CHAPTER ONE

Long shadows stretched away from the tall Sycamore, as speckles of light found their way through the tiny holes in the canopy above, down to the prostrate figure below. Burning pain kept the body immobile as it seared the lungs with each breath. Any movement made it worse.

Laboured sounds of staccato breathing could be heard as the rocking figure heaved back and forth, struggling desperately for air. The boggy ground shifted suddenly and the contorted body lurched forward. Putting out a protective hand to prevent further damage, there was the realisation that nothing was broken – the legs were intact; the arms worked. While fighting for better control over breathing and body, questions tumbled over themselves. What had happened? How much time had passed? Better yet, where was she?

The effort to breathe was easing. With head up, she could see a gap in the fence. It would be a good idea to reach the lane, find the arterial and possibly flag down a ride. Gingerly she moved one foot at a time. The crawl became a stagger and soon she was upright. A rest on the precarious rail would help and she began looking about. Still catching her breath, she saw how dirty she had become. Her previously spotless pants, like her shoes, were heavily spattered with mud.

“No good hanging about here,” she muttered and licked her lips. There was the metallic taste of blood, but no broken teeth – a cut lip? She wiped her sleeve across her face. Hells bells, what a sight! I’ll be chancing my luck if anyone will stop for me in this state.

She checked the time and swore frustrated. Her watch was gone. It had been a twenty-first present from her parents and much cherished. She had other cheepos, but she had wanted to impress the date.

So much for that ploy, too late now, she remonstrated.

“OK, here goes.” The legs were still unsteady, but at least functioning so it was a lurching progress in what she hoped was the direction of the M1.

“Oy! Where d’you think you be goin’?” The voice was peremptory with a broad accent. She turned to see who had accosted her so rudely, but her head swam too much as she made an effort to tell him where he got off. She was too slow and he too quick. In no uncertain terms, he began to lay into her with no mercy.

“You get back to t’other lads. I’ll have no skiving whilst I’m in charge and don’t you forget it. They still be helping with drawing the covert for the Master.” This burly, red-faced man, pugnacious in his self-importance was dressed as muddily as she, but certainly seemed used to giving orders. His face sported a big, handlebar moustache and an equally bushy beard. At this moment all of it was bristling with indignation. He pointed imperiously in the direction of a small clump of trees, far off on the other side of the lane. By now confusion was total, but she felt ready to get her tongue into action and articulate something in her defence. However, the irate over-seer, impatience flowing from every pore, barked in her ear: “Get on with it, boy. It’s to Featherstone Copse with you … at the double!” He gave her a quick once over. “And where are your gaiters? Never mind. I’ve no time now. I’ll speak to you later.”

What a mean look.

At this stage Mallory was at a complete loss and could only wish to put as much distance between her and this obnoxious individual as quickly as possible. Forget speaking to him, she would just take off and head in the direction indicated. She had spotted a tall chimney which must mean a house. She would speak to someone more approachable and reasonable. This dick-head was wacko!

The staggering decreased as her balance returned. Also, her head began to regain a normal feel. The terrain across the paddock was uneven and downhill, making her slow and clumsy, but she was feeling better. More like her old self. Things were looking up. Get some help and she could be on her way.

Gaining the hollow it was possible to see the copse was composed of Elms, Sycamores and some Silver Birch, not too densely clustered so they must have been here for some time. To cut through, Mallory had to zigzag her way between the tall trunks and it was then the body came into view, sprawled out amongst the dry leaves. Not far was a stamping horse, aggressively cropping at short tufts.

As best she could, she made haste to assist. The coat had fallen open to reveal baggy breeches and a dried bloodstain from a long cut on the thigh. She guessed it was a young woman who had come a cropper, but hard to tell with the face grimed and hair awry. Chocolaty brown tendrils had escaped from the little hat, now sitting askew. Odd-looking, rather like a man’s bowler; high crowned and small brimmed. Despite the dirt, it was easy to see the riding gloves and boots were of the finest leather. The eyelids began to quiver and fluttered open. Momentarily, Mallory glimpsed the most startlingly green eyes flecked with brown and gold, she had ever seen. Quickly they were veiled behind dense, black lashes as the lids drifted closed again. She would check her for further injuries later, but at least she knew she was not unconscious or worse dead. Now her priority was to collect and calm this animal, before he had a chance to wreak havoc on unsuspecting motorists.

The horse was a gleaming chestnut, rippling with toned muscle, his coat spattered with patches of white foam. He had been hard ridden and was now truly spooked. Rolling eyes regarded her warily with sensitive ears twitching at every move.

Mallory was not alarmed, feeling comfortable and at ease around horses. Years in her youth spent on her parents’ B&B outside Cairns, were now standing her in good stead. The Masons ran a stable, providing horses for trail-rides. She loved these animals as much as she loved cars. She would find any excuse to join her brother and dad, to tinker in the back shed on the resort’s old Ute. ‘Fixing’ she would call it, but her mum reckoned she just liked getting dirty. Sometimes she would jokingly remark that she had given birth to two sons.

There was one year between the siblings, but they were great mates. They would Scuba dive together out on the reef at Green Island, careen over the Ranges on their trail bikes with friends and both had an affinity for horses. Gavin was working now for a large cattle station on the Northern Territory/ Queensland border, as a helicopter-mustering pilot – highly skilful and dangerous. He had become expert at dodging the treacherous power lines. He relished challenges and was always up for a test. His philosophy in life: “If you’re not living on the edge, you’re not living.”

Mallory’s opinion was that, although younger, her risks were tempered with common sense. At twenty-three she still had all her own teeth and no broken bones.

The reins had become tangled, so with gentling sounds she collected them and edged herself closer, all the while keeping her voice soft and letting him watch the approach: nostrils flaring, ears thrust forward. With arm extended, palm down, the hunter was able to assess her scent. She gave him time until at last he placed his bristly muzzle into her hand. Still unhurried, Mallory drew the reins close under his chin and began to lead him back to his rider, collecting the discarded crop on the way. The horse stood still while she helped the young woman to her feet. On taking her arm she let out a sharp cry.

