When Gemma discovers a pair of ancient duelling pistols encrusted with rubies in the basement of the local museum, she is immediately intrigued…

On a fateful night in 1838, two sisters were found shot in the cellars of Red Hill Hall. And when Gemma delves deeper into their history, she begins to realise that the secrets of that night are darker than anyone had ever imagined.

As the shocking events of the past begin to unravel, Gemma’s own life starts to fall apart. Loyalties are tested and suddenly it seems as if history is repeating itself, as Gemma learns that female friendships can be deadly…

Perfect for fans of The Emerald Comb, The Pearl Locket, Rachel Hore and Kate Morton.

The Daughters of Red Hill Hall

Kathleen McGurl

Copyright

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2016

Copyright © Kathleen McGurl 2016

Kathleen McGurl asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

E-book Edition © April 2016 ISBN: 9781474049627

Version date: 2019-11-18

KATHLEEN MCGURL lives near the sea in Bournemouth, UK, with her husband and elderly tabby cat. She has two sons who are now grown-up and have left home. She began her writing career creating short stories, and sold dozens to women’s magazines in the UK and Australia. Then she got side-tracked onto family history research – which led eventually to writing novels with genealogy themes. She has always been fascinated by the past, and the ways in which the past can influence the present, and enjoys exploring these links in her novels.

When not writing or working at her full-time job in IT, she likes to go out running. She also adores mountains and is never happier than when striding across the Lake District fells, following a route from a Wainwright guidebook.

You can find out more at her website: http://kathleenmcgurl.com/, or follow her on Twitter: @KathMcGurl.

Praise for Kathleen McGurl

‘There were twists and turns galore that had me gripping my Kindle to within an inch of its life…’

– Becca’s Books on The Pearl Locket

“…exciting, fast-paced and impossible to put down…”

– Books Reviews by Em on The Emerald Comb

“Two stories: one historical, the other contemporary, cleverly interwoven with conflict, mystery and passion…an absorbing read”

– Jane Hunt on The Emerald Comb

“Infuriatingly well-written…an intelligent and refreshingly different read”

– Read Reviewed on The Emerald Comb

“An edge of your seat read, that is a page turner and gripped me from page one”

– Comet Babe on The Emerald Comb

“…beautifully written and left you wanting more. More of everything.”

– Feed Me Into Books on The Emerald Comb

Also by Kathleen McGurl

The Emerald Comb

The Pearl Locket

The Girl from Ballymor

The Drowned Village

The Forgotten Secret

The Stationmaster’s Daughter

Acknowledgements

My thanks are due as always to my editor Victoria Oundjian and everyone else at Carina, for their advice, support, superb editing and wonderful cover designs.

Thanks also to my writing buddies – the other Carina authors, the Write Women and my friends in the Romantic Novelists Association. Writing is a lonely activity, and the online chats and occasional meet-ups are what keep me going.

My sons, once again, helped me out with this book. Fionn McGurl gave me valuable feedback as my beta-reader, and Connor McGurl acted as a sounding-board and helped me work out some tricky plot twists. My heartfelt thanks to both of them.

Thanks to Della Galton, whose writing classes I attended for many years. This novel grew from a prologue I wrote for one of her end-of-term competitions.

And finally, thanks to my husband Ignatius McGurl who was so enthusiastic about that prologue that it spurred me on to complete the entire novel.

For my husband Ignatius. This is the book you said I should write!

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Copyright

Author Bio

Praise

Book List

Acknowledgements

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Excerpt

Endpages

Prologue

August 1838

The pain was unimaginable. Red-hot blades of it shot through Rebecca’s furiously throbbing shoulder, pumping blood across the cellar floor. She lay in agony, groaning, but managed a glance over to where Sarah lay, just a few feet away. The other girl was also bleeding profusely from a shot to her abdomen. The pair of pistols lay discarded on the floor where they had been dropped, their ruby-encrusted stocks glittering in the candlelight.

Rebecca felt strangely detached from the scene. She watched as blood from her shoulder flowed across the floor to meet with the pool that spread from Sarah’s skirts. Their life forces mingled and combined, indistinguishable from each other. It was fitting, she thought, that two women who’d been so close in life should be together as they died. For she was certain they would both die from their wounds. It was better that way. They couldn’t both live. Not after all that had happened between them, after all the hurt they had caused each other.

Sarah moaned in pain, and her eyes flickered open. Rebecca stared at her across the cellar and a wave of compassion flooded through her. She reached out a hand towards her one-time best friend and adopted sister, causing her pain level to escalate yet further. She watched as with a huge effort Sarah shifted her position and reached out too, until their fingers touched. One last heave and Rebecca was able to entwine her fingers with Sarah’s. She felt a weak squeeze in return, telling her the gesture was appreciated. Sarah groaned and sighed, and Rebecca watched as her adored sister’s eyes closed. Only then did she allow her own eyes to close as she slipped into blissful, pain-free darkness.

Spencer, the butler, had heard something. He’d been putting away the glassware used at dinner when he heard the explosion. It sounded like a shot, or rather two shots, coming almost simultaneously. He hurried along the servants’ corridor in search of the source of the noise, and spotted the door to the cellars standing open. It should have been locked shut – they kept a valuable store of wines down there. Spencer snatched up an oil lamp, rushed down the cellar steps and made his way through the labyrinth of rooms and tunnels that made up the cellars of Red Hill Hall. ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’ he called, his voice sounding shaky and nervous even to himself. Another door was standing open – the one that led to the coal store. From there a flight of steps led to the grounds of the hall. Someone could have come in – and then escaped – by that route.

At last, in an empty room beyond the wine cellar, Spencer found the source of the noise. He gasped as he angled the lamplight onto the two mounds on the floor and recognised them as Miss Rebecca and Miss Sarah. His adored Sarah – that wonderful, vivacious girl who could light up a room with her smile. Their fingers were linked together, as though they’d been holding hands when they were shot, perhaps trying to save each other.

‘Oh my word, girls, what has happened?’ he muttered as he approached. His foot kicked something, and looking round he saw one of the old master’s duelling pistols. The other one lay close by as well. He cursed himself for not keeping the pistols under lock and key. Someone had clearly got in, probably via the coal store, stolen them from where they were kept in a cupboard in the first cellar, and shot the two beautiful young ladies, whose whole lives had been ahead of them. But why had the girls been in the cellar? He shook his head. Now was not the time to ponder such things. He knelt down in the pool of still-warm blood and checked for signs of life. One of them had no pulse. There was nothing he could do for her. But the other was breathing and had a faint, if erratic, pulse. If he acted quickly, maybe, just maybe, she could be saved.

Chapter 1

April 2015

Not another fossil. Fossils were so darned boring. Gemma sighed as she pulled what must be at least the thirtieth ammonite today from the dusty box. She loved her job at Bridhampton’s little museum, cataloguing their extensive archive, but really, she had seen enough fossils to last her a lifetime. It was inevitable, she supposed, being so close to the Jurassic Coast in Dorset they were bound to have plenty of dinosaur bones and ancient marine creatures in the collection. But fossils did nothing for her. She preferred more recent history and human stories.

‘Cup of tea for my hard worker?’ Roger, the museum curator and her boss, put his balding head around the door.

Gemma nodded. ‘I’d love one, thanks.’ Poor Roger. He was practically another fossil. Well, that was unfair – he was probably only about ten years older than her – but he acted as though he was from the nineteenth century. Or before. She grinned to herself as she measured the ammonite and typed its details into the computer catalogue. He was old-school, that was for sure, but he was also the nicest boss she’d ever had. After leaving university with a history degree and no idea what she wanted to do with her life, she’d had a number of jobs in quick succession until two years ago she’d struck lucky here at the museum in her home town of Bridhampton.

By the time Roger returned with her tea, Gemma had finished cataloguing the contents of the box and was packing it up again to return it to its shelf in the museum basement.

Roger put the tea on the desk beside her, and moved some papers off a chair so he could sit down. ‘Anything interesting in that one?’

‘Half a dozen ammonites. One’s nearly a foot across. Weighs a ton.’ She closed the lid of the box and taped it up before Roger could start poking around in it. He did have a habit of wanting to pull things out and examine them, making the whole job take so much longer.

‘Oh well. Maybe we should use them in a Jurassic Coast display. What do you think?’

Gemma stopped herself from pulling a face. ‘We could, I suppose, but then the museum at Lyme Regis covers that so much better. Everyone goes there because of the Mary Anning connection. I think we should stick to other topics – human stories and Victorian themes.’ So much more interesting, she almost added.

‘You’re probably right.’ He smiled at her, and heaved the sealed box off the table. ‘I’ll fetch you the next one, then, to get started on once you’ve had your break.’

He looked quite sweet when he smiled, Gemma thought, as she watched him go through the door that led to the basement stairs. She resolved to be nicer to him in future. Poor bloke was probably lonely. He lived alone with only a cat called Michael for company. Who on earth calls their cat Michael, she thought, not for the first time.

Roger returned a few moments later bearing another cardboard box, this one festooned with cobwebs. He dumped it on the table and brushed the dust from his pullover. That was another thing. Who, these days, wore a hand-knitted jumper over a shirt and tie? Maybe she should have a gentle word with him about his fashion sense. If he ever wanted to get himself a girlfriend he’d need to first get himself a new wardrobe.

‘Here you are, then,’ he said. ‘Hope there’s something more exciting in that one. It was from aisle four, shelf three, if you want to make a note.’

‘Thanks.’ She jotted down the location code on her notepad, and slit open the tape across the top of the box, as Roger left her to return to the museum front desk. It was a Wednesday – their quietest day. Term time but no school parties booked, so they weren’t expecting many visitors beyond a few pensioners who were generally more interested in the tea and cakes they served in the museum café.

Tea finished, she pulled the next box towards her and opened it up. Inside was a crumpled-up piece of fabric – dark green cotton. She held it up – it was a shirt, smelling musty and dating from the 1970s if the collar was anything to go by. The label said St Michael. Great. A Marks and Spencer original, of no value whatsoever. Why on earth was it in this box? She threw it into her box of rubbish. It was amazing how much rubbish she had come across – usually screwed-up paper and sweet wrappers chucked into the boxes of artefacts. She looked in the box again. There was a layer of yellowed newspaper, which she pulled out and inspected. The Times, from January 1972. That tied in with the date of the shirt, then. It probably indicated the last time this box had been opened. She threw that into the discard pile as well.

Finally, at the bottom of the container, was a wooden box. It measured about two feet by one, and was four or five inches deep. It appeared to be made of mahogany, and was inset with an elaborate parquetry design. This looked more promising! She slipped on a pair of thin cotton gloves and lifted it out of the cardboard box. Clearing a space, she laid it on the table, and investigated its fastening. There was a brass hook and loop clasp, but thankfully no lock. She opened it up and gasped.

‘Wow. Just, wow.’ She looked around to see if Roger was in earshot, but he’d left the back rooms. Should she call him or wait and show him when he came back? He tended to pop into the back room every hour or so to see how she was getting on. She looked back at the contents of the box. No, this was too good to wait – he needed to see this now. She left the room and went through to the front of the museum to call him.

He came trotting after her. ‘I take it that box had something better than ammonites in it, then?’

‘Oh yes. Take a look.’ She indicated the box, and he gasped too.

‘Duelling pistols. And what an elaborate pair! Take one out – you’ve got gloves on.’

She carefully extracted one from its moulded place in the box. It was a beautiful item. ‘Gorgeous! Look at that silver work, and are those rubies on the handle?’

‘It’s called the stock, not the handle,’ Roger said. ‘Yes, I’d say mahogany trimmed with silver, and set with rubies. I’ll have to have a closer look with a magnifying glass to be certain of the materials. A very fine piece.’ He looked at the case. ‘And we have the pair, plus the ramrod, and that little flask there was probably used to hold the gunpowder.’

‘Yikes, hope there’s none in it now!’ Gemma squealed in mock horror.

Roger smiled indulgently and slipped on a pair of cotton gloves. He took the little flask out of the case and opened it. ‘Empty. We’re all right. I would guess those other slots in the case would have held the shot, probably lead. And maybe a cleaning brush. But how wonderful to have the pair, in such a lovely case! I think we’ll have to get these out on display.’

