‘How would it be if every cottager – tenant or labourer – in Acre was invited to buy a share in the profits of the estate?’ John asked. ‘They work the first year and the profits are put into a central fund. Out of the fund come the costs of running the estate, and the new equipment and seeds and animals needed, and the share which is to be paid to each worker. But the rest of the fund is their own savings.’

‘And what about us?’ Richard asked. It was the first time he had spoken, and his voice sounded sharp. ‘We’re Laceys of Wideacre,’ he said. ‘Where do we figure in this scheme? What do we benefit?’

‘We take our share of the profits,’ Uncle John replied. ‘We consider the money invested in Wideacre as our share of work, and we take out a share every year which would be the same as if we had invested money in speculation.’

‘We share the profits of our land with Acre?’ Richard asked. The question itself sounded as if he were just trying to understand, but something in his voice made the nape of my neck feel cold and prickly. ‘Won’t that make them think they have rights over our land? And won’t they argue for a greater share than they have earned?’

Uncle John nodded. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But you would be the judge of their rights.’

Stride came forward to clear the table. He took the plates and refilled the wineglasses before Mama and John. No one was looking at Richard except me. He had gone quite white and his eyes were as black as a midnight sky, without a gleam of starlight or moonlight. He was trembling with rage as he sat at the table, and I dropped my gaze to the embroidered napkin on my lap, afraid that Richard would shout his claim to Wideacre and disgrace himself by an outburst of the temper he usually kept so well in check.

I should have known him better. By the time Stride came back with the puddings, a wonderful cream confection with meringue and apple sauce on top, and a plain jam tart, Richard was smiling and calm.

‘It’s a most exciting idea, sir,’ he said politely. I think no one but me could have heard the passion which was hidden beneath the calm tone. ‘Do you think you can take it beyond the stage of an idea?’

Stride served Mama and then me, and Uncle John accepted a plate with the jam tart from him and added Havering cream with a generous hand.

‘It depends,’ he said. ‘It depends on many factors. The people would have to like the idea. They suffered badly at the hands of Lacey innovators once, and they’re not likely to want to repeat the experience. Mr Megson assures me that they will not go to work for us unless they have some belief in the future and some trust in us.’ He paused and smiled down the table at Richard and me. ‘It depends on you two,’ he said gently. ‘It is your inheritance. It will be your decision whether this land is run in the old way which brought so much wealth and so much grief in one lifetime, or whether you would want to try a new way.’

I glanced at Richard; his smile was untroubled, his face clear. ‘I agree with you, sir,’ he said. ‘I can think of no better way to run the estate than to share the profits of the land with the people who work on it.’

Uncle John nodded and looked at me. ‘Julia?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. I did not sound as enthusiastic as Richard. But I could not readily explain how the thought of feeling no guilt in Acre – none at all – of being free of the cruelty of the Laceys and the cruelty of the whole class of gentry was like a hard cleansing wind after rain. ‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Early days for any decision,’ Uncle John said gently. ‘But I should like the two of you to go and see Mr Megson and tell him of your support for these ideas, and discuss with him his thoughts on them. It’s a good way for him to get to know the two of you, and a good way for you to learn the obstacles you will face in Acre. He’s a hard man to persuade – he’s not susceptible to sweetening! But he’s as straight as a die. I’d like the two of you to tell him of this talk of ours and see what he thinks the chances are for a plan like that.’

‘I’d be pleased to go,’ Richard said, claiming the right of the boy and the squire-to-be to work for the estate.

‘And Julia will go too,’ Uncle John said, reminding him.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I should like to go.’

‘No reason why you should not go down to Acre this evening,’ Mama said, determinedly brave with us, her two children, going to the village she still disliked. ‘You could take the gig, and the carriage horse,’ she said.

Uncle John smiled. ‘Indeed, yes!’ he said. ‘Mr Megson will doubtless give you tea and you can come home before it is dark if you would like it.’

I glanced at Richard. I had been in disgrace with him all day and I was not disposed to force my company on him if he was still angry with me. But the threat to his inheritance had driven all other injuries from his mind.

I ran to fetch my hat, and Richard went to the stable to tell Jem that we wanted the horse and the new gig. The sun was round and pink above a bank of rosy clouds as we trotted down the lane to Acre and I saw, with relief, that Richard was at ease on the seat of the gig, handling the reins well, unafraid.