“Sorry. I’ll go the other side.” If the shoulder had been dislocated or a bone broken, she did not want to make it worse.

“Do you think you can walk?” Standing, Mallory observed the coat to be full length. Enough of a riding hazard right there.

A few tentative steps were tried. The cut was superficial allowing for some slow movement. With horse on one side, young woman on the other, the three made their way laboriously out of the woods in the direction of the chimneys. Yes, she must be quite young, Mallory thought – a girl. Barely any weight at all. Just as well, since she was not one hundred percent herself. It was hard going out of the hollow. The girl was quiet; still in shock probably so they stumbled on in silence. Breasting the rise, Mallory’s gaze opened out onto a wide view of an imposing mansion; colonnaded, three storeys in the Georgian style: tall, Palladian windows over-looking extensive parkland. With this clear perspective she gave a low whistle. It presented an ornate, turreted porte-cochere. The frontage was dominated by a glittering fountain through which rode three rampant horses. The driveway, running up past vast lawns, made a sweeping circle to accommodate its generous dimensions.

From her vantage point she observed mounted riders dressed for fox-hunting. Fox Hunting? This could not be right. Now she noticed the beaters on the horizon and could hear the hounds in full cry. There must have been thirty to forty of them yapping and dashing about. The men were too far away to be of any assistance, the field still being well behind, maintaining their discreet distance to give the hounds their best chance. Bearing this in mind she decided it would be better to raise the alarm herself. She left her injured rider propped against a fallen trunk, the horse tied to a low branch and struck off at a loping jog. One of the lads saw her and left the group. Once the situation had been explained, he ran for the Master of the Hounds. She returned to sit and wait with the girl.

In no time a young man arrived, at the gallop and she noticed he too, was wearing one of those funny little bowlers and instead of jodhpurs, a pair of baggy breeches and leather gaiters. Perhaps it was not a hunt? Some sort of fancy dress carnival? His face, like that of the odious man, had a big moustache, but no beard. Quickly, she became lost in the exchange as the young man held his horse on a tight rein and anxiously cross questioned the girl. Unlike her, he was fair complexioned, but they appeared to be brother and sister by the degree of his concern and their familiarity.

“Jellie, can you ride with me and I’ll take you back? Mama can send for Doctor Anderson.” He lifted her up then mounted behind, rather skilfully Mallory observed.

“Walk Burrow back to his stall and get Jake to give him the once over,” he called over his shoulder as he swung this other, spectacular beast around, obedient to his merest touch and they moved off. Another peremptory individual. Who do these people think they are?

“So you’re Burrow. Let’s get you home then. I guess you live up at that massive hall.”

The horse was still very skittish, snorting at the wind, weaving at every passing bird, but she kept him in line with reassuring words and soothing strokes. At a slow, steady pace Mallory was free to ponder her situation. She was still no nearer to knowing where she was; could not be that far from Warwick. No sign of Birmingham’s suburban sprawl; only scattered cottages behind low hedges. Climbing steadily, she could see the red coats of the riders, now some distance ahead of the hounds, looking as if they were at last into full chase. It must be a local club she surmised, but there were so few who hunted these days. This looked like a field of about twenty.

The gelding seemed to know where to go, showing a decided determination to veer to the left, past a well-tended shrubbery, still a riot of colour this late in the season.

Well, it makes sense, he would know where he lives, she thought.

They clattered into a cobble-stoned yard which brought Mallory to an abrupt halt, dumbfounded. Where had they come from? This seemed quite unaccountable. Their arrival alerted an old man who hurried up to them, his face crinkled with concern. A noxious cloud of smoke hung about his cloth cap, from a wooden pipe appearing above a stained, straggly beard. Removing the pipe to address the horse he realized he did not recognise the person standing before him.

“A’ternoon, I’m Jake Beeson, ’ead groom; ya new ’ere? What’s yer name?”

“Mallory Mason. You could say that.” She was not prepared to correct his assumption by explaining her situation.

“What ’appened?” He could see the horse was agitated, swishing his tail nervously and this in turn was unsettling to him. Mallory gave the gist of it and when she had finished he suggested she return Burrow to his stall.

“Give ’im a rub down and I’ll be along t’ check ’im over. I’ll be orf t’ tell the Mistress first. So Master Ambrose is bringing Miss Nigella in then?”

She nodded. “Which stall?” He removed his pipe and pointed it in the direction of number six. What a funny way of speaking these people have.

“Come on Burrow … I’ll look after you.” For now it was important to her that the horse be properly settled and then she could deal with her own problems. That injured girl would probably be OK since the young man had taken over.

The air in the vaulted stable was cool, the bare stone walls and arched ceiling kept the worst of the day’s heat at bay. The hooves clopped over the flagstones between the stalls until they reached number six, when the sounds were deadened as he happily went in. She found a currycomb on a ledge and dampened some towels in a bucket. While she worked he quenched his thirst then began to enjoy her ministrations.

Mallory knew she had a good touch with these beasts. When the old man returned she was almost done, just finishing off with some quick sweeps of the stiff dandy brush. He ran gnarled hands quickly, but thoroughly over withers, hind quarters, down to the fetlock and pastern and finally the hooves. Satisfied, he straightened up and explained how Burrow had a tendency to go off half-cocked if given half the chance.

“Miss Nigella insists ’e’s the best ’orse. Full o’ go I’ll give ’im that, but ’e’s a right ’andful t’ boot. They’re both strong willed the pair o’ ’em … she’s as determined t’ get ’er own way; so diff’rent from Miss Ramona.” Who’s she a sister, she wondered.

“Ya’d best be gettin’ back t’ Mr. ’iggins, ’e’ll be wantin’ t’ know where ya be.”

“Oh no … I don’t work here. I’m hoping to get to Birmingham tonight. I just helped out.”