‘Do you think they were ever used in a duel?’ Gemma asked. It was a sobering thought – she might be holding a gun that had killed someone.

‘Who knows? They look very decorative. They could have been commissioned and bought just for show. Duelling pistols were often owned as a kind of status symbol. It’s unusual to have jewels in the stocks like this. And see the inside of the case’s lid?’

Gemma looked. It was beautifully painted with a scene showing two eighteenth-century gentlemen engaging in a duel, standing stiffly, their pistols pointed at each other, tricorn hats and flared coats giving a hint as to the era. To one side of the picture was a spreading oak tree, and two other men stood, holding the reins of black and bay horses. It certainly looked as though the case was designed to sit open, with the interior on display. Gemma found herself hoping that the pistols had never been used in anger.

‘Well, I’ll leave you to add that to the catalogue,’ Roger said, as he stood up and pulled off his gloves. ‘Don’t put them away afterwards though – leave them on my desk. I’d like to take a closer look after we’ve closed for the day.’

‘Sure, will do.’ Gemma grinned at Roger as he left, then turned her attention back to the case. She lifted out the other pistol and the ramrod, and started making notes about the case first. As she turned it over she noticed a yellowing label stuck to the base of it. There was writing on it, in a spidery hand: Bequeathed by Mrs A. Maitland, 1923. These pistols were the ones used in the infamous shooting at Red Hill Hall.

Gemma felt a shiver run down her spine as she read the words. An ‘infamous shooting’! – but not so infamous it was still remembered in 2015. Red Hill Hall – that rang a bell. She racked her brains trying to think where else she’d heard that place name recently. And then it came to her. Her boyfriend Ben’s sister Anna was getting married soon, and the invitations had arrived in the post a couple of days ago. The wedding and reception were to be held at Red Hill Hall. It was a country house hotel about five miles out of town.

Who’d been shot, when, and why? She had an overwhelming urge to research everything she could find about the shooting. If it was described as ‘infamous’ by whoever wrote the label on the bottom of the pistol case, then it must have been covered by newspapers of the time – whenever that was. She turned to the museum’s computer, opened up a Google search page and started typing ‘shooting at Red Hill Hall’. But before she could press the Enter key Roger came back.

‘Gemma, could you take over at the front desk, please? The café’s short of milk and I told Jean I’d pop up to the Co-op to get some. Won’t be long.’

‘Sure. Coming.’ She shut the laptop’s lid and left the back room, locking the door behind her so that no visitors would be tempted to wander in. The research would have to wait until later.

As it turned out, she did not get a chance to return to the back office that day. A coach party arrived and she was kept busy at the desk and in the small souvenir shop until closing time. All afternoon thoughts of the pistols ran through her head. Had someone been killed in this shooting? She supposed so – otherwise why would it have been described as infamous?

‘Roger, have you seen what’s on the underside of the pistols’ case?’ she asked, as they tidied the little museum shop after closing time.

He hadn’t, so she told him. His eyes lit up. ‘Well, I haven’t heard of this shooting but it certainly sounds like something worth investigating. Feel free to do it here; perhaps start searching online tomorrow?’

‘I was hoping you’d say that,’ she said, grinning at him. Something to look forward to at work tomorrow – infinitely better than measuring and describing endless ammonites for the catalogue!

‘You look lovely tonight,’ said Ben, kissing her as he stood to greet her in the Men At Arms pub, just a little way up the high street from the museum. It was her favourite pub – dark and cosy, old and full of character. ‘We’ve bought a bottle of Sauvignon. Nat chose it. Hope that’s all right for you?’

‘Fine, thanks. Hi, Nat,’ said Gemma. Actually she was more in the mood for a pint of bitter but as Natalie had got there first it seemed reasonable for her to choose the wine. Ben was so easy-going he’d drink anything. They were sitting at a table in a snug, its walls covered with dark wood panelling and hung with prints of Victorian country houses. She pulled an upholstered stool from under the table and sat down.

‘Cheers, then,’ said Nat, pouring her a glass and handing it over.

‘Cheers!’ Gemma clinked her glass against the other two and sighed happily. It was one of her favourite times of the week – being out for the night with her boyfriend and her best mate, the two people she loved best in the world. The three of them were inseparable, and had been ever since she and Ben had got together. Actually, she and Nat had been practically joined at the hip since school days.

‘Gemma, did you get Anna and Jake’s wedding invitation?’ Ben asked her.

‘I did. Can’t wait! It’s not till June though, is it?’

‘Nineteenth. I got one too. We’ll have to go shopping for new frocks,’ Nat said, with a wink at Gemma. ‘You’ll need something really smart. You can’t wear your usual tatty jeans and a fleece to a wedding, you know.’

‘Cheeky! Of course I’ll get something nice.’ Gemma gave Nat a playful punch on the arm. Anna, she hoped, would one day be her sister-in-law, if only Ben would get around to popping the question. And if he didn’t, well, next year was a leap year, so she’d do it herself. They’d been together seven years. It was time to make an honest man of him.

She suddenly remembered the wedding venue. ‘Hey, Ben, have you ever been to Red Hill Hall?’

‘Where?’ He looked blank.

‘Where Anna’s getting married, you dolt.’

He looked sheepish. ‘Oh yes, of course. No, never been there. Have you, Nat?’

‘No. It’s only just reopened under new management, hasn’t it? I think it was closed for years before then. I had a look at the website. Looks like a gorgeous setting for a wedding – all sweeping staircases and high-ceilinged ballrooms.’ Nat winked at Ben. ‘We’ll have fun there, won’t we – playing at lord and lady of the manor. Gemma, you could be my paid companion.’

‘Aw, why can’t I be the lady and you the companion?’ Gemma pouted.

Nat laughed. ‘You’ll need a very expensive dress if you want to upstage me, my dear. I intend buying something really fabulous. I’ll look amazing. Amazing, darling!’ She fluttered her eyelashes at Ben, who grinned and blew her a kiss, but caught hold of Gemma’s hand under the table and gave it a squeeze.

Gemma smiled. Nat liked to play the prima donna and Ben would play along. It was part of their group dynamics. She had no doubt that Nat would look fantastic, and no doubt better than she would herself. Nat was a beautician, currently working at a salon at the far end of town. She’d had many jobs over the years, never staying at any of them for very long. She’d only started at the salon a few weeks ago. Gemma hoped she would stick at it a bit longer than she had at the others. Poor Nat. She’d always struggled finding a job she liked. Before Gemma started working at the museum the two of them had often gone out drinking together to drown their sorrows about their rubbish, dead-end jobs. There was no better person than Nat when you needed a sympathetic ear. She always understood better than anyone else, because she’d been through it all herself.

‘Anyway, the hall sounds lovely,’ Gemma said. ‘I’ll definitely take a look at their website. I came across something at the museum today, relating to Red Hill Hall. Bit of a coincidence, having had the wedding invitation this week as well.’

Ben looked at her with interest. ‘What did you find?’

‘More fossils?’ Nat rolled her eyes.

‘Guns. Well, duelling pistols. Apparently they were used in a shooting at the hall.’ Gemma picked up the half-empty bottle and topped up everyone’s glasses.

‘Oh my God. Don’t tell Anna that – she’d have a fit if she thought someone had been murdered at her wedding venue.’ Ben took a sip of his wine.

‘Duelling pistols? So was there, like, a duel there? Does a duel count as murder?’ Nat looked as though she wanted all the juicy details.

‘Well I don’t know yet, whether it was a duel or even if anyone died. I came across the pistols – very ornate ones – in their case, and there was a note saying something about an infamous shooting. Tomorrow’s job is to research it and try to find out what happened.’

‘Wow. Your job is so much more interesting than mine. Most excitement I get is to work out lifeguard rotas and arrange five-a-side tournaments for school kids.’ Ben’s job was manager of a sports centre. He shook his head and laughed.

‘I don’t know. I’d rather do what you do than faff around with dusty relics all day like Gemma does.’ Nat flashed him a look. ‘I reckon my new job’s the best one though. All day playing with make-up and doing people’s nails – like being a little kid at your mum’s make-up drawer. I love it. Well, I would love it, if only Bitchface Boss wasn’t always on my case.’

Gemma smiled but didn’t say anything. How she and Nat were such close friends was a mystery. If she was honest, they didn’t really have a lot in common, other than their shared memories of course. Nat liked gossip mags, reality shows and loud, modern nightclubs. Gemma preferred historical novels, costume dramas and quiet, ancient pubs. And she’d been with Ben for seven years whereas Nat’d had a string of boyfriends, none of them lasting more than a month or two. Still, ever since starting secondary school at the age of eleven they’d been best friends. They’d been put next to each other in maths class, and Gemma had whispered the answer to a question when the teacher put Nat on the spot. In return Nat had picked Gemma first for a netball team, and the two had become inseparable. Over the years they’d each spent time doing what the other one liked, and somehow their friendship had worked and indeed, had deepened. She would do anything for Nat, and knew Nat would do anything for her as well. Opposites attract – that was as true for friendships as it was for romance – and she and Nat were a great example of that rule.

‘Hey, I know!’ Nat turned to Gemma, her eyes shining. Gemma knew that look. It meant Nat had hatched a plan, and it was probably something Gemma wouldn’t feel completely comfortable with. ‘Why don’t I do your hair and make-up for Anna’s wedding? As the girlfriend of the bride’s brother you’re quite an important guest, you know. You’ll have to look stunning, but not so stunning you upstage the bride of course. I could put your hair up, in some sophisticated up-do, and shape your cheekbones, even out your skin tone, accentuate your eyes. Oh there’s so much I could do to improve your looks, Gemma! Do say yes!’

Gemma squirmed. Nat knew how she felt about too much make-up. She was happy wearing her usual subtle bit of mascara and lip gloss but anything else made her feel deeply uncomfortable. As well as making her skin feel itchy. She remembered how they’d experimented with make-up in their early teens, including going through a short-lived Goth phase of deep purple lipstick and heavy black eyeliner. Perhaps that was what had put her off make-up. ‘Well, maybe my hair, but I’m not sure I’d want it up…’

‘I love your hair left loose and long.’ Ben kissed the side of her head and she smiled at him gratefully.

‘Oh, well, if you don’t want me to, I won’t bother. Your loss.’ Nat drained her glass and smiled at Gemma. ‘More wine? It’s your round.’

Chapter 2

May 1830

Rebecca couldn’t remember a time when Sarah hadn’t been there. All her life, all ten years of it so far, Sarah had been at her side, her best friend, her confidante, her playmate and her partner in crime. Today was no exception.

‘Look at the sun shining!’ Sarah said after breakfast, when the two girls were supposed to be going upstairs to the schoolroom for their daily lessons with the governess, Miss Albarn. ‘It’d be wrong not to go out and enjoy it. Who cares about French, drawing and grammar? Rebecca, we must go outside and have a run around the gardens. Come on!’ She caught hold of Rebecca’s arm and tugged.

‘But Miss Albarn will be waiting for us. We can’t, Sarah!’ Rebecca was halfway up the stairs, and almost overbalanced as she tried to pull her arm free from Sarah’s grip.

‘Miss Albarn can wait. It’s the first sunny day for months and there’s a blackbird’s nest I want to show you. Come on!’

As usual, Sarah won the battle and Rebecca followed her outside, through the kitchen garden and into the park beyond. In a hedgerow that marked the perimeter of Rebecca’s father’s estate, there was indeed a blackbird’s nest. The tiny, naked baby birds cheeped loudly, their beaks open wide in expectation of food.

‘What do they eat?’ Rebecca asked. Sarah was almost a year older than her, and as far as Rebecca was concerned, she was the font of all knowledge. Miss Albarn was all very well for piano and drawing lessons, but if you wanted to know something about the real world, Sarah was the person to ask.

‘Beetles,’ Sarah said, with conviction. ‘If we found some, we could drop them in their mouths.’

‘Where would we find beetles?’

‘There are woodlice in the stables. Those will do.’

