‘Well, it was your excellent “idea that started the plan,’ I said. ‘And now it is coming to fruition. How well you have ordered the future, Harry! What a certainty of happiness lies before the two children.’

Harry nodded and gazed out of the window. We were coming off the high ground now, dropping down a thickly wooded road which leads to Chichester from the north. The de Courcey mansion stood behind high walls on our left, other great houses further down the road. Then there was the sprawl of little cottages of the poor. Then the wheels were rattling on the paved roads and we were among the town houses of the prosperous Chichester townsfolk with the spire of the Cathedral towering over it all.

Harry’s pride in his own quick wits walked his legs up the steps to the attorney and moved his hand across the precious piece of paper until he had signed it, as it had to be signed, in two places.

‘It looks a little odd,’ said our solicitor, presuming on our long relationship to challenge our actions. ‘Is it imperative that it be done without the signature of Dr MacAndrew?’

‘My husband is ill,’ I said, my voice low. The solicitor nodded. A grey man in a shady office, even he had heard the gossip, and had pitied me, the prettiest girl in the county, married to a drunkard. ‘We felt we should press on without him,’ I said. ‘We cannot tell when he will be well enough to come home again.’ I stopped because my voice had become hoarse with suppressed tears.

The solicitor pressed my hand. ‘I do beg your pardon, Mrs MacAndrew,’ he said kindly. ‘I wish I had not voiced my concern. Think no more of it, I beg of you.’

I nodded and gave him a sweet forgiving smile on parting when he took my hand in a warm handclasp and bent and kissed it. I drooped ever so slightly down the stairs and then laid my head against the cushions of the carriage as if I were weary. Harry saw my face and took my hand comfortingly in his.

‘Don’t be too sad, Beatrice,’ he said. ‘John will soon be better, I am sure. Perhaps you two can be happy again. Celia is certain there is a future for the two of you together. And whatever happens to your husband, you and your son at least are safe on Wideacre.’

I nodded and returned the squeeze of his hand.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We have done a good day’s work today, Harry!’

‘Indeed, yes,’ he said. ‘When shall we tell Celia?’

I thought fast. I did not want to tell Celia, but equally I knew I never would be ready to tell her. When we announced the joyful news of the change of entail and the inheritance of Julia and Richard as contracted partners I anticipated opposition from her. She knew of them only as half-brother and sister, both of them my children. She could not know, would never guess, that they were both sired by her husband. But she did not like their intimacy. And she did not like my touch upon Julia.

‘Let me speak to Celia first, Harry,’ I said, considering. ‘She is bound to be distressed to learn that you know she is barren. I think it would be better if I told her that although you know, you are not troubled, because you have so cleverly found a way to make Julia your heir.’

Harry nodded. ‘Whatever you think best, Beatrice,’ he said. ‘You sort it out as you please. All I can think of is my dinner. How cold these April evenings are. D’you think there will be soup?’

‘Almost certainly,’ I said equably. ‘I shall speak to Celia in the parlour after dinner, Harry, so you may sit long over your port. Don’t come in until I send for you.’

‘Very well,’ he said, obediently. ‘I shall have some cheese with my port. I shall be in no hurry to leave, I can assure you.’


Harry’s cheese proved to be so potent that Celia actually suggested that we withdraw as soon as it arrived at the table.

‘I agree,’ I said, laughing. I got to my feet and pocketed an apple from the fruit bowl. ‘I would rather have my fruit in the parlour than share a table with that cheese, Harry!’

Harry chuckled, quite unrepentant.

‘You are far too nice,’ he said. ‘Go and have your talk. Celia, I think Beatrice has some good news for you which I know will make you happy.’

Celia’s eyes flashed to my face and her ready smile illuminated her.

‘Oh, Beatrice, is it John?’ she said as soon as the parlour door had closed behind us.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not yet. But the last letter I had was most encouraging. Dr Rose was talking in terms of months rather than an indefinite stay.’

Celia nodded, but the light had died from her eyes. She looked bitterly disappointed. I could not help wondering, with the spice of my habitual malice, if Harry’s increased interest in food, and his growing bulk, was turning him from the golden prince of their early married life into a dreary, unexciting gourmand. And whether John’s thin tension, his desperate grief, his nervous, passionate struggle against his drinking and against my control of him had inspired a love in Celia that was more than sisterly.