He looked her up and down once more. A likely lad, I’ll put in a word with the Mistress. Someone who can ’andle Burrow so well on first meetin’ will be worth a lot round ’ere. “Well, whatever … I must get on. Go up t’ the big ’ouse. They’ll give ya a bite o’ refreshment.” He had taken in her muddy state and well knew Mrs. Cummings’ testy nature. “Be sure t’ scrape yer feet. Cook won’t want ya traipsing mud through the boot room, though ’tis fer boots as I alus remind ’er.” He pointed with his pipe again, indicating a heavy wooden door at the end of a stony path that lead to the back of one of the side wings. The thought of an ice-cold Coke and possibly a salad sandwich made her stomach growl. It must be getting late and she had missed lunch. In a punitive act of her imagination, her mind suddenly flooded with humiliating memories, ones she would much prefer to block out. How could she have been such a dummy? No point in dredging that up again. Move on Mal. She looked about and took in her surroundings. This house was more like a refurbished country hotel. Of course, the riders would have been hotel guests. Probably one of those ‘themed’ weekends people pay through the nose for.

Well, good luck to them, she thought morosely. She did not hold with blood sports, not of any kind. Not even Rodeos. In Australia, she had belonged to an animal protection league that was drawing attention to the many welfare issues surrounding the rodeo industry. The ACT had already acknowledged that this archaic form of entertainment should be prohibited.

Hang on … where are all the vehicles? She had not seen any ATV’s or Sport Utilities in the parking lot. Perhaps they did not like them spoiling that imposing first impression of centuries of wealth and privilege. Ha!

An ornate cast iron mat lay at the threshold which she used, but once inside, removal of her footwear seemed a better idea. There was a bootjack off to one side and the flagstones had been so well scrubbed they were positively gleaming. She set her shoes neatly next to the rather outlandish assortment arranged on racks against a sidewall. Not one pair of sandals or joggers amongst them. A number of capes hanging from a variety of hooks stuck out from the opposite wall and gave her the same feeling. Bizarre! She stood still. The house was unnaturally quiet. No Muzak, not even the hum of the air-conditioner or whir of a fan. She could hear someone making with the pots and pans though, the other side of this solid looking door. She had to lift a heavy latch, but it swung easily on well-oiled hinges. The sight that met her eyes completely astounded her.

This was an old-fashioned brick room. Against one wall stood a deep earthenware Belfast sink. She estimated it was seated at such a low height on its stand it would make for backbreaking work. It was supplied with an integral sloping, grooved hardwood drainer edged with metal and supported on brackets, quite odd-looking, she thought. A brass capstan tap came out of the brickwork above it and the other one was obviously homemade. Her back to her, busily stacking dishes, stood a young girl – but the outfit. A grey, ankle-length, plain stuff dress protected by a long pinafore and on her head a fancy, white frilled cap. She looked to all the world like a scullery maid. On the other side of this dark and cheerless room was another sink, this time made of wood and lined with lead. Its position was adjacent to a large, well-scrubbed table on which were piled bowls of vegetables waiting for preparation. There were the unfamiliar odours of lye mixed with carbolic. Her poor hands. Isn’t this taking the theme’s authenticity a bit too far?

“Do ya want Cook? She’s through there.” The girl did not stop working, just indicated with a nod, a lighter weight door, painted glossy white with a handle that turned.

“Come in, young lad, Mr. Beeson told me ya’d be along.”

This woman, whom she guessed to be the kitchen supervisor, was also in costume. A long black dress of a durable twill or worsted fabric; sleeves rolled up to just below the elbow, some sort of wrap around apron tied in back with a broad bib section covering her bosom. On her head was a fine lawn cap that completely confined her hair and it too, had a white frill. She stood beside a closed range, the fire contained below a glossy, black-leaded hot plate; smoke was drawing through the flue. It was an imposing piece of equipment as she had ever seen, with two ovens, each located one on either side, for either baking or roasting. The enamel was dark cream and green, with highly polished metal controls. Everything looked spotless.

This woman was painting the glaze on a piecrust that had just been rolled out on a marble slab set into another wooden workbench. Her kitchen utensils were readily to hand on white, painted shelves above her head. On the far side was located a more modern gas stove, obviously providing for rapid cooking and gentle simmering. Attractive hutches, displaying a wide assortment of china, took up other spaces against the walls. Through an open door, which she surmised to be the pantry, Mallory saw shelves stacked with all manner of jars, tins, and boxes. On the other side were drawers for flatware and silverware, shelves for glassware and yet another sink. Would this be for the butler?

“So ya’re the one who ’elped Miss Nigella.” The woman pointed to a seat at the big table. “I’ve just rung fer Edna t’ take ’er up some India tea an’ the Mistress says fer ya t’ ’ave somethin’ t’ eat, if ya like an’ then ya’re t’ go above stairs too.”

Mallory was dumbfounded. This was too much – like having to say lines in a play, but she did not know the script. Like acting in her own life! Was she acting? Was it her life? She knew she did not fit in, but they all behaved as though she did – and that she was a young man! Well certainly, she was not into all the stuff they had gotten themselves into and there was no way she would either.

The parlour maid came in, stopped abruptly and eyed the stranger with surprise. Mallory shook her head. Was she on cue? Whatever, the girl nodded politely and turning to the kitchen supervisor asked: “Is it ready, Cook?” She then caught sight of the tea tray on the side table. It was set with delicate china and sparkling silverware, laid out for two on perfectly starched napery. She shot Mallory one more glance before taking off. Exit stage right, Mallory thought.

“I’m Mrs. Cummings … Cook. What’s yer name lad?” she asked, as she placed the pie in the big oven. It was then over to another pot where she poured the newcomer a mug of tea. The milk and sugar were already on the table. There was cream, too. “’Elp yersel’,” she took in her dishevelled appearance. “Wash yer ’ands at the scullery tap first.”

Still in a stunned state she retraced her steps. Was she really seeing all this? Could it be some sort of drama? She tried to clean her nails, but there was no brush, so returned to the big table.

