‘Ralph!’ she said.

It was Beatrice’s voice.

I turned over and went to sleep at once, and I dreamed no more. But in the morning I stared at the ceiling and walls of my room as if it were a strange place for me to wake. I had thought, I don’t know why, that I should have opened my eyes and seen a great carved wooden canopy above me. I could scarcely recognize my bedroom, though I had seen that ceiling every morning of my girlhood. I hardly knew my room, I hardly knew myself.

I thought I had been dreaming in the night; but I could not remember what I had dreamed, except that I had not been afraid. For some reason the dream, the familiar terror-filled dream, had altered, and there was some delight in it. But I could not remember what it was. I saw my pillow on the floor and the disorder of my bed, and knew I must have been tossing and turning in the grip of the dream, but I could remember no fear. And I thought, but I could not understand it, that there had been no fear because I had met the man they called the Culler; I had looked in his face, and I knew him to be a man with the kindest of eyes and the warmest of smiles.

I knew that whatever he had done, he had done it with love.

I leaned out of the bed and picked up my pillow and tucked it behind me. There was a tap on my door and the kitchenmaid came in with my morning cup of chocolate. I drank it, looking at the sky out of my window.

The mist had blown away in ribbons of cloud like streamers across the blue sky and the sun was ripping through them with a warm yellow light. At last Uncle John might have a taste of his beloved English summer, I thought with satisfaction, and then I gave a little grimace of dismay, because I had forgotten.

I was in disgrace with him for my rudeness. I had been rude to Mama, and Richard was angry with me. All my pleasure – in the tops of the trees tossing, and the cloud-riven sky and the wind blowing – disappeared as fast as the morning mist. I got out of bed and cautiously felt my head for the bruise. It was about the size of a wood-pigeon’s egg; it felt perfectly round, and the touch of my fingers on it made me wince. I had to steel myself to brush my hair and pile the mass of pale-brown ringlets up on my head. Then I threw on a wrapper and went to my bedroom door and listened.

It was early. They were working in the kitchen, but Mama’s morning chocolate had not yet been brought to her room. I slipped softly down the stairs and through the green baize door to the kitchen. I could hear Mrs Gough’s voice as she thumped dough for the breakfast rolls on the floured table.

‘I always said she was wilful,’ she said, her voice raised so that Stride, polishing cutlery and setting the trays, could hear her. ‘She was so close to her mama, I think she’s jealous now the master’s come home.’

I realized with a sudden start that they were talking about me.

‘But the lad is the bonniest one,’ she said, her voice warm. ‘It will be a fine thing when he is squire and the hall rebuilt and the good days come again.’

‘He’s no Lacey,’ Stride said briefly. ‘The hall is Miss Julia’s home.’

I reached a hand behind me and banged the door so they could hear it in the kitchen. I had not meant to listen and I did not want to hear more. I clattered down the passage and Mrs Gough gave me a brief ‘Good morning’ with no suspicion that I had heard.

‘I’d like to take Mama’s tray to her room,’ I said. Stride gave me a quick smile. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘She won’t be angry. She was not angry last night.’


Mrs Gough tutted under her breath and turned to the stove where the milk was warming. She dipped a finger into the pan and then poured it into the chocolate jug. Stride ran a quick glance over the tray and then nodded to me to take it. He came and held the door for me and watched my slow progress up the stairs, and my careful balancing of the tray in one hand as I knocked on Mama’s door.

She was awake sitting up in bed with her wrapper around her shoulders, looking out of the window at the fresh leaves on the trees which pressed so close and at the blue sky above them.

‘Julia!’ she said with pleasure. Then her face grew more reserved as she remembered that I was still in disgrace.

‘Good morning, Mama,’ I said, putting the tray by her bedside and bending over to kiss her. ‘I have come to say I am sorry.’

At once her arms were around me in a hug. ‘Oh, my darling!’ she said. ‘You know that it is all right.’

And that was all the apology she needed; that was all I had to say.

I sat at the bottom of her bed as she sipped her chocolate.

‘Is there anything troubling you?’ she asked. ‘Is there anything you want to tell me?’

The impulse to tell the truth was too strong for me, and the whole story of my seeing Dench, of my instinctive lie and of Richard’s anger – poured out. I knew Dench would be safely in hiding again, and I needed to explain myself to my mama.

