CHAPTER FIVE

Punctually, at two o’clock Mallory arrived, leather suitcase in hand, purchased at the country branch of the Home and Colonial Stores in the High Street. Leather was a treat, although in her time she would not buy it, just on principle. She liked the detail on the brass clasps and was already beginning to cherish her few, new possessions.

Mrs. Aldred led her immediately over to the carriage house. She remembered this imposing building and the cobbled forecourt. It consisted of a large, lower area, divided into three separate spaces to house the automobiles and the carriages. She spotted the dogcart she had ridden in that first day. The double doors were open and off to one side stood the Patchford carriage. She saw the ornate Guilfoyle coat of arms blazoned on the door. The remaining doors were shut so she would have to wait for her first glimpse of the ‘Silver Ghost’.

Mrs. Aldred stopped at an outside staircase, wooden and painted white. They went up to a side door then she followed her along a narrow walkway rather like an extended balcony open on one side, to the last room but one. Here the house keeper took out her keys and with the door unlocked, ushered her in.

The room was a good size, reminiscent of the one she had just left. Shafts of light through the window outlined the modest furnishings. They were similar, except minus the hand-stitched sampler and flowers on the counterpane. There was no duchess set on the dresser either, but now she had her own brushes and combs, a handsome set in silver-backed tortoiseshell.

Mallory had hoped to purchase her own wardrobe, but this week’s money had not stretched that far. With what remained she had headed for the pawn-broker’s to look for a fob watch. Even second hand, this had been too expensive. Instead, she had been assured that a chiming carriage clock was ‘very reliable’. It had better be, she had thought: to be late for these people will cost me my post. Whilst leaning on the counter waiting for the item to be wrapped, a glass cabinet set to one side had attracted her notice. Many kinds of scissors were on offer. Of course, she would need some since she could not risk going to a barber. A small, silver pair with delicate filigree work on the handle was what she chose. This pawnbroker actually had many beautiful things which to her, looked to be valuable antiques. She would like to find time to return to ‘McQueen’s Emporium’.

At the dispensing chemist’s she had found a bottle of Macassar Oil. To plaster down her flyaway hair would require liberal applications. Having everything under control seemed to be the way of it here. Nothing was too insignificant not to be awarded close attention.

Mrs. Aldred threw open the wardrobe doors to reveal the neatly pressed liveries: one brown the other dark green. At the back hung a black leather motor coat, double breasted and buttoned up to the wide, flat collar. It would extend to just past her hips. The ‘knickers’ as Mrs. Aldred called them, looked more like jodhpurs, baggy, then tight below the knee. Her legs would be wrapped in black leggings. The tan willow Balmorals she discovered were a highly polished, light brown, lace-up boot with a very big tongue and the Colts were a black, high boot with a set of buttons to one side on the outside. They did indeed look very smart, each with its own shoe-tree to maintain the correct shape and she could see she would be spending a lot of time polishing.

“We’re in the army now, we can’t afford a cow …” she hummed under her breath. She had to laugh. Oh Mal, look upon it as an adventure! You never in your wildest, wildest dreams expected this.

Mrs. Aldred caught the smile that twitched at her lips. “You find this uniform amusing Mason,” she enquired witheringly, not liking his attitude one bit. She would have a word with Mr. Baldwin. This one would need keeping an eye on.

“Certainly not, I’m very impressed Mrs. Aldred.” Now, having spent more time with this woman Mallory noticed the absence of a wedding band which did seem odd. They were such sticklers for ‘correct’ form. The woman crossed to a door located on the far side which she opened to reveal an ablutions alcove; her very own ensuite. Small it might be, with only a Hayward and Tyler washdown pedestal closet and hand basin, but she could get by with this just fine.

“You will be issued one towel every four days and the servants’ bath is off the scullery. Each week there’s a roster and you initial the day and time that’s left available to you.” Having covered everything in her area, the housekeeper had Mallory sign for the keys then gave instructions to change into the brown livery. “Starched white shirts are in the top draw of the tallboy. You are responsible for all other personal attire, including socks.” This was delivered in a prim, tight-lipped voice. As became her station Mallory supposed.

“Do not appear before his Lordship without your jacket and it must be buttoned to the neck, winter and summer.” Again this injunction was accompanied by the most severe expression of disapproval. Mallory allowed herself a wan smile. What did she think she was, some kind of scum-bag?

“Of course Mrs. Aldred, otherwise what is the point of a uniform?” She nodded accommodatingly, but Mrs. Aldred was even more put out by these words than she had been by his previous manner. She just did not know what to make of the fellow and judged it best to finish here. All being well, she would have little more to do with him. Best leave any disciplinary action to Mr. Baldwin or Mr. Crosby. As she left she felt certain there would be trouble about, following this young man, for all his smart ways.

Mallory unpacked her few possessions and enjoyed seeing them on display. This would be her personal nest. She freshened up and tried out the new scissors and then the hair oil. Her hair had definitely been too wild for a chauffeur. Parting it in the centre and slicking it down had given her quite the current look. Lucky for her the clean shaven face was coming into vogue leaving that ponderous, Victorian appearance to the older Gents. Even so, she had noticed quite a number of them were adopting the handlebar moustache alone. Wow! In the full rig she did look the part. “This is perfect,” she breathed exultantly, more positive than ever that she could pull off this masquerade.

Lord Patchford too, liked what he saw when once again she entered the library to await his Lordship’s pleasure. He was obviously spending the day ‘at home’, having donned a lightweight cameline cloth dressing gown over his shirt and trousers. It was woven in a maroon, paisley pattern and although buttoned, was also tied at the waist with a braided silk cord. Mallory could see how this would be a more pleasant way to pass his private hours, not to be all the time in those starched, formal suits.

She stood before his desk, cap under a bent elbow her other hand by her side, holding a pair of wool driving gloves, each with a leather patch sewn into the palm. She thought to adopt a slightly stiff stance as appropriate to receive orders. Lord Patchford set down his spectacles and sat back. “There are no appointments today Mason, but tomorrow the ladies plan a trip to town for shopping and a spot of lunch.”

“Yes Your Lordship.” She felt she was getting the hang of this servant lingo. Subservience seemed to trip off her tongue, no problem.

“Be at the front entrance at nine o’clock. On your return, come and see me and I’ll have a better idea of my schedule.”

“Yes Your Lordship … Sir, may I ask a question?”

His head popped up, sharply: “Yes?”

“Are there any manuals which go with the vehicles my Lord? I would like to spend the rest of the day looking them over.”

“Most certainly,” he rose and crossed to a side credenza and returned with a cardboard box. “Everything you need, will be in there I think.”

“Thank you my Lord.”

