The Unseen

4

June 16th, 1911

Dearest Amelia,

I am writing to you of another new arrival to our quiet home: Mister Robin Durrant, the theosophist. I don’t expect you to know what a theosophist is, so let me enlighten you – not that I claim to be an expert! I had to get an explanation from Albert, and half of that I did not understand. He describes theosophy as a quest for wisdom and spiritual enlightenment, and through the practice of it, theosophists hope to be able to release themselves from the ties of flesh, and commune with beings on higher spiritual planes. I had rather thought that this was what we strove to do with prayer, but apparently it is quite different.

Mr Durrant is a man that Albert heard speak a fortnight or so ago, in Newbury, on the subject of nature sprites and the like. Albert didn’t talk about it a great deal at the time, but just a few days ago, he came in from his morning walk quite convinced that he had encountered such magical creatures – although apparently I ought not to call them this – out in the meadows around Cold Ash Holt.

I must say, the meadows are quite stunningly lovely at this time of year. They are simply glowing with life and wild flowers and fresh green growth. The grasses and reeds are growing so quickly, one can almost hear them at it if one stops and turns an ear! If nature can indeed put forth a spiritual body of some kind, then surely this would be the perfect environment for it to do so? I can’t help but wonder, though. It seems such an extraordinary thing – as though he had come home and claimed to have seen a unicorn! But, of course, he must be telling the truth, and as his wife I must support him, and trust in his better judgement. He is a scholar, and a man of the cloth after all. I can make no such lofty claims.

And so this young man, Mr Durrant, is due to arrive later this morning, since Albert wrote to him about his observations; and will stay with us for a while – I admit I have not been able to get from Albert how long this might be. Mrs Bell is quite in a flap about lunch and dinner for three – it’s a while since she’s had to cater for any more than just Albert and I. Which only goes to show, dearest, that a visit from you and my dear brother-in-law, not to mention sweet Ellie and John, is long overdue. Just name the date – your rooms are always ready for you. If he is to stay a while, this Mr Durrant, I do hope he is an amiable chap, and not too grand or clever and learned, else I fear I’ll find nothing at all to say to him that he won’t consider silly beyond belief!

Here is something that will surely make you laugh – but you mustn’t, because I am quite serious. I have begun to worry that there may be something amiss with Albert. In terms of his physical conformation, that is – never with his heart or the essence of him, of course. I was coming back from the school just yesterday afternoon, and as we passed John Westcott’s farm, I caught sight of his stallion being ‘put’ to a mare – I believe this is the term they use to describe this natural and necessary act. Westcott’s daughters were out on the verge, cutting grass for their pigs, and they curtseyed to me most prettily, but I admit my attention was quite drawn by the spectacle going on behind them. Entirely improper of me, I am sure, and I should no doubt have averted my gaze, but such natural sights are common when one lives in as rural a place as this. I would not for one second compare my dear husband to a farmyard animal, but I can only assume that, on some terribly base level, the physical systems of most creatures are – at least very loosely – similar. But perhaps I am wrong in this as well? There. That will have to be all I say on the matter, since I am blushing and feeling horribly treacherous as I write this to you, and you are my own flesh and blood! If by some small mercy you understand what I mean by this comparison, then your clarification, as ever, would be so welcome, my dear sister.

I worry about Cat Morley as well. She remains so very thin, and looks so very tired all the time. It seems that her body is not responding to the wholesome life here, although what kind of body could resist such simple goodness, I can’t imagine. Perhaps there is some deeper aspect to it that I have yet to discover, some perversion in her that runs deeper than I know. I have asked Sophie Bell to look in on her at night to see if she sleeps, but I understand that Sophie is a very deep sleeper herself, and finds it hard to rouse herself to check on the girl. What she might do in the long, dark hours of the night instead of resting, I can scarce imagine. It is an uneasy thought. And I also have it from Sophie that she barely eats, and upon occasion is in the act of eating and has to stop, gripped by some convulsion or sickness. I must get to the bottom of it. When I ask after her health she insists that she feels fine, and that the infection she had in her chest in London continues to improve. What does one do with a person who is sick, but will not admit to being so? I do my best to make her welcome, but it is not always as easy as it should be. She has the countenance of a hawk – a tiny, fierce bird of some kind; like a merlin, or a hobby.

Well, I had better finish this letter and make ready for Mr Durrant’s arrival. I will of course write and tell you all about him in a few days’ time, although forgive me if there is a delay – I am so fraught with the effort of getting everything organised in time for our Coronation Fête – one week today and still we have yet to find sufficient bunting. It’s becoming quite a to-do. I dare say we shall get there in the end, but now is hardly the best time to have a house guest arriving. Poor Bertie – men have no clue about such things, do they?

Write soon, dear Amelia; and bend your thoughts, if you can bear it, to what I have written about the horse. What a dreadful thing to write!

Your loving sister,

Hester

1911

It is nowhere near lunch time when a smart knock at the door jolts Cat from her reverie. She has been distracted all morning, her gaze wandering far and away through the hall window which she’s supposed to be polishing with balls of old newspaper. Thoughts of George Hobson tease her mind away from her work. She saw him again last night, drank enough beer with him to make her head spin and her insides glow. Now her head is spinning still, and her stomach feels weak, and a slow throb of pain has taken to beating behind her eyes. Fatigue makes her limbs heavy and her thoughts slow. Even this early in the day the air is warm, and a mist of sweat salts her top lip. When the door knocker forces her to move she turns, catching sight of herself in a heavy-framed mirror on the wall. A grey-white ghost of a girl, with dark hollows for eyes and a drab dress to set her off. That Holloway taint, still. Cat wears an expression of faint disgust as she opens the door.

‘Yes? May I help you?’ she asks the young man standing on the step. His face is every bit as fresh as hers is not; he carries a leather holdall in one hand and a travelling case in the other, with his coat draped over it. In shirt sleeves and waistcoat, his jacket abandoned, Cat is reminded of The Gentleman’s son, come down from university for a few days’ break. That same luxurious disarray.

‘Good morning. My name is Robin Durrant, and I believe I am expected.’ The young man smiles. His teeth are very white and even; the smile curls his mouth slowly, like a cat stretching, and makes his eyes crinkle warmly.

‘Do come in. I’ll let Mrs Canning know that you’re here,’ Cat replies gracelessly. She takes the man’s holdall from him, hangs his coat on the hall stand.

‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’ Robin Durrant is still smiling. Cat turns away from his good humour abruptly, and goes along the hall to knock on the drawing room door.

