‘Nonsense, it’ll be in a scabbard.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘I wonder how many people he’s killed.’

  ‘Darling, he’ll be dressed just like anybody else.’

  ‘How could he be? Lords have special tailors.’

  ‘Better than Esmond’s?’

  The child looked suddenly depressed.

  ‘How will I know who he is? And from high up too.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll wear his coronet.’

  Louise made a face and turned her back. Even when treating a subject humorously, she disliked being made fun of. The way she mixed insight with naiveté made it difficult to joke with her.

  ‘Will you see him, mama?’ she asked after a silence.

  ‘Esmond wants both of us to wait. He’s coming to talk business.’

  Louise considered this and frowned.

  ‘Farraway says his squadron cleared the road to Peking for the whole army.’

  ‘Perhaps he exaggerated a little?’ Theresa suggested quietly. She wished that Louise did not take everything she heard from the servants so seriously.

  ‘Farraway says that he was captured trying to save the journalists and the diplomats … the ones they hung up by their arms and feet. They hung him up too and nearly cut off his head.’ She looked at her mother wide-eyed with horror, and made a swooshing noise with her lips as she brought down her hand. Like sin, pain and death were subjects she enjoyed being shocked by. She stuck out her chin. ‘It’s all true. Ask Farraway.’

  Theresa said nothing. If the incident was the one she thought—and it sounded extremely like it—she was nonplussed that Esmond had not told her that his brother had been involved. The treatment of the civilian hostages, and the soldiers who had tried to free them, had become as notorious in the China War, as the Black Hole of Calcutta had been in the Indian Mutiny.

  ‘You’re sure Farraway said he was tortured?’

  ‘Of course I am. He must be brave as well as cruel. Probably he’s more cruel though.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Otherwise we’d be allowed to meet him. If he was nice Esmond would ask him to luncheon.’

  ‘Esmond’s very good to you, you know.’

  ‘Because I’m always nice to him and never bad-tempered.’

  Theresa caught a glimmer of reproach in Louise’s eyes but pretended not to notice.

  ‘It’d be very odd if you weren’t nice, darling.’

  Louise bit her lip; her expression suddenly tragic.

  ‘You must always be nice to him, mama.’ She flung her arms round Theresa’s neck and hugged her fiercely. ‘Say you will … please say it.’

  Theresa kissed her on the cheek before disentangling herself.

  ‘You don’t think I’m nasty to him, do you?’

  ‘If you are, he could turn us out,’ stammered Louise, close to tears.

  ‘Of course he wouldn’t. Anyway, if we ever go away, we’ll always be together.’

  Louise pulled away.

  ‘In some wretched place. I’d be sent away to school again.’ A rebellious light shone in her eyes. ‘I wouldn’t stand it; I’d get expelled, I swear I would. I’d say dreadful things.’

  ‘What things?’ murmured Theresa.

  ‘About you …’ Louise sobbed. ‘Grandpa told me you could marry him, but don’t want to.’

  ‘That wasn’t right of him, my love.’

  ‘You’ll burn in hell if you don’t marry,’ moaned Louise.

  ‘Didn’t the nuns ever tell you that lots of saints led lives that shocked people? Of course I’m no saint, but God always forgives people who ask him to. Dearest, you must trust me to do what’s best.’ Theresa stroked the child’s hair until she was calmer. After a while, she said as cheerfully as she could: ‘This is what I’m going to do. I’ll ask Miss Lane to let you stay up later than usual. You can watch out for Lord Ardmore from the schoolroom; you’ll get a better view from there. And I want you to tell me what he looks like. Will you?’

  Louise nodded solemnly, but in the end could not help smiling. Later Theresa played cards with her, and though Louise betrayed none of her earlier misery, the memory of it haunted her mother for days afterwards.

  3

  A few minutes after eight o’clock, Louise, who had spent the best part of an hour staring down from the schoolroom, was shocked to see an ordinary hansom draw up. She had expected a barouche or phaeton. The man who got out was wearing a felt hat, which maddeningly hid his face; and, just as bad, his clothes looked quite unremarkable: a beige morning coat edged with dark braid, and matching trousers. Determined to get a closer view, Louise left the room, making out to her governess that she was going to bed. No sooner out of sight, she darted down a flight of stairs and hid herself behind the banisters on the half-landing. Esmond would be sure to see his brother in one of the rooms on the first floor.