Rebecca stared at her friend. ‘How can we carry woodlice all the way back here? In our hands? Ugh!’

‘We can take the birds there.’ Sarah reached into the hedge and grasped the nest with both hands. As she pulled it free it fell apart, and the baby birds tumbled into the depths of the hedge.

Rebecca felt a pang of sorrow for the tiny, helpless creatures. ‘You’ve broken their home. What will their parents think when they come back?’

‘Serve them right for leaving their babies alone. Pah! They’ve fallen right down now. I can’t reach them.’ Sarah flung the remains of the nest on the ground and started running off across the park. ‘Come on. Let’s find something else to do. Race you to the climbing tree!’

Rebecca peered into the hedge and whispered an apology to the little birds, then gathered up her skirts and began running after Sarah. They weren’t allowed to climb the climbing tree – ever since Sarah had fallen and had only been saved from broken bones by her skirts catching in the lower branches and tearing. Sarah’s mother, the housekeeper at Red Hill Hall, had been furious. Rebecca had stood with her head bowed while Mrs Cooper shouted at Sarah. Mrs Cooper had been cross with her too – Rebecca could tell, but she’d not dared to shout at the daughter of her employer. There were some advantages to being the child of the master of Red Hill Hall, Rebecca had learned. Sarah, as the daughter of the housekeeper, had some perks – she shared a governess with Rebecca and had the run of the house and garden – but she was never allowed to forget that she was of a lower class.

Sarah was already at the climbing tree. It was a large overgrown flowering cherry in full bloom. Sarah jumped up to catch hold of one of the lower branches and hung off it, shaking blossom confetti all over both of them. Rebecca laughed and spun around, her arms outstretched and her face tilted upwards. ‘It’s raining petals!’ She grabbed a whole blossom that had been shaken loose and tucked it in her hair. ‘I’m Titania, Queen of the Fairies!’

‘You are no such thing, Miss Rebecca. You are a naughty girl who has skipped her lessons for the morning. As are you, Miss Sarah. Now brush yourselves off, and come indoors, the both of you. I shall have to mention this to Mr Winton.’

Rebecca looked at Miss Albarn in alarm. They’d been having so much fun. Why did the governess have to come and spoil it all? She pouted, and began brushing the petals from her clothes.

Sarah let go of the branch and landed with a thump on the lawn. ‘Sorry, Miss Albarn. We were on our way but Rebecca wanted to come and play in the tree as it is so beautiful when it is in full bloom. I wondered if perhaps we could make some watercolour sketches of it this afternoon? That’s if you haven’t already planned a lesson, of course.’ She dropped a pretty curtsey, eliciting a smile from the governess.

Rebecca watched in dismay. It wasn’t the first time she’d gone along with something Sarah had suggested, and ended up in trouble for it. And why had Sarah said it was her idea to play in the tree? It wasn’t fair. But she knew that if Sarah shouldered the blame, she’d be punished. She’d probably be made to stand in the corner of the schoolroom all day, or perhaps miss her supper. Whereas apart from the few stern words Miss Albarn had already voiced, Rebecca would receive no further admonishment. Another advantage of being the daughter of the master. Still, it hurt to always be the one to take the blame. Miss Albarn must think she was such a bad girl. And she wasn’t sure how much of it went back to her father and mother.

‘We might come and sketch the tree, Miss Sarah. Or we might not. For now, we are going inside to read some poetry. With your poor mother taken so poorly, one would have thought the two of you would have more decorum than to be running around the park.’

‘Miss Albarn, whose mother is poorly?’ asked Rebecca. Oh please don’t let it be hers, she thought, though the idea of Mrs Cooper being sick was not a good one either. Sometimes Mrs Cooper felt more like a mother to her than her own mother, who was often too busy to take much notice of her.

‘Sarah’s. Poor Mrs Cooper. It’s come on so suddenly, this time.’ Miss Albarn dabbed at her eye with a handkerchief.

‘Is it Mama’s chest again?’ Sarah asked.

‘Yes, the poor dear. She can barely catch her breath. Mr Winton has sent for the doctor. She’ll be all right I’m sure, but in the meantime, we must not let her ailment distract us from our lessons. How am I going to make young ladies of you both if you insist on missing lessons and running off around the park like wild village children? Now come along, quickly.’ Miss Albarn tucked her handkerchief up her sleeve and marched across the lawn towards the house, the hem of her grey gown dragging cherry blossom in her wake.

For the next week the girls were not allowed to leave the house. Mrs Cooper was seriously unwell and it seemed the entire focus of the household was on caring for her. The butler, Spencer, had to take over many of Mrs Cooper’s responsibilities, delegating as much as he could to the cook and upper housemaids. Dr Millbank was an almost constant presence in the house, and two nurses had been employed to tend to Mrs Cooper day and night. Sarah was allowed to visit her mother once a day, for a few minutes only, for fear of tiring her too much. On these occasions Rebecca lurked in the doorway of the sickroom and watched with tears in her eyes as Sarah sat at her mother’s side, clutching her hand and imploring her not to die, while the nurse hushed her and dabbed at Mrs Cooper’s forehead with a cool, damp cloth. Rebecca couldn’t help but imagine how awful it would be if it was her own mother lying sick and fading.

Rebecca’s own parents walked about the house with grim expressions. Her father was a frequent visitor to the sickroom and had insisted that no expense be spared if it would help Mrs Cooper recover.

On the tenth day of Mrs Cooper’s illness, the girls were in the schoolroom with Miss Albarn, trying but failing to concentrate on French verbs, when a housemaid tapped at the door.

‘Excuse me, Miss Albarn, but the doctor said I should fetch Miss Sarah to see her mother right away.’ Her face looked drawn, and Sarah immediately leapt to her feet, her hand clasped to her mouth.

Miss Albarn scowled. ‘This is most irregular. Sarah usually visits her mother after tea. Why must she go now in the middle of our lessons?’

‘Excuse me, miss, but I don’t know. All I know is Mr Winton agreed and said Sarah must indeed come at once.’ The maid gave a small curtsey and held the door open. Sarah rushed through, followed by the housemaid. Rebecca hesitated for a moment then made up her mind. It was more important to be with her friend right now, than learning about the past perfect tense. She glanced at Miss Albarn, shrugged an apology and ran off, ignoring the governess’s protests.

Mrs Cooper had been put in one of the main bedrooms on the first floor. It was easier, Mr Winton had said, to nurse her there than in her usual apartment in the servants’ wing, where Sarah also slept. Rebecca ran down to the first floor and along the corridor to the sickroom. There was a crowd of people in the room and in the corridor, all speaking in hushed tones, their faces worn and worried. All the upper servants were there, and Spencer, his eyes sad and tired, was trying to keep them calm. Rebecca pushed through them to the door, but was held back by the butler.

‘Miss Rebecca, I’m afraid I don’t think it is wise for you to go in,’ he said, gently. Rebecca liked Spencer. He was a kind and capable man, who had helped defeat Napoleon at the Battle of Waterloo, fighting alongside her father. He’d been the Wintons’ butler ever since he’d retired from the army. He and Mrs Cooper had managed the house for as long as she could remember. There was a time when she’d thought they were married to each other, until Sarah laughed at her and told her they were not.

She pulled away from him. ‘But Sarah’s my friend – she’s like my sister. She’ll need me if something awful happens.’

‘She will indeed, and you are a kind lass for recognising that. But right now her poor mother, poor dear Isobel, is in her final moments, and Sarah needs to say a quiet goodbye. You may watch from the doorway but I cannot allow you to enter the room.’ Spencer led her through to the door of the room, which stood ajar, but he kept a hold of her shoulder.

Inside the darkened room, Rebecca could just make out Mrs Cooper’s form under mounds of bedclothes. At her head stood one of the nurses, who was constantly dabbing at her brow with a cloth. Dr Millbank and Rebecca’s father stood at the foot of the bed in silence, their hands clasped behind their backs. But it was Sarah who drew Rebecca’s eye. She had climbed onto the bed beside her mother, and had tucked her head onto her mother’s shoulder, draping her arm across her chest. She was whispering something in her mother’s ear, but Rebecca could not hear what she said. As she watched, Mrs Cooper weakly raised a hand and laid it on her daughter’s face. Sarah turned her head to kiss her mother’s palm, and Rebecca could just see the glint of tears running down her face.

The room was silent, apart from the harsh but feeble sound of Mrs Cooper’s breathing. Rebecca could not take her eyes off her friend. How she longed to go over and place a comforting hand on Sarah’s shoulder. If only there was something she could do, or something she could say. It was too awful to have to watch your own mother die. But Spencer still had hold of her although she could feel his hand shaking, and with her father in the room she dared not disobey. She could only stand and watch.

How long she and everyone else stood there she could not say, but she gradually became aware that the harsh breathing was growing ever quieter. Mrs Cooper’s hand slipped off Sarah’s face. Sarah gave a little cry and clasped her mother’s hand. The doctor took a step forward and placed his fingers on the housekeeper’s other wrist. He stood for a moment, then shook his head sadly. Sarah seemed not to have noticed his approach for she did not move at all. Spencer, still holding Rebecca’s shoulder, gave a stifled sob, and she looked at him in surprise. The butler was usually so calm. It was odd for him to show any emotion.

She watched as her father approached the bed. He put his hand on Sarah’s shoulder. ‘Come, child. Leave her. There is nothing more you can do. Let her rest in peace now.’

‘Nooooo!’ Sarah wailed as she realised what he meant. ‘No! It cannot be! Mama!’ She threw herself across her mother’s body and curled into a ball, as though she was a small child being cradled on its mother’s lap. Rebecca’s heart broke for her friend. She could not imagine being left motherless. And Sarah did not have a father – at least not one anyone knew about. Her mother had always said that Sarah’s father had ‘gone away’. Sarah was now an orphan.

‘Come, child,’ said Mr Winton, again. ‘It’s time to leave.’ He looked over to the doorway and beckoned to Spencer, who let go of Rebecca and went in. Spencer bent over and scooped Sarah into his arms, and carried her out of the room. Sarah was clinging to him tightly.

She tried to go after him but her father pulled her back. ‘Spencer will look after her. He will send for you when the time is right for you to see her. Go and find your mother now, and tell her Mrs Cooper has passed away. I shall be downstairs shortly.’

Rebecca glanced inside the sickroom once more, and saw the doctor raising a bed sheet up over Mrs Cooper’s face. Mr Winton gently pulled the door closed, then spoke to the gathered servants. ‘It is over. Return to your duties, everyone.’

The servants began to disperse, many of them wiping their eyes. Mrs Cooper had been a popular member of staff, firm but fair. Rebecca set off to the morning room in search of her mother. She wondered whether her parents would employ a new housekeeper. She supposed they would have to, but she couldn’t imagine anyone else running the household. And what would become of Sarah?

Mrs Winton was in the morning room, sitting by the window on a green silk chaise longue, with a piece of embroidery in her hands. She listened quietly as Rebecca told her what had happened, then she carefully put away her stitching before pulling Rebecca to her in a brief embrace.

‘Oh, child. I am sorry you had to witness Mrs Cooper’s passing. But perhaps it is for the best that she is gone. She will suffer no more. And the child Sarah, where is she now?’

‘Spencer carried her away. I don’t know where. Mama, I would like to go and see her and try to comfort her. May I?’

‘Of course. In good time. Sit here with me until your father comes. We will keep each other company in the meantime.’

Rebecca sat on the chaise beside her mother, feeling very grown-up to be asked to keep her mother company. Normally she spent just half an hour before tea in her parents’ presence, answering questions on what she had been learning with Miss Albarn. Sometimes Sarah was with her on these visits, and other times Rebecca was alone. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was just after eleven. Miss Albarn would be wanting to start on another lesson.

‘Mama, I am worried that Miss Albarn will wonder where we are. She did not come down when the maid came to fetch Sarah.’

‘Don’t worry, child. I will send someone to tell her. Lessons are cancelled for today.’ Mrs Winton stood, and crossed the room to tug on the bell-pull by the fireplace.

