CHAPTER ONE

The smell of an English country house is unique: its inmates can sniff an approximation anywhere in the world and say, ‘Ah, yes.’ In the Malaysian jungles, riding over African landscapes, or dying among Flanders poppies, they dreamed of tea-time in the library and of damp tweed and wet dogs steaming by the fire. Starch, Brasso, human sweat trapped in wardrobes, game hanging in the larders, boiled ham, mould in the cellar and the flat scent of cold earth streaming in through the window on a December morning.

In the weeks before Christmas the smells in the house at Hinton Dysart turned sharp and spicy. Lifted from Lee Wood, a Christmas tree shed its needles onto the hall floor, apple logs released their scent from the fireplaces, orange and tangerine peel perfumed the dining room and Mrs Dawes enveloped the kitchen in cinnamon, cloves, allspice – and brandy. Under these fresh assaults the lingering residue of paint, linseed oil, putty, new wood and freshly made up chintz was routed.

‘It’s more like home now,’ Flora told Matty over afternoon tea by the fire when the builders had finally departed. ‘The house doesn’t seem so foreign. More like it was. Only nicer, of course,’ she added kindly, interpreting Matty’s stricken look correctly. She went on to say that Matty should not take her comments as criticism. Matty, who was not at all sure she understood her bewildering in-laws and equally uncertain how to behave with them, spent a sleepness night worrying that she had overdone the improvements.

On the day before the Christmas guests — her first guests – were due, Matty roamed the house with Ivy at her side, checking the toothpowder and bath salts in the bathrooms, the McVitie’s biscuits in the tins on bedside tables, that there were enough towels, enough pillows, enough hairpins, enough blotting paper, enough ink... and prayed that she would pass the test.

‘Kit, can’t you do something about Matty?’ Flora begged. ‘She’s fussing about like a headless chicken and it’s making Father tetchy.’

Bearing a glass of strengthening gin and tonic, Kit eventually discovered his wife with her head in the linen cupboard. ‘I’ve been sent to tame you. There is a general protest at the high level of activity.’ Matty’s reply was muffled. ‘Please, Matty. Why don’t you come and sit down in the drawing room and read the newspaper?’ He held out the glass. ‘Have a drink at least.’

Matty barely glanced at him. ‘Later,’ she said. ‘I just want to be sure...’

She prodded a pile of towels. Kit stared at Matty’s excellently tailored but decorous rust and beige tweed suit, over which she had tied one of Mrs Dawes’s aprons, and protested, ‘Really, Matty, we have the servants to do that sort of thing. There is no need—’

‘Will you pass me the list on the table, please, Kit?’

Kit obeyed. He had already learnt that Matty could display a stubborn streak. ‘This isn’t going to become a habit, is it?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Matty’s face peered round the cupboard door, looking flustered. ‘You can’t expect people to do things for you unless you are willing to show them how.’ She grinned unexpectedly. ‘Aunt Susan told me.’

He found himself grinning back. ‘No. I don’t suppose you can.’ He was still holding the gin and took a sip. ‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t supposed to have this. It was for you.’

Matty stretched up to the napkins on the top shelf of the cupboard. She was far too small to reach them easily and a pile fell onto the floor by her feet. She swooped down to pick them up. Kit’s amusement vanished and a wave of irritation buffeted his good intentions. Disappointed with himself, ashamed, and guilty because he felt both, Kit put down the glass on the table and walked away.

The guests – Polly, James and young William, Great-Aunt Hetta, Lady Foxton, Max Longborough – arrived together on the 3.40 from Waterloo to be collected by Tyson at Farnham station. Immediately on entering the hall, all of them remarked on Hinton Dysart’s renaissance and proceeded to divest themselves of a mountain of coats, gloves, boots and scarves.

Lady Foxton dropped a huge, fabulously expensive and hideous mink coat into Ivy’s arms and told her to be very, very careful with it.

Polly ran a critical eye over the waxed floorboards, painstakingly restored banisters and plaster ceiling. ‘Gosh, Matty. You have made a difference, hasn’t she, Kit?’ She pecked Kit on the cheek. ‘I mean I wouldn’t have recognized the house. So... so expensive-looking. I do hope something of the old Hinton Dysart is left.’