“Name?” was reiterated quite sharply.

As if trained to a conditioned response she brought out: “Mallory Mason.”

“Oh, from the West Country are ya?”

Where did she get that? “No, Australia.”

“Australia! My, ya’re a long way from ’ome, orf the ships then?” Mallory looked surprised so the woman nodded toward her right forearm. “I saw the tattoo like the sailors, eh? It’s a strange animal. Not one I’ve seen ’afore.”

She had forgotten her sleeves were rolled up. “It’s a Gecko; a small Australian lizard. Well a small creature in transition between a fish and a lizard, actually. There are lots of them where I come from.” The tea before her, Mallory welcomed the hot sweet liquid and savoured the malty crispness of the Assam leaves, although she normally drank coffee – a Latte Babe. No matter, the English love their tea. She had learned that after only a few months here. Thankful to have been given the opportunity to travel and study abroad, she had fully appreciated the new dimension that had been added to her life’s experiences. ’Til now, everything had been beaut. Her residence on campus was well appointed and comfortable, if somewhat cramped. She had to share, but her flat mate was hardly ever there, except for sleeping and sometimes not even then.

“Would ya like a nice fat slice o’ steak an’ kidney pie? I can cook some greens fer ya.”

“Just the pie will be fine, thanks.” Her belly had been quite insistent for a while, but eyeing the slice, she could see that still there would be no room for veggies. As it was, the woman – Cook – had added a fresh crust of bread with real butter. She thought of her cholesterol and resisted the temptation. Mrs. Cummings had a light hand. She had not experienced such perfectly short pastry ever before.

“Ya can eat that slice without ‘avin’ t’ knock out the weevils first.”

She looked up, surprised.

“I know about sailors’ rations aboard ship, but I bake fresh every day.”

Mallory smiled. “It’s not that Cook. I’d rather eat your delicious pastry.”

Mrs. Cummings acknowledged the compliment with a nod, her plump face breaking into radiating creases and as the lad finished up the last crumbs she recommended he get himself on up to the Mistress’s boudoir. As Mallory stood, she noticed the absence of footwear. “Where’re yer boots?”

“They were dirty so I didn’t like to keep them on.”

“Don’t be silly lad. Ya can’t see the Mistress without something on yer feet. Give ’em a clean. The cloths an’ brushes are in the cupboard.”

Mallory easily found what she needed in the boot room to bring her brogues back to their former, shiny eminence.

“Up the back stairs t’ the service door; go through an’ turn right. Go t’ the end o’ the passage. ’er Ladyship’s door’s last on the left.”

If the kitchen had appeared lavish, this walkway on the first floor was definitely ‘over-the-top’. A soft-piled runner ran its length and looked to Mallory to be Persian and new. Above a dark wainscoting ran a fancy, but charmingly decorated wall paper. Large, idyllic landscapes measured off the intervals between wooden doors, also darkly stained. No sounds emanated here, all steps were muffled. Last on the left. Could she do this? Everything was giving her a strange feeling, not so much scary; more intrigued and curious. Her mouth firmed. It was developing into a puzzle – her job – find the pieces – connect the dots. She did not fear for her life, nothing like that, although to err on the side of caution could only be prudent. So, heart pounding she stiffened her back in anticipation and knocked; a discreet tap.

“Enter.” The voice was soft and gentle; should be no problem here after all.

Again dismay rocked her. The Company must have spared no expense with setting up this scene. The room was light and airy, suffused with a golden glow from two tall, narrow windows, elegantly draped. Embroidered Chinese silk with painted flowers and birds covered these walls and all the woodwork was the palest green, to complement the cream of the walls and the soft furnishings. Strangest of all was ‘Her Ladyship’, reclining on a chaise-longue, propped up by several plump pillows covered in purple silk. She was draped in a rose-pink wrapper, all lace and bows. Beneath this could be seen a white camisole and petticoat with more frills and tucks, but she quickly covered them.

Bloody Nora! This must be some sort of dramatic re-enactment. But why go to all this trouble?

There was another woman present, middle aged, dressed in a high necked, white muslin ‘tucked’ blouse, the tucks running from the shoulders to halfway down the front. The sleeves were a mutton chop style, tight on the forearm. Her skirt was a serviceable brown twill, cinched at the waist by a webbed belt and buckle. It swept down to the floor. She hovered in a corner near a most exquisitely inlaid escritoire; several of the drawers were open and papers lay about. Now she knew why there had been two cups on the tray.

A circle of light from the rose-tinted, glass table lamp fell over one side of the reclining figure. It outlined her aristocratic profile, delineating a high cheekbone and a straight nose above a delicately curved, finely lipped mouth. The younger woman turned her head as Mallory entered, revealing deep-set, hazel eyes, fringed by fair lashes. Her hair, also very fair, was piled high off the face.

“So you are the young man who saved my daughter.” She sat up, delicate, pink satin slippers to the floor. Her manner was gracious, her diction refined. “Come in. I wanted to thank you personally.” She lifted a slim, pale hand to her throat. “I dread to think how long she could have lain there injured. My poor Jellie! She could have bled to death.” This time the shudder was accompanied by a sweeping hand across the brow.

The woman in brown left her post to rush over. “Oh my Lady, please do not distress yourself further. The Lady Nigella is being looked after by Dr. Anderson and he has pronounced her condition satisfactory. She just needs rest.” She handed over a small bottle of sal volatile, which ‘my lady’ wafted under her nose, taking deep breaths.

“When Eustace and Ambrose take to the hunt, they notice nothing else. They could be in another world … I could die … and it wouldn’t matter.” Her voice was changing from that pleasant, appreciative softness to a petulant whine. “Constance, do see how she does; report to me immediately.”

“Yes my Lady.” She passed by Mallory giving her a close ‘once over’, but said nothing.