* * *

Having carefully hung her new liveries in the wardrobe, Mallory changed into the stable clothes Thora had let her keep and took the manuals down to the carriage halls. She opened up the first set of double doors and there stood the most beautiful automobile she had ever beheld. It was obvious that luxury cars of the pre-war years were made with the best technology and craftsmanship of the day. Its folding cape-cart hood at the moment was in the ‘down’ position allowing her to admire the splendour of the interior, furnished with red velvet and brocade; two seats in back and one next to the driver. Fine leather covered the wood surfaces and thick pile carpet was underfoot. The bonnet was long running in a smooth line back from the radiator, with headlights mounted either side. There was no mistaking the Rolls-Royce grille, but there was no mascot. She remembered now the ‘Spirit of Ecstasy’ would not come on the scene for another two years.

Unhooking the clips on the right hand side, she folded the bonnet back to inspect the engine. She could see it was large and powerful, enough to provide a smooth run, but not nearly as compact as the engines she was used to. She looked for the log books, but there did not seem to be any. Time to check the manuals.

Henry Royce and Charles Rolls made their prototypes in 1906, following the first appearance of their automobile in the 1905 Tourist Trophy and that year, coming in fastest in the Isle of Man road race. Royce was a man of little education, but had made his money in electrical machinery which carried a high reputation. The Honourable Charles Rolls was a sporting gentleman in the lucrative business of selling French cars to English aristocracy. By now this duo was claiming their product to be the best in the world.

Looking at this beauty she could believe it. Its shiny, aluminium body and the silence of the motor had earned it the name ‘Silver Ghost’. The manual boasted that the Rolls’ six cylinders and seven litre engine enabled it to whisper along at 50 miles per hour. Mallory quickly made the conversion to kilometers: 80ks. Not bad. Copper cooling pipes ran along the outside of the engine. Nothing obstructed her view of all the components. Good.

This ‘Silver Ghost’ was pale cream with wooden spoke wheels painted red. On the same side, between the bonnet and the body a spare tire was mounted, no wheel she realised. It was the new Dunlop design that had just come out that year; slim-lined, distinctive grooved tread and featuring the innovative inner tube which helped keep the tire in place on the rim. Mallory was relieved. She would not have difficulty stopping and would be able to accelerate with a reasonable amount of control. However, looking at the spare she wondered, in the event of a puncture, would she have to jack up the car to pry the old tire off? Jemmy on the spare and pump it up?

Hells teeth; might be an idea to have a dry run.

The tool box was set into the running board between the tire and the passenger door which was only a half, and swung forward. A quick glance showed there was everything she would need. To her surprise the Rolls was fitted with two windscreens. The one in the front of course, but no wipers, plus a folding one for the rear seat passengers. How quaint! But how would she see through hers if driving conditions became difficult? Check in the good book. It said for her to keep a supply of raw apples or potatoes available. When required she was to slice the fruit or vegetable in half and smear it over the glass then the juice would help the water to run off. “Can you believe it,” she grimaced. However, this windscreen could also be folded down. In her opinion this would probably provide the better option.

Tucked away under the driver’s seat was an oblong, leather case closed by a flap with a carry handle. Intrigued, she slid it out and opened up to reveal a complete set of road maps for the Midlands. Presumably her passengers would know where they were going, but still, back up would be good. Her real worry was the state of the roads. However skilled her driving, if the roads were not yet reliably maintained they would come off a very poor second. Perhaps her charges would be familiar with the toll roads? Certainly, for the sake of a smooth ride, prepared to pay the price the Turnpike Trusts demanded.

As the afternoon sun began to slant its rays, she judged it would be best to leave the practicalities ’til morning. It was time to head over to the school. What would she tell Miss. Beevis? Back to her quarters she washed and changed her shirt.

The boys were ready and waiting when she arrived, but she made time to have a quick word. Fiona was very disappointed. She realised now, that she had started to look forward to these sessions. Rather than leaving them to get on with it, she had thought she would like to be involved too.

“Oh no, what will we do?” She recognised she did not mean just ‘with the boys’, but also their time together and this made her blush a deep pink.

“I’m really sorry about this Miss Beevis. I know Mr. True-May will not like it either, but I have little choice in the matter.” Mallory looked at her flushed face which reflected her confusion and felt a twinge of regret herself. Miss Beevis had a very sweet smile. She would like to have progressed to calling her Fiona.

“My new employers expect me to be available at whatever time they demand,” she confessed sorrowfully.

“Yes, of course I understand Mr. Mason.” Her voice had suddenly gone husky. She did not want him to think her unreasonable it was just … just that … her gaze returned to his eyes that seemed to sparkle like sapphires and felt her heart race. She had to look away her emotions too intense. It was just that she … was being silly.

“I can give the boys a start on their Primer and at the end I’ll have to suggest they continue to enjoy the story themselves. I’m as disappointed as you Miss Beevis.” Mallory spread her hands and gave a brief, expressive shrug.

“Yes. That will be good.” She sighed in resignation. Some things simply have to be borne with fortitude.

The hour went quickly, the boys participating as though this was not a dreadful ordeal. At the end, when Mallory explained she would not be able to read with them again, there appeared to be a genuine regret on the part of some boys. “I would like to hear from Miss. Beevis that you are all continuing with the stories in Cautionary Tales, they’re real good yarns.” After the boys had gone Mallory thanked Miss Beevis for her help.

“Perhaps we shall meet again in some other capacity. You never know, Guilfoyle Village is not so large.”

“Thank you Mr. Mason, perhaps we shall.” She looked back at the frank, blue light in those clear, searching eyes and sighed once more. They shook hands. Mallory let herself out, this time to head for the big house, a journey in the same direction, but further to go. The sun had not yet gone from the grey, tumbling sky. There would be time before dinner to put her head in the manuals. More familiarity with the de Dion could only be good.

Mrs. Aldred had stressed that mealtimes be strictly observed, unless there was unavoidable delay in which case Cook would put a plate aside. When it was time, she locked the big doors behind her and turned toward the east wing. As she strolled, taking in the sights, she ruminated on the silence of her world. Time was she would either have some sort of plug in her ear, or be hearing noise from elsewhere. Now she was aware of twittering birdsong; the sough of the wind through the trees and the accompanying rustle of their leaves. Did she find the quietness oppressive? She had before – but now? Perhaps she was getting used to it. She liked the tranquillity, allowing her the better to handle this new life. Just as well. To be prepared for tomorrow’s exigencies she would need all her wits.

* * *

The alarm bell of her new clock jangled loudly and for a moment Mallory lay confused, not yet totally risen from the depths of sleep. Her afflicting doubts had kept her wakeful until finally drifting off. She viewed her surroundings through a pallid gloom which imbued them with an illusory quality. Her heart stirred painfully at the strangeness of it all. Finding herself in some sort of chimeric fabrication was mystifying, when at the same time it was obviously tangible. In a moment the unreality passed and she sprang to life. She knew what she had to do and there was much.