  *

  Clinton paid his driver and ran up the steps under the pillared portico. He was soon admitted by a footman in a blue livery coat and silk stockings. Clinton disliked calling on his brother at any time, and had not been pleased to be sent away and summoned like an errand boy, but, since Esmond not only advised the family trustees on all financial matters, but also represented his last chance of escaping a forced marriage, Clinton had pocketed his pride.

  Though largely indifferent to everything about his brother’s house, the massive statue of Ceres in the hall always irritated him, so typical was it of Esmond’s dry humour to make the Roman Goddess of Plenty every visitor’s introduction to his stack of treasures. Clinton had long considered Esmond’s love of ancient bronzes and statuary a fine example of the self-conscious way in which rich men cultivated rare tastes, partly to impress and partly for something to do with their money. Refusing to give the footman his hat or cane, Clinton followed the servant up the stairs.

  From her hiding place Louise caught her breath, as half-way up the first flight Lord Ardmore unexpectedly turned. A second later she was struggling not to laugh. Without any sort of amusement on his face, the viscount took careful aim and tossed his hat over the banisters. It caught momentarily on the statue’s only undamaged ear and then slipped on the ground. The first footman, whom Louise had always thought pompous, stood rigidly staring at his feet. When Lord Ardmore said: ‘Fetch it for me,’ Louise almost choked. After the hat had been retrieved, Clinton once again measured the distance with his eye, and this time successfully landed the missile on the deity’s head. The absolute solemnity of both peer and servant during this episode finally proved too much for Louise and a strangled laugh broke from her lips.

  Clinton looked up and was amazed to see a girl’s face staring at him through the banisters on the next landing. He reacted slowly, but when he did, he wasted no time; pushing the servant aside, he dashed up the next flight four steps at a time. The girl had already placed another floor between them, but Clinton rapidly cut back this lead. On the fourth landing, he caught a glimpse of her flying skirts disappearing down a corridor, and slipping and sliding on the polished floor, he sprinted after her. She fled round a sharp corner, and when Clinton turned it, a baize-covered door blocked his path. On the other side he found himself in an empty corridor with some dozen doors leading off it; servants’ bedrooms. But the girl had looked far too young to be in service, and in any case no servant would run away. A servant’s child perhaps? If so, Clinton could not believe that she would have dared sit watching people on the main stairs. The thought of Esmond having an illegitimate daughter and then leaving the evidence to wander about his house was too preposterous to entertain.

  Intrigued, and convinced that his quarry had only momentarily gone to earth, he decided to wait. He retraced his steps along the corridor, as though leaving, and tiptoed back again. Less than two minutes later he was rewarded by a gingerly opened door and the child’s face peering round it. This time Clinton made no mistake as he pounced, but, though he caught her sleeve, the next second she had torn herself free with a strength and determination which her thinness and delicate appearance made surprising. They were now facing each other from opposite sides of a small typically furnished servant’s bedroom containing nothing more than an iron-framed bed, a chest of drawers, a rush chair and a washstand. The girl had lost no time in running to the other side of the bed, where she now stood trembling with very real terror. Clinton smiled and backed away a couple of steps to reassure her.

  ‘You run fast, little lady,’ he said with a laugh. Her only answer was a stifled sob. ‘Do you live here?’ She shook her head and started to cry in earnest. ‘I never meant to frighten you. Why didn’t you stay where you were?’

  Still weeping, Louise shrank into the corner by the washstand. As Clinton moved round the end of the bed, intending to comfort her, she sprang forward onto the bed, jumped down and fled to the door.

  Abandoning any idea of pursuit and more puzzled than before, Clinton shook his head. As he reached the door, he saw on the floor a small scrap of lace, part of the child’s cuff that had come away when she had pulled free. He picked it up, and hurried down to the reception room he had been about to enter several minutes earlier. He was glad to arrive there before his brother, whom he supposed had been delayed by his outraged servant. Whether the events of the past few minutes would be of any use in his coming interview, Clinton had no idea, but the girl’s desperate flight made it at least seem likely that Esmond would rather have kept her existence to himself.