‘There’s a Mr Robin Durrant here to see you, madam. He says he is expected,’ she announces. Hester drops her pen suddenly, and looks up with a guilty blush on her cheeks. Cat wonders idly what hot gossip she was writing in the letter on the blotter.

‘Oh, gracious! Not already? I’ve not had a chance to be ready, and Albert not even back yet…’ Hester flusters.

‘Nevertheless, he is here, and waiting in the hallway,’ Cat says mildly.

‘Right, well, yes – I shall come straight away, of course,’ Hester says, but Robin Durrant appears behind Cat and clears his throat.

‘I’m so sorry – I couldn’t help but overhear – please do not disturb yourself, Mrs Canning. I am early, which is frightfully rude of me, and I shall make myself scarce until the proper time. It’s a warm day and perfect for a stroll. Please – don’t get up,’ he says cheerily. Hester gazes at him, quite at a loss, as he vanishes back into the hallway.

‘Perhaps I ought to stop him, madam?’ Cat suggests, after a pause.

‘Yes, do! Do! He must not feel he ought to leave again…’ Hester says, a little overwrought. Cat catches up with Robin by the front door.

‘Excuse me, sir, but Mrs Canning insists that you mustn’t go off again,’ she says, flatly. ‘She is quite ready to have you now.’

‘Is that so?’ Robin Durrant smiles again. His smile is ready and waiting, it seems; his face always half-primed to shape it. ‘Then stay I shall. Who could resist such an invitation?’ He gives Cat a knowing look that puts her at once on edge, and then returns to the drawing room.

‘Was that him, at the door?’ asks Mrs Bell, when Cat comes into the kitchen.

‘It was. She’ll be ringing for tea any second, once she’s gathered her wits sufficiently to remember it,’ Cat says, filling the kettle and setting it to boil.

‘What is he – young, old, rich or poor?’ the fat cook asks. From the table top, a fatty shoulder of lamb fills the room with the cloying smell of raw meat. Bluebottles circle it intently, waiting for a chance to land; but Sophie Bell is ready for them, dish towel in hand.

‘Hardly poor, and very young. About the same age as the vicar’s wife, I’d hazard.’ Cat pours herself a cup of water and drinks it in huge, messy gulps.

‘Good grief, it’s like listening to a cow at the trough,’ Mrs Bell tuts. Cat shoots her a scathing look.

‘Now you know how I feel, sitting down to dine opposite you every day,’ she mutters.

‘Any more of that lip and you’re more than welcome to eat your supper out in the yard – or not at all, is what’s more likely.’

‘Indeed,’ Cat sighs, unconcerned.

‘You should call her “the mistress” or “Mrs Canning”, not “the vicar’s wife”, so you should. Everything that comes out of your mouth sounds like disrespect towards somebody or other, and I really don’t see that you’re in any place to be giving it out,’ says Mrs Bell.

‘And why should I give respect to those that haven’t earned it?’

‘Because some people – most of the people in your life, I dare say – do deserve it, whether you think so or not. The mistress gives you a roof over your head, and a job of work to do when nobody else would give you one, not with your past…’

‘I give myself a roof over my head by working every waking minute in this house! And as for my past… the governing classes make up rules to punish others by, just to have reason to punish them and keep them down, that’s what I think. How can I not despise them when by accident of birth, by rules they have written, I am forced to answer to their every whim while they lounge about all day long, and can’t help themselves with the simplest task? And I am supposed to be grateful to them for this, when in truth they should be grateful to me! Where would she be without me? To dress her and clean her clothes and feed her and make her bed? And without you to cook the food? They need us far more than we need them. If servants weren’t all as ingrained with their rules as you, Sophie Bell, then we might forge some changes in this country.’ Cat finishes her tirade, presses her hand to her throbbing head, pours another glass of water and drinks it just as hungrily. Sophie Bell blinks like a rabbit, her jaw hanging slack and bouncing amidst her chins.

‘What on earth did they teach you up in London?’ she asks in the end, quite stunned.

‘What did they teach me?’ Cat echoes. She considers this for a moment. ‘They taught me that they will keep you down by any means, if their rules fail to curb you,’ she says, more quietly.

Sophie Bell seems to wait, almost as if she would hear more, but when Cat does not elaborate she turns back to the shoulder of lamb and flicks at the flies with her towel, wearing a troubled frown.

‘Nip out and cut us some rosemary for this lamb, Cat, there’s a good girl,’ she says, distractedly.

Hurriedly abandoning the letter to Amelia, which she has signed but not had a chance to put into its envelope, Hester smoothes the front of her dress, which is a touch creased, and pats at her hair. Without Albert to give her a lead on how she should treat this young man, and how much deference she should show, she feels quite at sea, and almost bashful about meeting him. She hears him approach and laces her hands neatly in front of her.

‘Mr Durrant, please do come in,’ she answers his polite knock. ‘I do apologise for any confusion, you were of course expected and are most welcome.’ Hester smiles as her guest enters the room.

‘Please don’t apologise. My mother would quite berate me for arriving sooner than I was supposed to, and causing a disturbance. Delighted to meet you, Mrs Canning.’ He shakes her hand warmly, pressing his thumb into her palm for just a moment. Outside the window, the gardener, Blighe, is trimming the privet hedge with shears that squeak when he opens them and squeal when he snaps them shut. This tortured sound punctuates the conversation.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Durrant. Albert spoke so highly of your recent lecture on theosophy,’ Hester adds, hoping to have pronounced the word correctly. Robin Durrant smiles briefly in a way that makes her think she has not. She glances at him properly. He is of medium height and build, slim but quite broad at the shoulder. His hands, when they’d touched, had been every bit as soft and warm as her own. His face is heart-shaped, with marked cheekbones and gentle ridges over the brows, and there is the slight hint of a dimple in the chin. His hair is dark brown, rather long, and worn in a boyish, quite untidy style; all soft waves and stray locks. He has light brown eyes, a colour like clear toffee; and there is no trace of age upon him anywhere. Hester blinks, and realises to her dismay that she has been staring. She feels her cheeks redden slightly, and her throat is inexplicably dry.

‘In fact, my lecture was less about theosophy as a whole and more about the specific subject of nature spirits – my particular area of interest and expertise,’ Robin Durrant continues.

Hester blinks again, and for a moment can’t think what she ought to say. She is quite out of her depth. ‘Yes, of course,’ she manages at length. ‘Won’t you come and sit down? I’ll call Cat for some tea.’ She gestures to an armchair.