Three things I did not tell her. Not a word about Mr Megson passed my lips. I let his laughing confession drop from my mind as if it had never been said. I was never going to think of it again if I could keep myself from thinking.

I did not tell her that Richard had accused me of trying to make myself beloved in Acre. That accusation seemed so dreadful that I could not bear to tell anyone. I did not want to remember it myself.

And I did not tell her that Richard had hurt me. She would never know of that from me.

But I was right to tell her about Dench. She nodded her understanding and spoke only of the aspect which she knew would distress me most. ‘Is Richard very angry with you?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. I said nothing more.

Mama sighed. ‘I know that will make you very sad, Julia,’ she said consolingly. ‘But I do think that your ups and downs with Richard are a result of living so very close together.’

I nodded. But I had nothing to say.

‘That will get better,’ she said certainly. ‘Now we have to set the land to rights, Richard will have an occupation, he will be more out on the land. There will be a very great deal for you and me to do as well. Then you will have your first season at Bath. We’ll go there in the autumn and be back home in time for Christmas!’ She paused and looked at me. ‘Don’t look so woebegone, little duckling! Richard’s crossness will blow over, he is never angry for long. And you must learn to mind less when he is in a temper with you.’

I smiled and did not disagree, for I had heard Richard’s footsteps on the stairs and I felt my heart lift at the thought that I could go to him and deal with him directly and fairly. And we should be friends again. I left Mama to dress and went confidently downstairs to find him.

He had his books out before him at the parlour table, and he glanced up without a smile as I slid in the door; he did not seem pleased at being interrupted. When I saw his frown, I knew I was not forgiven yet.

I went quietly to the table to stand by his elbow. But I said nothing. I waited for him to speak. I was hoping, against all probability, that he would give me one of his sweet rueful smiles, or even speak civilly to me so that I would know that even if I was not forgiven, the heat of his anger had cooled.

‘You can stand there all day, Julia,’ he said softly. ‘And you will not get a word from me.’

His tone was like a slap in my face.

‘You are wrong when you think I want Wideacre all to myself,’ I said, trying to keep my voice steady. ‘I don’t mind which one of us has it. And I have always hoped that we would share it, because we would be married and live here together.’

Despite myself, at the mention of our marriage plans, my voice quavered, and I could feel the tears starting to come to my eyes. ‘Whether you want to marry me or not, I know that you would be squire,’ I said.

He looked at me sternly.

‘I know you are Beatrice’s son,’ I said, my voice low. ‘I know you have her gifts. I know you are the favoured child.’

‘I do have,’ he said swiftly. ‘I do have her gifts. I am the true heir and all Acre can see it.’

‘Yes,’ I said. I waited, but he said nothing more.’I’m sorry about Dench,’ I offered. ‘I know I did wrong not to tell your papa who it was. But I did not do it to try to be first in Acre, you know, Richard.’

‘Very well,’ he said magisterially. ‘I believe you, Julia.’ He managed to make it sound by the tone of his voice that I was not believable, and that he did not believe me. But he was generously overlooking a fault. I bowed my head. ‘I am working,’ he said. ‘My papa and I are agreed that I should use the time before breakfast for quiet study.’

I nodded, looking at his books. He was parsing a passage from Dr Johnson. I could tell, reading Richard’s large script at an angle, that he had made a mistake. But I did not think he would welcome my help. ‘I will go out for a walk,’ I said.

He made no reply, so I went in silence from the room up to my bedroom and dressed in a plain gown and threw a shawl over my head and around my shoulders as a concession to the cool morning and to convention. Then I went out of the front door and stood on the doorstep in a daze.

I did not know where to go. I did not know what I wanted. The brief exchange with Richard had left me feeling that the struggle to be a proper wife, to be a properly behaved lady, might cost me more than I was able to pay. I seemed to have to bite my tongue against angry words over and over again. For the first time in my life I thought of my mama’s solitude with no pity. However much she mourned my papa, she could sit in peace with her feet up on her own fender in the evening. She could order the meals she preferred, she could suit herself in her plans for her life. She did not have to watch her words, and apologize for her mistakes, and guard her thoughts, and consider every word and every action in the light of a man’s prejudices. I shook my head. I supposed I was being very foolish. I supposed this was the wildness in me which Mama had tried to train away. Now I was paying the price for not being an indoors girl. Now I had to learn from Richard what was expected of a young lady, of a young bride. And Richard was an impatient master.