It seemed hours before Rebecca’s father joined them, but he entered the room just before the clock struck a quarter past the hour. Rebecca stood and curtseyed when he entered the room but he seemed not to notice her there. He flung himself down in a chair opposite his wife and wiped a hand across his brow. ‘You have heard the news, Charlotte?’

‘I have. Where is Sarah?’

‘Resting. The doctor has given her something to help her sleep. She is very distraught, as you might imagine.’

Mrs Winton sighed. ‘I fear for what will become of her, the poor mite. It is not her fault she had the misfortune to be born out of wedlock. And now she is all alone in this world at such a tender age.’

Mr Winton stared at her. ‘She is not alone. She has us. And of course she has Spencer. She will remain here, under our care, as she has been all her life. There is no question about it. What would you have me do – throw her out?’

‘No, no, of course not. She is welcome to stay. It will look odd, though. While her mother was working here it made sense for us to house her and educate her, as a playmate for Rebecca. But to keep her here on her own, after a suitable mourning period of course, well, that would look odd, wouldn’t it? We have never publicly acknowledged that Spencer is, well, you know.’ Mrs Winton raised her eyebrows at her husband.

Rebecca kept quiet. Both parents seemed to have forgotten she was there. What had they not publicly acknowledged about Spencer? She had no idea what her mother meant by it looking odd if Sarah continued to live with them, but all she could think of was that Sarah must stay! They’d grown up together. They were like sisters. Sarah meant everything to her, and a life without Sarah at her side was not one Rebecca cared to contemplate. But she instinctively knew that nothing she could say right now would influence events. All she could do was watch and listen.

Papa was cross. ‘Charlotte, there is nothing to discuss here. We cannot throw out a motherless child. Sarah must stay under our roof. Spencer, of course, adores her. He saved my life at Waterloo. The least I can do to repay him is to continue to provide a home for Sarah. Besides, Rebecca would be heartbroken if she were to go. The girls can continue to share a governess, and when they are older Sarah can remain as Rebecca’s companion, until such time as she marries or leaves us of her own accord. As we’ve discussed before it is my wish that Rebecca marry the de Witt boy, Charles, when she grows up.’ Rebecca put a hand over her mouth to stop herself from reacting to this. She had met Charles de Witt on a couple of occasions when the de Witts had visited the Winton estate, or vice versa. The boy was the son of her father’s oldest friend and was several years older than herself. She had paid him very little attention. So her father intended her to marry him when she was older? That was interesting, and a little bit frightening.

Mama nodded, but didn’t look sure.

Mr Winton continued speaking. ‘So, Sarah stays with us. Agreed, Charlotte?’ Mr Winton stood and towered over Mama as he spoke. Rebecca had seen him do this before to signal the end of a discussion. There was never any point trying to argue further.

Mama looked up at him. ‘Yes, of course my dear, whatever you say.’ But her lips were firmly pressed together, in a gesture Rebecca knew meant she didn’t agree but would not argue any further.

Papa nodded and left the room. Rebecca waited a moment and then followed him out. She ran to Sarah’s room in the housekeeper’s apartment, and found her friend lying tucked up in bed, asleep. Spencer must have put her there. She sat beside her and stroked a stray lock of hair from her face, considering all that she had heard. Was Sarah perhaps not an orphan after all, and Spencer was her father? She tucked the secret away inside her head.

‘One good thing has come of this, Sarah,’ she whispered. ‘You are to be my sister. Papa said so. I will be married to Charles de Witt, and you are to be my companion. You will stay with me for the rest of my life, Sarah. Isn’t that truly wonderful?’

Chapter 3

April 2015

‘So did you find out anything more about those duelling pistols today?’ Ben asked, as he paid the bill. Gemma and Ben had eaten out in their favourite Italian bistro, as was their habit on a Friday night.

Gemma pushed back her chair and slipped on her leather jacket. ‘I made a start. There’s a sketchy history of Red Hill Hall on the hotel’s website, but it’s only a couple of paragraphs and doesn’t mention a shooting.’

‘Did you try googling “Red Hill Hall” and “duel” together?’ Ben held the door open for her and they walked out into the mild spring evening.

‘I did, yes. I know how to do this research lark, you know!’ Gemma laughed. ‘Couldn’t find anything about it.’

‘Aw, shame. Erm, shall we walk the long way back to yours? Via the park?’ Ben shuffled his feet as he spoke and seemed unwilling to catch Gemma’s eye. She wondered why he wanted to go that way round. It was certainly a lot further. Usually they went straight back to her flat, drank a glass of wine and spent the night together if neither of them was working on the Saturday. Although very often one or both of them would be working – that was the trouble with jobs in public services like museums and sports centres.

‘OK then, if you like,’ she said, and linked her arm through his. It was certainly a pleasant enough evening for a night-time stroll.

‘So, is that it? If nothing comes up on Google about the infamous shooting does that mean you won’t be able to find out any more about it?’ Ben asked.

‘Not at all. Next step is to search the newspaper archives. Thankfully a lot of old newspapers have been digitised and are available to search online. You need a subscription though, and the museum doesn’t have one. So I need to talk to Roger on Monday, and see if he’ll agree to fund one. If he doesn’t, I’ll probably buy a month’s subscription myself and research it from home.’

‘Do you think he’ll agree? Better if you can do this during work hours, isn’t it?’

Gemma laughed. ‘Better for me, definitely! The more time I spend on this the less time I have to spend on boring fossils. Yes, I think he’ll probably go for it. He seems as interested as I am in finding out the background to these pistols.’

They turned away from the street and into the park. An inviting path meandered through well-kept flower beds, and the scent of early roses filled the air. Ben led the way, and Gemma realised they were heading towards ‘their’ bench. It was where they had sat for an hour or more on the night they first met. Gemma remembered it so clearly. She and Nat had been sharing a bottle of wine in the pub, when Ben and some of his colleagues from the sports centre came in and sat at the next table. Nat had been chatted up by a hunky lifeguard, and had left early with him, leaving Gemma feeling stranded amongst people she didn’t know. She’d ended up talking to Ben, and when he’d offered to walk her home she leapt at the chance.

On that occasion it was Gemma who’d led him the long way home, just so she could spend a bit more time with him. They’d sat on this bench in the rose garden at the edge of the park and talked for hours under the moonlight. It wasn’t until the early hours that they decided they ought to go home. By the time Ben left Gemma at the door to her flat, kissing her deeply as they said goodbye, she’d fallen well and truly in love with him.

At the bench, Ben stopped. ‘Shall we sit down for a moment? Remember the night we met and sat here talking for hours?’

‘I’ll never forget it,’ Gemma said, snuggling up to him. It was a cool, clear night, with a crescent moon casting just enough light to see by. But Ben pushed her gently away.

‘I, erm, there’s something I want to say, Gem.’ Once again he was looking shifty. Gemma wondered what he was holding back. Surely he didn’t want to call time on their relationship? They were good together, they never argued, they made a perfect couple – all their friends said so. Nat always said they were made for each other. And he wouldn’t have chosen to come here, to this bench with so many memories, to finish with her, would he?

He clasped her hands on her lap. ‘Gem, darling, it’s been six years…’

‘Seven,’ she interrupted.

‘Seven? OK then, seven years. Gem, they’ve been the best years of my life. But, it’s not enough for me any more.’

Oh God, he was going to say he didn’t want their relationship to be exclusive, wasn’t he? Gemma felt a pang of dread course through her.

Suddenly he dropped to his knees in front of her. ‘Gemma, darling, will you marry me?’

‘Marry you?’

‘Yes, you know, I mean, like, put rings on each other’s fingers, walk up the aisle of a church together, all that stuff. Live together. Have kids. Grow old together. The works.’ He looked up at her, his deep brown eyes beseeching her to say yes. Relief flooded through her like a tsunami. Well of course she was going to say yes! She’d been making up her mind to propose to him, next leap year, hadn’t she?

She slipped off the bench to kneel in front of him, and put her hands on his shoulders. ‘Darling Ben. Of course I would be absolutely delighted to marry you! I’ve been hoping you’d ask me for the last six years!’

‘And now I have! Oh wow, you said yes! Really? You’ll marry me? Wahey!’ He pulled her to her feet and enveloped her in a huge hug. Gemma couldn’t help herself – she began bouncing up and down with joy and Ben joined in, his arms still wrapped tightly around her, the two of them jumping up and down together, squealing with laughter.

A late-night dog walker passed by, staring at them. ‘We’re getting married, we’re getting married!’ Gemma squealed. The dog walker grinned and gave them the thumbs up. When he was out of sight, Ben pulled Gemma still closer and kissed her, deep and lingering.

‘Mmm,’ said Gemma. ‘You are the best, and soon you will be mine.’ She sighed happily. ‘I can’t wait to tell Nat that we’re engaged! And Mum and Dad, and your parents! And Anna and Jake!’

She skipped, clinging on to Ben’s arm and stopping every few steps for another kiss, all the way back to her flat, which occupied the top floor of a converted Victorian terraced house. A sweet elderly gent named Alan lived downstairs, and it was all Gemma could do to stop herself from banging on his door to tell him she’d got engaged. But it was too late in the evening, and Alan would be tucked up in bed by now.

When to tell Nat was Gemma’s first thought the following morning. She wasn’t working but sadly Ben was, so although he’d spent the night at her flat he’d had to get up early to go to work. Gemma got up at the same time, then spent a couple of hours mooching around the flat, waiting until it was a decent enough time to call Nat on a Saturday morning. She knew her friend loved her weekend lie-ins, followed by long bubble-filled baths. She waited till nine-thirty then couldn’t stand to wait a moment longer.

The sound of gentle splashing warned her she’d called too soon and Nat was still in the bath, hopefully gripping the phone tightly so she didn’t drop it in the water.

‘Nat, hey, good morning!’

‘Hey, Gemma. Bit early, isn’t it?’

‘Sorry. I was just desperate to talk to you. You’ll never guess…’

‘We’re meeting up later, aren’t we? To start the hunt for outfits for Anna and Jake’s wedding. We’ll be talking all day, Gemma.’ Nat sounded weary. Possibly hung-over.

‘Yes, sorry. Did you have a heavy night?’

There was a huge sigh and the sound of gentle splashing, as though Nat had shifted position in the bath, before she answered. ‘Yeah. Met a hot bloke in a nightclub, tried to pull him, but he went off with another fella in the end, who was equally hot. So I drowned my sorrows in vodka.’

‘Oh, Nat. You don’t half pick ’em.’ Gemma suppressed a giggle. That was the trouble with the phone – if they were together in a coffee shop or something she’d be able to judge whether to laugh or not by Nat’s body language. But on the phone she didn’t dare. If Nat was still feeling fragile and rejected she wouldn’t appreciate Gemma having a laugh at her expense.

‘I do, don’t I?’ Nat replied, and Gemma was relieved to hear a note of humour in her voice. ‘Thing is, Gemma, I need to find a bloke. My invitation from Anna and Jake was for “Natalie plus one”. I need to find that plus one. It’s bad enough they had to write that on the invite – I hate being the single friend everyone’s trying to pair off – but it’ll be even worse if I end up going to the wedding on my own. I need a man and I need one now – one who’ll last at least till after the wedding. Come clubbing with me, Gem? Then if you pull and I don’t, you can shove him in my direction.’

Gemma couldn’t help herself but laugh this time. The idea of her pulling a bloke when Nat couldn’t was crazy. And the last time she’d been clubbing was years ago. In fact she couldn’t remember if she’d been at all since she got together with Ben. Before then, she and Nat had gone to nightclubs every couple of weeks – when it was Nat’s turn to choose the night out. When it was Gemma’s turn they’d usually spent the evening chatting in the Men At Arms.

‘Well, it’s all very fine for you to laugh, Gem. You’ve got Ben; you’re all smugly coupled up. But a bit of sympathy wouldn’t go amiss. I’m getting on. I’ll be thirty soon – and no boyfriend.’

‘Ah, Nat. Thirty’s no age. I’ll be thirty before you in any case. And you’ll find the right person eventually. I know you will.’ Gemma mentally ran through her male friends, trying to think if any were single and worth introducing to Nat. But she could only think of shy, sweet Roger, and Nat would have him for breakfast.