Her remarks echoed Flora’s, and Matty, who had stepped forward to welcome her, froze and found herself saying, ‘How sweet’, meaninglessly to the baby.

Very early in their marriage, Kit had asked Matty whether she minded if they kept to separate bedrooms. He spoke as if it was a formality, as if he did not expect anything else. Thus on Christmas Eve she woke alone to the dilute darkness of early morning in Hesther’s old bedroom, and smelt winter in the garden outside. For a time she lay warm and untroubled, from habit expecting to hear noise – clattering milk pails, the rasp of a car’s gears – only to luxuriate in the silence. She remembered that life had changed.

After a minute or two, Matty opened her eyes and pushed the sheets back from her face. The roses on the chintz curtains swelled and then shrivelled in the draught from the open window. Eddies of freezing air washed over her face.

Perhaps... perhaps this time. Matty concentrated her forces and hoped that she felt sick. But, hard as she tried, she did not and when she rolled over she understood why. Then she hauled herself upright, switched on the light and examined the stain on her nightdress.

‘I won’t cry,’ she said to her concave stomach and smeared thighs. ‘Not this time.’

She had wept twice before, when the red blotch arrived to disfigure her underwear and sheets in Egypt and when the English doctor in Rome had said, ‘There, there, patience. With your problems and physique, Mrs Dysart, it doesn’t do to count chickens.’ Matty did not feel patient or resigned, only frustrated, despairing of her body and ignorant because she did not know enough about it to try to put things right.

Instead she fell into the old habit. ‘You can’t sparkle, Matty, nor play tennis, nor get your husband to love you. Nor...’ a deep doubt had rooted, ‘nor become pregnant.’

What if... what if she could not bear a child?

Matty pulled her nightdress down over her legs. The pleasure and comfort she had experienced on first wakening dissipated into the uncertainties of her new life.

After she had washed, Matty slipped between the curtains and looked out of the window. Slivers of opal light slanted over the garden, smoothed flat by frost and winter. Gooseflesh stippled her arms and marched up her legs.

Last night she had waited a long time, willing Kit to come to her, if only to say goodnight. She heard him walk up the staircase and down the corridor. She knew it was him because she had learnt the sound of his footsteps, and, shuddering a little with nerves and hope, she waited for a knock on the door.

It never came.

Matty put out a finger and drew a heart on the frosted window pane. Its lines did not quite meet and it was misshapen, more like a lump of stone. She stared at it and acknowledged what she had not dared to acknowledge previously – that when she married Kit she had not understood what she was taking on. She had no idea that unhappiness could stretch indefinitely like a piece of knicker elastic.

Daisy’s face hovered in the frost-spun patterns on the window. Kit will be thinking of me, she had warned. Oh, yes, Matty had thought in her ignorance. Don’t you think I don’t know? I’ve thought it all out, Daisy. But she hadn’t: she hadn’t known what it would be like to hold the nettle of unreciprocated love day after day, night after night. Or to feel that there was another person in your bed.

‘It’s a new one,’ Kit had explained to Matty, folding a blue silk Paisley dressing gown over the chair in the bedroom of the Dawlish hotel, and coughed. In contrast, his pyjamas were well worn and washed into softness. For that matter, so was Matty’s nightdress, a much-loved Viyella one which buttoned up to the neck. (‘For goodness sake, Matilda,’ Susan had expostulated. ‘You can’t take that on honeymoon.’)

Since it was freezing in the bedroom and a maliciously inclined draught whistled under the door, Matty had buttoned it up to the neck and tucked it over her feet. Kit shivered and kicked off his slippers. Matty took a quick look at his feet and was pleased: as she suspected, Kit had nice ones, bony and strong, with pedicured toenails. She liked that. He coughed again, finishing with a distinct wheeze.

‘Do you mind if I turn off the light?’ Matty shook her head. Kit flicked the switch and remained for a second or two beside the bed before sliding in beside her.

This is it, she thought, surprised at the ordinariness of the event.

‘Kit,’ she said, twisting the hem of the top sheet round and round her fingers, ‘I know this is not what you wanted.’

He did not move. ‘Matty, do you think this is the right time to talk about this?’

‘Not if you don’t want to.’

‘Do you want to?’

