It seemed now that Sabrina would never marry again. My mother might have done so too because she had been quite young when my father was killed. But they had both set up an image which they worshiped: Dickon—the hero of my mother’s youth, whom she had adored through her life and who must have clouded her relationship with my father. It was ironic that she should still go on worshiping him even when he had proved faithless and turned to Sabrina. If he had not died a soldier’s death at Culloden would he have remained on his pedestal? Those were the questions I began to ask myself afterwards. … Looking back it seemed to me that I saw life with the unpleasantness discreetly covered; I saw all that people wanted me to see, and I never attempted to lift the cloth of conventionality and look beneath.

Young Dickon had come as a salvation to those two bereaved women, and this boy—Dickon’s son—had, so they believed, given them a reason for living. Planning for him, they had subdued their grief; they had found a new object for worship.

The house was as much home to me as the house which I had shared with Jean-Louis for the last ten years. Here I had grown up among the elegant furniture and tasteful decorations—the result of my father’s love of beautiful things.

I stood in the hall and looked at the two elegant staircases winding upward—one to the east wing, one to the west wing. Such a large house for so few people! My mother often thought that, I knew, and she was grateful that she had Sabrina to share it with her. I had said to Jean-Louis that if ever Sabrina should marry and go away we should have to go to the hall to live. Jean-Louis agreed, but I knew he so cherished his independence and he loved our house because it was a symbol of that. He never forgot that he had been left to my mother rather as a changeling child. There was something very noble about Jean-Louis in a quiet way which makes my conduct all the more reprehensible … but I must get on with my explanations as to how it came about.

There we were at supper in the dining room. The house had been left as my father had made it, and my mother would never willingly have it altered. Even the card room—the most important in the house—was left as it had been in his day, although there were no gaming parties nowadays, only a quiet game of whist occasionally when neighbors came in to join my mother and Sabrina—and of course there was no play for money. My mother was very much against that—puritanically, so some said, but of course we understood why.

Now we sat on the carved japanned chairs with their gilt decoration, which had been in the family for the last hundred years and of which my father had been rather proud, at the oak table with the apron of carved features imitating a fringed hanging which I remember my father’s telling me had been made in France for someone at the court of Louis XV. He would often throw out information like that in the midst of light bantering chatter, which, I think, was perhaps why I had always found him so fascinating.

The butler was at the sideboard ladling out the soup which one of the maids was serving when the door was opened and Dickon came in.

“Dickon,” said my mother and Sabrina simultaneously in those voices I knew so well, a little shocked, remonstrating and at the same time indulgently admiring his audacity. It seemed to say. This is wrong but what will the darling child do next, bless him!

“I want to have supper,” he said.

“Dearest.” said my mother, “you had your supper an hour ago. Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“No,” he said.

“Why not?” said Sabrina. “It’s bedtime.”

“Because,” said Dickon patiently, “I want to be here.”

The butler was looking into the tureen as though it held the utmost interest for him; the maid was standing still holding a plate of soup in her hand; uncertain where to put it.

I had expected Sabrina to send him back to bed. Instead she looked helplessly at my mother, who lifted her shoulders. Dickon slid into a chair. He knew he had won. In fact, he had no doubt that victory would be his. I was fully aware that I was seeing a repetition of a recurring scene.

“Well, perhaps this once, eh, Sabrina?” said my mother almost cajolingly.

“You really shouldn’t, darling,” added Sabrina.

Dickon smiled winningly at her. “Just this once,” he said.

My mother said: “Carry on serving, Thomas.”

“Yes, my lady,” said Thomas.

Dickon threw me a look which held triumph in it. He knew that I did not approve of what had happened and took a delight not only in getting his own way but in showing me what power he had over these doting women.

“Well,” said my mother, “I must show you Carl’s letter. I think then”—she smiled at Jean-Louis—“you will make a special effort to go … soon.”

“It’s a pity it is rather an awkward time of year.” Jean-Louis frowned a little. He hated disappointing my mother and it was quite clear that she was very eager for us to go to Eversleigh quickly.