Opening the window, only the promise of dawn in the eastern sky gave illumination, but the morning was fresh and clear. The day looked well set to be fine. What a relief, no need to be battling the elements on her first assignment. With the aid of a small paraffin lamp, she organised herself to remove and replace a tire. She checked the petrol cans stored on a low shelf along one wall, each held two gallons. The funnels were on a shelf above. Wilkins had left the tank almost empty so she found the right sized funnel and filled up. She thought to check the de Dion while she was at it, just in case Lord Patchford decided to go for a spin.

I wonder where they buy their petrol, judging from the cans not at a gas station. She remembered reading that when cars were first on the road, in the nineteenth century, gasoline was purchased from apothecaries. But they must have moved on since then, surely.

Next she cranked the engine, jumped in and ran through the gears. Feeling more confident, she advanced the ignition, opened the valves and moved into first. Having experienced the de Dion, she took her time with the clutch. This one was smoother and she drove expertly out to the forecourt. With no-one in sight she was free to experiment, testing the gears, the steering and the brakes. Oh, this is fantastic she thought in triumph, experiencing an emotional fulfilment for the first time since her ‘transportation’. She circled the fountain, driving out through the main gates and back again. Next was reverse and satisfied, she returned to the carriage house to wash and dress. Breakfast would be in half an hour.

By nine o’clock Mallory was waiting under the imposing porte-cochere, polishing cloth in hand, making sure everything was spotless. She looked every inch the competent driver and truly felt like one. Finally the double doors opened and Baldwin was ushering the Ladies through. All three looked absolutely stunning.

Where are we going so dressed up?

Lady Patchford wore a smart, brown two piece. The coat was in the Frieze style, sporting a black velvet collar, wide lapels narrowing to a two button closure at the waist. It cut away below the hips in two sweeping curves, showing off the matching skirt with its panel of braid down the centre and around the hem. There was no mistaking her position and breeding. The Honourable Ladies wore long, worsted coats, but short enough to reveal the hems of their navy, cable serge skirts which swept the ground. As befitted their years and for day wear, they were plain of decoration with only a series of large buttons maintaining the closure. The sleeves were puffed at the shoulder.

What really knocked Mallory out was the head gear. All three wore high-crowned, large brimmed hats. No wonder they want the open tourer, how else can they fit them in? All had large, artificial flowers and several striking feathers which stuck out even further. She had thought Dottie’s hat elaborate, but that was nothing compared to these ‘monstrosities’ as she now called them.

“Good morning Lady Patchford.” Mallory nodded as Baldwin opened the door and helped her into the back seat. “Good morning Lady Ramona.” Baldwin had taken her around to the other side. She helped Lady Nigella into the seat next to hers in the front and only smiled her greeting. Before she took up her position, she stepped back to receive instructions.

“We have an appointment in town Mason, for lunch,” Lady Patchford informed her. “You will drive us to the main Stratford to Birmingham road and that will take us into the city.”

“Yes Your Ladyship.”

“Please raise the screen. I find it a little blustery today, but the hood may remain down.”

“Yes Your Ladyship.”

Having accomplished her task Mallory jumped in and set herself to the driving. Out on the open road, the first impression to strike her was the lack of traffic. Of course, this was the English countryside of 1909 when the spaces were still uncluttered and one may put one’s foot down with impunity. However, it was prudent to be ever vigilant for the stray cattle beast, or even a stray Homo-sapiens for that matter. Both seemed to be adept at popping out unexpectedly. She remembered the adage: ‘Caution is the master of common sense’ and decided to respect it. Nonetheless, the day was glorious seemingly composed of everlasting shades of vibrant, fresh greens and endless sunshine. Only occasional flashes of yellow from the statuesque Sycamores relieved the eye.

The Birmingham road was easy to find. They were approaching the city from the west, so having passed by Earlswood Lakes and through the small hamlet of Solihull here they were, barrelling along in very good spirits, at least she was. She enjoyed the pink trumpets of the bindweed, twined amongst the branches of the box and holly hedges giving her a reminder of Christmas.

The two in the back seemed quite content, their heads together making desultory comments. Lady Nigella had not offered a word since she had taken her place. Was there still a problem? It had been five days since their ride. Could she say something? She glanced across at her passenger and catching her eye gave a friendly smile. The girl smiled back briefly then looked to the road. Mallory was tempted to make some light comment, but thought better of it. From time to time Lady Patchford addressed a remark to her other daughter to which Lady Nigella duly replied, but there was no easy banter.

Ribbon development, still being an abstraction of the future, Mallory’s run into the city was sudden taking her by surprise. She had been lost in observing such a difference in the country roads from her native Queensland. No lines of red earth through acres of high stands of waving guinea grass, towards an endless horizon. She remembered riding in the back, her dad driving over narrow, corrugated dirt tracks; thick bull dust covering her and the work gear as they passed tall, sinuate river gums or huge termite mounds, representing an eternity of time. Now for the most part, impenetrable hedges and densely canopied trees lined their route, closing them in on both sides except for the odd, five-barred gate. No ancient Melaleucas here with their twisting, paper-bark trunks and massive height.

They began to join other traffic then she really had to stay alert. Already, she had taken smart, evasive action to avoid a collision with an old Wolsely she had been admiring. The driver had veered left, right across her path – no hint of a signal – only sounding his horn. Was that meant to be enough? It was an open two-seater and she could tell it was old by its similarity to a carriage, except there was no horse. Perhaps he thought he was still a coachman.

The outskirts of town quickly gave way to an increase in building density. She was passing small factories and brick foundries, specialising in metals and mechanical engineering. She remembered Birmingham and Sheffield used to be called the ‘black country’. Coventry too, the satellite to Birmingham had been a major supplier of parts to the single-cylindered tricar and the quadricycle. Now these firms were purveyors to the booming automobile business. Dotted amongst the industrial establishments were some quite impressive public houses, dating from a previous time and soon after that the old staging post at Digbeth came into view. Currently, it was the terminus for the motor omnibuses which had made their first appearance on the London streets in 1905. These days they were seen everywhere, in the major cities. Pedestrians too, were all over the place: her trick not to hit one. These people did not seem to know they were to stay on the sidewalks, just crossing the street wherever and whenever they pleased. This for her was the nightmare. She saw not a few old cars on the side of the road, or being pushed. Not old, new, get it right Mal.

Close to the city centre, Lady Patchford directed her past the impressive, recently constructed station at Snow Hill. Huge and sprawling, railway lines converged from everywhere, serving mostly freight traffic since all those furnaces ate up mountains of coal. There were a few trippers’ services on the weekends, but they were not the major reason for England’s network of snaking rail.