Matty reconsidered the Pandora’s box the conversation would open. ‘No,’ she said hastily. ‘No.’

‘Agreed.’ Kit unbuttoned his pyjama jacket and pulled it off, so that it lay in a bundle between them. Holding her breath, Matty reached over and touched a smooth shoulder with a fingertip. The blood thudded in her ears. Kit did not move, and she lay petrified at what she had done. Eventually, he rolled towards her and put his arms around her. She was cool to touch but he felt burning hot. His mouth brushed her neck, and Matty inhaled a male scent of cologne and tobacco, and felt the shape of a male body with unfamiliar steppes, terraces and plains. Uncertain whether or not to put her arms around him, she waited.

‘Try not to be frightened,’ he said, and coughed into her ear. ‘I’ll take care of you.’

Because Matty loved Kit she had not been able to prevent herself cradling her palm around the back of the fair head above hers and Kit recoiled. Not much, but enough. ‘Sorry,’ she said, and snatched away her hand.

‘Look. Could you take this thing off?’ Kit grappled with the buttons of the nightdress. ‘I think it would be easier without it.’

She tried to help him, but the material had tangled round her ankles. ‘Good God,’ he said, ‘it’s more effective than a chastity belt.’

The final button released, and Matty struggled free. In the dark, she heard Kit draw breath, and he touched her on her breast.

Topped by an almost pre-pubescent nipple the breast beneath his hand felt as flat and cold as a china doll’s. She’s so small, he thought, like a child. And what desire he had summoned, died. In an effort to rekindle it, he bent over Matty and kissed her, his mouth dry and hard on hers.

‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘please.’

Kit shut his eyes and held tight to the memory of an Arab boy and hot excitement. He thought of Daisy in a shabby bathing costume at the Villa Lafayette, full-breasted and bright-haired. Lit from within. A vice squeezed at his heart. He lay on the china-doll breasts of his wife and groaned – and felt her hand slide down his back.

‘Please,’ she whispered. ‘You will have to help me.’

Shocked by Matty’s predicament as well as his own, lightheaded with the onset of fever, Kit ran his hand down the bird bones, which barely lifted the skin at the hips, and between her legs. ‘It’s all right, Matty,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I’ll make it all right.’

Imprisoned by ropes of jealousy, self-pity, illness and a starved heart, Matty made a supreme effort to disentangle herself, and strove to give Kit the gift of her love. And he, in his turn, surprised by the generosity and fervour he unlocked in the small body, was comforted.

Later when they both lay separate and awake he said, ‘I think I’ve got flu.’

He had not hurt her then, or on subsequent occasions, but the flash of intimacy between them had never been repeated. Their couplings were guarded, increasingly skilfully accomplished, but never again with that surrender to emotion. Once or twice when Kit rose above Matty and looked down into her haunted eyes, he caught a certain expression – of hurt and yearning. Then the suspicion that Matty loved him nudged, unwelcome, into his mind and Matty, realizing that this was so, hid her feelings.

RIP. Matty’s finger scratched on through the frost patterns and traced the names of her parents, Jocasta and Stephen. Then she drew a baby’s cradle. ‘Rockaby,’ she wrote and then scrubbed it out with her fist.

She was empty, empty, empty.

Ten minutes later, correctly dressed in a tweed costume, hat, gloves and thick stockings, Matty slipped down the back staircase and bumped into Ivy bringing up the first relay of early morning tea.

‘Excuse me, ma’am.’ Surprised at the sight of her mistress up so early, Ivy flattened herself against the wall.

‘That’s all right, Ivy. I’m... just a breath of fresh air...’ Matty brushed past and hurried, brogues clicking, down the kitchen passage to the back door.

Once she had left the protection of the house, the cold grew sharper. The air streamed into her lungs and Matty dug her hands into her pockets and walked over the lawn towards the river, feet crunching on the frosted stones. Already she felt better.

She halted by the bridge and gazed upwards through the frozen still-life of the plane tree. Nothing moved in the trees or flowerbeds. No pulsebeat in the tangle of dead things and crusted earth. Only the white frost rime on the grass blades appeared to possess life as light played on the ice crystals. Matty’s breath streamed into the air, and the blood flowed out of her onto the rag, which grew wet and heavy.

