Love I did not think of at all.


We told Lady Clara that night at dinner. I think if she had shown the least gleam of satisfaction I would have been on my guard. As it was she looked at me steadily across the table and said:

‘You are very young, Sarah, this is a big step. Do you think you had not better wait until you see what London society has to offer you?’

I hesitated. ‘I thought this was your wish, Lady Clara?’ I said.

The door behind me opened and the butler came to clear the table. Lady Clara made one of her graceful gestures and he bowed at once and withdrew. I knew I would never in a million years learn how to do that.

‘Certainly it is my wish that the estates be run together, and I can think of no two more suitable young people,’ she said. ‘Your upbringing has been unusual, Sarah, but Perry is the only young man of Quality that I know who is entirely free from any snobbery. He is informal to a fault, and you two are clearly very fond of each other.’ She paused and smiled slightly at Perry who was sitting on her right, between us. ‘And you two are well suited in temperament,’ she said delicately.

Perry looked glumly down at his plate and I nearly snorted with suppressed laughter at the thought of Lady Clara recommending him to me because he was cold and I was unwomanly.

‘But I do not know what Mr Fortescue will say,’ she said. ‘It will mean that you can take the running of the estate away from him at once.’

‘There is nothing he can say,’ I said brusquely. ‘The matter will be out of his hands. He cannot control my choice of husband, and in any case, no one could object to me marrying Perry who is a lord, and a neighbour, and a cousin.’

‘Voice,’ said Lady Clara.

‘Sorry,’ I said.

She raised her eyebrow at me.

‘I mean, I beg your pardon,’ I amended.

She smiled.

Perry kept his head down and poured himself another glass of port.

‘If you are so determined then there is nothing I can say,’ Lady Clara said with a fair show of helplessness. ‘The engagement can be announced at once. Then Perry can be with you at all the balls and parties of the Season and when the Season is over we can come back here and perhaps have a wedding next spring at Chichester cathedral.’

I nodded and Perry said nothing.

‘You should write to Mr Fortescue at once to tell him of your decision,’ Lady Clara said. ‘And inform him that I will be notifying my solicitors to draw up a marriage contract. They will contact his solicitors for sight of the deeds of Wideacre, of course.’

‘Wideacre will still be mine,’ I said. ‘It is entailed upon the oldest child, whether male or female.’

Lady Clara smiled. ‘Of course, Sarah,’ she said. ‘It will be entailed upon your first-born. Havering is entailed upon the first-born son. There should be enough meat in that to keep the lawyers occupied all summer and autumn.’

‘But Wideacre will still be mine,’ I repeated.

Lady Clara paused. ‘Married women cannot own property, Sarah,’ she said gently. ‘You know that. Wideacre will become Peregrine’s when you marry. Any husband of yours would own Wideacre.’

I frowned. ‘Even though it is me that inherited it?’ I asked.

‘Even though it is I who…’ Lady Clara amended.

‘There’s nothing I can do about that?’ I queried.

‘It is the law of the land,’ she said dryly. ‘Wealthier women than you have had to hand over bigger fortunes. But you could consult your lawyer or Mr Fortescue if you wish. You’ll still be better off with the estate properly run under Peregrine’s name, than held for you by Mr Fortescue and his band of Jacobins.’

I nodded. ‘I know that,’ I said certainly.

‘Anyway, Sarah can run it herself,’ Peregrine said. He had taken another glass of port and his cheeks were pink. He smiled at me very sweetly. ‘No reason why not,’ he said. ‘She’s been riding all around learning about the fields. If she doesn’t want a bailiff she could run it herself.’

Lady Clara nodded and picked up her fan. ‘Certainly,’ she said. ‘That is for the two of you to decide. How nice to have another wedding in the family!’

Peregrine rose steadily enough and took his mother’s arm as she went towards the door. He opened it and held it wide for her and me to pass through. As I went by he gave me a grin as brotherly and warm as an urchin who has scraped out of an adventure.

‘Pretty fair,’ he said under his breath, and went back to the table.