Not far along Mallory observed a Marks and Spencer’s, reminding her of her idea for a summer job. Forget it. That was a century away. Already Birmingham had its fair share of multi-storey Department stores, testament to the rapid growth of this industrial heartland. She was to turn into Corporation Street and park outside the French restaurant, Chez Rousseau. As luck would have it, she came up behind the magnificent Darracq owned by Lady Patchford’s luncheon hosts, Mr. Rutherhyde, a shipping magnate and his wife. It was similar in style to the Rolls, but had a longer wheelbase, providing more room for the driver and front passenger who could step up with greater ease. Also, the Cape-cart hood only extended over the rear passengers. The roof over the front was permanent, placed very high and open on three sides, consequently there was no rear windscreen. All in all, a most handsome vehicle and she could see it allowed ample room for the ‘monstrosities’. The Darracq began to move off as she helped her passengers alight. Lady Patchford directed her to follow the automobile around the corner to a side street and station herself behind it.

“On no account are you to leave the vehicle Mason.” Her voice was low, not to draw attention to her lecture, but stern nonetheless. With that hat on her head and her hands clasped in front of her bosom, she reminded Mallory of the time she had received a dressing down from her school principal. The difference here was that she was not quaking; she had done nothing wrong – yet. “It is your responsibility to maintain its good order and to keep it safe. Luncheon is not our major activity today. This is just a convenient preliminary.” She looked up in the opposite direction. “Afterwards, we will all be attending a meeting in the reading rooms of the public library. Monsieur Rousseau will send a man to let you know when we are ready.”

“Yes Your Ladyship.”

Lady Patchford inclined her head slightly the instructions satisfactorily received, then delicately gathered her skirts and swept after her daughters only to pause on the threshold. She turned her head and added: “I will speak to you privately on our return.”

“Yes my Lady.”

Whilst the others were thus engaged, Mallory had a chance to exchange a few words with the other driver. He was an older man with considerable experience in looking after the Rutherhyde family. His livery was more elaborate than hers, resplendent with gold buttons and epaulettes. Of an affable nature, he did not look down on her and seemed happy to dispense some words of both warning and wisdom: “Number one, when driving never speak until spoken to.”

“Right.”

“Two, give hand signals well in advance. Don’t think other drivers can read your mind.”

“Absolutely.”

Mallory did appreciate his willingness to be helpful though. In fact he provided quite a number of tips which she would find useful. She learned that in town, boys stood on street corners, petrol can in one hand, funnel in the other and filled up your tank while you waited.

Indeed, lunch was light refreshment only and very soon they were informed that their passengers were waiting. Mallory was able to follow Mr. Goddard, who expertly wove his way between the people and even managed to pass a few other cars. She stuck close to his tail. Eventually, they joined a crawling line which inched its way towards the meeting place. They were directed past the imposing front entrance of this gothic edifice, placed high atop a multiple series of stone steps, to a side entrance. An animated crowd, not all aristocrats by any means were filing in. She thought the bulk of the audience had the manner of middle class intellectuals, certainly not ‘the workers’.

Having deposited their charges, they drove on to an area set aside for parking where, amongst the other cars she thought she spotted a Cadillac, its white wall tires and famous Demi -Tonneau body, standing out from the crowd.

“That’s right,” Mr. Goddard asserted. “Just last year Frederick Bennett won the Dewar Trophy against keen competition, in reliability events and hill climbs. Since then it has become one of the most popular automobiles.” The two walked slowly over to the vehicle in question and exchanged pleasantries with its driver.

“The engine is vertical ‘in-line’ and water cooled, with four cylinders, in answer to your question, young man.”

“And the transmission?” she asked.

“It’s a three-speed selective sliding gear which they brought out two year ago.”

Mr. Goddard, eager to show off his motor knowledge added to the discussion. “Last year the General Motors Company was incorporated, Buick being the leader of the consortium and this year Cadillac joined them as their top-of-the-range Marque. It boosted their sales in this country all right. Oakland is said to be joining soon. William Durant, the company chief and two of his executives, Chrysler and Nash are going to approach Oldsmobile in November.”

So many names Mallory recognised, she had to ask how he knew all this. “I subscribe to The Autocar. It’s a great periodical for motorists. Harry Lawson puts it out. He used to be in bicycles, but now promotes motor companies.” He nodded his head sagely. “He’s got his finger on the pulse all right. Panhard will have to look to his laurels, Napier too. Their domination of the top-end of the market is going to be seriously challenged.” She had seen that magazine for sale on the news-stands in ‘her time’. It was hard to believe it would still be going strong all those years later, although she had read the name then as Autocar.

“My boss is in the shipping business. His fleet carries many automobile components and I hear him discussing business events when I’m driving.” He winked and elbowed the other chauffeur. As men of the world they knew what was what. They wandered back to their own vehicles. It was anticipated the lecture would last about an hour. She should have brought a book, and something to eat. Next time she would know to expect a lot of hanging about. Whilst sitting on the running board, her ruminations ran along the lines that this was a far cry from Lord Patchford’s expectation of a frivolous shopping spree. Lady Patchford had said they were there to attend a lecture delivered by Mr. Charles Masterman. His critical essay: ‘The Condition of England’ had just come out in May and they were all avid to hear the great man himself.

The wait was longer than an hour; perhaps question time had run over. There was a brief exchange between the Rutherhydes and Lady Patchford as they said their goodbyes, then Mallory was able to organise her passengers. This time it was Lady Ramona who took the front seat. Mallory had to wait her turn in a long line to exit, and not a few of the participants headed in the same direction as she.

“What did you think of Mr. Masterman, Mona?” her mother asked, once they had left the smoke and noise of the city.

“I thought he was top-ho Mama …” Ramona bubbled: “… I really agree with him. We are in desperate need of a new enlightenment.” Since she would turn her head to address her mother her words carried clearly and likewise, Lady Glencora spoke up for her daughter’s benefit. Mallory enjoyed the exchanges, helping to make the return journey more interesting.

“And you Jellie?”

“I thought his anxieties over the suffragists probably excessive, but like Mona, I really have to agree with his ideas.” Her bright eyes clouded momentarily as she turned slightly towards her mother. “Do you think they will become as militant as he fears? They seem such nice ladies and their requests are nothing beyond reasonable.”

Mallory thought it was good to hear Lady Nigella expressing herself again. Things must have settled down.

“I’m not sure Jellie. These women are challenging the values and judgements of the previous generation. Remember the Women’s Social and Political Union, which Emmeline Pankhurst founded with her daughters, grew out of the Independent Labour Party. Initially it was a working-class movement. Once they transferred to London from Manchester, then the more refined ladies became involved. Still, they have not been able to arouse sufficient public sympathy to ensure the ultimate success of their goals. Look too, at the derisive hostility the campaigners for votes for women kindle from many Liberal politicians,” her mother reminded her. She was a great admirer of Vita Goldstein who, in 1903, had stood for the Australian Parliament. Despite her strong leadership abilities, she had failed to obtain the required number of supporters. She had based her feminism on social justice and her catch-cry, which Lady Glencora admired most of all was: ‘I am Master of my fate and Captain of my soul’. How courageous! It was rumoured she would try again next year, this time putting her name up for the Australian Senate.