Her feet were turning numb, and she walked back across the lower lawn and through the yew circle towards the house, leaving a trail of footprints on the white carpet. She stopped by the terrace to take a last look at the slumbering garden – and, suddenly, her hands clenched inside her gloves.

Even in the patchy, uncertain light Matty could see that hers were not the only footprints on the lawn. Beside them was a second pair: small, neat, perfectly matching marks.

I’m mad as well as barren, was Matty’s first thought. Her second was more rational: somewhere a child was playing a game. She swivelled at the sound of pebbles clattering down the stone steps behind her and gasped. There on the steps was a child.

She called out, ‘Who are you?’

Like a struck tuning fork, the air vibrated in Matty’s ear with a high pitch of the F sharp, so high that it hurt. She shook her head to clear it, and the objects surrounding her – steps, yew hedge, lawn – subtly distorted like reflections in an old mirror. Disorientated, she grabbed at the stone balustrade and, although its texture, encrusted with moss-like growths, made an impression through her glove, she also knew without question that her hand was resting on air. Her fingers and toes turned icy cold.

The child turned and fixed on Matty a pair of disturbingly familiar light blue eyes. She was dressed in a good coat with a velvet collar, gaiters and bonnet. Strands of flaxen hair escaped under its rim, and her chin was chapped from the cold. As far as Matty, who had no experience of children, could assess, she was about five years old, and possessed the seriousness of a child concentrating on something important to it. After scrutinizing Matty, she continued up the steps.

‘Wait,’ called Matty. ‘Who are you? What’s your name?’

The child paid no attention and scrambled up to the top where she stopped, held out her coat skirts and performed a little skipping step by one of the stone vases. She appeared absorbed and contained; but every so often the blue eyes flicked in the direction of Matty.

‘Please wait.’ Matty ran up the unreal-feeling steps and her hat went flying onto the grass. She left it there. ‘Where do you come from?’ she asked.

The child smiled, and Matty found herself rooted to the flagstone. The F sharp was now so high and so painful that she pressed her hands hard against her ears, struggling with a force that appeared to be sucking and emptying her body. In the Matty shell that was left behind was immeasurable misery.

But it’s not my pain.

On her knees, Matty squeezed her head so hard that everything went black. When she opened her eyes the child had vanished. She scrambled to her feet to look across the lawn, but she was too late: the footprints were dissolving.

In the background, remained an echo suggesting all manner of unease. Then it stopped.

Knees smarting, Matty sat on the steps and found herself sobbing: from fright, for the child that was not in her body, for her longing to have something, someone, who needed her – because she was obviously going mad – for her bitter grief when, as a five-year-old child, she had found herself alone. For the ragbag of her life.

‘Are you all right, madam?’

Matty was crying so hard that she failed to register the creak of a wheelbarrow, or the figure of Ned Sheppey, muffled up against the cold in a corduroy jacket and scarf.

Ned picked up Matty’s abandoned hat and repeated his question and she flushed at being caught with tears freezing on her face by the gardener, and of what he might say to Ellen and Mrs Dawes. ‘Thank you, Mr Sheppey,’ she said. ‘I was just going inside. I like an early-morning walk.’

‘Shall I call someone, Mrs Kit?’

He seemed both incurious and kind. Common sense came to Matty’s aid and told her that it did not matter what Ned had seen or not seen.

‘Thank you.’ Matty accepted the hat, jammed it onto her head and asked, ‘Mr Sheppey, do you have any grandchildren?’

He did not appear to think her question odd and answered at once. ‘Yes, ma’am, but not living here.’

‘Does Ivy have a little girl that she brings to play round here, or Mrs Dawes a granddaughter?’

With her tearstains and disarranged hair, Matty reminded Ned strongly of his own daughter. ‘No, Mrs Kit.’

‘Then...’

‘Yes, Mrs Kit?’

Whatever it had been – vision, possession, breakdown – it was too complicated to discuss with Mr Sheppey. Matty pushed her aching body upright, rubbed her eyes with the handkerchief and said the first thing that came into her head, ‘What are you doing with the wheelbarrow, Mr Sheppey?’