‘Yeah, right. When I’m old and shrivelled. Anyway, what did you ring me for? We’re still meeting at twelve in the usual café, aren’t we? You’re not going to let me down are you?’

‘No, still on to meet you there.’ Gemma grimaced. After the way this conversation had gone so far, how could she tell Nat she and Ben had got engaged? But if she didn’t say anything now, Nat would be furious that she hadn’t told her at the earliest opportunity. She was kicking herself for having made the phone call. But if she had waited to meet Nat to tell her, she’d have been in trouble for not phoning. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place.

She took a deep breath. ‘Right, the thing I couldn’t wait to tell you about is that, well, Ben popped the question last night and I accepted.’ There. It was out.

There was silence at the other end. ‘You still there, Nat? I’m over the moon – been longing for him to propose for the last six years! And finally – squeee! – he has!’

‘Erm, wow, yeah, that’s great. Really pleased for you, mate. So, erm, see you later, right? Fuck.’

Gemma was left staring at her phone. Nat had hung up. She wondered whether she’d heard that last word properly. It really hadn’t been the kind of reaction to her news she’d expected from Nat. Well, she’d timed her call wrongly, and it seemed Nat’d had a disastrous night out, so maybe it was all because of that. When they met later in town she was sure Nat would be delighted for her. She hoped so – otherwise, well, otherwise she had no idea what was going on.

Chapter 4

November 1834

‘I am so bored,’ Sarah grumbled. ‘I wish something would happen. Anything. Or at least if it stopped raining we could go out riding.’

Rebecca gazed out of the window. They were each sitting on a window seat in their old schoolroom, on the second floor of Red Hill Hall. Their governess Miss Albarn had been dismissed a couple of months previously – now that they had both turned fifteen the girls were deemed to have learned all that she could teach them. They now used the old schoolroom as a kind of sitting room. Rebecca didn’t mind the rain as much as Sarah. Sarah always seemed to become stressed and fretful if she had to stay indoors, whereas Rebecca was quite happy to sit with a book or in front of the piano, for hours on end. In fact a rainy day was sometimes a good thing, as it meant they were expected to stay quietly indoors and Sarah could not drag her outside on some crazy scheme.

Last week, against her better judgement, she’d allowed Sarah to persuade her to ride their ponies out of the estate, through the woods and across farmland. They weren’t supposed to leave the estate without a groom accompanying them, but Sarah had insisted, and had said she would go alone if Rebecca didn’t go with her. Rebecca had had no choice. She’d followed Sarah galloping across the fields, but her pony had shied at a jump and she’d fallen. She was still bruised.

‘I don’t know that I shall ever want to go riding again, after last time,’ Rebecca said.

‘Spoilsport. Who will I go out riding with, then? If only the grooms were more handsome, I shouldn’t mind having them as companions. If only they were more like that handsome farm labourer, Jed Arthur. He smiled at me last time. And winked. I believe he thinks I am beautiful.’ She paced around the room and sighed, dramatically. ‘Oh, being cooped up in here is so tedious. If only there was something to do.’

With Sarah in this mood Rebecca realised she would not progress with reading her novel. She stood, and held out her hand. ‘Come on, then. Let’s go and find something to do.’ Although Sarah’s plans sometimes went wrong, as Rebecca’s bruised shoulder could testify, Rebecca knew that her life would be far more boring without Sarah around. She loved Sarah for the excitement she brought to what would otherwise be too quiet a life.

They went downstairs, and visited the kitchens where Cook gave them each a finger of shortbread before making it clear to them that they were in the way. When they were younger they’d been allowed to linger in the kitchen, sitting by the fire toasting bread or marshmallows, but now they were supposed to behave like ladies, and ladies shouldn’t be in the kitchens.

‘What now?’ said Rebecca, as she followed Sarah out of the kitchen and back into the main hallway of the house. Sarah stopped in front of a glass-fronted cabinet, which stood opposite the foot of the stairs. It housed two ceremonial swords and a mahogany display case containing a pair of pistols.

‘Those.’ Sarah pointed to the pistols. ‘Papa brought them home last week. I should like a closer look at them.’

Rebecca frowned. Sarah had recently taken to referring to Mr Winton as ‘Papa’. But he wasn’t Sarah’s Papa, he was hers. Sarah had no Papa – at least not one that was acknowledged. While Rebecca loved having Sarah as a constant companion, almost a sister, and she loved her dearly, she did not want to share her parents with her. It was very sad when Sarah’s mama had died, but that was years ago, and Sarah should think herself lucky that Mr and Mrs Winton had continued to care for her all this time. Rebecca knew it was just so that she, Rebecca, had a suitable playmate, and that when Rebecca married Sarah would become her paid companion. She didn’t want to think about that, though. She couldn’t imagine being Sarah’s employer, instead of her sister.

‘The cabinet is locked,’ Rebecca said.

‘Let’s ask Spencer. I want to know how to use them.’ Sarah turned with a toss of her hair and a swish of her skirts, and strode off in search of the butler. Rebecca scurried along after her. It may be a rainy stay-indoors kind of day but it seemed Sarah was still able to concoct wicked plans that could get them into trouble. Not with Spencer – Sarah seemed able to do no wrong as far as he was concerned – but with Papa or Mama, if either of them discovered what they were up to.

Spencer was in his little office in the servants’ wing. He was filling in some figures in the household’s accounts book. He looked up with a scowl when Sarah pushed open the door, but his expression quickly changed to one of fond indulgence when he saw who it was.

‘Well now, Miss Sarah, what brings you here?’ The butler twisted round in his chair and smiled broadly at the girls. He was middle-aged, greying, kind but firm with the servants. He’d worked for the Wintons for as long as Rebecca could remember.

Sarah flashed him a bright smile. ‘We were wondering whether you might show us Papa’s new duelling pistols. The ones in the display cabinet. They are so pretty, set with those rubies. We would so like to take a closer look at them.’

‘Well, I’m not too sure whether Mr Winton would allow that…’ Spencer rubbed his hand across his eyes.

‘Oh please, Spencer, dear! Just for a minute. Papa doesn’t need to ever know. He’s still away in London, isn’t he? And Mrs Winton is closeted away in her private sitting room. She won’t come out till dinner time. She never does. Please, Spencer?’ Sarah had clasped her hands in front of her, and was bouncing up and down in front of him like an overexcited child. Rebecca watched, in awe of the way Sarah seemed able to manipulate him into doing whatever she wanted to do. She remembered the secret her parents had let slip after Mrs Cooper had died, and once again wondered whether Sarah knew the truth.

‘Well…’

‘Please?’

‘Very well. We will take them out and you shall look at them. But only for a moment, mind, Miss Sarah.’ Spencer fixed her with a look that was supposed to be stern, but that wasn’t at all. Rebecca couldn’t help but let out a giggle.

‘I suppose you want to see them too, Miss Rebecca?’

‘Yes please, if it isn’t too much bother,’ she replied.

‘Don’t be silly, Rebecca. It’s never too much trouble for Spencer, doing something for us. He’d do anything for us. He loves us, don’t you, Spencer?’

‘That I do, Miss Sarah.’ He got to his feet with a weary sigh and crossed the office to his key-board, where he selected a bunch of small keys. ‘Come along, then.’

Sarah gave a small skip of excitement as she followed the butler back through to the main hallway. Rebecca trailed behind, keeping a watch in case someone came along and saw them. Although it would only matter if Mama saw them, and as Sarah had said, she was unlikely to leave her room until dinner time.

Spencer unlocked the cabinet and reverentially took out the mahogany box. ‘Mr Winton bought this as a display piece,’ he said. ‘In the last century, owning a set of duelling pistols was a kind of gentleman’s status symbol. I don’t think they have ever been fired. The pistols and their case are really just a decorative item.’

‘But could they be fired?’ Sarah asked.

‘Certainly. They are fully functioning pistols. Let’s take them somewhere we can lay them out and I’ll show you all the pieces.’ Spencer led the way back towards the servants’ wing, and into the servants’ dining hall. It was deserted. He closed the door behind them and laid the box on the table. He seemed almost as excited as Sarah was by the thought of taking them out of the box. Rebecca watched as he removed first the two pistols, then a rod, a brush, a flask and a small box, and some other items. He checked the mechanism of one pistol then handed it to Sarah to hold, before doing the same with the other, which he handed to Rebecca.

‘They’re unloaded, so they’re perfectly safe,’ he said. Nevertheless she felt her heart pound as she turned the pistol over in her hands. This was a weapon capable of killing a man at a distance. It was heavy, and felt unbalanced, as though it would be an effort to hold it pointing straight. The dark wooden stock was set with engraved silver plates and studded with rubies, and the mechanism was made of shiny brass.

‘What are all these other things?’ Sarah asked, indicating the items Spencer had removed from the box.

‘The ramrod, cleaning brush, shot, and the gunpowder,’ he replied, indicating each item. ‘And tools for maintaining the pistols.’

‘Real gunpowder?’ Rebecca gasped.

Spencer opened the flask. ‘Yes, there is some in there. The set is complete, in readiness for a duel. The two pistols would be primed and loaded by the duellists’ seconds, men who’d been chosen to ensure the duel was carried out fairly. The gentlemen would then take a pistol each, stand back to back and take an agreed number of paces away from each other before turning and firing. The paces would be counted out loud by the seconds.’

‘It’s barbaric.’ Rebecca felt slightly sick at the idea of two men, men such as her father, wanting to shoot and kill another man just to settle a point of honour. She glanced at Sarah. The other girl’s face was flushed, her eyes bright with excitement.

‘Can you imagine having two men fight a duel over you, Rebecca? Wouldn’t that be the ultimate declaration of love? Suppose, for example, a gentleman fell in love with you, but you are promised to Charles de Witt so he challenged the other man to a duel! Wouldn’t that be thrilling? I should simply adore it if men fought to the death over me!’

‘Ah no, Miss Sarah. Duels are rarely fought to the death. Often the duellists will purposefully miss their targets. The point is to prove you were prepared to put yourself in danger for the sake of your honour.’ Spencer smiled indulgently at the girls.

‘But sometimes people would be shot?’ asked Rebecca. She put her pistol back into the box.

‘Yes, sometimes, and occasionally a duel would result in a death. Thankfully duels are rare nowadays. If a man is killed in a duel then his opponent is deemed guilty of murder and should be tried accordingly. Although I must admit, very often if the duel is considered to have been fought fairly, he will be let off lightly.’ Spencer held out his hand to take the second pistol from Sarah, but she did not pass it back.

‘I would very much like to learn how to prime it,’ she said quietly.

‘Sarah! We mustn’t load them! It mightn’t be safe!’ Rebecca was horrified. It was bad enough holding a dangerous weapon but if it was actually loaded… She had heard Papa read out newspaper reports of pistols that had misfired and injured their owners.

‘It would be perfectly safe, Miss Rebecca,’ Spencer said. ‘Duelling pistols are the most reliable flintlocks there are. And I assure you I know how to prime it safely.’

‘Have you acted as a second, perhaps, in a duel?’ Sarah asked.

‘No. But I have not always been a butler. As you know, I was previously in the army. I fought at Waterloo and have a medal to show for it.’ Spencer pulled himself upright as though standing to attention in front of a superior officer. ‘Therefore I am well acquainted with weapons such as these, although it has been a long time since I handled one.’

‘So will you show us?’ Sarah pleaded.

Spencer regarded her for a moment, then nodded. ‘Very well. You may watch but don’t touch anything.’ He picked up one of the pistols and twisted the cock on the top, which held the flint. ‘There, that is in the half-cocked safety position, which means it can’t accidentally fire. Now it is safe for me to prime and load it.’

Next, he opened the little flask and measured out a small amount of gunpowder, which he tipped into the muzzle end of the pistol. He added a ball of lead shot encased in paper from the little box, and pushed the whole lot down the pistol with the ramrod. ‘The gun is now loaded but not primed,’ he told the girls. ‘It is still safe.’