‘I hope Megson is in,’ Richard said.

‘I’ll wager he’s expecting us,’ I said shrewdly. ‘I should think that Uncle John and he have spent some time with their heads together about the two of us as heirs to the estate.’

Richard glanced at me in surprise. ‘I suppose they might have done,’ he said. ‘Megson setting himself up as some kind of judge!’ He paused. ‘I don’t have to remind you not to put yourself forward in Acre,’ he said. It was not a question.

‘No, I remember,’ I said steadily.

He gave me a swift sideways glance but said nothing, and then we sat in silence as the gig bowled down the street of Acre. The Dench children were playing in the patch of earth outside the cottage; Clary was sitting on the bench watching them in the evening sunlight, with a bowl of potatoes on her knees and a bucket of water to wash them.

I waved and Richard obligingly brought the gig to a halt. Clary came down the garden path with her long stride.

‘Good day,’ she said to the two of us. And with a smile to me she said, ‘Carriage folk at last, Julia?’

‘I’m so grand I can hardly trouble myself to speak to you,’ I said, grinning at her.

She laughed. ‘It’s a fine gig, Master Richard,’ she said with a smile to him.

Richard nodded but made no reply. He looked at her under lowered brows, his eyes a bright blue. ‘Maybe I’ll give you a ride in it one day,’ he said, making an effort. He was looking at her, but he lacked his easy smile. He looked at her as if she were something he might decide to buy in a market.

‘Thank you,’ Clary said easily, and stepped back from the side of the gig. ‘Are you going to see Ralph Megson?’ she asked me.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Is he settled in the Tyackes’ cottage?’

‘Aye,’ she said. ‘And Becky Miles is keeping house and cleaning for him. He’s expecting you.’

I nodded, and Richard clicked to the horse and we drove on down the lane to the cottage which was set back from the street down a little track on the left-hand side.

Richard looped the reins over the garden gate and the horse dipped its head. There was no hedge to crop. All the leaves had been taken for animal feed years ago, and then the bare sticks themselves used for firewood. Like every other garden in Acre, the earth was bare. First all the vegetables had been lifted and eaten, and then the surviving scrawny hens had picked the garden clean. Now there was nothing but grey dust and, when it rained, a mire of mud.

We walked up the flagstone path and I shivered at the thought of seeing Ralph, a tension so strong it was almost dread. When I raised my hand to knock, I saw it was trembling. I could hear the kettle singing on the stove, and its note was not higher or sweeter than the noise in my head now I was so close to Ralph. The door was opened to us not by Ralph Megson, but by Becky Miles, who seemed to have installed herself as cook, parlourmaid and kitchenmaid.

I looked at her sharply. She was a big lumpy downland girl with masses of fair hair and big dim blue eyes. The poverty of her family was held to be sufficient excuse for the fact that she wore dresses with bodices cut so low that you could see the top of her plump breasts and hems so high that you could see her ankles. I had always quite liked her. She had been one of the children who trailed around after Clary. I liked her cheery nature and the way she threw back her head to laugh. And I liked her sweet voice, which would rise in a clear soprano in carols at Christmastide. But today, for some reason, she seemed to me too large, too bright, too overpowering in the little room, and I wondered that Ralph Megson did not feel crowded by her and send her away.

He did not look crowded. He looked very much at home. The Tyackes’ cottage was the best in Acre, but it had only two rooms downstairs and three poky little bedrooms upstairs. The main downstairs room was the brick-floored one which served as kitchen and dining-and living-room. The front door opened directly into it, and winter and summer it was hot and stifling with the fire in the grate for the cooking.

Ralph owned a great round table, which was in the middle of the room, rocky on the uneven floor, and a high-backed settle, which had its back to the door. The master chair – a wheel-backed carver – was at the head of the table with its back to the fire, and beneath the table were three stools for guests. Through a doorway to the left was the parlour, used for the most solemn occasions. Only if there were a funeral or a wedding in the house would the neighbours get over the threshold into that room. And then in Acre – where poverty was a way of life and people had forgotten the time when they had furniture – they would find the room swept clean and as empty as a Wideacre wheat barn. The parlour table and chairs had been sold for pennies when the family was hungry, and they had never risen from the grip of poverty and been able to buy more.