Seeing Ralph Megson here reminded me that he was not Quality. He was one of the tenants. He lived in a cottage which was no more than five rooms. But I realized that he was wealthy in Acre terms. He had a proper chair, a proper table. He had china to eat from, not wooden plates and bowls. He had linen – there was a good plain tablecloth laid ready – he had a servant, if one could honour sluttish Becky Miles with that title.

He was not gentry, living here and served thus, but I had been quick to note that Uncle John always referred to him as Mr Megson. Although he could never be Quality, he had a certain air which made you question the whole idea of ‘sorts’ of people.


He rose to his feet when we came in and greeted us confidently as equals. He waved us towards the stools on either side of the table and took the chair again without a thought that perhaps it should have been offered to me. And he nodded to Becky to serve the tea as if she (who had never seen a tablecloth in her life, at my guess) might know what she was doing.

She did tolerably well. I tried not to watch her, but when she opened little cupboards or pulled out a drawer of cutlery, I could not help my eyes sliding towards her, partly to see what she was doing and partly to see what things he had. Pure curiosity, and I hoped he would not see it; but Becky made a clatter behind me and I glanced over my shoulder and he saw me look. He gave me a little smile – he knew very well that I was inspecting his goods, and his eyes were tolerant.

I settled on my stool then with a little silent sigh. He might be on company behaviour, and so was I, but there was an understanding between us which was a current flowing under the stream of talk. I had some silly, superstitious fear that he might know that I dreamed of him – that I dreamed of desiring him, and loving him, and holding him. The mere thought of him knowing that dream made me colour so red that the blush hurt my cheeks and made my eyes water. I kept my head facing down and felt myself burn with embarrassment.

I felt his eyes upon me and I flashed a quick look at him.

He knew something. He sensed something, like a keen bright-eyed animal. But the smile he gave me was easy. I did not think he guessed my thoughts. But I remembered that he had been very much in love with Beatrice, and I felt, with his eyes upon me, that he was tender to me. So I straightened my back, waited for my blush to die down and found the courage to smile and meet his eyes.

There are some things which need no words, and Ralph knew that better than I. So I sipped my tea and did not flinch when Becky clattered the kettle close to me behind my back, and I passed Richard some lardy cake as though I had not a care in the world.


We talked firstly about the plans Uncle John had for the land, and Ralph made us describe them in detail.

‘The idea is that everyone in the village should share in the profits of the land, not draw a wage as such,’ Richard explained, his tone neutral. ‘The profits are paid into a common fund which buys new seeds and equipment. We landlords draw a wage which represents interest on the money invested in the land. And the remainder of the fund is divided according to the amount of work each individual has done.’

‘The idea is to establish some sort of communality?’ asked Ralph. I knew he knew the answer, and I stayed silent, watching his face, watching him test Richard, judge him. Richard’s eyes were as limpid as a pool. You would have thought him a most ardent land reformer.

Richard nodded. ‘So that the difference between masters and men is erased,’ he said. ‘We are all working together. Success or failure, we all share in the profits.’

Ralph nodded. ‘It’s a good plan,’ he said. He looked at Richard carefully. ‘A generous one,’ he said. ‘What do the landowners gain from it, d’you think, Master Richard?’

‘Very little,’ Richard said frankly. ‘It’s my papa’s idea, to set Acre to rights. To repay for the bad things which happened in the past. It benefits the village. It helps the poor.’ He paused, glanced at Ralph’s dark face, tested the air: ‘Perhaps the best way is the old way, with the Laceys as squires owning the land, paying fair wages and supplying suitable charity in cases of especial need.’

Ralph nodded. ‘Is that the way you’d prefer?’ he asked.

Richard glanced at him, his eyes bright with calculation. ‘I want to make sure Acre is a good place for everyone,’ he said. ‘Whatever way we decide to do it, I want to ensure that the village is set to rights. At least in the old way, everyone knew where they were.’

Ralph nodded as if he had learned something. ‘And you, Miss Julia?’ he asked.

‘I agree with Richard,’ I said steadily, holding to my promise.