“How can I thank you? You were hired by Higgins as a beater?” It seemed she expected to do all the talking, since she allowed no time for an answer. “Beeson tells me you were very good with Burrow. He’s unpredictable, but he’s my daughter’s favourite. The lads like to give him a wide berth and leave him to Jake, but he can be too much even for him. Apparently you handled him well, even when he was in such a state.” Her cool eyes narrowed as she scrutinised Mallory more closely. “How are you called?”

Still in shock, enfolded in emanations of an illusory validity, she replied: “Mallory Mason.”

“Would you like to work in the stables? Higgins can find you lodgings and we will need an extra hand when the shooting season gets under way.” She wanted someone reliable there, for her daughter’s sake … and my own peace of mind, she thought grimly; someone who would answer to her and not her husband. He’s young. He will do my bidding and no questions asked. Here’s my chance to have someone on my side for a change. Talking quickly now, hands twisting nervously, she continued: “Our estate manager usually deals with all this so I shall send you to see Crosby.”

“Err…r I was on my way to Birmingham.” She was nonplussed. Disconcertingly, doubt was assailing her, leaving unwelcome feelings of alarm. This was not unfolding like lines in a play anymore. She squinted around in appraisal. It was getting to appear too genuine, however still surreal. Would she wake up from all this and find herself – where? Hell’s teeth … don’t let it be a nightmare!

“Oh the city, don’t you like the Provinces?” Already here was refusal and so soon. It was not fair. Her eyes flashed in temper from what seemed a perpetual series of recurrent frustrations.

“I do … yes,” she replied, trying to think quickly, but it was hard to get everything in order. Now what was her take on this? A job for the remainder of the vac. would help out very well. Allow her to get enough together to set up better than last year. Working with horses again could only be all good; possibly return her to some sense of reality – some sense of her own identity. It would beat waitressing at Marks and Spencers, for sure. Then there would be no question of those long skirts. Yes! Pants all the way. These thoughts flew through her mind in a nanosecond, so with an odd mixture of apprehension tinged with excitement she found her voice: “Thank you, err…r … my Lady,” she thought to add judiciously, after all the woman was trying to be helpful.

“Very good, can you can start immediately?” Yes, the sooner the better! My nerves are really ragged these days … anything to help stay on a steady course. “I will need you to keep a look out for Lady Nigella. No, don’t be alarmed. She’s all right most of the time. It’s just … she can shoot off at tangents and I need to know she’s safe.”A perplexed look on his face. Perhaps I’ve said too much? How to get out of this?

“She’s still a Hill Topper and very keen to get her ‘first flight’ by November. They put on Cub Hunts for them you understand,” her face was flushing a hot pink in her confusion. Mallory did not, but to go along with this peculiar woman would probably do no harm and at least get her some useful work. She was nodding assent when the ‘brown woman’ knocked and entered.

“Your Ladyship, Lady Nigella is resting comfortably. She has a nasty cut on her thigh, but Millie has cleaned it with an iodoform lint pad and secured it with a cotton bandage. Her shoulder is a bit bruised, but Dr. Anderson has assured her she will be able to ride again in a few days.”`

“Oh no, surely she will need to stay in bed for at least a week?”

This poor woman, what is her problem? Mallory looked from one to the other.

“Well my Lady, I’m sure if you think she will need more time that can be arranged.”

“Thank you Constance. Will you send for Crosby, I will speak to him … and take Mason to the library to await him there.” She turned her head imperiously. “Mrs. Aldred will show you the way.”

This time, following Mrs. Aldred, she was guided through a most imposing reception room to the other wing of the house, past a grand, curving staircase, rising to the floor above. Then it was down another lushly carpeted corridor to the library. As feminine as the sitting room had been, there was no doubt, here was a masculine domain; the owner a man of wealth and of impeccable taste. Again, no expense had been spared in the quality of the wood panelling with a polish so high its finish looked satiny; the heavy, leather furniture could have been seen in the most exclusive of gentlemen’s clubs. Now the richness of the velvet drapes at the tall windows was only to be expected. The large panes overlooked an elaborate, Italian-style garden surrounded by precision-perfect box hedges. It was set amid smooth lawns which guided the eye down to an ornamental lake in the hollow, beside which nestled a small, sandstone folly. Was she at the back of the house?

“Wait here. Mr. Crosby should not be long.”

What to do? Perhaps better not to sit, although most of the mud had dried and brushed off. She approached the bookshelves which were stacked from floor to ceiling. The title selection was interesting. They seemed to be mostly nineteenth century novelists: Hardy’s Jude the Obscure, Galsworthy’s A Man of Property, Kipling’s The Jungle Book and Henry James’ The Spoils of Poynton, were some of the titles that jumped out at her. In another section though, she did see some twentieth century authors. She reached to jerk out a book then thought better of it, in the end content just to peruse. Jack London’s: White Fang. Baroness Emmuska Orczy’s: The Scarlet Pimpernel, and next to it, The Elusive Pimpernel: L. M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables and E. M. Forster’s A Room with a View. Still pretty old fashioned. There were many whose subject was history or geography; a few on India. Of the books themselves however, several were collectors’ items, skillfully bound in shiny, ox-blood red, Moroccan leather, with intricate craftsmanship in the gold leaf lettering. Each one of those must be worth a mint.

Browsing along the shelves, these had been the titles she had readily recognised. Still it was odd, nothing later than 1909 as far as she could figure. Surely an eclectic collection like this would include First and Second World War histories and even a Dick Francis or two, for people who like horses? Lost in this fascinating study, Mallory did not hear the estate manager enter until she was addressed. Better pull herself up. “Her Ladyship tells me you will be working here on a trial basis.” His dubious eyes studied her in detail, not convinced his mistress knew what she was doing. Still, it was her wish and Lord Patchford would change things if all did not go well, no doubt about that.

Bloody face fungus again. They all wanted to act the part. At least he was dressed more reasonably. A big man in a good tweed suit, even if the waistcoat was overly formal. The Albert, stretching across his stomach looked like rose gold. His thick brown hair was heavily pomaded with Macassar oil, in an attempt to bring its unruly waves under control, giving him a slightly sweetish smell. Well now, did she still want in? Maybe time to get out, go it alone … find her own way back?