‘Thank you. Very kind.’ Mr Durrant smiles again, and Hester mirrors the expression. Indeed, it is hard not to smile at Robin Durrant.

‘I suppose your husband is out and about at his pastoral duties?’ Robin asks, accepting a cup of tea when Hester hands him one some minutes later.

‘Yes, that’s right. He always tries to be at church in the hours before luncheon. It seems to be when parishioners are most at leisure to call in if they have need of him. And if he’s not there he’s ranging all over the parish, visiting…’

‘Tending to his flock, like a good shepherd ought,’ Robin Durrant suggests, raising one eyebrow slightly.

‘Yes, indeed.’ Hester says. ‘And you’re from Reading, I understand?’

‘I am. My mother and father still live there, in the house where I grew up, my brothers and I. Their work has moved them away from the area now, of course. Only I remain so close to the nest.’

‘Oh, I am sure your mother is most pleased to have you nearby,’ Hester says. ‘I understand it’s very hard, for a mother, when all her children finally fly away from her. Metaphorically speaking, of course. Tell me, what is it your brothers do, that takes them away from home?’

‘Well,’ Robin Durrant shifts in his chair, a peculiar expression flitting across his face, ‘my elder brother, William, is in the army. He’s carving himself a most distinguished career as an officer, and has recently been promoted to colonel.’

‘Goodness! He must be very brave! But how worrying for your family… has he been away at war?’

‘He has indeed. In fact, it was an act of the very bravery you mention in Southern Africa that led to him being promoted recently, and indeed to him being decorated for valour.’

Hester’s eyes widen appreciatively. ‘He sounds like a true hero,’ she says.

‘That he is, and quite bullet proof, it would seem. He has been shot three times already, in his career – twice by arrows and once by a rifle shot, and yet he always seems to bounces back, quite unperturbed!’ Robin smiles. ‘It’s become a family joke that he needs to keep his tail down more upon manoeuvres. It was the traditional poacher’s injury he received, on two of the occasions.’

Hester nods slightly, not really understanding him. ‘Shot by arrows! Good heavens, that the world is still populated with such savages!’ she breathes. ‘William must have the heart of a lion.’

‘My younger brother, John, came down from Oxford with a first-class degree in medicine not three years ago. He is currently in Newcastle, where he has perfected a new surgical technique for the removal of… now, let me see. Is it the spleen? It quite escapes me now. Some organ or other, anyway,’ he says, with a careless wave of his hand.

‘My word, what an accomplished family you come from!’ Hester exclaims, admiringly. ‘And is your father a very distinguished man?’

‘Oh, yes. He too was in the army for more than forty years, and was a Governor in India for many of them, until poor heath forced his return to more temperate climes. He is a great man, truly. He has never let any of his sons contemplate failure,’ Robin Durrant says, his expression darkening slightly.

‘Such a man might be hard to… live up to?’ Hester ventures.

Robin takes a deep breath, and seems to consider this; then he shakes his head. ‘Oh, no! He really is an old pussy cat. I only meant to say that he has always taught us to believe in ourselves, to expect the best from ourselves. Such an upbringing makes it easy for a child to excel,’ he says.

Hester colours slightly, embarrassed to have misread him.

‘Well, clearly you yourself are excelling at… theosophy.’ She smiles. ‘I know Albert was very impressed by the lecture you gave…’

‘I fear that my chosen sphere is not one that my father readily understands. And it is not one in which, I think, a person can be said to excel – dealing as it does with the creation of a brotherhood of man, a coming together of equals, and the sacrifice of pride and personal gain,’ Mr Durrant replies, quite solemnly.

‘Indeed, yes, of course.’ Hester nods. In the slight pause, the garden shears squeal and clack. ‘Oh! I think I hear Bertie’s bicycle!’ she cries, with some relief.

Albert smiles widely as he shakes hands with Robin Durrant, his face alight with excitement in a way Hester can’t recall seeing before. Certainly not on their wedding day, when he wore an expression of terrified concentration, as if in utter dread of doing or saying the wrong thing. She squeezes his hand fondly when he comes to stand beside her, glad to see him so animated.

‘You’ll want to see the site, of course. The hollow in the water meadow. I doubt whether we shall see any of the elementals themselves, of course, this late in the day and with the sun so high. It was early dawn when I first saw them, which was just as you mentioned in your lecture as being the best time by far,’ Albert says.

‘I should be very glad to see the place, indeed.’ Robin Durrant nods. ‘But I need not right this minute, if it will delay your lunch at all, Mrs Canning?’

‘Oh, no, lunch will not be delayed. You don’t mind, do you, Hetty? It needn’t take very long,’ Albert says, before Hester can reply. He does not take his eyes from Robin Durrant as he speaks, though he inclines his head towards his wife slightly, as if he knows he should.

‘No, of course. You must do whatever you see fit, gentlemen,’ Hester says. ‘I will let Mrs Bell know that we’ll sit down at two, instead of one. There’s a lovely leg of lamb in the oven, I believe.’

‘Perhaps… it’s rather awkward of me, I know, but perhaps you might also give fair notice to your cook that I do not consume meat, of any kind.’ Mr Durrant smiles, a touch diffidently.

‘No meat?’ Hester replies, before she can stop herself.

‘Indeed, no meat. Theosophy teaches us that something of the animal nature of the beast that is eaten physiologically enters and is incorporated into the man upon his eating of its flesh, thereby coarsening him, weighing down mind and body and greatly retarding the development of the inner intuition, the inner powers,’ the theosophist explains. All with a disarming smile.

Hester is dumbstruck for a moment. She glances at Albert, but he is shrugging on a lightweight coat, and patting the pockets to be sure he has a handkerchief.

‘Well, then. Well. I shall of course let the kitchen know,’ she murmurs, somewhat dreading Sophie Bell’s reaction to the news. The men bustle from the house, and in the sudden quiet Hester is left to shut the door behind them. She stands at the hall window to watch them go up the path and into the lane. Albert talks avidly all the while, his hands moving in quick gesticulations; Robin Durrant walks steadily, and with his head held high. Hester takes a deep breath, and releases it in a short sigh. She finds herself wishing she might have been asked to go along with them. Albert does not look back from the gate, nor wave, as is his custom.

