Chapter Two

Cousin Eustace had been at Summer’s Place for three weeks before I saw him step outside.

It was such a waste! He was only six months older than me. There were at least a dozen horses in the stables eager for exercise. The land agent came every day asking the “young master” to ride the boundaries and see the land. But Eustace just shut himself away in the drawing room with a pair of little clippers, growing mustard and cress plants in the scooped-out shells of boiled eggs.

“Like hair for Humpty Dumpty,” as Nanny Clay said.

“Country air is such a challenge for him,” his mother, my Aunt Lavinia, explained to us one morning. “The dear, delicate boy has such a sensitive soul. He is quite unused to wind and weather and the smell of farmyard dung.”

“Indeed, Mother.” Eustace blinked, sipping a glass of milk as pale as his pasty skin, which never saw the light of day.

“If you don’t like it here, go back to London,” I said. “Leave me in charge. At the very least you should ride out and meet the tenants. It is your duty. . .”

“You would be well advised to mind your own affairs, Josephine,” Aunt Lavinia scolded. “Eustace is master of Summer’s Place now and, until he comes of age, I shall act as mistress of the Manor, offering support and guidance to the dear boy.”

“But Father rode every day,” I said.

“I think we are all aware of your father’s obsession with horses.” Aunt Lavinia peered over her spectacles. “To follow the example of a man who galloped into his own grave seems most misguided to me.”

“Misguided indeed.” Eustace giggled as he slurped his milk.

“How dare you!” I cried, tears prickling my eyes. “Everything you have here – everything at Summer’s Place – is thanks to Father . . . and his father before him.”

“Well, there will be changes now. I have plans.” Aunt Lavinia lifted a small gold notebook and pencil from the table. She was forever writing lists in it, and made such a show of scribbling and sighing, I knew she wanted me to ask what they were about. But I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. I turned on my heel and walked calmly to the door.

“I have plans of my own,” I said.

“Really?” sneered Aunt Lavinia. “Well, enjoy them while you can.”

As soon as I was out of the room, I gathered up my skirts and ran.

“Nanny Clay,” I cried, almost bumping into her as I charged into the nursery. “Tell the stable lad to saddle Merrylegs. I shall be going for a ride.”

“But you’re still in mourning for your father.” Nanny Clay looked shocked.

“Yes! And I have been cooped up far too long already,” I raged, kicking at the skirting board. “If I stay inside another moment I shall become as pale and useless as The Slug.”

“That is no way to talk about your Cousin Eustace—”

“Ha! But you knew who I meant. He is a slug. A lazy, hide-at-home nonsense of a boy. Him? Master of Summer’s Place? Ugh. I wish I was a boy. If I was a boy, I would—”

“But you are not a boy,” said Nanny Clay. “And ifs and wishes will break your heart. I should know. I have been told today that I must—”

“I tell you what is worse than a slug!” I cut across her. “A scorpion! That’s what Aunt Lavinia is with all her nasty notes and little plans. A scorpion with a sting in her tail.”

“You may be right.” Nanny Clay sighed. “But I don’t suppose it is fitting for a young lady to say so.”

“I don’t care what’s fitting.” I groaned. “I don’t care about mourning. Father is dead – wearing stupid tight-laced clothes and sipping tea will never bring him back. He’s gone. And he wouldn’t want me stuck inside like a butterfly in a cage.”

“You? A butterfly? I’ve heard it all now.” Nanny Clay began to giggle. “But you’re right, Master Charlie . . . I mean Sir Charles, your father, God rest his soul – would want you out there enjoying the fresh air. I’ll send word to the stables to have the pony saddled.”

“You’ll need to put my hair up and tell the maid to bring my riding clothes as well,” I said.

“Yes, Your Majesty!” Nanny Clay gave a great exaggerated curtsy as if I was a queen. She bobbed down so low I heard her old knees creak. “At least your riding habit is black and your hat has a veil. That shows some respect, at least.”

Five minutes later she was brushing out my long red hair.

“Ninety-four, ninety-five. . .” She battled with a knot behind my ear.

“Ouch!” I yelped as my head wrenched back, but Nanny Clay barely missed a beat.

“. . . Ninety-seven. . . It was like rats’ tails when I started, but see now. . . Like burnished copper. You look more like your mother every day,” she said.

“No!” Was Nanny Clay teasing? My mother was a beauty. I turned and looked at the portrait hanging on the nursery wall behind us. Father had paid a famous artist to paint Mother when they were first married . . . just after she gave up being an actress on the London stage. A little brass plate underneath the picture said: Lady Valentina Green, 1863.

“Your father had that painting moved up here into your nursery the day she ran away,” said Nanny Clay, seeing me looking at it. She had told me the story a hundred times before. But I liked hearing it – there was so little I really knew of Mother. “He said you should always have it by you. A young girl needs her mama watching over her. But he never wanted to set eyes on it again.”

I stared at the painting.

“Do you really think I look like her?” I felt a hot blush creep up my neck. It couldn’t be true. Mother was perfect, like a goddess. That’s why she ran away. She was too special . . . too golden to stay stuck here in the country with us. Surely I looked nothing like her – not with my carrot-orange hair and freckled nose.

“Hmm!” Nanny Clay turned her back on the portrait. “Fine looks are for the rainbow,” she said. “It’s fine morals that keep folk on the ground. Just remember that when I’m not here to guide you. . .”

“But you’ll always be here, Nanny Clay.” I laughed. “You are as much a part of Summer’s Place as the stable clock.”

“Tick-tock, times change.” She sighed.

Before I could ask what she meant, her mouth was full of pins and she was tugging my long loose hair into a bun.