“Her Ladyship!”

Giving her a withering stare, he responded: “Yes. This is the Guilfoyle Estate.”

As though that explained anything! “Ye…err, right.”

He expelled his breath: “I beg your pardon?” Bushy eyebrows rose in mute indignation as he almost choked on his outrage. “You address me as ‘Sir’, young man or there will be no work for you here, today or any other day. Do I make myself clear?” His florid face became blotched with temper. “On this estate we do not accept insolence from anyone, whatever their position.”

Mallory felt her cheeks grow hot. She had not meant to give offence and she would like to try for the work: “Oh sorry, my mistake … Sir.” That should do it.

Slightly mollified, Mr. Crosby continued: “I checked with Higgins, he’s our head gamekeeper and responsible for the lads. The Pogue’s have a spare room in their cottage that’s usually rented out, but their lodger recently left them to do foundry work in the city.” From his tone she could tell he took a dim view of this. Poor bloke, he probably just wanted to make more money.

“Pogue is a wheelwright, providing tools and machinery for the farm as well as repairing them. He took the lad on as an apprentice in his workshop and then he thinks he knows it all and skedaddles off. I’ll take you over, they’re in the village. Mrs. Pogue charges extra for board, but she’s a solid cook and you’ll not go short.” Collecting his cloth cap he rose to leave which prompted Mallory to ask about hours and payment.

“The going rate is sixteen shillings, eight pence, three farthings per week. You start at six and finish at two. Come back at five for the evening feeds.”

Mallory’s jaw dropped open, aghast and before she had time to remember her position she burst out: “You’ve got to be kidding me. That’s …” then the words died on her lips as she watched the fury suffusing his face. Initially he was rendered speechless by her temerity, but as he began to splutter inarticulately, she took the chance to break in: “Sorry, sorry I forgot … I mean … I mean, I didn’t mean that. It was just that I … I was just … taken aback.”

Mr. Crosby did not know what to make of him. In all his life he had never been spoken to like this. From his accent he could tell he was not English. Maybe that accounted for this strange behaviour. “You’re not from around here are you?” he asked in a cracked voice, still not over his shock.

“No Australia … Sir.”

Ah, that was it. He was not losing his reason after all. Best to let it pass. He would find out what the boy was made of from Higgins, soon enough. “Come with me, I’ve got the dogcart today.” He led the way in the opposite direction from when she had arrived and soon she found herself on the other side of the house. She heard the rather rackety hum of a vacuum cleaner and thought she glimpsed another fancily garbed figure, but he gave her no time to be sure.

Out through a side door they crunched along another stony path past banks of magnificently flowering, pink and red rhododendron bushes. Musky perfume assailed the nostrils, carried on spirals of cool air, which was refreshing after the intense heat of the afternoon. Mallory tried to single out the fragrances, but could only identify rose. She had a great liking for flowers and always enjoyed presenting a new conquest with a colourful bouquet. Oh no! Don’t go there.

Ahead, were a series of amazingly high rooved outbuildings, reminiscent of the old carriage houses of a bygone era. Even the forecourt was cobbled. A hack stood patiently, head bowed, in the traces of a two-wheeled, open cart. The seats were set back to back so either you could see where you were going, or you had to trust no-one had it in mind to take you for a ride, ride. She could not resist asking why the horse was there and not a dog.

Mr. Crosby gave her another of his withering scrutinies and responded succinctly: “Dogcarts are for dog transportation, in compartments where these seats are.” Relenting a little he inquired: “Don’t you have them in Australia?” Glancing again to his left he noted the absence of his Billy Pot. What a funny lad.

“Possibly, I haven’t seen any.” His whiskered jaw hardened. “Err…r, Sir.” Hell’s teeth. Is this bowing and scraping necessary all the time?

She jumped up beside him as he gathered the reins in his gloved hands and slapped them sharply across the nag’s rump. This was rather fun after all, perhaps she could get into it – bouncing along at a jog trot over the dirt roads, past open fields where short horn cattle grazed. She watched a crow screech over head as it took off into the wind, wings flapping into overdrive. Others hovered, awaiting their turn.

He took them away from what she now knew to be Featherstone Copse, towards more woods, but approaching closer she realised it was an apple orchard. How come they let the trees get so tall?

He skirted around the perimeter which brought into view a huddle of brick cottages, identical to each other. She could see the blue slate rooves of many more. In the distance, thin plumes of white smoke rose from the chimneys. An assortment of shops lined either side of this central road, with a modest Baptist chapel dominating one corner. Located on the opposite side of a large oval was the local watering hole: The Punchbowl Inn. Horses were all around, either hauling or being ridden and quite a number of people were on foot.

“Is this the estate village, Mr. Crosby?”

He nodded as his hands tightened on the reins and they pulled up outside the fourth dwelling, a well appointed two storey house with a bow window, behind a small, railed-in front garden. He rapped on a centrally placed, dark green door and in response it was opened by a friendly little woman – Mrs. Pogue.

“Come in Mr. Crosby, an’ you young lad.”

They followed her down the entrance passage, which bypassed a steep staircase and into the front parlour. Mallory was surprised to see a piano against one wall. It had many framed photos on it and wall engravings above. Lace curtains framed the bow window where a potted plant stood on a high wooden stand. A handsome dining table, very well polished with seating for eight, was set in front of a fitted, cast iron grate which carried large floral tiles to decorate its splayed sides and hood. Above this was an ornate overmantel supporting two small china dogs, replicas of the Cavalier King Charles breed. Most of all her eye was taken by the centre piece. It must have been an heirloom clock; the name at the bottom was Thomas Cole. In addition to displaying the time, it had a manually operated perpetual calendar, encased in a coromandel wood and ebony veneer, with two discreet male nudes in gold relief, set at each corner.

Wow! This was the house of a very respectable lower middle class couple. Not a cottage at all.