At the window in the drawing room Cat sees the men leave, and turns her face to the sun for a moment. She longs to chase the grey tone from her skin, to burn all trace of it away with the sun’s glare. She has seen the farmer’s wives, and their children, with their faces bronze and gold, and freckles like brown sugar scattered over their noses. That is what she wants. When she is with George, she feels it ebb from her. The chill; the deathly, clinging taint. Memories of fear and pain. George and the sun, these two life-giving things, keeping her going by day and by night. She turns from the window and continues to dust, stroking the soft cloth slowly over the contours of a carved chair. She likes the satin feel of the wood beneath her hand. On the desk is the letter Hester was writing when Robin Durrant arrived. The letter that had her blushing over her pen. Cat walks idly to stand in front of it, and starts to read.

She reads that she might be checked upon in her room, to be sure that she sleeps. This makes her heart jump up into her throat, chokingly. Then it beats hard with rage. To be checked upon, kept watch over, kept captive. She is breathing hard, is too angry to enjoy Hester’s concern over her health, or her worries about hidden perversions. When she reads the final paragraph an incredulous smile breaks over her face. She almost laughs aloud – not cruelly – but to read of the vicar and a rutting stallion in the same sentence… Then she hears a noise outside the door and hurriedly steps back from the desk. The duster had been clamped under her arm, and she can’t quite get it to hand fast enough, can’t quite seem to have been dusting, blamelessly, as Hester enters the room. The vicar’s wife’s expression is one of troubled distraction, but when she sees Cat she smiles, hesitantly. Cat smiles too, quick and curt, and hurries from the room.

She and Tess were discovered, of course. One of the footmen saw them, one Sunday afternoon, handing out leaflets outside the Liberal Party offices. Or rather, trying to hand them out. Men brushed past them, rudely knocking their hands away, barrelling by as though they were invisible. One or two gave them dark looks, muttered ‘For shame’. They had been wearing the best version of the uniform that they could manage – green, white and purple regalia, draped over their right shoulders, passing under their left arms. Ribbons in the colours tied around their bonnets. They could not afford the white golf coats they ought to have had, at seven shillings and sixpence; nor the short, daring green or purple skirts that brushed the leg just on the ankle bone. They were working class, as all could see, but they were still recognisably suffragettes.

They stuck together, working side by side, laughing at the men’s rudeness, exchanging comments on their figures and dress, airs and graces. None of them took a leaflet, of course; but the girls called out their slogans nonetheless, and managed to give the literature to a few female passers-by. Then Cat saw Barnie coming along the street towards them, tucking a new packet of cigarettes into his pocket. She froze for a second, saw him recognise them, saw his expression change. He did not stop to speak to them, of course; would not be seen doing so in public. But as he made his way past he could barely contain a grin of stifled joy at his discovery. Barnie was excitable, and liked to make trouble, which he called ‘joshing’. Both Tess and Cat had spurned his advances since he’d arrived at Broughton Street, so he dubbed them ‘the sapphos’, and his lust turned to spite.

News of what the parlourmaid and the second kitchen-maid were up to passed from Barnie to the housekeeper, then to the butler, then to The Gentleman. He called the pair of them to stand before him in his study. Tess shook from her curly hair to the worn-out soles of her shoes, but Cat squeezed her hand, and tipped her own chin up defiantly. She knew she could not easily be dismissed. Her mother had told her that, before she died.

‘Well, now, Catherine and Teresa,’ The Gentleman began. Upon hearing her name, Tess trembled even more; as if until that point she had been half hoping to go unnoticed. Cat met The Gentleman’s eye and refused to look away, even though it took all of her nerve to do so. The study was an imposing, book-lined room; all dark mahogany on the walls and dark red carpets on the floor. Weak autumn light filtered in through the high windows, making the room reminiscent of a church. The quiet, dusty air was cool and still. The Gentleman was in his sixties, tall, broad and barrel-shaped. His jawline was described by grey whiskers, the bones themselves long since lost in a fold of flesh; but his eyes, though small, were jovial and kindly. Unless he had been drinking, or gambling of course. He was notoriously bad at both. ‘I hear the pair of you have become rather hot politicos,’ he said, smiling as if the idea amused him.

‘I don’t know what you mean, sir,’ Cat demurred. Tess stared intently at the floor, as silent as the grave but for the snuffle of her anxious breathing.

‘Come now, Catherine, don’t play the ignorant serving wench with me – it just won’t wash,’ he reprimanded her. Cat blinked and let her iron gaze relax a little, seeing that they were not to be given a roasting.

‘We were doing no harm. Our Sunday afternoons are our own. It’s no crime to join a political union, or party; no crime to canvass on their behalf.’

‘I understand that your Sunday afternoons are intended to be used for the visiting of relatives, or for getting on with some sewing or reading, or other such useful activity,’ The Gentleman suggested mildly.

‘Our Sunday afternoons are our own,’ Cat replied, bullishly.

‘Catherine! Why, you are every bit as stubborn as your mother.’ He chuckled briefly.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Cat replied, with the ghost of a smile. The Gentleman took off his spectacles and laid them on the open ledger in front of him. He leant back in his chair, folded his arms and seemed to think for a while. The girls stood in place, like sentries.

‘Well, you are quite right that there is no crime in what you do, handing out leaflets and such. I assume that you take no payment for this work? Good. But I can’t pick up a newspaper these days without reading of some girl being arrested for some silliness or other in connection with these bluestocking rabble-rousers. They go too far. Unnatural creatures – quite unwomanly, what they get up to. But I am not the type to banish free thinking, not even amongst my servants. Carry on with it, then, if you must. But I will not hear of you out in the streets again, shouting slogans or harassing good citizens as they attend their own political meetings. No more of it, I say. I will not have you bringing ill fame on this house with any more extreme behaviour. Do I make myself understood?’

‘May we attend the meetings still?’ Cat asked.

‘You may retain your membership of the WSPU, and attend the meetings, yes. You may read their literature, if you must; but do not leave it lying around for the other servants to see. And I will not hear of you encouraging any of the other girls to join in this latest hobby.’

‘May we wear a small token of the colours about our persons?’

‘Whilst you are within the walls of this house, no, you may not,’ The Gentleman replied, his eyes sparkling. He always had enjoyed a negotiation.

‘Emma is allowed to wear a crucifix. Why may we not wear an emblem?’

‘Emma is devout. Should you wish to wear a cross of Jesus, you also may. I hope you are not comparing our Lord God to Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst?’ He smiled. Cat tried hard to keep her face straight, but could not prevent the corners of her mouth from twitching.

‘Certainly not. For if God were a woman, we would certainly not have to fight so hard for basic social justices,’ she said.