‘Taking the lily-of-the-valley to the shed to pot them up in the good china. That way I bring them on early, for the house. I always do at this time of year. It’s a tradition, like. They smell nice inside.’ He picked up a plant and held it out as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do, and Matty left the step to inspect the bundle that said nothing much to her.

‘Very nice, Mr Sheppey.’

Mr Sheppey was wearing string mittens and his cracked fingers and black-rimmed fingernails stuck out from them. The manner in which his hand curved around the plant caught Matty’s interest. It was a gardener’s hold, an easy one, born of long acquaintanceship.

‘Your hands must hurt in this cold.’ Matty pointed to a cut on his right forefinger which was clotted with a mixture of dried blood and earth. ‘You must take care of that, Mr Sheppey. It might go septic.’

‘You gets used to it, Mrs Kit. My father used to say, you can’t garden if you don’t dirty your hands. He was head gardener here for upwards of thirty years. Thank you all the same.’ Ned replaced the lily-of-the-valley in the wheelbarrow. He seemed perfectly happy to stand in the cold and to talk, but Matty was aware that she was being minutely observed. ‘Do you like gardening, Mrs Kit?’

‘Me?’ Matty spread her hands and inspected the fingers sheathed in their expensive gloves. ‘I haven’t really thought about it... but—’

‘Lady Dysart did. She had plenty of ideas, but it’s different now. There’s too much to do here without help so I keeps to the kitchen garden, except for a few odd things.’

‘Yes,’ she said, soothed by the Hampshire burr.

Mr Sheppey seemed to understand that she was troubled and kept talking. ‘I do up pots of narcissi for the spring, too, because of the smell. I’ve got them in the greenhouse. Would you like to choose the pots for the house?’

‘I think I would, Mr Sheppey.’ A thought struck Matty. ‘Perhaps I ought to come and find out what you’re doing in the garden, anyway.’

They looked at each other and, for different reasons, liked what they saw.

‘Good morning, Mrs Kit, then.’ Ned patted a plant into place, touched his cap and hefted up the wheelbarrow handles.

Matty watched him make his way across the lawn, a sane figure in a real world, and set about convincing herself that nothing whatever had happened to her that was out of the ordinary.

‘You’ve had me in a fright.’ Robbie accosted Matty on her return to the bedroom. ‘Here’s me worrying my head off and your breakfast getting cold.’

Matty peeled off her gloves, dropped them onto the bed and kicked off her shoes. Robbie scented another opening. She eyed the shoes with satisfaction.

‘You’ve never been outside? You’ll have caught your death. It really is too bad.’ Robbie steered Matty towards the armchair and anchored her into it with a tray. ‘Eat up, Mrs Kit.’

The Lapsang Souchong had the sweet, smoky taste she adored. Matty fished out a floating leaf with a teaspoon and drank it gratefully. Then she reached for a triangle of toast and the butter.

‘That’s right, Mrs Kit.’ Robbie attacked the bed and clicked her tongue at the stain on the sheet. ‘Have you been taking the tonic I told you about?’

Matty closed her eyes for a second. ‘Yes, Miss Robson.’

‘Well, never mind, then. There’s always another month. Mind you . . Robbie stripped off the sheet oblivious that every fibre in Matty’s body protested against her nosiness and the assumption that Matty was now her property. ‘You’ll have to try harder. There are things you can do to stop the monthly visitor.’

‘Really, Miss Robson!’ The idea of Robbie lecturing her on her fertility floored Matty but, while appalled, she was fascinated.

‘Well, Mrs Kit.’ Robbie drew out the words as if she was back in the nursery, the Little-Miss-Manners-School-of-Life tone which Matty had rapidly grown to dislike.

She forestalled the lesson. ‘Miss Robson, this is a private subject, not for discussion.’

But Robbie was not easily beaten and over the years she had fought and won many Waterloos in the pursuit of her duty. ‘There’s no need to get on your high horse,’ she said, whisking sheets here and there. Matty chewed some toast and watched her: Miss Robson pulsed with energy and she suspected there were hidden forces suppressed beneath the blue serge. Robbie turned her attention to Matty’s clothes for the day. ‘You can’t have an heir quick enough, you know. That’s your duty. That’s what you’re here for.’

Matty’s chin came into play. ‘Miss Robson. That is enough.’