Lady Glencora had been watching the passing scenery, but now looked back. “I think they want to maintain the status quo, while this new breed of clever intellectuals wants to push forward into a more liberated climate. They are trying to break away from those stuffy, old observances.”

“Yes Mama. We see these new debaters who advocate a limit to the powers and rights of our class, as modern … belonging to this century,” Nigella agreed. “Enlightened men like Matthew Arnold and Mr. Shaw. But many of our circle would shudder in horror if they knew how radical we have become. Still, I don’t see Mrs. Pankhurst and her ladies throwing bombs and things. They are campaigning on rhetoric, not action.”

“Jellie, the old guard is trying to cling to the past while the rest of us, who have a conscience…” Ramona interjected: “…are trying to hurry into a more caring future. We want equality for all, not just women.” She paused for breath, then with a shake of frustration continued. “They seem neurotically against anything new, on principle. They just won’t listen.”

“Why is the older generation so insecure Mona? Do they feel so threatened that they have to stop their ears and close their eyes?” Nigella looked out at the passing trees, but saw instead her father’s companions indulging in their sports and dinners, extravagantly rich and outwardly complacent. Was there an air of desperation to it all? Could it be that inwardly they feared their very way of life was being poisoned by the new outlook? She dropped a heavy sigh. Was that why Mama had been behaving so strangely? But she was not like them. She was much more of a rebel than they would think. She was forced to observe their conventions; that was all. No, this could not be the reason. There must be something else.

“It’s utterly ridiculous of course,” Lady Glencora interjected hotly. “But they feel if allowed to continue, their rights as property owners will be threatened and naturally with this level of paranoia, they have to close ranks.”

Nigella thought for a moment. “Is this why the Royal Academy has been so swift in its intolerant reactions? They’ve been banning many books and plays lately.”

“Yes Jellie.” Trying to find the rationale for this rigid behaviour, she pondered: “Perhaps it’s lying in the depths of their unconscious? We’re living in a time of extremes. There are those who discuss ideas and those who denounce them. You can see that on the one side optimism dawns, but on the other, alarm grows … so much tension.”

Ramona recalled that militancy in the Women’s movement had been encouraged by a comment made by the Home Secretary during one of those many debates the House had had on women’s suffrage. “Mr. Gladstone said: ‘Success is achieved only by the application of the ‘force majeure’ which activates arms’. Then look what happened to those poor women.” His words sank them into a reverie and the rest of the journey continued with each one immersed in her own pre-occupation until Lady Glencora requested the Cape-cart hood be raised against the threat of rain. Mallory had observed the rolling approach of leaden clouds herself, the skies churning to a slate grey.

Having anticipated this eventuality she knew exactly what to do. The ladies alighted and watched as she unhooked the straps and since she had thought to oil the hinges, quickly raised the hood and clipped it into place, unfolding the rear seat windscreen at the same time. Returning to their seats the girls reversed their positions. This time Nigella did speak.

“That was very well done. Wilkins would always make such a botch of it. Have you had much experience with the ‘Silver Ghost’ Mason?”

“I have had considerable driving experience my Lady, but not with this particular vehicle.” Mallory laughed, happy to be talking to the girl again. “But you know what they say … ‘when you’ve driven one you’ve driven them all’.”

“No Mason, I’m not familiar with what people say.” She felt her youthfulness had been found out and was disappointed it should be this particular person to have done so.

“Oh my apologies my Lady I was not thinking.” She glanced quickly at the girl, noting the flutter of the black lashes against the flushed cheeks. “Of course, I meant in the motoring world ‘people’. I would not expect Your Ladyship to know of such things. Please forgive my crassness.”

With this acknowledgement Nigella felt somewhat mollified, enabling her to settle down to enjoy further exchanges. “I’m glad you’re our new chauffeur Mason, but does this mean you will no longer be looking after Burrow?”

“Not at all my Lady I’m seconded to Mr. Beeson, when His Lordship has no need of my services.”

“Oh, Jake will be happy about that, I know how difficult he found him.” About to ask another question, her words were cut off by a tapping on the rear windscreen. Mallory pulled to a halt to enquire what was needed.

“I just thought I’d let you know Mason. The next right will be the turn-off for the Stratford road. After about a mile and a half, the signpost for Guilfoyle Village will also come up on your right.”

The interruption had the effect of cutting off Nigella’s relaxed curiosity, resulting in their completing the journey in silence. Mallory could sense her previous mood had passed and was not about to invade a private space, uninvited.

It was four o’clock when she pulled up at Guilfoyle Park and Reynolds was helping the Ladies down. Baldwin waited at the top of the steps.

“Excuse me, Your Ladyship!”

Lady Glencora turned back.

“I must report to Lord Patchford.”

“Come and see me at five-thirty. Maisie will have finished with my toilette by then.”

“Yes Your Ladyship.”

Both girls turned and said: “Thank you Mason.”

Mallory drove into the carriage house, parked and opened up the bonnet to let the engine cool. She would give the ‘Ghost’ the once-over before dark and could plan for tomorrow when she had seen her employers. She splashed water on her face then brushed down her cap and jacket. Next the Balmorals got a quick polish and as she checked that her hair looked correctly in place, she heard her belly rumble with a most embarrassing loudness. Cook had better have prepared lots. She took off to Sir Eustace’s study.

* * *

“Enter.”

“Your Lordship.”

“Ah Mason, how did it go today? I will see the Ladies at dinner, but I’m speaking technically you understand.” Lord Patchford was not yet dressed for dinner, but at ease in a dark, wine coloured smoking jacket, enjoying his pipe.

“Yes Your Lordship. She ran very well Sir. I’m letting the engine cool and then I’ll check the oil and water levels. Tomorrow, in a better light I’ll see to the carburettor and of course, anything else that needs attention.” She had taken up her respectful stance, but with feet apart this time considering the strict ‘to attention’ posture not necessarily required, at this development of their association.

“Tomorrow I need the Tourer for a trip Lady Patchford and I will be taking to visit friends. I would like you to have it ready by ten o’clock. We will be staying overnight at the Earl of Ettington’s estate; should get a spot of shooting in.” Lord Patchford’s pale eyes still managed to twinkle in anticipation. “He’s renowned for his Grouse and the Partridge season is just starting. Should get some pretty good bags too,” he mused to himself. “Baldwin will have the trunk and valises ready for loading by nine o’clock.”

“Yes Your Lordship.”

“You are dismissed.”

“Thank you Your Lordship.”

