could and bounded forward, leaping at the crate in Maeve’s arms.

      “Jemima! No!” I cried, but too late as my dog threw the slight girl off balance. Even as I lunged in a vain attempt to grab Jemima’s collar, Maeve stumbled and dropped the crate.

      “Missy!”

      We watched in horror as the wooden box splintered open and a thoroughly-affronted white cat launched a spitting, clawing attack on the dog.

      Chaos erupted. Simon grasped Jemima’s collar and hauled her away but the cat attacked again. The dog squirmed in a panicked frenzy and a bright bead of