‘If God were a woman! If God were a woman!’ The Gentleman laughed. ‘Catherine, you are a card, you really are. I should never have taught you to read. It’s true that in women, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing!’ he chortled. Cat stopped smiling, and resumed her steely stare. The Gentleman fell silent for a while. ‘And with your mother’s glare, to boot. Begone the pair of you, about your work.’ He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. ‘Let me hear no more about it.’ Cat turned to go, rousing Tess with a tug on her hand. The girl seemed to have fallen into a trance. ‘Wait, Catherine – here. Read these, if you please. Perhaps we shall turn you into a thoughtful socialist, rather than a scurrilous suffragette,’ The Gentleman said, passing her a selection of pamphlets printed by The Fabian Society. Cat took them eagerly, and read the front of the uppermost: Tract No. 144 – Machinery: its Masters and its Servants. The Gentleman knew her love of reading – it was he who had fostered it.

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, genuinely pleased. He gave her a vague pat on the shoulder, and turned away.

Once they were back below stairs, Tess let out a massive sigh, as if she’d held her breath for the entire interview.

‘Oh, sweet Lord, I thought we were out on the streets, so I did!’ she cried.

‘Don’t be silly – I told you we wouldn’t be, didn’t I?’ Cat said, taking her by the tops of her arms, giving her a little shake. Tess wiped tears of relief from her eyes, and smiled.

‘I don’t know how you have the nerve to speak to him the way you do, I really don’t! I thought I would die of fright!’

‘You don’t know? Can’t you guess?’ Cat asked, solemnly.

‘Guess what, Cat? What do you mean?’ Tess asked, bewildered. Over her friend’s shoulder, Cat saw Mrs Heddingly hovering in the dark doorway of her room. The housekeeper watched her with a censorious look on her face.

‘Never mind. Come on, we’d better get back to it,’ she said. After this incident, they did not go canvassing again for a couple of weeks. And when they did start again, they made sure that they were well away from any of the shops Barnie visited for his fags or matches.

Hester finds Cat at the top of the cellar stairs, frozen, quite lost in reverie. Her stillness is unnerving, and for a moment Hester hesitates, unsure how to proceed. At last she clears her throat pointedly, and sees the girl jump.

‘Ah, Cat. I wonder if you would be good enough to see me in the parlour?’ she says, and retreats with the dark-haired girl following behind.

‘Madam?’ Cat says, coming to stand in front of her, hands hanging loose at her sides. Hester wishes she would clasp them either in front or behind her, but she does not know how to phrase such a request. It just seems so unnatural to leave them hanging in that way. As though she expects to have to use them in sudden violence.

‘Cat.’ Hester smiles. ‘Now, I have had some mild complaints from Mrs Bell, that you do not always show her the proper respect- No, please, do let me finish,’ she says, when Cat seems poised to speak. ‘Obviously it has taken you a while to settle in here, and that’s only to be expected after… what you have experienced. I quizzed Mrs Bell quite closely about your day-to-day work and she can find no fault in it. And I have to say, if Sophie Bell can find no fault in your work, then there can be no fault to find!’

‘That woman hates me,’ Cat says, flatly.

‘Well! I’m sure she doesn’t! If she is hard with you, well, then it’s because she cares a great deal that things should be done in the correct way… Anyway. The vicar and I are quite happy with your work, and more than happy to have you continue here, but I must ask that you show Mrs Bell the respect due to one in her position – she is, after all, the housekeeper here; and she has been with me for several years now. It simply will not do to antagonise her,’ Hester finishes. Cat gazes at her steadily, and says nothing, which Hester hopes is acquiescence. ‘Well, that’s settled then. Here, Cat – I made this for you. A little welcoming present to help you decorate your room.’ She hands Cat the cross-stitch embroidery in its frame. Cat looks at it in silence for a moment, and when she raises her head again her eyes are bright with emotion.

‘Thank you, madam,’ she says, the words clipped, as if stifled. Hester smiles, seeing that Cat is near overcome.

‘You’re most welcome, child. Please do carry on,’ she says, by way of a dismissal. Cat stalks from the room with her shoulders rigid.

In the kitchen, Cat throws the embroidery onto the table and stares at it, holding her bottom lip savagely between her teeth. The grocer’s boy is bringing in boxes of goods, struggling to see through piled packages of flour and rice and gelatine.

‘Can you believe this?’ Cat demands of him, gesturing angrily at the frame.

‘What, miss?’ the boy asks. He is not more than twelve years old.

‘This!’ Cat picks it up and shakes it furiously at him. The boy steps closer, screws his eyes myopically at it, reads haltingly.

‘Hum… hum…’

‘Humility!’ Cat snaps.

‘Humility is a Servant’s True Dig… nity,’ the boy says, glancing up to see if he’s got it right.

‘Can you believe that?’ Cat demands again. The boy shrugs, at a loss.

‘Don’t rightly know, miss,’ he mumbles, and hurries away from her.

‘What are you belly-aching about now?’ asks Mrs Bell, waddling into the kitchen and slamming the kettle onto the stove.

‘Nothing that concerns you, Mrs Bell,’ Cat says, flatly.

‘Everything in this house concerns me, my girl,’ the housekeeper points out. She spots the embroidery on the table, picks it up and examines it. ‘She’s made this for you, has she?’ Cat nods. ‘So, what are you so steamed up about?’

‘I… I do not agree with the sentiment.’

Mrs Bell eyes her shrewdly. ‘No, well, I dare say you don’t, being so full of hot air and your own opinions. Just you be grateful that you’ve the kind of mistress who wants to make pretty things for you, rather than beat you about with a stick. The first gentleman I worked for would come down and beat the kitchen-maids if he thought his tea was too cold, or too hot, or stewed too long; so you mark my words – you’ve landed on your feet here and you’ll do well to remember it!’ Her arms, folded over her bosom, look like ham hocks.

‘Why should there be different rules for us, Sophie? Aren’t we human beings, just like them upstairs?’ Cat asks. She picks up the embroidered motto again, and examines it. Hester has stitched a small tabby cat into one corner, arching its spine amidst blue cornflowers. Cat runs her thumb over the neat little creature, and frowns.

‘What are you talking about, girl? Of course there are different rules for them and us!’

‘But why should there be?’ Cat asks, keenly.

‘Because it’s always been that way, and it always will be that way! What can have happened to you that you’ve forgot your place in the world?’ Mrs Bell blusters.

‘I don’t believe I have a place in the world,’ Cat murmurs.

‘Well, you have. It’s here, in this kitchen helping me get the tea trays ready.’ Mrs Bell bustles back to the stove.