But I was not ready to tease that truth out of Celia. I had to take a most difficult fence, and all the thought and care I had put into the approach might not carry me safe over.

‘It is good news though,’ I said. I crossed to the fire and sat in the winged armchair beside it. I pulled up a footstool and lifted my feet up so they felt the warmth of the fire. Celia sank into a chair opposite, her eyes on my face. In the flickering firelight and lit by a branch of candles behind her she looked like some young serious schoolgirl. Far too young to be enmeshed in this complex conspiracy of lies and beguiling half-truths. Far too serious to be able to break away and be free when I had her in my grasp.

‘Harry knows that you are barren, and he has despaired of having a male heir,’ I said baldly.

Celia gave a little gasp and her hand flew to her cheek as if the pain in her heart was toothache.

‘Oh,’ she said. Then she was silent.

‘But he has hit on the most wonderful plan to sign the estate over for Julia,’ I said. ‘It was all his idea, but I have helped with it, of course. We kept it from you in the early stages because we needed to discover first if it could be done. But it can be done. It is possible for Harry to buy the entail from our cousin Charles Lacey and to entail it instead upon Julia. She and Richard are jointly to inherit Wideacre, and to run it together.’

Celia’s face was a picture of amazement, then dawning horror.

‘Run it together?’ she said. ‘How would they be joint heirs?’

I kept my voice steady and cheerful, but I was conscious of choosing my words with care. I felt awkward. I felt nervous. It was like taking a horse you do not know to a fence you do not know in a county you do not know.

‘As joint partners,’ I said lightly. ‘Like Harry and I do now.’

‘Like Harry and you,’ said Celia. ‘Like Harry and you,’ she repeated. She had turned back to me but her eyes were on the fire. Something in their hazy brownness made me wonder what she was seeing in a pile of glowing logs.

‘No,’ she said abruptly.

I jumped in unfeigned surprise.

‘What?’ I asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I do not give my consent, I do not wish it. I do not think it is a good idea.’

‘Celia, what are you saying?’ I said. I disliked the speed of her words. The breathlessness, the stillness of the little figure in the pale parlour.

‘I do not wish that this contract be signed,’ she said clearly. ‘I am Julia’s mother and I have a right to a voice in the decision on her future. I do not wish this to go ahead.’

‘Celia, why not?’ I asked. ‘Whatever are you thinking of, to stand against Harry’s intentions in this way?’

That did not stop her, though it should have given her pause. But her eyes were fixed on the fireplace as if reflected on the coals she could see Harry and me frantically coupling on that very hearth, as my mama had done.

‘It is hard to explain,’ she said. ‘But I do not wish Julia to be involved in the running of Wideacre in the way that you have been.’ I could hear the restraint in her voice, which came from her anxiety not to hurt me. But I would have been deaf not to hear the certainty too.

‘Wideacre means so much to you, Beatrice, that you cannot understand that there is any other life open to a girl. But I should like Julia to love this place as her girlhood home, and to leave it with a light heart when she marries the man of her choice.’

‘But this way she is an heiress, Celia!’ I exclaimed. ‘She can marry the man of her choice and he can live here as John and I and you and Harry do. She will be joint owner of Wideacre. You could not bless a child with a better gift!’

‘You could! You could!’ said Celia, speaking fiercely though her voice was low. ‘The greatest blessing I shall give Julia will be to keep her free from the idea that Wideacre is the only place in the world to live. That it is the only thing in the world that could make her happy. I want her to be happy anywhere. I want her to be happy because she leads a good life and has a clean conscience and because she can freely give and freely receive love. I don’t want her to think that her life’s happiness is bound up with a handful of acres and a starving, miserable village!’

‘Celia!’ I gasped, and I stared at her in horror. ‘You don’t know what you are saying!’

‘I do,’ she said emphatically, looking at me directly now. ‘I have thought long and hard on this, Beatrice. I have thought about it ever since we came home to England. I should not want Julia to share her home with another couple, however dear they may be to her. When she marries I should want her to live with her husband and live with him alone. I should not want her to come into another woman’s house as I did, and to see her husband absorbed and working with someone else as I did. If she loved him with her whole heart I should want her to have all his time and all his love.’