Mallory felt comfortable moving about the house. She made her way unerringly to Lady Patchford’s suite of rooms in the east wing. Another knock: another entrance.

Her Ladyship was once more relaxing on her chaise in a flowing peignoir, tied at the waist by a wide sash her feet were up, encased in soft, pink leather slippers. She indicated that Mallory should take the occasional chair next to the escritoire. Sitting carefully, she placed her cap on her knee.

“Lord Patchford will have told you our plans for the weekend, Mason?” She set down her reading glasses on the low, marquetry table beside her and returned her feet to the floor.

“Yes Your Ladyship.”

“Mrs. Aldred will be supervising all household affairs. Sir Ambrose will be joining us to visit Lord Knowlesworthy, but the girls will remain here. Lady Ramona has her friend, Lady Phyllida visiting, but Lady Nigella will be on her own. I will not be here to keep an eye on her so I am putting you in charge.” This instruction was accompanied by Lady Patchford’s forbidding examination of her servant. The grey-green tones in her hazel eyes flashed to the point that meant her will would be done.

“Yes Your Ladyship.”

“Clear the plans with Mrs. Aldred first if the Lady Nigella wants to go somewhere. She is free to roam the estate, but is not allowed beyond its boundaries.”

“No, Your Ladyship.”

“You may go.”

“Thank you Your Ladyship.”

* * *

Next morning, at nine o’clock, Mallory had the ‘Silver Ghost’ under the porte-cochere and Reynolds was giving her a hand to strap on the baggage, Baldwin standing to one side, supervising. It was hard to believe they would need so much just for one night. Then she remembered: these people are obliged to have the right outfit for every occasion. What a drag!

Whatever, it was a glorious morning for a drive and as the sun burned through the clouds, she reckoned they would have that tonneau down in no time. Her responsibilities at an end and no summons from Mr. Beeson, she decided to tinker with the de Dion and spent a productive hour getting to know her new charge. The carriage house, not being far from the main drive, she observed Lady Phyllida’s arrival in time for lunch. She had travelled under her own steam, pedal-cycling on a big quadricycle, powered by the easily managed de Dion engine.

Is the Stockwell Estate the neighbouring one I passed yesterday?

Lady Phyllida did not enter the house and shortly thereafter, Lady Ramona appeared sportingly attired in a straight, beige skirt and cream golf jersey. This was long-sleeved, double breasted and reached to the hips. A serviceable, plain leather belt also buttoned, kept it trim. She was pulling on dark brown leather gloves which matched the belt and in place of a ‘monstrosity’ on her piled up hair, was a jaunty, tartan beret with just the shortest feather. She looked excited and ready for a spin as she took her place in the front seat, resting her feet on the specially angled board. Lady Phyllida sat herself up on the back seat, which reminded Mallory of a regular bicycle saddle, only much bigger, and leaned forward to grab the handle bars. Then she shouted out, exhilarated: “Hold tight Mona, we’re taking off.” In their wake, soft clouds of dust spiralled up in the warm air.

Mrs. Aldred’s stern voice floated from the top step, reminding them to be no longer than an hour as they set out at a sedate pace, preserving their ladylike decorum.

Mallory smiled thinking: So much for a ‘flying’ start and returned to her task. Soon it was time to pack everything away and clean herself up for her meal. As she sauntered back to the servants’ wing she wondered if she should check with Mrs. Aldred. There had been no sign of the young mistress, but as it turned out this was not necessary. At lunch, Emily informed her that the Lady Nigella would like to have the Runabout ready at two o’clock. On such a fine day she planned to do some painting. Mrs. Aldred was agreeable to this proposal, but as with the girls gave stern restrictions. Lady Nigella must be back in good time to change for dinner. The Dowager, Lady Patchford and the Reverend Jobbling would be in attendance and she must not be late.

At two-o’clock the wide skies were a celestial blue and the sun burning hot, but Mallory wore her full rig and just had to hope to park in the shade. Lady Nigella arrived with Baldwin who carried an easel, compactly folded with a little stool; a leather covered tea box and a wooden paints’ box. All this he placed in the boot compartment behind the seat, with the tools.

“Thank you Baldwin. I’ll be back at five.”

“Yes Miss Nigella,” Baldwin replied as he helped her up onto the padded bench.

Today Nigella was casually attired in a long sleeved, white and pale green striped blouse, still buttoned to the neck, despite the heat and a bottle-green Frieze, walking skirt only modestly flaring from two front darts, each detailed with four black buttons in a vertical line. When she sat, Mallory had a glimpse of pin spot, cashmere hose rising from sturdy country shoes of calf leather, laced rather than buttoned, with low heels. Does she expect to go walking? A wide brimmed straw hat adorned with one single bow, covered her hair. Dressed like this, she looked to be no older than thirteen or fourteen. Her hands were encased in soft, pale cream, fabric gloves.

“Where to my Lady,” Mallory asked, as she turned the starting handle and the engine gently throbbed.

“I thought I would see the quality of light at Featherstone Copse first and then make a decision.”

“Very well my Lady. I know the way to the Copse.” She circled round the rampant horses, looking magnificent in the fountain’s sparkling droplets and turned left through the tall pillars of the main gates. It was a much longer way round than when she had walked over the rise that first day, but she remembered the road where she had encountered the irate gamekeeper. First impressions could be so deceiving. Mr. Higgins was not such a bad old stick after all. She parked at the same gap and collected the painting gear.

“Do you want the tea-box my Lady?”

“No Mason thank you perhaps later. Mrs. Aldred insisted upon packing it ‘just in case’, she said.” She smiled thinking it highly unlikely.

They descended to the tree line and stood about. As she began to wander, Mallory risked undoing the top button of the jacket. Although it was somewhat cooler under the spreading branches of the Horse Chestnut trees, the afternoon was still intensely hot. Nigella returned declaring nothing inspired her. “Perhaps a more distant vista will suit my mood.”

They climbed the rise, away from the direction of the big house and upon turning to look to the east both were entranced by the view that met their gaze. They were looking down on the apple orchard where the tumbling river sang in the shady coolness. In the distance they could just discern the rooves of Guilfoyle village and the spire of St. Austell’s. In her mind’s eye Mallory could see it set off superbly, in a simple wood frame. Even the clouds played their part.

“Oh yes,” she breathed.

“You see it too?”

“Indeed my Lady. It’s perfect.”

Nigella tilted her straw hat. “Then I shall set up my easel here.”

She found the shade of a tall Elm and turned to take in the proportions of the view. Mallory opened out the low canvas stool and set up the tripod, tightening the screws on the legs. Nigella opened the paints’ box to arrange her brushes then realised she needed the tea-box for water.

“I’ll fetch it right away my Lady.”

“Thank you, Mason.”

