Torn. Karen Turner

my anger.

      “I’ve no desire to hear it.” To my intense shame, I began to cry again and clutched the pillow to my face.

      “I rather fancy you do, Alex, for your dog did not die. She’s alive and well, and has just eaten her fill of roasted pheasant – pilfered from the kitchen.”

      I stopped breathing, my body trembling fitfully. “Liar! You are … the most … hateful … creature,” I sobbed. “Are you … proud of yourself? I raised … Jemima from a … newborn pup … kept her alive when she would have died … and … now you come here …” I couldn’t continue.

      He watched me for some seconds until I began to grow calmer. “Will you listen?” I didn’t respond and he went on, “I took the dog to the stables because I could see no other way – your sister is too young and would only have repeated your mother’s orders to the stableman. I merely asked the fellow to take care of the dog until your mother finds herself more … amenable.”

      His extraordinary, green gaze studied my face.

      I took a deep breath and dared phrase the question. “Jemima is alive?”

      He nodded, “Want to see for yourself?”

      “She’s alive?”

      “Yes.”

      “You made me think all this time … that she was … I broke my heart last night.”

      “I apologise for that but I feared you’d brain me with something heavy had I visited earlier.”

      The hope that sprang within me was such that I overlooked his poor excuse. “Come, let’s see your mutt.” He offered his hand but I ignored it.

      “How are we to hide this from my mother?” I asked suddenly. “She will find out eventually, and will probably throttle Jemima with her own bare hands … and the two of us for good measure. Oh! She’s going to hate you,” I added, for the first time allowing my heart to lighten.

      He looked at me for a long moment, before saying quite soberly, “She already hates me. Well, your flea-bitten beastie awaits.”

      Jemima was indeed alive and exceedingly pleased to see me. I hugged her and she squirmed, yelping joyously and licking my face. Patrick leaned impassively against the wall of the straw-filled stall and I glared at him periodically to make certain he knew I was still angry for having caused me to endure an entire night of wretchedness.

      “If you’re interested,” he said in a quiet drawl, “Maeve’s feisty feline was located behind a fallen tree in the park.”

      I fondled Jemima’s floppy ear. “I’m glad,” I said with sincerity, adding grudgingly, “I suppose I should thank you.”

      He shrugged and executed a somewhat mocking bow before taking his leave.

      I made an appearance at supper that evening and Maeve, with an angry-looking scratch on her cheek, smiled shyly when I took my place beside her. “I am so sorry, Alexandra … your poor dog. Had I known, I’d never have collected Missy at that moment.”

      “It’s alright, Maeve – really,” I said truthfully, and patted her hand for emphasis.

      “Then we may be friends as well as sisters?”

      I faltered, surprised, for in the hubbub of their arrival, I’d forgotten that Maeve and Patrick would become our stepsister and stepbrother. Until now it hadn’t been real, but I took a deep breath and responded evenly. “Yes, Maeve.”

      “Marvy!” Her silver-blond curls bobbed happily.

      Glancing in Patrick’s direction, I noted a vague smile on his face. He furtively tapped a sly finger against his nose, then applied himself to his meal, while Simon raised a single eyebrow at me – a trick he usually employed to make the village girls blush – and I realised then that he too, had been party to the ruse. He must have fathomed immediately what Pat was doing when Jemima was taken to the stables, which is why he’d insisted, trust me.

      And then, the greatest surprise of all; Lord Thorncliffe caught my eye with his wide grin. They were all in on it – oh, to have a devious male mind!

      Now watching this man who was set to become my stepfather, I felt the first stirring of solidarity with him – something that I’d never felt with either of my parents. A slow smile, despite my best efforts, crept across my face and I quickly stuffed a chunk of bread into my mouth to hide it.

      CHAPTER 5

      Patrick and Maeve joined our lessons. The corner of the library where Master Baxter reigned with grim-faced authority was rearranged to fit two extra places, and the classes I’d previously attended with an attitude of bored resignation, suddenly erupted with unseemly mirth.

      Patrick, from the first, showed neither respect for, nor fear of, our teacher, and, though he demonstrated some marked aptitude for such subjects as languages, literature and history, he clearly found little of interest in other subjects. Nor did Master Baxter’s rigid manner inspire him to anything further than a cheerful persecution of the harried tutor with a wit far sharper than the older man could deflect.

      If Master Baxter had deigned to smile, just once, it would have been so much the better for him; but his lack of humour and straight-backed disapproval made him an irresistible target for Patrick’s incisive impudence. Frequently distracted, Anne and I evoked many a “pay attention young leddies” from the unhappy man.

      But if her brother drove him to distraction, Maeve compensated with her polite participation at lessons, and her capable, if somewhat dreamy, attention to learning.

      Music classes were another matter and Master Baxter, along with the rest of us, could not help but be charmed, for the abilities of the newcomers set them apart.

      Pat owned a beautiful Stradivarius and was possessed of a passion for music that was equalled only by his skill, while his sister whirled and skipped through even the most complex of dances with the lithe grace of any forest sprite.

      Many an afternoon passed with Master Baxter at the piano, accompanied by Patrick on the violin – playing with dark passion, sensitivity, or wild abandon, as called on by the classical composers. And Maeve danced, her sinuous movements capturing our starchy teacher in silent awe.

      After lessons, Anne and Maeve took themselves to the drawing room or to the gardens, while Pat simply disappeared, often not even returning for supper. I saw him once lying in the long grass at the edge of the park staring at the sky. Another time I heard the plaintive strains of his violin as he sat against a tree and played soulfully to an audience of wild ducks.

      While Maeve was open and candid, her brother’s reserve pricked me with curiosity. I caught myself watching him, and wondering what he was thinking, and I was aware that he watched me also: I was gratified to note his surprised admiration when I demonstrated my understanding of Pythagoras’ theorem.

      They say that still waters run deep, and I knew this to be true when one evening he discussed with his father a building project he had in mind for their Devon estate. He drew a diagram, suggested the materials, and argued which tradesmen should be employed.

      His father leaned forward to examine his son’s work. “You’ve done your ground work, that’s clear. Very impressive.”

      “So, what do you think?” Patrick prompted, his eyes shining passionately.

      “Talk to the builders. It’s your decision.”

      “I’ll draft a letter tomorrow to that fellow we know in London.”

      As he rose to leave, Patrick bent to gather his papers and Mother looked pointedly at his tousled hair and hanging shirt-tails, and sighed loudly.