He then opened the flash pan lid on the top of the pistol and tipped a little more gunpowder onto the pan, before closing the lid. ‘And now it is primed. But it still cannot fire in this half-cocked position. The cock must be fully back in order for the trigger to work. If fired, the trigger releases the cock, which causes the flint to strike the frizzen – look, this piece here. That causes a spark, which ignites the gunpowder in the flash pan. The flash passes through a hole into the barrel, igniting the main gunpowder and thus discharging the gun.’ He looked at the two girls as though to see if they had followed all this.

Rebecca was not sure she understood how the mechanism worked, but she knew she’d seen enough. ‘Thank you, Spencer, that was most informative. I think perhaps you ought to unload the weapon now, and we should put it all away.’

‘No, Rebecca, don’t be a spoilsport. I think we should all go outside and Spencer should fire the gun. It doesn’t look as though it is possible to get the shot and all the gunpowder out unless the pistol is actually fired. Isn’t that right, Spencer?’ Sarah stared at the butler, and Rebecca thought she saw her wink.

‘Well, the shot should come out if you tip the gun upside down, and the flash pan is easy enough to empty. But you are right, not all the gunpowder can be extracted from the combustion chamber. I do not think Mr Winton would be very happy if I fired his gun, however.’

‘Mr Winton isn’t here so won’t ever need to know. Come on, Spencer, look, the rain has eased off so we could go outside and fire it? Please? Dearest Spencer, I would so like to see it fired, just once!’ Sarah was in full persuasion mode again, Rebecca noted, and it was working. ‘And now that it is loaded, you might as well. You can’t put it away like this, for that certainly wouldn’t be safe.’

Spencer sighed, and then smiled indulgently at her. He put the other pieces back in the box, but kept the loaded pistol out. Handing the box to Sarah to carry, he led the way out of the servants’ dining room, along a corridor and out through a side door. This led into the kitchen gardens, which they skirted round and left through a gate, emerging into the wide open parkland. Spencer stopped about twenty yards from a large spreading oak tree. ‘I shall discharge the weapon at the tree,’ he said.

Rebecca gasped. ‘But what if someone gets in the way?’

‘Miss Rebecca, look, there is no one in the way now. You and Miss Sarah shall stand behind me, a good distance back. No one can possibly approach without us seeing.’ He stood sideways on, raised his arm and pointed the pistol at the tree. With his other hand he cocked it and then fired, before either girl had a chance to say anything more. There was a flash, then an enormous bang, and a shower of bark fragments flew from the tree. A crow flapped frantically away cawing loudly and a pair of pigeons followed, from higher in the tree. Rebecca couldn’t stop herself from squealing and clasping her hands over her mouth, while Sarah was jumping up and down clapping her hands. There was a sharp, acrid smell and a puff of smoke rose and dispersed on the breeze.

‘There, my ladies. I have defended your honour and fired my pistol. The tree is injured, though not mortally so, but he will not dare cross me again!’ Spencer’s face was flushed, and Rebecca realised he’d enjoyed the feeling of holding and firing a pistol again. Perhaps it was the first time since Waterloo, almost twenty years earlier.

‘Thank you, dear Spencer! Thank you! What a wonderful loud noise it made. It was simply thrilling!’ Sarah flung her arms about the butler to his astonishment.

‘Miss Sarah, this is no way to behave! I must remind you I am still holding the pistol and it must now be cleaned and returned to its case. Come along now, and watch this part of the proceedings too. And then I really must return to my duties.’ He extricated himself from her embrace and picked up the case that she’d put down on the ground, tutting over the water marks from the wet grass. ‘I hope those don’t show when it’s dry or we shall all be in trouble.’

He set off back to the house, and Rebecca followed him with relief. That was quite enough excitement for one day. She hoped after the pistols were put away Sarah might settle to some quiet reading or embroidery, or some other occupation more suited to young ladies.

Chapter 5

April 2015

Gemma was first to arrive at the coffee shop where she and Nat always met, in town, around the corner from the museum. She picked a table near the window from where she would see Nat approaching, and ordered two lattes as usual. She felt strangely nervous. After Nat’s reaction to her news on the phone that morning, she wasn’t sure how things would be between them. Hopefully it had just been due to her bad timing with the phone call, and Nat’s hangover. Nat would breeze into the coffee shop, embrace her in a huge bear hug and squeal with excitement about the engagement. As she sat staring out of the window and stirring her coffee, she convinced herself that was what would happen.

When Nat arrived, perfectly made up and stylishly dressed in a loose silk shirt over jeans, Gemma’s first thought was that she’d been right. Nat smiled broadly, kissed Gemma on both cheeks and sat down with her latte.

‘Well, Miss Sneaky-Pants, you’re finally going to make an honest man of our lovely Ben, are you? You never told me you were planning on getting hitched. Would have been nice if you had mentioned it.’ Nat winked, giving the lie to her words, and sipped her latte.

‘It was Ben who proposed! It was a surprise – I really wasn’t expecting it. And I did tell you, first thing this morning,’ Gemma protested. She wasn’t a hundred per cent sure whether Nat was upset or not.

‘Ha, yes, when I was in the bath and hung-over.’

‘I thought if I waited till now to tell you you’d have been upset, so I told you first. Haven’t even told Mum and Dad yet. I’ll ring them this evening.’

Nat looked pleased to have been told the news before Gemma’s parents. ‘They’ll be delighted their baby girl is getting wed. They’ll offer to pay for half of it, you mum will turn up in a huge hat and your dad will grin from ear to ear as he gives you away. You have no idea how lucky you are, Gem. God, if it was me, my mother wouldn’t care unless it meant free booze for her at the wedding, and my father would say, “That’s nice, sweetheart,” but of course he wouldn’t come, Australia being too far away and a daughter’s wedding being not enough of a reason for him to exist for a moment in the same country as Mum, let alone the same church.’ Nat shook her head as though in despair at her family. Her tone was jokey but Gemma thought she could detect an undercurrent of seriousness. She had a point. Gemma’s family were certainly more conventional than Nat’s. As a rebellious teen she’d envied Nat’s chaotic home life, but as she’d matured she’d come to properly appreciate her close, supportive parents.

‘I’m sure that’s not right. Your dad would fly over if you were getting married, and your parents would surely be able to be in the same room for one day.’ Gemma was about to say something about limiting the supply of drink to Nat’s alcoholic mother, but thought better of it.

‘Yeah well. It’s not me getting married, is it, so no point discussing it. I’ll probably never marry. I’ll end up a bitter and twisted old spinster living in a house that smells of cat wee. You’ll bring your kids on duty visits, and they’ll say, “Oh no, not batty old Aunty Nat,” and you’ll sit there drinking bitter coffee with me and wondering how soon you can leave. Oh, I can see it now. All our years of friendship will come to nothing once you’re all cosily married up.’

Again, although Nat laughed as she made this speech, there was a touch of bitterness underneath her words. Time to change the subject, Gemma thought, though she’d been longing to tell Nat exactly how Ben had proposed and how it’d made her feel, and what her early ideas for a wedding, venue, dress and honeymoon were. But she had the feeling that any more talk of her engagement would just wind Nat up and perhaps it was best left at that. In any case, there was another much more imminent wedding – that of Ben’s sister Anna and her fiancé Jake – and the whole point of today’s shopping trip was to try to find outfits for that.

Gemma drained the rest of her coffee. ‘Well. Shall we get started? It’s midday and we’ve a lot of shops to get round. I’m thinking of a dress and jacket combination. What about you?’

‘Not a dress and jacket, that’s for sure. I’m not old enough for that kind of outfit. It’s what the mother of the bride would pick, along with an oversized hat or a fascinator a foot long. Have you paid the bill?’ Nat stood up, slung her bag onto her shoulder and began leaving the café without waiting for an answer.

‘Yes, all paid, my treat, don’t worry,’ Gemma said, at Nat’s retreating back. She shook her head. Nat was in a very strange mood today.

The shopping trip was a disaster. Nat tried on a hundred outfits but liked nothing. Gemma barely got a chance to try anything on, except for a couple of items Nat picked out for her, which were completely unsuitable and not at all her style. A seventies-print maxi-dress with shoestring shoulder straps, and a pair of wide-leg pink silk trousers with a strapless sparkling silver top. Every time Gemma fingered an item she liked the look of Nat hurried her along to the next shop. If Gemma didn’t know Nat better, she’d think she was sabotaging the shopping trip on purpose. It wasn’t at all like the hundreds of other shopping trips they’d done together in the past, when they would both try on loads of outfits, giving honest opinions, giggling if something looked awful on, encouraging each other to buy what suited them best. She supposed her friend must be still grumpy about the badly timed phone call this morning. Or still hung-over. Whatever it was, Nat was snippy all day. As in the coffee shop, she’d say something snarky but then smile brightly or wink or laugh. Gemma was perplexed.

After a while she gave up trying to find something to wear to the wedding. She’d shop on her own some other time. She spent the afternoon following Nat around, trying to say the right things about the clothes Nat tried on, and trying not to mention Ben and her engagement, although it was all she could really think about.

Eventually they reached the top end of the High Street. Gemma suppressed a sigh of relief. ‘That’s that, then. No more shops. We’ll have to call it a day, I think. Maybe nearer the time there’ll be some new stuff in.’

Nat gazed down a narrow side street. ‘We haven’t tried La Belle Femme yet. She pointed at a boutique tucked into one of the historic old buildings along the street.

‘Bit pricey for us, isn’t it?’ Gemma had only looked in the window once or twice before but had seen enough to know it was out of her league. And she was pretty sure Nat earned a lot less than she did.

‘Speak for yourself. I’ll spend what I like on clothing, and I’d have thought you would too, as it’s your future sister-in-law’s wedding. I quite fancy that dress in the window.’ Nat pointed at a skimpy dress, the skirt of which was embroidered with a peacock feather design, the top half encrusted with sequins. It did not look cheap. She pushed open the door, which rang a bell somewhere in the back of the shop, and Gemma had no choice but to follow her in.

There were very few clothes rails in the shop. A shabby-chic leather sofa took up most of the space in the middle of the room, and a few dresses were artfully arranged on hooks on the wall. The lighting was…subtle, if Gemma was being kind. Dim if she was being truthful.

A woman wearing far too much make-up, dressed in a neat black dress and heavy gold jewellery emerged from the back room. Although she quickly put on an expression of polite helpfulness, Gemma had noticed her previous expression when she’d seen who was in the shop. Clearly she and Nat weren’t the right sort of customers. Her instinct was to spend about thirty seconds looking at the items on show and then leave. She glanced at Nat, who apparently had other ideas.

Nat was fingering a black silk dress with an asymmetric hem and feathers around the neckline. Not machine washable then, Gemma thought.

‘I’d like to try this on, please,’ Nat said to the sales assistant. ‘And the peacock dress in the window, while I’m at it.’

‘Certainly. This way, please,’ said the assistant, leading them into a small changing area at the back of the shop. Half the cubicle was taken up with a huge rubber plant. ‘Wait here while I fetch the garments.’

‘Classy place,’ Nat said, when the woman had gone.

‘What price are those frocks?’ Gemma whispered.

‘Dunno. Don’t care, either!’ Nat pulled a leaf off the plant and used it to fan her face.

‘But can you afford them?’

‘Course not. But it’ll be fun trying them on. You try them too. That black one would look great on you, with your blonde hair.’

‘Oh, no. I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that if I’ve no intention of…’ Gemma broke off speaking as the sales assistant returned, with the two dresses each on padded hangers and covered with plastic. The assistant glared at her, then hung the dresses on a hook beside the rubber plant.

‘I’ll fetch a chair for your friend,’ she said, while Nat began stripping off.

‘Oh, no, please don’t trouble yourself,’ Gemma said, but the sales assistant only glared at her again and brought an uncomfortable-looking gilt-backed chair from behind the sales counter. Gemma perched on it. It was as uncomfortable as it looked.

Nat had the black dress on. ‘What do you think?’ She twirled around, admiring herself in the mirror.

‘Not with those shoes,’ Gemma said. Nat was still wearing her red Converse trainers.