Mallory had been prepared to go along with the ‘theme’ idea of the hotel and its employees in costume, but extending it to the village, surely this was excessive. Why have all this paraphernalia and the resident in period? Perhaps the hotel guests would drive over to the village to visit the pub? Oh, yes! The whole estate must be owned by the same company and everyone was in character, just like Sovereign Hill in Ballarat. What a great day that had been with her family and the cousins from Victoria. She had been about nine or ten at the time. She had loved every minute of it and now she laughed to herself. There was a time they thought her lost her down a mine shaft then she had popped up from under one of the prospector’s tents. The looks on their faces.…

Mrs. Pogue invited them to sit and pulled up a padded wooden chair for herself.

“Gamekeeper told me your spare room is back. Can this lad here rent it? Lady Patchford wants him on as a groom, then to work for Higgins when the season gets under way.”

She did not say anything, just smiled and nodded.

“He needs to be close enough to walk. If he stays on he could get a bicycle.”

Again more nodding; a woman of few words, or intimidated by this land agent? No, that can’t be right. They must all work for the same company.

“Thank you Mr. Crosby. Yes we could do with the rent, especially just at this time … you know.” Vigorous nodding accompanied these words while Mr. Crosby nodded back, ponderously. Good grief, a comedy team.

“Very well I’ll leave him with you.” He turned to Mallory: “Report to Mr. Higgins at the stables tomorrow at five-thirty and on your break, he’ll send you over to me to complete the paperwork.” With this he said formal goodbyes then was on his way to the front door, escorted by Mrs. Pogue.

“What’s your name lad?” she asked on her return. “Let’s go to the livin’ room, it’s more comfortable there an’ then you can tell me all about yourself over a cup of tea.”

She bustled away, long skirts swishing, heels clacking. She was a quick mover and Mallory thought she would be in her late forties. They passed into the sitting room-cum-kitchen which was much more homely, the walls papered and decorated with coloured almanacs and prints. A cross-stitch sampler had pride of place, its motto: HOME IS BEST, surrounded by satin stitch roses. On the floor, which she could tell was boards covered with a chequered linoleum, was a hooked rug, made from old garments, but adding a touch of warmth and colour nonetheless. Being the kitchen too, there was a tall, wooden dresser, heavily loaded and against the other wall a hob grate had been fitted into the lower half of the fire-place opening, with the oven to one side. Today was Thursday, so Mrs. Pogue had been baking. The kitchen was hot, but the row of loaves sitting on the rack was filling the air with a most delicious aroma. However, the room had a gloomy aspect, only one small window allowing the pale afternoon light to penetrate to any distance.

One narrow beam managed to highlight the kitchen table, which had a single draw for cutlery. Four upright wooden chairs were pushed in, one on each side. This room also had an easy couch. It made for cramped quarters, making her feel peculiarly confined. Another door, which stood open letting in some fresh air, led to a small, dark scullery. Here there was one water tap over the sink and a set pot next to it, located above a coal fire. Would this be to provide hot water? Opposite stood a mangle and a table for ironing. Wash house as well, eh?

“Sit down. I’ll just light the lamps first,” and she picked up matches to apply the flame to the mantle of two very attractive wall-bracket gas lights. They emitted a companionable hiss and Mrs. Pogue observed their glow gave a coppery sheen to her guest’s short, rippling hair. She had noticed before how often it was the boys who were blessed by a natural beauty. No need of lotions or dyes for them.

Now that she had it all figured out, Mallory felt more at ease. She was less surprised by everything and did not feel so out of place. She took a seat at the table, pulling out a chair and propping one foot on the rung of the other as she tilted back. It had been a long day and now she realised the light was indeed beginning to fade.

“Mrs. Pogue, I could kill for a Coke. Is it possible?” Oh, she had not seen any fridges around. Perhaps they don’t do soft drinks … too twenty-first century? By the look on the woman’s face she reckoned that must be it. She was staring at her as though she were speaking a foreign language, her expression suddenly disconcerted, then guarded.

“What?” she laughed. “Have I said something?”

Hesitantly, as Mrs. Pogue set out the tea things she said in a strangled voice: “You seem very … strange.”

“Oh, I just got here today so I’m not quite up to speed on all this role playing. It’s OK though, I’m a quick study. Tell me, that woman up at the hotel … does she have some sort of problem?”

Mrs. Pogue returned with the pot and took the seat opposite watching her new tenant closely, completely at a loss. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about. There’s no ’otel ’ere; we ’ave the ale’ouse where people can stay. Do you mean someone there? Mrs. Leach is a bit odd sometimes, since she lost her son, but she’s a good soul; goes to Chapel every week, reg’lar as clockwork.” Her gaze did not waver from the face before her, but she in her turn felt very uncomfortable.

Mallory put her foot down and sat upright, her skin cold – she was getting that queer feeling again – the script was still missing and she was fumbling her way through a fog of disjointed credibilities. Leaning forward slightly, her face creased with urgency, but keeping her voice neutral she asked: “Where am I exactly?”

Slowly, as if to a child, Mrs. Pogue explained: “This is Guilfoyle Village. We live on the Guilfoyle Estate, the seat of Viscount Patchford. That is Sir Eustace. ’e will be in residence at the big ’ouse from now ’til December when ’e’ll return with the Lady Glencora Patchford, to London. Their town ’ouse is just off Belgrave Square.” She felt she had said enough and took a sip of hot tea, then ventured a question of her own. She needed some answers too.

“So where’re you from, lad?” adding a smile to help ease the tension that had suddenly sprung up around them.

“I’m from Australia, Queensland, named after Queen Victoria,” she added. Now why did I say that? Was it all this historical stuff? “I’ve been here for two years, more or less and I was on my way back to Birmingham …” She stopped abruptly, caught off balance, afraid there was a dimension to this which she would discover to be unfathomable.