Later on, Cat hangs Hester’s embroidery on her bedroom wall, where once the crucifix had hung. Though she can’t read the motto without her blood rising, she likes the little tabby cat, skulking in the cornflowers. Cat feels reckless this night. She hardly waits until the household has retired before slipping from her room, down the back stairs and out into the courtyard. Mrs Bell is not yet snoring. When she looks up at the house, bedroom lights are still lit. She could still be called upon, to make a hot drink or fetch a book from the library. The thought makes her heart beat faster. But she will not be kept in; she will not be checked upon. Let the vicar’s wife find her gone, she thinks, savagely. Let them cast her out. Better that than to be a prisoner. The night is still, and warm. From the meadows comes the occasional throaty call of a frog, the creak and whine of insect life. The scent on the air is of hot bricks and dry grass, the slight damp of dew falling.

Cat makes her way on soft feet to the far side of the house and to the little collection of outbuildings that flanks the courtyard. Here are the woodsheds and the gardener’s den, the greenhouses and tool sheds. This latter is where the vicar stores his bicycle. Cat fumbles for it in the darkness, cursing when her questing hands make things shift and clatter; when her foot kicks a shovel, sending it toppling towards the concrete floor. She catches it at the last moment, with hands that shake. She has only ridden a bicycle once before – borrowed for a turn from the butcher’s boy in London. She silently curses the soft squeaking of the wheels as she pushes it along the garden path and out of the gate. She does not see, behind her, the bloom of a cigarette in the darkness, nor Robin Durrant’s gaze following her as he leans against the front wall of the house, blowing plumes of blue smoke up into the gentle sky.

Cat wheels the bicycle a long way down the lane before mounting it, in case she should fall; and fall she does, so startled to be moving forwards that she forgets to steer, and wobbles into the grass verge before clattering to the ground. She brushes grit from grazes on her hands and one knee, picks the thing up, gathers her skirt and swings her leg over it again. She will not fail at something the vicar does so easily, with his too-short trousers and his milksop complexion. Gradually, she gathers speed, and finds that the faster she goes, the easier it is to stay upright, and to steer. With a few more near disasters she makes fine progress, wheeling the bicycle down the grassy path to the canal side. She does not need a light. The pale dusty towpath is straight and well visible, cutting through the deep green rushes and cow parsley, the thistles and dock and dandelions. Cat pedals as fast as she dares, the wind fingering through her cropped hair, making her eyes water and cooling her skin. She finds herself grinning in the darkness, thrilled and carefree. She would have cycled right past the barge boat where George sleeps each night, and sought him out in Thatcham, but there is a light on in the cabin, so she judders to a halt.

Suddenly still, Cat is dizzy, and stands for a while on the path, catching her breath, finding her feet. The water of the canal lies still and silent, and in the faint light of the stars she sees water birds drift noiselessly past. Reaching from the bank, Cat knocks softly on the side of the boat. Flaking paint comes off on her knuckles. There is a thump from within, the scrape of boots on wood. George opens the cabin door and holds up a lantern, which stabs at Cat’s eyes, makes her clap her hands to her face.

‘You’ll blind me!’ she calls. Talking makes her chest tighten, and she coughs violently, bending over at the sudden pain behind her ribs. This cough still waits inside her, then. It has not left her yet.

‘Cat, is that you? Are you all right?’ George peers into the darkness, shutting the lamp halfway to dim it.

‘How many other girls call upon you in the night, George Hobson?’ she asks tartly, when the fit subsides.

‘Only you, Black Cat.’ He smiles.

‘Well then, it is me. Are you busy? Why aren’t you in town?’

‘I can’t go to town every night, Cat Morley. I’d drink myself impoverished before long. Indeed, before very long at all,’ he says, ruefully. ‘Why are you puffing? Did you run?’

‘I bicycled,’ Cat says. ‘I borrowed the vicar’s bicycle, and got here in a fraction of the time it takes walking! So I can be back again in a fraction of the time, and can stay longer with you instead.’

‘You borrowed his bicycle? That tends to mean you got permission…’

‘Don’t be daft. What he doesn’t know can’t harm him. What do you do in there of an evening, in such a small space?’

‘Come aboard and I’ll show you,’ George offers. In the muted lamplight, his face is thrown into contours. The creases around his eyes that the sun has carved, the furrow above his brows, the strong line of his jaw. The bruises of his last fight have faded now, leaving only vague brownish smears, like grubby thumb prints. His shirt is open at the throat, the sleeves rolled up. So much skin he shows. So much of his living flesh; so much evidence of vitality. Cat drinks in the sight of him, feeling herself stronger with each second that passes. Something inside her unfurls when he smiles, like the new green leaves of a fragile plant. She takes his hand and steps onto the deck, but hesitates at the cabin door. The space within is confined indeed.

‘I… I do not like small spaces,’ she says.

‘I shan’t shut us in, if you don’t want me to,’ George says, not at all troubled by her admission. Cat goes down a couple of the narrow wooden stairs and then sits, wrapping her arms around her knees. Behind her head the night sky still spreads, huge and reassuring.

The cabin is low and narrow. Nothing in it really but a bed along one side, some shelves and a stove along the other. The bed is made up with rag rugs for a mattress, and worn blankets as covers. A tin kettle sits on the stove, but the embers within it have long gone cold. George watches her eyes flit briefly around his living space. He frowns slightly, seems suddenly uncertain.

‘It’s not much, I’ll grant you. It must seem poor indeed, to one used to living in fine houses.’

‘I work in the fine house,’ Cat corrects him. ‘But I live in a cramped attic room that swelters in this heat,’ she says.

‘It’s hot indeed. I couldn’t bear to light the stove, so can’t even offer you tea, or cocoa.’

‘You keep cocoa about the place, as a rule?’ Cat asks, raising an eyebrow.

‘Truthfully, no,’ George admits. ‘But I do keep ginger beer.’

‘Ginger beer?’

‘I’ve been fond of it since childhood.’ George shrugs, bashfully. ‘Would you like some, then?’

‘All right then. I will. My throat’s bone dry from coughing.’

‘What is that cough? I hear it sometimes, when you talk. That there’s a snag in your breathing, waiting to catch you.’ He takes a brown bottle down from a shelf, pours the contents into two tin mugs. Cat thinks before answering. She does not like to hear this – that others can detect the taint on her.

‘I caught pneumonia, when I was in gaol,’ she says, shortly. ‘It lingers. The doctor said it would, though I admit I’d hoped it would go sooner.’