Robbie shook out a pair of silk stockings. ‘You just concentrate on yourself, never mind anything or anyone else. There’s time enough afterwards. Lady Dysart produced Mr Kit nine months to the day. Mind you,’ Robbie paused for effect, ‘I think I shall speak to him. He really shouldn’t go away to London so much.’

Matty’s tolerance vanished. ‘Miss Robson,’ she said, ‘you will do no such thing.’

‘Don’t take on, Mrs Kit,’ said Robbie in a kindly tone, and rolled up a stocking. ‘Mr Kit and I are just like that.’ She crossed two forefingers. ‘And Flora. There’s no secrets between us.’ She attacked the second stocking. ‘He needed me, you know. They all did, and I saved them. So you just leave him to me. If you will excuse me saying so, I know how to handle Mr Kit.’

Do you? reflected Matty grimly. ‘But, Miss Robson—’

‘No buts, if you please, Mrs Kit.’ Robbie laid the second stocking down beside the first and they sat, two beige ring doughnuts, beside Matty’s suspender belt. ‘I’m here to help you. I’ll be back to run your bath in ten minutes.’

Matty was finishing her breakfast when Kit knocked at the door. ‘Sorry to interrupt. I’m on my way to a disgracefully late breakfast. Everyone else is late too.’ He smiled down at his wife.

Matty flushed soft pink. ‘You’re not interrupting.’

‘What are you going to do today?’

‘Goodness,’ she said, pushing her teacup aside. ‘I must get a move on. Lady Foxton will be wanting breakfast in her room.’

Kit dug his hands into his pockets. ‘Stop flapping, Matty. Your rage for perfection has resulted in a perfectly ordered household.’

She had succeeded in irritating him, and Matty knew it. She was also aware that if Kit had made a similar remark to Daisy she would have batted it back: But, darling, that is what makes me so fascinating.

Eventually Kit asked, ‘Are you feeling all right?’

Matty was startled. ‘Yes, of course. Why?’

‘I met Robbie in the passage.’

‘Ah.’ Matty wanted to cry out at him, ‘What are you doing talking to Robbie about something so private? It isn’t any of her business. This is between us.’

Kit shrugged. ‘Better luck another time, Matty.’

Do couples who do not understand one another ever succeed in having children? Matty supposed that they must, but she also wondered if the fact that Kit did not love her had something to do with her failure each month. Corn seed would not settle on parched ground and there was nothing moist or nourishing in Matty.

Kit made an effort to soften the atmosphere. ‘I must say, you have made it nice in here, Matty. You have a real gift for that sort of thing.’

Matty tensed, for she had been nervous of changing too many of Hesther’s things. ‘I took out some of the furniture as it was a little cluttered. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘Yes, I suppose it was. I seem to remember my mother liked things all jumbled up.’ Kit had little interest in and none of Matty’s flair for details. He was aware only that, under her short reign, Hinton Dysart had become comfortable and homelike. He had given Matty licence to do what she wished, but requested she take into account both Rupert’s and Flora’s wishes. It’s difficult for them to adjust, he had said looking at her seriously, so you will be careful?

Matty had been clever. One of her first acts was to sit regularly with Rupert and to listen to him. Then she considered the occupants of the house, and the house itself. As a result, nothing was too smart and jarring, but everything was clean, polished and fresh. Meals appeared on time. There were flowers everywhere, and bowls of pot-pourri scented the living rooms. Somehow the unmanageable areas became livable-in, dark corners light and yielding, and the interior balance of the house shifted.

‘Are you going to be able to cope over Christmas with all the comings and goings? Especially with Great-Aunt Hetta and Lady F?’ Kit was asking.

Apparently Great-Aunt Hetta required the undeviating attention of a companion, and a constant supply of bile beans for a costive digestion.

Matty grimaced. ‘At three shillings a box for bile beans, we’re in danger of going bankrupt.’

Kit made for the door. ‘Don’t let Lady F. bully you.’

