to help Simon gather the plums. Dashing quickly to my room, I changed into my favourite attire – a cast-off pair of Simon’s breeches. They were comfortable and practical, affording freedom of movement; I’d wear them all the time if I could, since I regularly tripped on the hem of my dress and earned Anne’s contempt.
I was in a hurry lest Simon began picking fruit without me. Jemima and I bounded down the staircase and on my way along the hall I caught a glimpse of someone in the parlour. Ever watchful for Mrs Grainger, I slowed to a decorous walk and cautiously peeked into the room. Rather than our fearsome housekeeper, I was surprised to find a well-dressed girl about my own age.
“Hello,” I said.
Startled, she whirled around and returned my greeting with a quick curtsy and genuine smile. I decided it would be foolish to curtsy in breeches so bobbed my head in response.
She was wearing a lemon-silk dress with white-lace edging, which did nothing to hide her chubby figure. A white bonnet hung carelessly from one hand and white gloves were scrunched in the other. She cocked her head as she looked at me and, rather than coquettish, the glance was quite charming and entirely artless.
“Hello,” she replied. Her smile made her eyes shine and she had an unfashionable spattering of freckles on her nose.
“I’m Miss Alex Broughton. Is your mother visiting with mine?”
She nodded and her glossy, auburn curls bobbed about her face. “We’ve only just arrived. Is that your dog? I do love dogs – I’d love to have one of my own. May I pat it? Does it bite?”
“This is Jemima,” I said. “She’s a girl, and you may certainly pat her.”
Instantly my acquaintance dropped her gloves and hat on a table and crouched before Jem, whose tongue and tail responded enthusiastically.
Remembering Simon in the orchard, I shuffled restlessly and craned my neck to see through the window though I knew the view didn’t extend that far.
“How long will your mother be?” I asked. The girl straightened and Jemima sat between us looking from one to the other, baring her teeth in a wide grin.
“Oh, she’ll be ages – she can talk forever when she gets started. I was looking for a book or something to read while I waited. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, but … who are you?”
An apricot flush washed the skin beneath her freckles. “Saints alive! You must think me entirely rude! Miss Julia Chapman.”
She extended her hand and we held each other’s fingers as our mothers would do. Her hands were lightly tanned, as were mine, and her eyes were like chestnuts. I liked her instantly.
“I’m supposed to be helping my brother in the orchard. You can come if you like.” She smiled faintly and then to my own surprise, I added, “Do you climb trees?”
Her reaction told me all I needed to know. Her eyes glinted mischievously and her mouth twitched. She said, “Only if you don’t tell Mama.”
I rejoined with an air of solidarity, “If you don’t tell mine. My brother’s waiting. We’re picking plums.”
She winked slyly and gathered her gloves and bonnet. “Then let us get started.”
By the time we reached the orchard Simon had a wooden crate ready. Julia, unlike other girls who met my brother, did not go all daft when I introduced them, and I liked her even more for that. After a quick no nonsense exchange of greetings, we set to work. I scrambled into the aged limbs of the largest tree – a talent I was secretly proud of – and Julia easily clambered up beside me, further winning my approval. She began immediately picking the ripened fruit and placing them in her upturned bonnet.
Simon climbed into the tree beside ours and tied the ends of a net round a narrower branch to form a sling.
The three of us talked between the trees, laughing and swapping stories and before long I felt as though I’d known Julia for years. At times we stopped to eat a fat, ripe plum, and the blood-red juice trickled over our chins and hands.
The Chapmans were from Harrogate. I’d heard of them before – successful business people, though untitled. Hardly my mother’s social equal, however she and Mrs Chapman spent a good two hours together while their daughters scrambled through a number of trees, laughing and chattering like sparrows before we realised that time had escaped us.
Except for the plum-coloured stains inside her bonnet – at which she shrugged, stating happily, “No-one will see,” – and a couple of dusty marks on the skirt of her dress, Julia looked as though she’d spent the entire time in the parlour.
The three of us were waiting innocently on the porch as Mrs Chapman and Mother emerged.
“Oh there you are,” Julia’s mother said. “We were wondering where you’d taken yourself.” Mrs Chapman was taller than Mother, and carried herself with a soft and comfortable grace. Her russet hair and smiling mouth were engaging, and the scattered freckles across her nose were features I’d already noted in her daughter.
“Miss Broughton and Sir Simon were showing me their lovely gardens, Mama,” my accomplice said ingenuously.
“How lovely.” Julia’s mother responded though her eyes skimmed critically over my masculine clothing.
Later, as their coach trundled down our drive, Mother’s experienced eye regarded me with an entirely justified suspicion.
I was sitting in the library window. Open in my lap was a book about Ancient Rome and I flipped its pages absently. My attention was focused directly below where I could see the front porch and the steps leading to the drive. The gravel created a divide between the two halves of our garden.
To my right was an expanse of lawn interrupted by the Great Oak and the wide grassless patch beneath its limbs. On the left was more lawn, a rose garden, and terraced walkways. Six stone steps led to further garden beds; an additional four steps led to the orchard. An ancient stone wall separated the orchard from property owned by our neighbour, Eliard Jackson. Jackson owned the grumpiest black bull alive; such was his scowling demeanour that I was certain the creature was costive and trespassers did so at their own risk.
One of the stable-lads was busily raking the gravel – Mother insisted this was done each morning, and the dry, scrape-scrape sound filtered up to me. The drive curved to the left and disappeared into the thick, green foliage of the birch trees that sheltered our property from the public lane some quarter mile from where I sat. It also served to effectively screen Collings’ cottage from the main house.
Lord Thorncliffe’s children were expected today and I bore the knowledge with thorny resentment toward the changes Mother’s return had wrought.
My mind drifted to the breakfast room that morning. I had been sulkily moving my food around my plate, peeved that my idyllic existence was being so drastically altered. Lord Thorncliffe attempted to catch my eye and offer a conciliatory smile hoping I’d return his approach, but I would not. I was sullen, sour and not pleased with the fact that I was being subjected to a stepfather, stepsiblings, and a newborn brother or sister, in so short a time.
“I am so looking