‘It must have been a damp and dreary place, to give you an infection like that,’ George says, carefully.

‘It was. But that’s not what gave me it. It was the handling I was given. The way we were… treated,’ she says, sipping her ginger beer, eyes focused on the darkness at the bottom of the cup.

George puts out one thick, rough thumb, crooks it under her chin and lifts her gaze to meet his. ‘I would have words with any person who gave you rough handling,’ he says, solemnly. ‘More than words, in fact. And you nothing but a slip of a thing. I’ve no time for those that box below their weight.’

‘That’s something I would dearly love to have seen. Pitting you against the villains in there that called themselves guardians.’ Cat smiles. ‘They could have done with a taste of their own medicine.’

‘The job is one of cruelty and brutality, as I understand it. Small wonder that cruel brutes find their way into it. My father was gaoled once – and it was no bad thing for us kids, nor for my mother. He set about the rozzers that were trying to escort him home from the pub, drunk half dead as was his habit. They frogmarched him face down right past all his chums – that made his blood boil! I was glad they kept him in for we’d have felt the brunt of that indignity if he’d been allowed home.’ He shakes his head at the memory.

‘What was his profession, your father?’

‘His profession? That’s not the word for it. He did labouring, farm work, odd jobs. Whatever he could get. If there was something needing doing that was too hard or too dirty for anybody else, they sent for my old man. He used to dock the puppies’ tails, each time there was a new litter. He would bite them off.’

‘He bit them off? That’s horrible!’

‘It’s considered the proper way – the crushing of teeth closes the skin around the wound. But only a savage could do it thus, and so my father was called,’ George explains. ‘I remember hearing their poor little cries, all those pups. It made my blood run cold, but my father never flinched.’

‘But I was no drunken brute. I only did what I was told to do, in gaol.’

‘What the wardens told you to do? Always?’

‘Well… perhaps not always,’ she admits, dropping her face again. In truth she’d sought countless little ways to flout the rules, to pretend rebellion. It was her behaviour that brought Tess to the warders’ attention, when she had been good and quiet enough to go unnoticed, until then. Cat swallows convulsively. ‘Can we talk about other things?’

‘We can talk about whatever you wish to talk about, Cat Morley,’ George says, softly.

Cat looks around the cabin again, sips her ginger beer.

‘Why don’t you take rooms in town?’

‘I used to, but then Charlie Wheeler, who owns and runs this barge and three others between Bedwyn and Twickenham, said I could stop on board between jobs if I wanted, for no rent at all. It’s good security, to have a man aboard, and this way I get to save my money up.’

‘What are you saving it up for?’ Cat asks.

George thinks a while before answering, then reaches to a pile of papers on the shelf, passes her a creased and much handled flyer.

‘The canal trade is dying, Cat. Some stretches are so poorly kept up, you struggle to make headway for the growth of weeds and trees crowding in; and the locks leak so badly they scarce work. Few carriers still use it, now the railways are everywhere and so much faster. Charlie Wheeler is a traditional kind of man, and he keeps going with small loads and local trade, but soon enough even he will have to stop,’ George says.

Cat examines the flyer. There’s a grainy photograph reproduced on it, of a steamboat crowded with young girls in Sunday school uniform, all smiling at the camera man from beneath their straw boater hats.

‘Scenic Pleasure Cruises?’ she reads.

‘Aye, that was what the man I met called it. He’s up in Bath and Bradford, and once he was a carrier just like Charlie Wheeler. Now he makes a good living – a better living than he did – taking people for rides along the canal.’

‘And you would leave to go and work for him?’ Cat asks, her face falling. She knows, in an instant, that she could not stand life in Cold Ash Holt if it weren’t for George.

‘No! No, not at all – I would buy my own boat and do the same as he! It would have to be an old boat, for my purse to stretch, but I could repair and make good on it myself. I would moor it in Hungerford, for there are no such pleasure boats there yet. The boat could be home and business in one, and I’d be free to make my own way, for once,’ George says, his voice steady and resolute.

‘That would be glorious. To be free!’ Cat stares into the distance, caught up in the thought of it. She can hardly imagine what it might be like, to live as she pleased; but for a minute the idea scatters sparkles of excitement down her spine. Then she sighs. ‘I doubt I shall ever be.’

‘Anybody may be free. It’s only a matter of finding a way.’

‘And how long will it take you to save up your money, to buy your boat?’

‘Not much longer. Four months, perhaps. Sooner if I can get more fights fixed up… and win them of course.’

‘Of course you would win them! Nobody could beat you – I’ve seen you fight. You’re like Hector, or Achilles.’

‘Like who?’ George frowns.

‘Demi-gods of the ancient world.’

‘Oh, indeed? And how on earth did you come to learn about them, then?’

‘My father taught me to read at a young age. He lent me books that a working-class child would never have read, otherwise. I think it amused him,’ Cat says, grimly.

‘Why should it have?’

‘He knew I would have no other station in life than the one I was dealt. Why did he bother to broaden my mind? To educate me? I’ve often wondered.’

‘Perhaps he just wanted to give you a good start. Perhaps he thought you might rise above your station in life, with this knowledge he gave you?’

‘He could have given me that start easily, and yet he made me a servant. It was a cruel gift; and an empty one.’ She shakes her head.

‘But a gift nonetheless, and perhaps well meant. My father gave me nothing but cuts and beatings.’

‘Perhaps he gave you a gift without realising it – perhaps he taught you to fight, and now with the money you make from it, you will be your own man.’ Cat puts out one hand, runs it the length of George’s knotted arm, curls it behind his neck.

‘Most girls would be put off to see me fight, to know what I do. It breaks the law, after all; and is hardly genteel,’ George says softly, leaning towards her. She tips her head, and their foreheads touch.

‘What need have I for gentility? It’s nothing but a mask that allows men to be cruel and dishonest,’ Cat murmurs. She kisses him and for one startled second he freezes, as if unsure; but then he puts his arms around her, lifts her effortlessly from the stair onto his lap and holds her tight. Cat lets herself be held against him, aware of the heat blooming between their skins, and the taste of his mouth, and the race of her heartbeat, so loud in her ears. She reaches an arm behind her to shut the cabin door as George pulls her backwards onto the narrow bed, and she does not care at all that the cabin is small, and the ceiling near. She does not even notice.