‘Obviously. Well, this one’s nothing special. I’ll try the other.’

The peacock dress looked good on Nat, Gemma had to admit. It fitted her perfectly, showed off her lovely legs and curvy waist, and her long black hair was stunning against the glittery top half. ‘Wow. That’s just amazing on you, Nat. Show me the price tag?’

Nat twisted so that Gemma could peer at the label hanging from the zip at the back. ‘There’s no price on it.’

‘I guess, if you have to ask…’ Nat rolled her eyes dramatically and peeled the dress off. Gemma had a fit of the giggles at Nat’s eye-roll, and Nat soon joined in. This was more like it, Gemma thought. The whole shopping trip should have been a girlie giggle, rather than all the snide comments and snippiness. Perhaps Nat’s hangover had finally worn off. It was good to end the day on a high note.

‘What’s the verdict, ladies?’ asked the sales assistant when they exited the changing room.

‘I don’t like the black one on me. The peacock is nice, but aren’t peacock feathers supposed to be bad luck? I’m not sure I could wear it, for that reason. Something awful might happen to me. I’d be constantly fearing for my safety.’ Nat breezed out of the shop. Gemma hurried after her, one hand clamped over her mouth to hold back the laughter that threatened to erupt. The shopping trip had certainly ended on a high.

That evening, Gemma rang her parents to tell them of her engagement. They were as delighted as she’d expected they’d be. Her mother immediately started planning the guest list while her father jokingly grumbled that he supposed he’d have to buy a new suit, even though he’d just retired.

Later, Ben came round to Gemma’s flat for a meal. She’d offered to cook fajitas for him. Their first meal together as an engaged couple! She sang along to Ed Sheeran’s Thinking Out Loud as she chopped onions and peppers. Perhaps they should have that song as the first dance at their wedding? It was so romantic; it was definitely one of her favourites. She’d ask Ben later what he thought. He’d probably agree. Dear old Ben, he was generally happy to go along with what other people wanted. Gemma knew already that the wedding preparations would be largely up to her to decide upon. Although no doubt her mum would want to get involved.

She had the tiny table in her kitchen set, the food chopped and ready to quickly cook, and a bottle of wine open when her flat doorbell rang. Why didn’t Ben use his key? She’d given him one years ago. As she went to let him in she wondered why they’d never moved in together. They’d idly discussed it on a few occasions, but neither of their flats was really big enough for two people with many years of accumulated possessions. They’d both have had to sell up and buy something bigger together. Well, now they were going to get married they’d have to do that anyway. Gemma would miss her cosy little flat but was sure that she could make a house she shared with Ben just as comfortable and cosy.

‘Hey, gorgeous!’ Ben leaned over and kissed her as she opened the door. ‘My fiancée, no less! Mrs McArthur to be. Looking good, girl!’

‘Come on in, Mr Rowling,’ Gemma said, giggling.

‘That’s a bit progressive! I don’t mind if you don’t take my name but not sure I’d take yours. Well, something smells good.’ Ben shrugged off his leather jacket and hung it on a coat hook.

Gemma handed him a glass of wine. ‘Shiraz all right for you?’

‘Anything, darling, you know me. So, how did the girlie shopping trip go today? Did you get your outfit for Anna’s wedding sorted?’

Gemma grimaced. ‘No. I’ll have to look again some other time. Nat tried on loads of stuff but I don’t think she’s made up her mind what she wants.’

‘Did you tell her our news? Bet she was delighted, wasn’t she?’ Ben grinned at her expectantly. She chewed her lip as she decided how to answer him.

‘Well. Yes, she was pleased for us.’

‘You don’t sound too sure of that. What did she say?’

Gemma shook her head. ‘She didn’t say much. That was the funny thing about her reaction. She just didn’t seem to want to talk about it or to let me tell her anything much about it. She didn’t even want to know how you proposed.’ Gemma brushed away a stray tear that had come unbidden to her eye. ‘It’s not the reaction I was expecting from my best mate.’

‘Aw, Gem.’ Ben moved over to her and wrapped his arms around her. ‘Don’t be upset. Perhaps she was having an off day.’

‘She was hung-over. She tried to pull a bloke who turned out to be gay last night.’

‘Oops!’ Ben gave a snort of laughter. ‘That is so like her.’

‘But even so, no matter how bad she felt, she could have at least said congratulations, couldn’t she? She wasn’t feeling so bad she couldn’t manage an afternoon trailing round the shops.’ The more Gemma thought about it, the more bitter she felt. Why hadn’t Nat hugged her and squealed and been excited for her? She would have, if their positions were reversed.

‘Very odd behaviour,’ Ben agreed. ‘Wonder what’s up with her?’

‘No idea.’ Gemma shrugged and went back into the kitchen to get on with the cooking. Ben followed her in, bringing his wine. ‘Frankly, Ben, it pissed me off. I mean, it’s the biggest and best thing that’s ever happened to me, after meeting you in the first place of course, so for her to just ignore me when I tell her we’re getting married is really hurtful.’ Gemma threw the vegetables she’d chopped earlier into the frying pan where they sizzled and spat violently.

‘I’m sure she didn’t mean to hurt you. Is that pan too hot?’ Ben reached over her and turned the gas down a little.

He had a point. Gemma realised she’d spattered oil all over her favourite T-shirt. ‘Bugger, look at me.’

‘I wonder if she’s jealous,’ Ben said. ‘Perhaps you laid it on a bit thick and came across too smug. Some single people hate couples just because they’re not part of one.’

‘I didn’t get the chance to lay it on too thick!’ Gemma retorted. ‘I mean, I barely had chance to say anything about it, apart from that you’d proposed and I’d said yes. She just didn’t want to know.’ She flung the chopped chicken into the pan along with the vegetables. It wasn’t sizzling enough now, so she turned the heat up again.

Ben held his hands up in submission. ‘Hey, I know you wouldn’t have rubbed it in. Maybe she’ll be all right with it next time you see her or talk to her – when she’s had chance to think about it a little. She’ll be as excited as you are, I bet.’ He caught Gemma’s eye. ‘You are still excited about it, aren’t you? Not having second thoughts?’

She laid down the wooden spoon she’d been stirring the fajita mix with, and put her arms around his neck. ‘Course I’m still excited. Nothing I want more than to get married to you, silly.’ She stretched up and kissed him, long and lingering. His hands ran up and down her back, pulling her close. She felt as though she was where she belonged. In his arms, safe and secure, where nothing else mattered.

A sudden deafening beeping caused them to separate. ‘Argh, the smoke detector!’ Gemma said, grabbing a tea towel and flicking it frantically under the detector.

Ben turned the gas down, put the extractor on, and opened the kitchen window. ‘Thought you had the pan too hot,’ he said.

‘I’ve ruined it,’ Gemma said, feeling close to tears. Her first attempt at cooking for her new fiancé and she’d managed to smoke out the flat. And she was usually so super careful about the oven and hob, checking several times that the gas was off before leaving the flat, for example. Now she couldn’t even cook a simple stir-fry. What a failure she was.

‘No, it’s fine – look.’ Ben was stirring the mix. ‘My fault. I got carried away there, snogging you. So, actually, it is your fault after all for being so flipping irresistible. You go and sit down and I’ll finish this off. And no more worrying about what Nat does or doesn’t think about our engagement. All right?’

Chapter 6

June 1837

‘I don’t feel old enough to marry,’ said Rebecca. She looked at Sarah. ‘Do you?’

‘Who said anything about getting married?’ Sarah put down her stitching. It was, Rebecca noticed, quite poorly executed. She glanced at her own handiwork – the stitches neat and tidy, the back of the embroidery almost as good as the front. Sarah just didn’t have the patience to sit and sew. Her threads were tangled, the material puckered where she’d pulled it too tight, and there were grubby fingermarks on one corner of the sampler.

‘We’re eighteen now. You’re almost nineteen. Mama and Papa will soon be wanting us married and settled. That’s why we’re going to all those balls, of course. Although those are really for your benefit as I am already promised to Charles de Witt.’ Rebecca smiled at her adopted sister.

Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘I know all that, silly. And I know you seem happy to go along with Papa’s plans to marry you off to that oaf, Charles. But I don’t want to get married. I’d rather stay single and independent. For a few years at least. Maybe when I’m twenty-five or so I’ll marry but why rush into it?’

‘Twenty-five – why, you’ll be an old maid by then! I think a girl should be married by the time she turns twenty. I hope I will be. Charles de Witt has recently returned from his travels on the continent, and has taken a house in Bridhampton. He is to come to dine with us tonight, to renew our acquaintance. I confess, I am a little nervous about seeing him again – it must be six years since we last met. I was just a child. I hope he is not an “oaf” as you put it, as he is supposed to become my husband.’ Rebecca gazed at Sarah, whose hair was fairer, eyes bluer and figure shapelier, than her own. ‘He’ll probably prefer you, in any case. You are by far the prettier of the two of us.’

‘Nonsense! You have the sweeter nature.’ Sarah flashed her a smile. ‘In any case, I shall not be interested in him. I told you, I do not wish to marry for some years. I’d rather be free, to flirt a little with whomever I choose. Like, for example, Jed Arthur.’

Rebecca glanced at her in shock. It was not the first time she had mentioned that name. Jed lived in one of the cottages on the estate. He was but a farmhand. A handsome one, admittedly, but a labourer nonetheless, and not someone Sarah ought to be encouraging.

‘Sarah, it is not ladylike to flirt with farmhands. Surely you know that,’ she admonished. She received only a dismissive shrug in reply.

The girls were sitting on the window seats of their second floor sitting room, the old schoolroom. Sarah gazed out of the window for a moment before speaking again. ‘Papa’s plan for me is that when you marry, I will go with you as your paid companion. You know that. And my plan is to save all my earnings so that I have a small fortune of my own. With money, a woman can be free to do whatever she wants. She does not need to marry. And my only chance of having money is for you to marry and me to become a member of your staff. So I wish that Charles turns out to be personable, and that you and he live happily ever after.’

Rebecca laughed. ‘I too hope for that, as long as there’s a happy ever after for you as well, dear sister.’

What would Charles be like? Rebecca hadn’t seen him for years, and this would be the first time they’d met since she was grown and of marriageable age. She felt strangely nervous at the prospect of meeting the man who was intended to become her husband. While she knew that her father would not force her to marry Charles if she found him truly detestable, she did so want to please her parents. The happiest outcome of the evening would be if she found Charles to be an appealing sort of person, and if the feeling was mutual. She resolved to take extra care with her appearance when she dressed for dinner that night. She would wear her pale green gown. She’d been told it suited her best.

At the dinner party Rebecca found herself placed beside Charles. Sarah was sitting opposite, between Mr and Mrs Winton. It was pretty clear that the older folk wanted Charles and Rebecca to have a chance to get to know each other. Rebecca’s mother sent many an encouraging smile at her across the table.

As the soup was served, Rebecca stole a sideways glance at Charles. He was certainly pleasant enough to look at, now that he was a man, more so than she would have guessed from her sketchy memories of having met him as a child. His hair was dark, his nose straight, his eyes a warm brown. He was reserved yet polite, and when he smiled his face lit up. He looked, Rebecca thought, like a kind and thoughtful man. She smiled to herself, wondering what his first impressions of her were.

‘Rebecca, dear,’ Mama said, breaking into her reverie. ‘I do hope you will play the piano for us later this evening.’

Charles turned towards her and smiled. ‘I should like to hear you play, Miss Winton. There is nothing I enjoy more than sitting by the fireside listening to an accomplished young lady playing the piano.’

Rebecca blushed. ‘Oh, I would not call myself accomplished. Competent, perhaps, but no more.’

‘Rubbish, Rebecca,’ said her father. ‘You are a very fine pianist. Your piano tutor told us so. And the Lord knows you practise enough.’

‘I enjoy playing, that is true.’ Rebecca wished the conversation could move away from her abilities. She glanced at Sarah hoping her friend might help steer the company onto another topic. But Sarah was scowling across the table at her. Rebecca frowned. Earlier she had said she was not interested in Charles, and would be happy if things worked out between him and Rebecca. But now she seemed quite put out that all his attention so far had been on Rebecca.