Getting even hotter on the return journey, Mallory removed her jacket and slung it over her shoulder. The meadow was still lush for the time of year, sprinkled with dandelions. By the time she reached the car her toecaps were powdered with butter-yellow pollen. She rolled up her sleeves and exchanged the jacket and cap for the tea-box. Although she had not been gone long Nigella had the whole scene sketched out, just an indication of placements.

Mallory set the box down on a flat stretch, off to one side and opened it up. It was handsomely appointed. Although leather on the outside, inside the lining was polished silver. One side folded out to form a tray on which to lay the combined silver kettle and teapot, its handle insulated by intricately braided leather thonging. Unhooking the clips of the other silver lid, she discovered a small paraffin stove to heat the water. Even a silver matchbox cover was included to protect the lighter spills. Again she noticed these were Bryant and May’s and thought this company must have an influential market share. No Red Heads to halve their profits.

Two compartments were located at the back, one above the other. The bottom held the cups, the top was divided into two chambers: right hand to hold a silver canister for loose tea, the left a canister for water and slipped behind this, a heatproof felt. These guys think of everything, she marvelled. Clipped to the back panel was a silver rack to hold silver tea spoons. So cool! There was all you could possibly need. She took a cup and filled it with water. Nigella accepted it and began her basic washes.

Mallory had not expected water-colour painting, but then remembered it was a popular pastime for young ladies of the period. It seemed the Lady Nigella had considerable experience, her grasp of form, light and shade was accomplished. With confidence, she worked quickly with her washes, blending the paints to create that veiled obscurity, so beloved of Edwardian colourists. A change of water was needed.

“Since we have all the fixings for tea, shall I make some my Lady?”

“Would you like to have one?”

“I think it would be welcome on such a hot day. And a little re-hydration is always to the good, don’t you think?”

Nigella was thrown off balance and frowning exclaimed. “I don’t understand what you’re saying.” The words issued from her lips in a low rush as her bewilderment filled the air. With eyes still lowered she complained: “You keep talking in riddles.” He had made her feel juvenile again and the disadvantage was unsettling.

“No my Lady, I’m sorry. Sometimes I speak before my brain is in gear. I didn’t mean anything. Don’t misunderstand me, it’s my fault.” Why did she have to keep doing this? She was not a brick, but around Nigella she seemed more like three. She took time to scan her thoughts to find the right words.

“Please … let me make us tea. This is such a lovely afternoon. We don’t want it to spoil.”

Nigella looked back to the turquoise eyes, earnest and alert and saw genuine regret. No, he had not meant to put her down. She was being a goose again and her impatience disappeared as quickly as it had flared.

“You’re right. I didn’t mean to be so critical either. Tea will be nice.”

It was diverting making the tea. There had been another teatime; a pretend one. She had laid out her miniature set perfectly and Gavin had come and drunk tea with his baby sister. Oh Gavin, her eyes welled up. Jagged pieces of her former life had the power to assail her so unexpectedly, but by the time everything was ready, the painting was done and her grief in that faint-hearted moment had passed. She blinked her stinging eyes and had her composure back in place.

Nigella left the stool and sitting in the shade, removed her hat to feel the cool air on her hot brow. Emily had swept her hair up into a complicated braid, but a few coils had escaped above her small ears. Mallory could not help but watch captivated, as shafts of dazzling sunlight shivered their way between the branches, to burnish the freed strands and pick out brown highlights from the black. Once again, she would like to imprison this image so that time could not fade it from her memory. Oh, for a mobile phone.

They sat side by side on the dry leaves the tree trunk for support, regarding the picture on the easel curing in the sun. It was a silken, flowing landscape capturing the peace of a quaint English village in an idyllic country setting. Mallory found it engaging and poignant. The thought of the horrors of death and destruction that lay in wait for these unsuspecting people came to her, in trenchant contrast to the innocence of the scene. She was enormously affected; the carnage would be so awful.

“Awesome! You’ve created a beautiful memory of this day Nigella … I mean … my Lady,” she amended hastily, her previous thoughts betraying her emotions. “Oh sorry … sorry, there I go saying the wrong thing.” Her head swam with negatives. With these people she needed to know her proper station; this was too important to mess up. She could not afford to give offence, especially to this girl already too easily upset. She did so not want that. With head in hands she tried to cover the confusion raging inside her. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” she added gruffly.

“It’s all right. We were being like friends weren’t we?” She reached out to take away the hands. The touch was soft, so attentive. Mallory felt in that moment how desolate was her lot. It was not good to know the future. To think, more would die in the Spanish ‘Flu epidemic than in the Great War! How mournful she could become if she did not stay positive and committed to this new present. If she were not careful, the circumstances of this burden she carried would be her undoing, but not in front of the girl. Abruptly she got up and walked away.

Nigella took sips of tea and watched feeling intense regret that she had been so uncivil, too often only thinking of herself. But she did think about Mason. She could find him in her thoughts when she was finally alone in her room, other distractions removed and her mind free to roam where it pleased. She looked at his broad back and realised he was no longer in uniform. She studied his physique, could see the muscles rippling in his forearms as he clenched and unclenched his fists. It reminded her of the day she had looked down to see him holding Burrow’s reins. Heat washed through her at this memory and she had to look away. Then she was aware of him sitting down and flushed deep inside, feeling the warmth of his body next to hers, stirring her senses. She would keep her eyes on the distant horizon.

The voice that spoke was thick, a little hesitant. She looked back and saw small globes of perspiration beading his temple, gleaming in a spotlight. The delivery was slow, as though he were trying to decide from several options the best way to proceed.

“My Lady I never wish to cause you distress please let me explain.” She felt her heart pounding; a rush in her ears. For some reason it was pivotal to make this girl understand. There must be no wrong headedness between them. “I am new to this situation … position. You might say: I’m learning on the job. I do make mistakes, I know, but I will do my utmost to be of the best service to you.” The almond eyes turned to her and Nigella felt moved by the intensity she saw reflected in their blue depths, almost the colour of the sea in a fading afternoon light. She could see he suffered, the way his eyes were haunted by a deep distress, brooding in some far off place. There were secrets here she would never be able to penetrate, but perhaps she could reach across the gulf between them by sharing some of her own?

“I will be as candid with you Mason.” She wanted to open up to this exceptional man, but instead looked at her cup. Mallory, observing the direction of her gaze noticed it was empty and offered a refill. She accepted.

“I admit I have been impatient and demanding. I too, would like to explain.” Would her courage fail her, trying to express something she hardly understood herself – to a stranger? But somehow not being of her world, he might be able to provide a balanced view. “I have been experiencing some strange feelings lately.”

Mallory returned to her place and watched the girl struggle with her thoughts.

“Before … I mean when I was younger, my world was perfect. Mama and Papa loved me: Nanny and Grandma Patchford, Ramona, Ambrose. Everybody made me feel special. Of course, I’m older now and know that being the centre of the universe can’t last forever …” She stopped and smiled to herself at this, then took up her train of thought: “… but now there’s a mystifying atmosphere in the house.”

