of music.
“No, no, no!” Master Baxter cried. Leaping to his spindly legs and standing before me, he demonstrated. “Like this, young leddy, one … and two, one … and two – try it … other foot first – no other foot!”
Behind me, Anne sniggered but I ignored her and tried again. Master Baxter exaggerated a sigh. “Stop!” he commanded. “Young leddy, do you derive pleasure from this?”
“No, I –”
He leaned his vulpine snout towards me and his beady eyes narrowed. “It escapes me why a girl-child – gifted in the masculine study of numbers – should be so inept in the pursuit of social arts.”
Immediately incensed, I opened my mouth to release an angry retort.
“Master Baxter,” said Simon, effectively slicing my reply. “If you would be so kind as to resume your seat at the piano, I shall step my sister through the dance.”
Simon turned to me, “Zan, try –”
“No!” I responded angrily. “I’ve no desire to learn the stupid dance anyway.”
The front door slammed behind me as I escaped into the late-afternoon sunshine. The trees in the park cast thin shadows across the lawn and neatly raked gravel drive, and the dying scents of summer hung in the air as I stomped to the ancient oak tree adjacent to our house. With my skirt hoisted unseemingly high, I found my foothold and scrambled into the branches, then shimmied on to a sturdy bough to relax with my back against the trunk. This was my favourite hiding place. I loved to perch here, unseen by anyone below, breathing the verdant foliage and surveying our beautiful, terraced gardens, orchard and long, curved drive.
At length, Simon emerged from the house with Jemima at his heels. I watched as he leaned on the porch balustrade and scanned the gardens and park. His eyes eventually rested on my Great Oak. Grinning good-naturedly, he straightened and descended the stairs, strolling unhurriedly towards me.
“Do you plan to stay there all night, you grouch? Shall I have your supper sent up?”
“You could join me – if you dare climb this high.”
From climbing trees, to seeing who could spit the furthest, my cheerfully irreverent brother had led me into all manner of hoydenish activities. Ordinarily he’d find my challenge irresistible, but his response surprised me. “Not now. I agreed to ride over to the Goodmans’ place with Collings this afternoon to have a look at their roof. It’s in need of repair before winter.”
He turned and I watched his receding back in dismay. Until now our lives had melded into one wondrous round, and Simon and I had been inseparable.
This life was all I knew and Broughton Hall the only home. The winters here were icy – the stone of our house seemed to absorb the cold and no fire roared enough to dispel it. But if the winters were bitter, the summers were long, glorious days when Simon and I ran wild through fields of swaying yellow grass, wildflowers and disgruntled bees, with Jemima galloping alongside.
Anne found our outdoor pursuits dirty and undignified. I was aware that in a corner of her heart she resented the closeness between Simon and me, but in my childishly-selfish way, I gave it little thought.
Annually over summer, our escapades were interrupted by the arrival of our Mother, always with a contingent of friends from court – coachloads of them. During this time we were painfully reminded of our manners and behaviour.
Our quiet country estate was transformed by glamorous ladies in the most sumptuous silks and satins, gliding sensuously about, laughing with affectation and tinkling with jewels. The gentlemen fawned over them and competed for their attention in high-collared shirts, elegant coats and long leather boots, with glinting, rakish swords hanging at their hips.
Anne would sigh dreamily over the extravagant clothes and glittering jewels. “I simply cannot wait until I may wear such beautiful clothes. I shall have a ring on every finger and all the gentlemen will vie for my attention – just like Mother.”
One hot night, I lay restlessly on my bed as the sounds of clinking crystal, music, and laughter drifted up from the gardens below. Unable to sleep, I slipped unnoticed, outside by the servants’ stairs.
The grotto was a secluded corner of our garden, walled by a tall hedge on three sides and stone on the fourth. It had been designed by the builder of Broughton Hall – a wealthy merchant who had owned several ships that plied their trade between Bristol and the Indies. According to local narrative, he’d never lost a ship to either pirate or element and, crediting God as the source of his luck, built and dedicated the little corner garden – complete with statue of Our Lady, a trickling fountain, and stone benches – to grateful contemplation of his good fortune.
We Broughtons were not a religious family, but maintained the grotto for its tranquillity. Seeking solitude, I was drawn there on that night, but as I approached, I thought I heard vague whispers and sighs. Innocently curious, I pushed aside a curtain of foliage and silently slipped inside. I paused in surprise.
The light of a single lantern revealed my mother, leaning against an ivy-covered wall, one slender leg on the bench, her skirt lifted to expose her stockings and garters. A man was leaning over her, his face buried in her bosom, his hand working between her thighs.
I could only see his back, but recognised the shiny grey coat he wore for I’d seen this young man, not more than Simon’s age, only that afternoon toasting my mother and her cronies with champagne beneath the Great Oak.
Neither was aware of my presence, or that I hurried away, sweat dampening my young forehead, confused and inexplicably frightened by what I’d seen. I told no one of my experience, but the image was burned forever on my memory.
While our summer visitors were here, our house bulged with people and Cook always brought in two or three village girls to assist in the kitchen.
One of these girls was discovered in a pantry with a gentleman visitor. Young as I was, I did not understand the ensuing trouble. The lass was dispatched in disgrace to her family while Cook groaned and became even more harried.
Finally, after what felt like six months but was in reality only one, they all departed in a frenetic storm of dust, perfume, servants and horses to their own estates before returning to London’s winter round of parties and balls.
My mother lingered, passing the heat of summer in the relative relief of the country. But as August arrived she was gone and the trees in the park began turning gold and red, and our tenants prepared to bring in their wheat harvest.
Before the dust had settled behind her, Simon and I had donned old clothes and joined the farmers in the fields, sharing their back-breaking toil, their rations and their cheerful freedom, all the while delighting in the scandalised outrage of our sister, for such work ought to be beneath us.
Cutting and bailing was hard graft but culminated in a great celebration, revelry in which my brother and I participated to the full.
But all this was about to change. Mother was home under mysterious circumstances with a new husband, and my brother, my friend and partner in crime, was already growing away from me.
CHAPTER 3
Summer