Ralph smiled at me, a little intimate smile which suggested he knew I was lying and that in my heart I wanted the village to own its land outright. One of the logs shifted in the hearth and a little plume of ash and smoke went up. There was a moment of utter peace, his eyes upon me and me smiling at him.

Richard moved irritably, and the spell was broken. ‘What shall I tell my papa?’ he said. ‘He asked us to discuss the scheme with you. May I tell him you prefer the old ways?’

Ralph pushed back his chair from the table and stamped on his wooden legs to the door to throw it open and look out, up the little back track to Acre. ‘Look, you,’ he said, leaning on the doorpost and looking out. ‘This is a fine scheme, and a generous one from any landowner, even a bankrupt one. I respect that. But you are asking for someone to give up the way he has lived for the past fourteen years, wild, and without a master. Starving in winter maybe, but eating game and fish and fowl all summer. And free to work as he pleases, or poach as he pleases, or fish as he pleases every day of the year. You are asking a man like that to settle down into a routine of working.

‘And for what? You are not even offering a decent wage. You are offering the promise of a share in the profits on crops which are not yet in the ground. If the profits are small, you yourselves tell me that first out of the fund is the needs of the land, second is your share, and last are the workers. If there are no profits at all – well, you have the option to sell the land. And sell it now as a going concern with a village eager for work. But if there are no profits, then the people of Acre starve for another winter.

‘You landlords risk nothing – you have a derelict estate you cannot work or sell. If the village was to go for this scheme, you would have them back at work at no cost to you, and if they fail to work hard enough to make the profits your scheme needs, they are the ones who suffer. Landlords never suffer. They write the laws, they invent the rules. They make the world, and then they expect people to be grateful for small mercies!’

Ralph leaned back against the doorpost and smiled at us both as though we were rather charming brigands. ‘You offer no guarantees,’ he said. ‘Acre is guaranteed to you. Everyone here is so poor that there is nowhere they can go, and no freedom they can take. But you can suit yourselves. You can play at being radical for a few years, or you can sell the estate tomorrow at a profit, to the first buyer who comes your way, rack-renter, corn-forestaller, whatever. There are no controls over the gentry,’ he said and paused. ‘There never are,’ he added.

Richard and I sat in stunned silence. In everything Uncle John had said since his return from India, we had never seen the scheme like this. Ralph Megson, who was not of the Quality, saw the objections in a flash. And he had seen it as another ruse by the masters against the men, concealed, this time, in some persuasive egalitarian fair-share scheme, profiteering wrapped up prettily. I dropped my eyes to the tablecloth and coloured up to my ears with shame at my foolishness in not spotting such an obvious argument against the idea, and in my shame at being seen by Ralph Megson as one of the gentry who take what they have not earned and use what they have not made.

He left the door open and the evening sunlight streamed on to the brick floor and turned the dust into little stars floating in infinity. He trod heavily back to the table and the stars swirled at his passing. As he went behind me, the back of his hand just brushed the nape of my neck, and I knew it was a touch which meant forgiveness.

‘Tell Dr MacAndrew I’ll think on it,’ Ralph said, surprisingly. ‘It’s a bold scheme and if there were such a thing as a landlord one could trust, it would be a good one. It needs some guarantees from the two of you, or you will never persuade Acre to do it; and you’d not have my support. But if the two of you are committed to the idea, it might work.’

‘If you advise that the land is best worked in the old ways, with the squire owning everything and good wages paid, I think my papa would take your advice,’ Richard said quickly.

Ralph looked hard at him. ‘Do you now?’ he asked. And he said no more.

‘We must go,’ I said after a little pause. ‘Thank you for our tea, Mr Megson.’


‘You’re welcome,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Both of you must come and see me again.’ He nodded at Richard. ‘If you’re interested in hawking, my goshawk will be sent down from London in the next few days. I’d be happy to take you out with me.’

‘Thank you, I will!’ Richard said, and for the first time that afternoon his smile to Ralph was genuine – not the calculating charm he had donned since Mama and Uncle John had joined in backing Mr Megson against his accusation.

Ralph walked with us to the gate and helped me up the step into the gig while Richard loosed the horse. I put out my hand to him.