“Mystifying?” Mallory sat forward, crossing her legs.

“Well, I sense people watching me, not just looking as I go by. I’m used to that. No, it’s different. Sometimes I feel the servants have been talking about me, but they fall silent when I come within earshot.” She stopped again and took time to drink her tea. Mallory did not prompt or interrupt, content to let this girl find her words in her own time.

“You know Mason, Mama gave a big dinner party last weekend and for the first time I was allowed to be present. Only until after desert had been served,” she amended honestly. “Oh, I was so excited and felt so grown up.” She paused the tea forgotten, lost in some dark, forlorn place. Judging from her expression perhaps tormented by hidden insecurities. She veiled her eyes as she looked down then continued: “After that evening Mama changed. It’s made me very unhappy. I don’t understand and whichever way I look, I cannot fathom the cause. Papa has been so impatient, too. He belittled me in front of everyone. I felt so demeaned.” Tears hovered precariously on the tips of her luxurious lashes, sparkling like diamonds. In the silence that followed Mallory was touched by a sense of helplessness. What could she say? She expelled a dejected sigh, marked with a commiseration she was unable to express.

“I’m very sorry things are not going well for you.” The silence lengthened; she made a special effort to expand her thoughts. “This could be cold comfort …” she began tentatively, “… but I can say from experience that circumstances never stay the same.” What else? “Something could yet happen to bring clarity to the situation … or even make peace between you.” She searched the girl’s face and realised she had not fully appreciated before what an intense shade of turquoise, lay in the centres of her remarkable pupils. Now she believed she had caused a slight softening of the features. A burden shared perhaps?

“You may be right Mason. Anyway, it will do no good for me to indulge in self-pity.” She smiled tremulously into his understanding eyes, those eyes with the power to melt her. His words had been bracing, she would make an effort to get out of this brown study.

“Tell me Mason, what did you do for a pastime when you were my age?”

Ah this is better. “Well, I didn’t paint. To be honest I have no artistic bent, but I do appreciate other people’s work.” She smiled and offered diffidently: “I really like yours.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m an ‘outdoors’ person, a bit of an adrenalin junkie I guess.”

Nigella searched his face for understanding then decided not to become querulous again. Was she learning self-control; patience even?

“For a while I belonged to a rowing team. Our club would gather at the boat house at Aeroglen on the Barron River every Sunday morning, six a.m. come rain or shine. We were a team of eight with a Cox.” Her recall became more vivid. “I loved it when the rhythm took over, the oars dipping and flashing in the morning sun.” She laughed with her memories: “We could just fly through that water. We’d go upstream as far as the Mason Bridge, nothing to do with my family, then take a break and row back.”

She continued to regale her eager listener with amusing anecdotes, observing her rapt profile until both were cleansed of their earlier melancholies. For some unknown reason this time, these were memories she gladly inhabited. No pain, only happiness at being able to share them with her companion.

“What fun it must be to have such freedom!” Nigella’s virescent eyes sparkled with diamantine lights. How she would like to be pulling on the oars on a soft and dewy, golden morning.

“I wasn’t always outside though. I could just as well be a computer nerd.”

Nigella gave a probing look, but before she would get herself into a perplexed state, he clarified: “There are just some games we play over there, but you don’t have them here. I also like reading. Do you?” This should be safer.

“Oh yes. One of my favourite stories was Barrie’s Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens, but now I think it is Jack London’s White Fang. Do you know it, the one about the beautiful wolf?”

“Not that one, but I have read J. M.’s Peter Pan and Wendy.”

“Oh, you must be mistaken. He hasn’t written a story of that name.” She looked across, surprised.

Bloody hell, done it again! She wracked her brains to recall the timing. That book would not be written for a few years yet. It would be following the success of Peter Pan. He would not write the sequel until two years after that. Drongo!

“Of course, it must have been Peter Pan, my mistake.” Try something else. Stick to the Edwardian period. She tried to focus her mind. “I liked Oscar Wilde’s, The Ballard of Reading Gaol. Have you read anything of his?” Oh no! He would be Victorian. Shoot!

“No … I have heard of him, of course, but Mama won’t let me read anything he’s written.” She thought again: “Last year Anne of Green Gables came out. That was lots of fun. I liked learning about Canada.”

“Oh yes, set in Newfoundland. I don’t know that one very well.” Mallory searched her brain. “Conan Doyle’s, The Hound of the Baskervilles was a great read.”

Nigella clapped her hands in enthusiasm. “Oh, I want to read that one, but I’m not allowed to yet. Mama says I have to wait ’til I’m older.” Her full red lips protruded in a pout as she drew her black brows together in a severe frown. All that was needed, Mallory thought, was a stamp of the foot; a girl who liked to have her own way.

Well, we all want that, but we don’t usually show it so obviously. “What are you reading now?”

A bright smile lit her face once more. “The Elusive Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy, you know, set in the French reign of terror.”

“Oh yes. I’ve read all eight of hers.”

She looked quizzical. “Is there more than the one play and three books?”

“Oh, perhaps not.” Move on Mal. What about music. “I bet you play the piano?” she challenged.

“Not me. Ramona’s the pianist. Ambrose tried at one time. And me too, but we’re sticky fingered. She has the lightest touch. It’s wonderful to listen to her.” She paused momentarily then thought to add: “I can sing a bit … got to be able to do my party piece,” and chuckled. “I do a wobbly rendition of: It Was a Lover and His Lass.” One Mallory knew and she sang:

“In springtime, in springtime,
The only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding-a-ding-a-ding …”

Then Nigella joined in and harmonised:

“Hey ding-a-ding-a-ding,
Sweet lovers love the spring.”

They fell about laughing, holding their sides. Mallory was untroubled, enjoying the moment, the day and the girl. Oh, she was such a charmer. Her guileless enthusiasms were infectious and her candid honesty endearing. But enough of this, the shadows were lengthening and a halo of orange and red was surrounding the disappearing sun.

“Time to pack up, my Lady.”

On the drive home, her art work guardedly held across her lap, Nigella felt more carefree than she had in a long while. When things were going well between them, and by that she meant when she was not being juvenile, she could think of no other person she would rather be with than this foreign young man. He seemed to possess all the qualities she needed to make her feel complete. Added to that was the simple fact that he was just so, so – handsome. Those eyes! And she had thought Lionel Shoebridge, ‘the end’. This afternoon was reminding her of the time they rode through Druids Meadows. It would be nice to do that again.

Too soon she was being deposited at the front steps and Baldwin was taking charge. “Thank you, Mason.”

Mallory knew they were her usual words, but was there a special feeling behind them? She smiled back. It had been a great day and for a while she had felt perfectly content.