style="font-size:15px;"> ‘Elizabeth.’
Celia’s whisper, from behind me. I spun round but couldn’t see her until she hissed my name again. One alarmed eye and a swathe of red-gold hair showed in a gap between the planks that made up the back wall of the summerhouse.
‘Miss Mandeville, what in the world are you doing there? Your brother’s looking for you.’
‘I know. Would you please keep the children here long enough for them to get tired of looking for me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because my stepfather wants me to be pleasant to Mr Brighton.’
She said the name with such scorn and anger that I half expected it to scorch the planks between us.
‘But why should you be …?’
I was puzzled. She had no reason, as far as I knew, to share my abhorrence of the man.
‘Haven’t you understood anything? He’s the reason why Philip must take me away.’
‘You mean your stepfather wants you to marry that …’
‘Shh. Yes.’
My voice must have risen in surprise. Luckily, it was masked by Henrietta’s shriek of triumph as she discovered James hiding behind a pear tree.
‘My turn to hide. My turn to hide.’
The boys closed their eyes. Charles started counting.
‘One hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight …’
‘I’ve been trying to keep away from him all afternoon,’ Celia whispered. ‘He must surely get tired soon.’
‘Eighty-seven, seventy-nine …’
‘You’re not counting properly,’ Henrietta protested.
She was plunging round among the trees, looking for a hiding place. Then she changed direction and came running towards the summerhouse.
‘No, don’t let her,’ Celia hissed through the planks.
I stood up, but too late to intercept Henrietta as she ran behind the summerhouse.
‘I’ve found Celia. I’ve found Celia.’
‘Go away you little pest.’
But Henrietta’s voice must have carried over the hedges. Stephen called from some way off in the flower garden, ‘Celia?’ Two pairs of footsteps sounded on the gravel path, one quick, one slow and heavy.
‘Go to them,’ Celia said to me. From her voice, she was near to tears. ‘Tell them she’s lying and I’m not here.’
By then I was in a fair panic myself.
‘I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Mr Brighton saw me at the stables dressed as a boy. Supposing he guesses?’
A gasp from behind the planks, then silence apart from Henrietta’s capering steps on the grass. Stephen appeared at the gap in the hedge. I sat down again, curling into the darkest corner of the summerhouse. As he came striding in our direction I stayed where I was, determined that Celia must solve her own problem for once.
‘Celia, are you there?’ he called.
Celia came out from behind the summerhouse looking far cooler than I’d expected, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear.
‘You’re too hot, Henrietta. You’ll make yourself ill.’
Her voice was cool too, but she threw me a glance of pure terror. As far as I could tell, Stephen hadn’t noticed me in the summerhouse.
‘Celia, where have you been? We’ve been looking for you everywhere.’
‘Here, with the children,’ Celia said. ‘But Henrietta’s made herself over-excited running about. I’m taking her back to the house to lie down.’
‘Can’t Betty or Miss Lock see to them?’ Stephen protested.
But Celia took a firm grip of her half-sister’s hand and began walking towards the hedge. She was almost there when Mr Brighton arrived, flushed of face but gorgeously dressed in pale green cut-away coat with green-and-pink striped waistcoat. He stood staring at Celia like an actor unsure of his cue. Anything less like an ardent suitor I’d never seen.
‘Charles, James, come here,’ Celia said, ignoring him entirely.
She collected the boys and shepherded the three children straight past Mr Brighton as if he were no more than another apple tree. When they’d disappeared, he prodded his walking cane into the grass a few times with a vacant look, then his hand went to the pocket in his coat-tail, the gold box came out and his little finger carefully applied pink balm to his full lower lip. He seemed lost. Stephen had to escort him away in the end, much as Celia had done with the children.
I stayed in the summerhouse, surprised by her resourcefulness and weak with relief at not having come face to face with Mr Brighton. Something about him was nagging at my mind – something apart from what had happened in the stables. When I saw the vacant expression on his face, a kind of half-recognition had come to me, as if I’d seen that look before a long time ago, though where and when I couldn’t say. I remained there for some time. It was cool and restful and I was in no hurry to return to all the complications inside the house. I think I must have fallen into a half doze, because I didn’t hear the footsteps coming back on the gravel path until they were almost at the hedge. They were male steps, but rather uncertain, as if the person didn’t know what he’d find on the other side. I hoped it was simply a guest taking a stroll and started to stand up, intending to say a polite good afternoon and leave. But it wasn’t a guest. Stephen Mandeville was standing in front of me.
‘Miss Lock, I was hoping you’d still be here. No, please, sit down.’
So he’d seen me after all. He seemed weary, dark hair disordered, shadows under his eyes. There was nothing for it but to sit down again. He settled himself on the far side of the bench, with a respectable distance between us. I waited, heart thumping. It was in my mind that Mr Brighton might have told him about seeing me at the stables.
‘I’m very glad to find you on good terms with my sister,’ he said. ‘I was right to think she’d find you sympathetic.’
His voice was low and gentle, no hint of accusation in it.
‘Miss Mandeville is very kind. I fear I’m not as much help as I should like to be with her sketching.’
I looked down at our feet – his polished brown boots, my serviceable black – just as a governess should. In fact, I was feeling too guilty to meet his eyes. Here he was, showing concern for a sister, just as I’d hope Tom would do for me, and I was helping her deceive him.
‘My sister knows no more about sketching than my spaniel does, and cares even less.’
‘Oh.’