On Sunday, Hester stands beside Albert outside church after the service, politely greeting each parishioner. The sun is fiery bright in a clear blue sky; the light so crisp it seems to outline every blade of grass in the churchyard, every sparkling fleck of mineral in the granite headstones. It glances brightly from Robin Durrant’s tousled mop of hair, revealing gold and auburn strands Hester hadn’t noticed before. A hand on her arm catches her attention.

‘Is that your house guest?’ Claire Higgins asks, in a low voice that the vicar won’t hear. The sun isn’t kind to Claire’s face, showing up little hairs on her top lip, and a scattering of blackheads over her normally pretty nose. Hester suddenly worries how many of her own flaws are on such bold display.

‘Yes. Mr Robin Durrant, the theosophist. He and Albert are engaged in a study of the spiritual side of our meadows,’ Hester whispers back to her. Claire’s gaze sweeps up from Robin’s feet to his face. Her expression is one of languid appreciation, and it makes Hester slightly nervous.

‘Is he married?’ Claire asks, not taking her eyes from him; slowly, she strokes the silky end of the green ribbon holding her hat in place.

‘No, dearest, but you are,’ Hester points out. She raises her eyebrows censoriously at her friend, and they both laugh.

‘Introduce me,’ Claire hisses, as Robin saunters over to them.

‘Ladies, may I accompany you back into the village?’ He smiles at them, clasping his hands behind his back urbanely.

‘Mr Durrant, may I introduce Mrs Claire Higgins, a good friend of mine?’

‘Mrs Higgins, a pleasure,’ Robin says, with a cheerful shake of her hand.

‘I do hope you weren’t put off by the curious stares you were given during the service, Mr Durrant,’ Claire says. ‘I fear we receive few visitors of note here in Cold Ash Holt. And certainly none as exciting as a spiritualist.’ The three of them turn away from the church and walk steadily along the gravel path towards the gate.

‘Well, I fear I must disappoint you, Mrs Higgins, for I am neither very much of note, nor a spiritualist.’

‘Oh? Is a theosophist very different from a spiritualist then?’ Claire asks.

‘Indeed we are, Mrs Higgins. A great deal different.’

‘We held a seance with a local spiritualist just the other night, as a matter of fact. Only don’t tell the vicar, or Hester will be in trouble!’ Claire says, conspiratorially.

‘Claire!’ Hester protests, but Robin smiles so warmly at her that she relaxes again.

‘Fear not, your secret is quite safe with me,’ he says. Claire beams at him, and tightens her grip significantly on Hester’s arm. ‘But, perhaps I might urge caution in this area?’ Robin continues. ‘I fear that most mediums, as they term themselves, are quite fraudulent.’

‘Oh, not Mrs Dunthorpe, surely?’ Claire says. ‘She is able to look beyond the physical world, and see into the world of spirit… We’ve both experienced it, haven’t we, Hester? I am quite sure her powers are genuine.’

‘And she talks to the dead, I presume?’ Robin asks, seriously.

‘Well… yes, indeed she does,’ Hester replies, less certainly. ‘Although I have never actually seen one of these spirits she talks to, or heard it…’

‘I fear that you, like many good people, have been taken in by this woman.’ Robin shakes his head. ‘The spirits of the dead do not exist – not in the way such fairground mediums suggest.’ He waves his hand dismissively. ‘Upon the death of the body, the individual consciousness of man rejoins the universal soul, and waits in bliss for its eventual rebirth. The personality of the deceased is lost; so that ghosts, with any knowledge of their previous lives, simply cannot exist,’ he explains.

‘Oh dear! Is that really so? And she always seemed most genuine in her beliefs, her abilities…’ Claire murmurs, quite crestfallen.

‘I am quite sure she did, Mrs Higgins. Don’t be ashamed to have been deceived in this way – thousands of others have before you! And I do not say she has no inner vision or ability at all, but that even if she has, she is untutored, and confused,’ Robin says kindly.

‘Well, perhaps we ought not to go again?’ Claire looks at Hester with troubled eyes.

‘Oh dear – I fear I have upset you, and spoiled your fun?’ Robin stops walking and turns to Claire and Hester, pressing his hands together earnestly. ‘Please, forgive me. I shan’t move another step until you have, even if it means I miss my lunch!’ He remains that way, all solemn and beseeching, until Claire giggles, and Hester feels a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. ‘There, you have forgiven me. I can see it in your faces.’ He grins broadly.

‘Walk on, Mr Durrant. I would not have you miss your lunch,’ Claire assures him.

‘Well, at least that puts my mind to rest about one thing,’ Hester says.

‘Oh, what’s that?’ Robin asks.

‘Well, at our last… sitting with Mrs Dunthorpe, she received a most dire warning from one of the spirit voices she heard. Or thought she heard, that is.’

‘Oh – Hetty, that’s right!’ Claire says.

‘Apparently, a source of great evil had come into one of our lives, and was going to bring dark times upon us. After some discussion, the conclusion reached was that the warning was for me,’ says Hester, lightly, though she well remembers the cold shivers she’d felt, and the dark, watchful figure under the tree.

‘For you, indeed? Well, fear not, dear lady,’ Robin says. ‘I am quite sure that Mrs Dunthorpe was hearing an echo of her own colourful imagination. I would wager my last shilling on it, in fact.’

‘Mr Durrant!’ Albert’s voice comes from behind them. They pause, and turn to see the vicar trotting up behind them with a jerky, angular gait, his robe flapping around his knees. ‘Mr Durrant, I wonder if you would be good enough to allow me to introduce you to somebody?’ he asks, breathlessly.

‘Yes, of course, Reverend. Ladies, if you will excuse me?’ He gives them a graceful incline of his head. Albert nods briefly at his wife and her friend, and then guides the theosophist away with a hand hovering at his back.

‘Well, he is quite delightful, isn’t he?’ Claire murmurs. Do you know what I think? I think your husband was a little jealous, seeing you walking and talking with that young man!’ She nudges Hester lightly.

‘Oh, no!’ Hester laughs. ‘I’m sure not. Do you really think so?’ she ventures.

‘Absolutely! Such a charming fellow… and so handsome. And I saw the way he smiled at you… perhaps the vicar has a good reason to be jealous?’ she suggests, archly.

‘Claire, really!’ Hester admonishes her, but can’t keep from smiling.

‘And I’ll tell you another thing – I’m jealous too. Of you, having such a wonderful house guest! Nobody interesting ever comes to stay with us at Park Farm. It’s simply not fair,’ Claire sighs, looping her arm through Hester’s as they walk on again. Hester says nothing, a little ashamed by how pleasant it feels to be envied.