“Well, young Weston is quite good, isn’t he?” said Sabrina.

Young Weston was a manager we had. He was certainly showing signs of promise but Jean-Louis cared so much about the estate that he was never very happy when he was not at the head of affairs. His desire never to leave Clavering had worked out well because we none of us wanted to go to London as my father used to. He had generally come to the country rather reluctantly and then only because of the card parties he gave; he had much preferred town life and had left everything in the care of Tom Staples and men like him. We had had several agents since Tom Staples’s death but Jean-Louis was never entirely satisfied with them.

“He’s hardly ready yet,” said Jean-Louis.

My mother reached over and pressed my husband’s hand.

“I know you’ll manage something,” she said. And of course he would. Jean-Louis was always eager to please everyone, that was why … But I must stop reproaching myself in this way.

Now that she knew that Jean-Louis most certainly would take me to Eversleigh my mother went on to reminisce about the old place.

“So long since I have seen it. I wonder if it still looks the same.”

Sabrina said: “I daresay Enderby hasn’t changed much. What a strange house that was! Haunted, they said. Things did seem to happen there.”

I knew vaguely something of Enderby. It was nearby Eversleigh Court and the two houses had been connected because my grandmother Carlotta had inherited the place. There had been a tragedy before that. They weren’t our family, but someone had committed suicide there.

Sabrina shivered and went on: “I don’t think I ever want to go to Enderby again.”

“Are there really ghosts there?” asked Dickon.

“Common sense,” I replied.

“I like ghosts,” he said, dismissing me and my common sense as he was prepared to dismiss anyone who interfered with his pleasure. “I want there to be ghosts.”

“We must arrange it then,” said Jean-Louis.

“I was happy in Enderby,” said my mother. “I can still remember coming home from France and how wonderful it was to be in the heart of a loving family … something I shall never forget … and it was my home for a number of years … with Aunt Damaris and Uncle Jeremy.”

I knew she was thinking of those terrible early days in France when her parents had died suddenly through poison, it was said—and she had been left in the care of a French maid who sold flowers in the streets when the house was disbanded.

My mother had spoken of it often. She remembered her mother, Carlotta, the great beauty of the family, wild Carlotta, with whom I was later to become obsessed but who was at that time just a dazzling ancestress to me.

“You will be interested to see it all, Zipporah,” she said.

“It won’t be necessary to stay more than a few weeks, will it?” asked Jean-Louis.

“No, I shouldn’t think so. I think the old man is very lonely. He will be so delighted.”

Dickon listened avidly. “I’ll go instead,” he said.

“No, darling,” replied Sabrina. “You’re not invited.”

“But he’s your relation too, and if he’s yours he’s mine.”

“Well, it is Zipporah he is inviting.”

“I could go to be her companion … instead of Jean-Louis.”

“No,” said Jean-Louis. “I have to be there to take care of Zipporah.”

“She doesn’t want taking care of. She’s old.”

“All ladies need taking care of when they make journeys,” said my mother.

Dickon was too busy consuming cold venison to answer that.

Jean-Louis said that he thought the best time would be in three weeks. He could then make the necessary arrangements, providing we did not stay for more than two weeks.

My mother smiled at him. “I knew you’d make it possible. Thanks, Jean-Louis. I will write immediately. Perhaps you could send a note at the same time, Zipporah.”

I said I would and we finished dinner.

Dickon was yawning. It was long past his bedtime, and when Sabrina suggested he might like to go to bed he did not protest.

I went with my mother to write the note, leaving Sabrina and Jean-Louis together making desultory conversation. There was a bureau in the old card room and I said I would do it there.

“Wouldn’t you like to come to the library?” my mother asked. “It’s more comfortable there.”

“No, I always like to be in the card room.”

I went in and sat at the bureau. She stood beside me and touched my hair. “You were so fond of your father, weren’t you?”

I nodded. “You look rather like him,” she said. “Fair hair … almost golden, those blue eyes … startlingly blue; and you’re tall too, as he was. Poor Lance! What a wasted life.”