  As Clinton waited, every object his eye fell upon spoke of Esmond’s prosperity and exacting taste. Around him, pale walls and stark contrasts of black and gold; dark equestrian bronzes, gilt Empire chairs; above an ebony cabinet, a mirror framed by gold acanthus leaves; and statues everywhere, on wall brackets, tables, marble pillars flanking the mantelpiece. Figures in porphyry, alabaster and basalt: a whole classical mythology. Believing that the next twenty minutes would determine whether he would escape the marriage he had struggled so long to avoid, Clinton was understandably nervous.

  Most of his present difficulties stemmed from his father’s determination that his heir should never, as he himself had done, either marry a poor woman or run up debts in early manhood. To prevent this, Ardmore had devised a will which had locked up every free shilling of capital in a family trust. Neither Clinton nor Esmond could legally touch their respective shares of this money until Clinton’s thirtieth birthday—still three years distant—unless, before that, Clinton should marry a woman bringing a dowry in excess of twenty thousand pounds. Outrageously unjust to Esmond, the will had not helped Clinton either, since it had obliged him to let Markenfield, the family’s principal estate, for a purely nominal rent, to compensate the tenant for carrying out essential repairs which he himself had been unable to afford. In the meantime, Clinton’s outgoings, both on regimental charges and mortgage interest, had regularly outstripped his income by three thousand a year. The will, far from preventing him living beyond his means, had actually guaranteed that he did so; nor had the powerful incentive to marry an heiress proved effective while he could still negotiate new mortgages on his property. Now at last, his borrowings had reached the limit of the security he could offer. Clinton’s aim was to secure a loan from Esmond, large enough to see him through till his trust capital came due. Otherwise marriage would be all but inevitable.

  As it grew darker, a maid in a black silk dress entered unobtrusively and lit two lamps whose white Parian shades diffused a cool even light throughout the room. Drops of rain were beating against the windows when Esmond came in wearing his usual frockcoat, his silk cravat held in place by a pearl pin.

  ‘Still the same old sense of humour,’ murmured Esmond, taking Clinton’s hand. ‘I can’t believe you really get much fun out of distressing servants.’ He clicked his tongue as if reproving a child. ‘Sending the poor fellow racing up and downstairs like a retriever.’

  ‘I’ll think of something more amusing for him next time.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.’ Esmond sat down and gestured to Clinton to do the same. ‘I was going to offer my congratulations, but perhaps that ought to wait till you’ve been accepted.’ Esmond eyed Clinton with nicely feigned anxiety. ‘You’ve not come here because you anticipate difficulties with the young lady?’

  ‘Same old sense of humour,’ Clinton said wryly. ‘Last time I saw her she wept buckets when I left.’

  ‘Most affecting. Women really are the oddest creatures. The way you’ve treated her, it’s quite beyond me why she lets you anywhere near her. You honestly don’t deserve her, Clinton.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘You don’t know when you’re lucky; never have done. The girl’s a wonder … pretty, sweet-natured …’ He paused as if searching for a word.

  ‘Rich?’ suggested Clinton sharply. ‘As a matter of fact I’m perfecting a special form of words. I, mortgaged acres and distant expectations, take thee, immediate prospects and money in the funds, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold for dinners, balls and soirées, to bore and to tolerate till death us do part.’

  Esmond frowned and said quietly:

  ‘Do you suggest that the lady’s fortune is a disadvantage?’

  ‘I suggest,’ said Clinton, getting up, ‘that you should help me avoid this marriage you find so entertaining.’

  ‘Entertaining?’ Esmond looked thoughtful. ‘I don’t think that’s quite right. I’ve never been very entertained by your problems.’ Though his tone was inoffensive, even mild, Clinton was chilled by it. Esmond brought his hands together in a silent clap. ‘Well, little brother, how do I help you?’

  Forcing himself to be calm, Clinton gazed out into the street where a brougham was waiting, the poor horse’s ears back in the downpour. He turned.