Rebecca turned back to Charles who was regarding her with a smile on his face.

‘So you will play for us later?’ he asked.

‘Yes, of course. I only hope you are not disappointed.’

‘I could not possibly be disappointed by you. I am looking forward to it immensely.’

‘Do you ride, Mr de Witt?’ Sarah interrupted them.

‘I do, yes. Do you, Miss Cooper?’ Charles answered. Rebecca felt a mixture of relief that her musical abilities were no longer the topic of conversation, and annoyance that Charles’s attention was now focused on Sarah.

‘As often as I can,’ Sarah said. ‘In fact, if the day is fine tomorrow, I think I shall go riding. I shall try to persuade Rebecca to come too. Perhaps you might ride over and accompany us?’

‘That sounds like a delightful plan,’ Charles answered. ‘I shall certainly ride over here tomorrow morning.’ He smiled across the table at Sarah, who wore a faintly triumphant look.

Rebecca no longer went riding, and Sarah knew it. Ever since she’d been thrown from her pony a few years ago, on one of Sarah’s ill-advised escapades where they’d galloped across the parkland and her pony had refused to jump a hedge, Rebecca had been put off riding. She would not be persuaded to go out. Why was Sarah doing this? It was as though she was trying to win Charles for herself despite all that she had said earlier. Perhaps she liked the look of him after all.

‘What do you make of our new queen?’ Charles asked Rebecca. ‘I think she is about your age. Imagine becoming Queen of England at just eighteen! What a weight she has to bear on such young shoulders.’

‘I should hate to be in her shoes,’ Rebecca replied. ‘So much will be expected of her. She will not have a moment’s peace to enjoy her life. Everything she does will be reported in the newspapers.’

‘But she is rich and gets to live in a palace and do whatever she wants,’ said Sarah.

Charles smiled indulgently. ‘I think what Miss Winton is suggesting is that Queen Victoria won’t be able to do just what she wants. She will be expected to perform her duties and be an example to the whole country. She’ll be expected to marry soon, and her choice of husband will be critical.’

‘She’s queen – she can choose anyone she wants to marry,’ Sarah replied.

Charles shook his head. ‘Not at all, Miss Cooper. Her choice of husband will be closely scrutinised and will have to be approved by her advisers. He will need to be someone of suitable status, perhaps a foreign prince.’

‘What if she chooses not to marry?’ Sarah asked. Her tone was flirtatious. ‘After all, Good Queen Bess never married, so an unmarried queen is not unprecedented.’

‘Perhaps she will find someone suitable who meets with her advisers’ approval and whom she loves,’ Rebecca said. She did hope so. It felt a bit like her own situation – being expected to marry but wanting to love the person her parents had chosen for her. She stole another sideways glance at Charles, then blushed when she realised he was looking at her.

‘I hope she does,’ he said, quietly. ‘No one should be forced to marry someone for whom they don’t care.’

After dinner, when the party had retired to the drawing room, the call went out once again for Rebecca to provide some music. She nervously settled herself at the piano, and looked to Sarah to stand at her side and turn the pages of her music. But Sarah was across the room, deep in conversation with Charles, their heads close as they chuckled together over some private joke. Rebecca noticed her mother frown as she saw them together. This was clearly not part of the plan.

In the end Spencer was called upon to act as page-turner. As Rebecca played a selection of Bach arias she lost herself in the music. When she finally finished playing, she glanced up to find Charles gazing at her from across the room, an expression of deep admiration on his face. Sarah, beside him, looked distinctly unhappy.

The next day dawned bright and clear, and Sarah shook Rebecca awake early.

‘Hurry up! Charles will be here soon. Remember we promised to go riding with him?’

Rebecca groaned and hauled herself into a sitting position. ‘You did. I don’t ride any more, as well you know.’

‘But I can’t go with him on my own. It wouldn’t be proper, if just he and I went riding. If we both go, that is more acceptable. Besides, you are supposed to be getting to know him, aren’t you? What better opportunity than trotting gently through the woods together, side by side, chatting about this and that? I shall follow behind as your chaperone, and I promise I will not get in the way, nor encourage you to gallop.’ She smiled to herself. ‘Though I may have a gallop myself across the open parkland. I doubt I shall be able to resist.’

Rebecca sighed. ‘Sarah, I have not ridden since Bluebell threw me. I do not intend going riding again. You know my preferred pursuits are quieter, less strenuous and indoors. I don’t understand why you torment me like this.’

Sarah sniffed. ‘I am only trying to help progress your budding romance. If you don’t want to go, then I shall have to go alone with him after all. We mustn’t disappoint him, as he is expecting to go riding. When we return perhaps you could delight him with your musical skills again, or show him your embroidery. I am sure he would enjoy that.’ She left the room, letting the door bang closed behind her.

Rebecca was left bemused. Why was Sarah acting like this? They had always been so close. It broke her heart when Sarah treated her badly. She shook her head. Perhaps she was being too sensitive. She decided to keep out of the way until Sarah and Charles returned from their ride, and to spend some time with him afterwards. He had been invited to lunch with them, so there was plenty of time. She rang the bell for her maid Tilly, and asked for breakfast to be brought up to her in her room. She sent Tilly away with a message: ‘When Mr de Witt arrives, please ask Spencer to tell him I am indisposed for riding but will gladly meet him later for lunch.’

A little while after breakfast, she stood at her bedroom window and watched Charles and Sarah ride across the parkland behind the hall. They looked good together – Sarah’s dramatic red riding habit looked stunning against the grey mare she was riding, and Charles’s green coat contrasted well with his black mount. They appeared to be laughing together at something, as they cantered over the grasslands. Rebecca lost sight of them as they approached the woods at the far side of the park. She turned away from the window. Perhaps Sarah would be a better match for Charles than herself? He’d appreciated her piano-playing last night, and they had discovered a similar taste in literature, but if he wanted an adventurous, lively wife then Sarah would be better for him than she would. If only she hadn’t liked him so much, or if her parents had not planned for her to marry him, she would gladly have stepped aside and made way for Sarah.

But she did like Charles, and she did not want to let him go without a fight.

Rebecca was reading in the library when the riders returned. There was some commotion in the entrance hall, so she put down her book and rushed out to see what was happening.

Charles was standing in the hallway, being relieved of his mud-encrusted green coat by Spencer. ‘Sir, I shall have this cleaned for you, and perhaps you can borrow something of Mr Winton’s to wear on your ride home this afternoon.’

‘Thank you. I fear it is quite ruined. Ah, Miss Winton! We missed you on our ride, did we not, Miss Cooper?’ said Charles.

‘Oh, please, Charles, do call me Sarah. Let’s not be quite so formal with each other. I am so sorry about your fall, truly I am.’

‘Whatever happened?’ Rebecca asked, torn between wanting to reproach Sarah for being so informal, and concern for Charles who was walking stiffly across the hall, rubbing at his shoulder.

‘It was nothing,’ said Charles, taking a seat on a hall chair.

Rebecca crossed the hall to kneel before him. ‘You are hurt? Should Spencer send someone to fetch the doctor?’

‘Not at all. It is just a bruise.’ He smiled at her, and Rebecca felt her heart leap. His smile was warm and made his eyes light up. Was it only for her, or did he use that smile for everyone?

‘Poor Charles,’ Sarah said, coming to kneel beside Rebecca. ‘His horse took fright as we went through the woods. I tried to help but am afraid I could not manage to catch the reins of his horse before it threw him.’ She suppressed a giggle. ‘Oh, do excuse me, but it was rather funny, you see, he landed right on the muddiest part of the path. A foot to either left or right and his coat would not have suffered as much.’

‘But I think my shoulder would have suffered more. The soft mud at least cushioned my fall.’ Charles was unsmiling as he answered Sarah.

‘Come, Mr de Witt. Let’s sit in the drawing room. It is not long till lunch, but I shall ring for refreshments for you immediately.’ Rebecca stood up. Instinctively she held out a hand to pull Charles to his feet, but retracted it before he could take it. She wasn’t sure now whether he was courting her or Sarah.

Mrs Winton joined them at lunch. Mr Winton was in town on business. Sarah told the story of Charles’s fall, once again. Rebecca flinched at her sister’s undisguised glee at the poor man’s misfortune. Mrs Winton seemed not to approve either, glaring at Sarah from her place at the head of the table. She insisted on providing a carriage to take Charles home, rather than allow him to ride with his injured shoulder.

After lunch, when Charles had left, Rebecca and Sarah were making their way upstairs to their sitting room, when Mrs Winton called them back and bade them sit a few minutes in the drawing room with her.

‘Charles has grown into a very pleasant young man, has he not?’ she asked, addressing her question to Rebecca.

She blushed. ‘Yes. I like him very much, Mama.’

‘I like him also,’ Sarah said. There was a touch of defiance in her voice. It worried Rebecca. What Sarah wanted, Sarah generally got, by one means or another.

‘You, my girl, are to stay clear of him. He is promised to Rebecca. We have had an understanding with the de Witts for many years, that when Charles and Rebecca were grown, if they liked each other they should be encouraged to marry.’ Rebecca watched as Mama wagged her finger at Sarah as though she was a misbehaving child, and Sarah set her jaw. ‘Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Mama,’ Sarah said.

‘I am not your mama. Do not forget your place in this household, Sarah. My husband has indulged you for too long. As has Spencer. You will not steal Rebecca’s suitor from her. I hope I have made myself clear.’

Sarah raised her chin and stared straight ahead. ‘Yes, Mrs Winton. Perfectly clear.’

Mrs Winton stood then. ‘I am going upstairs to my room now. I shall see you both at dinner.’

Sarah followed her up, but Rebecca decided to return to the book she had been reading in the library. She felt she needed a break from Sarah’s company for the rest of the afternoon. It was the first time she could remember feeling like that about her adopted sister. Was this part of growing up – growing apart from the person you thought you loved most in all the world? No. It was just a phase. Meeting Charles had disturbed their equilibrium. They would regain it once the excitement had subsided and it was clear which of them he preferred. And if he really did prefer Sarah, even though she did like him, she would step aside. Somehow she would persuade her parents it was the right thing to do. There would be other suitors in time. She picked up her book and settled in a chair near the window.

Screams and a clatter from the hallway sent her running out of the library again almost immediately. Spencer had come running too, along with a couple of maids. Rebecca first noticed Sarah, standing on the gallery at the top of the stairs, leaning over the rails. There was momentarily an odd expression on her face, and then she screamed, one hand clutched over her mouth, the other holding on to the railings. And then Rebecca saw what she was screaming about. Partly hidden by Spencer who was kneeling on the floor, was her mother, lying in a crumpled heap at the foot of the stairs.

‘Send for the doctor, immediately!’ Spencer shouted at one of the maids, who went running off at once.

‘Mama!’ Rebecca ran across the hall and threw herself down beside her mother. Her body was twisted, legs bent at unnatural angles, and her face was deathly white.

‘Oh, Mama!’ Sarah came running down the stairs too, and sat beside Rebecca. ‘She tripped on the stairs! I tried so hard to catch her, but I couldn’t!’

‘Make way, Miss Winton and Miss Cooper. Let me examine her.’ Spencer gently pushed the girls aside and leaned over Mrs Winton, his fingers feeling for the pulse at her neck.

Rebecca watched, her mouth open with shock and tears cascading down her cheeks as he sat back on his heels and shook his head sadly. ‘I’m so sorry, girls,’ he said. ‘I believe she has broken her neck. There is nothing that can be done for her.’

‘Mama! No! No, it can’t be!’ Rebecca flung herself across her mother’s body and wept. She was vaguely aware of a weight on top of her – Sarah, also sobbing loudly. She reached for Sarah’s hand and clutched it tightly, and drew strength from feeling Sarah squeeze her hand in return. Despite their earlier differences, they would need to help each other through this terrible tragedy. Her mother, dead, from a broken neck! How could that have happened? One moment she was there, admonishing Sarah for flirting with Charles, and the next she was gone. So sudden, so terrible, so shocking. Nothing would ever be the same again.

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