Fear was beginning to flick its tongue at the edge of her reason. Should she say more? Did she know what to say even? With this uneasiness invading her senses she was reluctant to commit herself. There was doubt in her eyes as she studied Mrs. Pogue and she could see her own misgivings mirrored in hers. However, the woman looked kindly, the lines radiating from the corners of her pale blue eyes, surely from sympathetic smiling, but would she understand? Understand what? Mallory did not feel ready to reveal secrets – this evolving masquerade; to disclose an increasing disorientation marked with confusion.

She was holding on, but with each encounter it was more difficult. Was she losing it? Her body tightened as she felt her world crumbling and she struggled against panic. Her eyes took on a crystalline glitter, their cobalt depths almost black with the intensity of her focus on these next words. With great care she asked in a gritty voice, squeezing it past the lump in her throat: “This estate, does it belong to a corporate enterprise?” She was beginning to feel a dread that this fantasy might be real and if not, then terrified that she was going mad.

Mrs. Pogue was completely taken off guard and for a moment could find no way to answer. She felt conscious of the uncertainty in this young man and therefore would not be hasty to judge – but what kind of question was that; Corporate enterprise? “What would that be? Like a business you mean?”

“Yes, that’s it; for tourists and weekenders – a theme park.” She drew breath. Now she was getting somewhere. Praise be! Her world was adjusting back into balance.

A frown creased Mrs. Pogue’s brow. She was trying to understand. She sensed a cry for help, but how? Patiently she reiterated: “I just told you. This estate belongs to Viscount Patchford. It ’as been in ’is family for five generations and the ’onourable Sir Ambrose will inherit, God willin’, upon ’is death. What’s a ‘theme park’? I’ve never ’eard of this.”

Mallory leaned forward and put her head in her hands, her shoulders stiff. This was not good. A cold sweat broke out as she took a few gasping breaths, trying to steady her hammering heart. She was aware of a curious, pregnant air in the room, powerful intimations, just beyond the rim of perception. Her previous misgivings were forming into an icy ring of certainty. Dare she ask the question whose answer she feared above all? She risked sinking into the depths of total isolation; becoming a complete outsider, constrained by loneliness. Her life would be changed forever. A twisting knot of blind panic coiled in her stomach. Could she live through this? Anguish, fear-filled overpowered her.

“What is it child?” The older woman had come quietly round to Mallory’s side and rested a soft hand on her shoulder. She had observed how the already ashen face was now completely drained of colour. As Mallory looked up with a fractured gaze into that sympathetic countenance, her misery plain to see, a gruff, male voice reached them from the scullery.

“’ello Missus, it’s me.” Mr. Pogue came striding through, filling the room with his bulk only to pull up short: “’ello, who ’ave we ’ere?”

Mrs. Pogue moved back to the hob to make a fresh pot and explained the situation. Her husband took off his cap and jacket to hang on the peg behind the door and Mallory saw that he too, wore a waistcoat, but no fob watch, probably saved for Sunday Observance. Well, there was no point in trying to defy the evidence of the situation. What was there to resist anyway? She rose from the seat and extended her hand. “Mallory Mason, Sir.”

“Nay lad,” he responded as they shook hands: “Mr. Pogue.” He then proceeded to roll up his shirt sleeves and disappeared into the scullery, returning immediately to sit in the easy chair in front of the hearth. This looked like a nightly routine for the Pogues, as his wife set the beverage on a low bamboo side table at his elbow. She invited Mallory to help herself to another cup, returning the pot to the trivet, with its fancy knitted cosy. She would continue with their tea.

So here she was in this inexplicable house; in the company of strangers. It was no ‘make-believe’ scenario, at least not to them. How was it that this had happened? To fly, not only through the air, but back in time itself? While Mr. Pogue read the newspaper and his wife busied herself at the stove, she nursed her China tea and pondered this turn of events, but there was nothing she could do. She looked at her options. That was easy – she did not have any. Step by step she was moving closer to some new actuality, as if wading into a deep pool, drawn by the very fear of drowning. OK, there’s suicide! No, I’m too young! Perhaps what has been done can be undone? No, I have no such power, but still no need to be so hasty, is there?

The negatives had struck forceful blows; she was reeling and dizzy, but there were positives of sorts. This was where she must concentrate her energy. The alternatives would reduce her to a shadow; the unnerving fears would war for supremacy within her, creating a living purgatory. Yes, she was alone. Undeniably she had lost everything. She would suffer a solitude no person living could possibly comprehend. But with her health and strength, could she not reconfigure a new life of tangible substance? She would have to reconcile herself to living in a different persona. Could she do this? Perhaps not so impossible, after all they had always called her a ‘tomboy’. She brought to mind the life of Isobel Everhart. True, she had been driven by a psychological need for self-expression, riding across the wind-swept sands of Algeria, dressed as a man. But if she could do it at the end of the nineteenth century, surely she could do a daily job in similar guise, at the beginning of the twentieth.

I do do butch better than femme. She gave a secret smile. Take it one day at a time, Mal. You have work. You have a place to live. You can pull it off.

It was clear she had not become lost in some time-shifted hologram. She had not found herself in some form of virtual reality from which she could escape at the click of her mouse. She could not return to find everything as it had been, in her student days. No, nothing was so easy. This was the real world; a world of strange authenticities but wait, could she be living in a parallel universe? She had to dismiss this as too far-fetched, to be expelled to the realms of the Gothic. No, she would have to find some way to make this world her own. She must seek some way to construct meaning and ambition once more. This was like a second chance at living. Like a reincarnation? Through no fault of her own, these amazing experiences had occurred. Some supernatural agency had imposed its power on that fateful day, which could not be explained by the normal laws of cosmic creation. Had she been the innocent victim of some atomic explosion, its expanding waves of influence transporting her through time? Whatever, some galactic domination had been discharged into this planet’s biosphere, impacting on her in a most manifest way.

She drew a deep breath, steadying her nerve. It’s up to me. “This is the beginning of the rest of your life,” she whispered, then thought grimly what a horror story it might turn out to be.