  ‘You make loans, Esmond.’

  ‘Indeed I do … by the purchase of bills of exchange.’

  ‘There are other forms of security. I have certain expectations.’

  ‘You mean Uncle Richard? That dreadful old man.’

  ‘I don’t like him myself; but I’m still his heir, and his fortune brings in fifteen thousand a year.’

  The tight stretched smile on Esmond’s face seemed suddenly to snap.

  ‘It’s out of the question.’

  ‘You don’t even know what I’m proposing,’ objected Clinton.

  ‘Don’t I?’ said Esmond, with a harsh laugh. ‘You’re asking me for so many thousands now, and in return you’ll sign over Uncle Richard’s fortune.’ He let his hands fall heavily on the gilded arms of his chair. ‘For a start, bill brokers don’t keep large reserves like a bank, and frankly even if I did, I’d still say no.’

  ‘Because I might die first?’ asked Clinton, doing his best to make light of his brother’s reaction. ‘For God’s sake, he’s in his seventies. Why not insure my life if you’re worried?’

  ‘I’m afraid insurance companies don’t give cover for every kind of risk.’

  ‘You mean he may change his will?’

  ‘Of course he could. No money lender would even consider the idea. So you came to me with it. I’m flattered you think me so philanthropic.’

  ‘You know the man. That’s why I’m asking you. He’d only change it if he married. Is it likely? You know it isn’t. He’s a worse misogynist than you.’

  ‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ said Esmond flushing deeply.

  ‘He’s dead on his feet. That money’s as good as in your hands, but rather than oblige me you’d see me in hell first.’

  Esmond listened politely, as if unaware of Clinton’s anger. Then he looked at him sadly.

  ‘I don’t know why you have to think the worst of me. Listen, what would you say to me if I accepted your proposition, and a week later he died? Wouldn’t you accuse me of taking advantage of your present difficulties to rob you? That’s the real reason I won’t consider it.’

  Clinton leaned against the window frame and watched the rain. He heard Esmond say almost sympathetically:

  ‘Even if I did finance you till you get the trust money, what would happen then? All the capital would go in repaying the debt. You’d be back where you started.’

  ‘That’s not true. There’s enough in the trust to pay you back and redeem the main mortgage on Markenfield. The lease ends about the same time. The next tenant would have to pay a proper rent.’

  ‘All right,’ replied Esmond soothingly. ‘Your debts mount by two thousand a year instead of three. You buy five years more and beggar yourself in the process. That’s what it amounts to.’

  ‘With Markenfield unencumbered I could raise enough for seven years.’

  ‘And what if your uncle didn’t die by then? You’d be bankrupt.’ Esmond let out his breath slowly. ‘You wouldn’t find an heiress then; and dear old Richard would change his will. Hard times, Clinton.’

  ‘There’s no chance he’ll last seven years. We both know that.’

  Esmond nodded.

  ‘The odds are in your favour. I’d say five to two. But that’s not good enough when losing means destitution. You must marry her and that’s an end of it. Either that or sell Markenfield.’

  ‘What would you think of any nobleman who sold what he held in trust for future generations of his family? I can’t throw away two hundred years.’

  ‘I understand that; it’s not something father would ever have done … One of the few things that can be said in his favour.’ Esmond shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, Clinton, he was a good father to you. I doubt if we remember the same man. A pity really.’

  Looking at his brother’s sad unforgiving eyes, Clinton wondered how he had ever allowed himself to believe that he might help him. Of course Esmond had turned him down; there had never been any other possibility. Between them the past still flowed like an impassable river, treacherous and deep. His anger and disappointment were fading now, rather as though an icy wind had swept the inside of his skull leaving nothing behind. He supposed that he had been humiliated, but it did not trouble him; instead, to his surprise, Clinton felt a confused sense of freedom; there was nothing else to be done; no more hopes to be destroyed. With a detachment, far less solemn than resignation, he imagined himself in a country garden, mouthing conventional endearments to a girl who meant little to him. The scene, though vivid, was as if glimpsed from a great height—the human figures mere specks in the landscape.