Matty reached for her notebook. Today, Christmas Eve, there was a lunchtime sherry party for the village and Christmas dinner for thirty-four to which Mr Pengeally and his spouse, who had designs on Matty’s time, were bidden. The seating plan ensured that Mr Pengeally sat next to Matty and, since hair grew out of his ears, a stigmata that repelled her, Matty did not relish the prospect. The Boxing Day meet was scheduled to take place in the drive... stirrup cups... picnic lunches, cold collations for those remaining at home and, of course, tea for the hunters on their return.

‘Look at me, Matty,’ ordered Kit from the doorway. ‘Can you cope? Just say the word and I’ll put a stop to it all.’

Her expression was calm. ‘Even to Great-Aunt Hetta and the bile beans?’

Kit was never sure when Matty made a joke. He smiled politely. ‘Even Great-Aunt Hetta.’

‘Well.’ Matty stood up in her stockinged feet. ‘It’s fine and everything is planned.’ She crossed over to the door and placed a tentative hand on his arm. ‘I can cope, you know.’

There it was again, the tiny, but definite, recoil. In an attempt to disguise it, Kit reached for the door handle. I wish Daisy was dead, thought Matty, and her demon hammered under her ribs.

‘Good girl.’ Kit rallied. ‘It’s nice to think that the old traditions will keep going at Christmas. See you later, Matty.’

In that moment Matty almost hated him.

Mrs Dawes was feeling belligerent, brought about by panic, unfamiliarity with her new mistress and more than a touch of what she termed ‘tincture’ for her back. Realizing this, Matty negotiated her way around the rocks while details for lunch and dinner were finalized between them. Then she made her mistake.

‘The hunting tea in the drawing room, please, Mrs Dawes. Crumpets, muffins, sandwiches, fruit cake and ginger snaps.’

Mrs Dawes said a rude word in her head. Aloud she said: ‘You mean the library, ma’am. It’s always in the library.’

‘I think the drawing room will be more comfortable.’

‘Miss Flora won’t like it.’ Mrs Dawes considered the extra tablecloths she would need and had not prepared. A mutinous look descended over her features. ‘They won’t like it, ma’am, and I don’t think I can do it, ma’am, at such short notice.’

‘Mrs Dawes,’ Matty tried. ‘I think—’

‘Can’t do it, madam.’

What would Jocasta do? What would Emma Goldman do? More to the point, what would Aunt Susan do? The answer was quite plain. Matty ignored Mrs Dawes’s last remark and asked, ‘Do you have the anchovy paste we ordered from Farnham? It’s my husband’s favourite.’

‘Three pots, ma’am.’

‘Good. We’ve done everything, then, haven’t we?’ Matty smiled to show goodwill and indicated that Mrs Dawes could go. ‘Have the family finished breakfast yet?’

With difficulty Mrs Dawes shook her aching head. ‘No, ma’am.’

‘I’ll go and see what is happening.’ Matty got up from the desk in the morning room. ‘Thank you very much for all your hard work.’ Mrs Dawes practically tottered to the door. ‘And, Mrs Dawes, it is tea in the drawing room. Is that quite clear?’

Mrs Dawes did not reply.

Cheered by her small but significant victory, Matty went to the dining room. Greenery filled the hall and the holly looked cheerful beside the Christmas tree. She put her head around the door. The sideboard was cluttered with silver chafing dishes, containing kidneys, bacon, and scrambled egg, and two teapots. At the table the family were eating and talking. Kit waved a fork on which was speared a kidney. ‘Do you remember the time when he took us back through Caesar’s Camp and Paradise and—’

‘Oh, yes,’ Polly cut in. ‘You came a cropper that day.’

‘And I still bear the scars.’ Kit stuck out a leg. ‘Trust you to remember, Polly.’

Flora giggled and got up to refill her cup. She was dressed in her riding habit and her big frame looked its best under the nipped-in waist and severe lines. Her hair was braided into a loop, and her skin was shiny with health and innocent of powder. ‘Pride before a fall,’ she said in a wiseacre voice.

Rupert held out his cup. ‘Give me one, too, Flora.’

It was the first time Matty had seen her father-in-law so relaxed with his children. ‘Let’s hope the weather holds,’ he said, looking out of the window. ‘It’s just right.’

‘Tally-ho!’ shrieked Polly and banged her knife down on the table.

None of them noticed Matty standing by the door. Alone, stomach aching, she observed them for a moment longer and then closed the door.