27

I went to bed early that night, and drew back my heavy curtains from the window. After years of sleeping in a wagon I should have rejoiced in the space and the comfort of having a whole room to myself, of being able to see the moon through clear clean glass. But I was a silly, ungrateful drab. After all my pining for the gentry life I was low that night and missed the wagon and the noise of other people snoring, breathing, dreaming all around me. I missed the warm dirty smell of the place. I missed the sight of Da’s rumpled head and Zima’s dirty locks. I missed the little snorting breaths of the baby. I made sure I did not think about the bunk opposite from where I used to see her dark head and her slow lazy waking smile.

Robert Gower had been good to me, by his lights. He had paid me my ten guineas and he had cared for Sea without charge. When I came off the trapeze he had me nursed in his own house and I never paid him a penny out of my wages for the doctor’s bill. I thought of the little house off Warminster High Street, I thought of the wagon with the painting and the curly writing on the side and how, somewhere, it would be parked up for the night, the fire burned down to embers outside the steps, a pan of water nearby for Robert to wash in the morning. On the side of the wagon there was my likeness and my name. My old name. The one I would never use again from the life I had left.

It seemed that all my life there were departures. The one I had only seen in my dream, when the little baby was held to a strange breast and did not hear her mother call after her. The crude sale when Da handed us over and drove out of town too quick for us to change our minds. And the evening when I took my horse and my gold and my string and gold clasps and went away from Robert Gower as if he had been my enemy. I thought now that perhaps he had been a good friend and I could have stayed there, and that he would have helped me with my grief. Here I could not speak of it, could not be seen to be grieving. Here I had to lock it up in some cold part of my heart and never let anyone know, never let anyone see, that I was cold and aged and as dead as a smashed doll inside.

I leaned my head against the cold glass of the window and looked out. The sky was cloudy tonight, the moon three-quarters full, misty and shaded by ribbons and lumps of clouds over its face. My room faced east, over the paddock at the back of the house, towards the Common. I looked towards the skyline where a little clump of firs showed black against the sky. I had wanted to sleep and wake with this view all my life. I was home. It was foolish to find that it gave me no joy at all.

I turned from the window and drew the curtains. The room seemed too big, too full of echoes and ghosts and longing without the cold light of the moon showing a bed far too big for me, in a room far too big for me. With a little sigh I slipped off my costly dress and laid it carefully over a chair. I kept on my chemise and petticoat and wrapped myself in the coverlet from the bed and lay down on the hard carpet without a pillow. I knew tonight would be one of the nights when I would get no rest unless I slept hard and woke cold. Sometimes the life was too soft for me, I could not bear that it should be so easy for me when the one who would have loved it, who would have been extravagant and playful and laughing and spendthrift, she – and I still could not say her name – she had gone.

If I had been the crying sort I would have wept that night. But I was not. I lay wrapped tight in the coverlet on my back. When I woke in the night my face was wet and the carpet under my head was damp as if all the tears from the day, and from all the days, had crept out from under my eyelids when I was asleep. I got up then, stiff and chilled, and slid between the sheets. It was about three o’clock in the morning. I wished very much that it had been me who had died and not her.

I woke early, and I looked at the cool light on the white ceiling, and then I said it. I said the words that had gone with me all my life, which I had hoped to escape here: ‘I don’t belong here,’ I said.

I lay still then for a few moments, listening to the desolation of that voice inside me which told me that I was alone, that I was lonely, that I belonged nowhere now, that I had never belonged anywhere, that I never would belong anywhere. I knew it was true.

I was keeping travellers’ hours and I was as restless as a stable cat shut indoors. There was no noise from the kitchen nor the sound of the maid cleaning the fires, it was too early even for her.. I trod softly over to the wardrobe and looked for my riding habits. One was being washed and the other was not there. I had torn a seam the day before and Lady Clara’s maid had taken it away to mend it. She would bring it back at breakfast time, but I needed to be out now. At the bottom of the wardrobe, pushed well back, were my old clothes. Jack’s old breeches, his boots, Robert’s thick jacket. I pulled them out and dressed myself quickly. I pulled my good riding boots on and they fitted me a deal more comfortably than ever had Jack’s hand-me-downs. I went soft-footed to the door and opened it a crack to listen.