the village. In the end, Creeley himself ran up to the big house and begged to speak to Sir Adam. As soon as Sir Adam heard the man’s story, he sent doctor and midwife racing across to the cottages.
Too late. A simple breech birth, which any doctor or any midwife could have simply and speedily corrected, had exhausted the mother and complicated the baby’s position. The doctor, acting quickly, made the incisions that enabled him to deliver the baby by Caesarean section. The doctor was a good one, skilled and decisive. A baby boy was delivered, healthy and screaming, into the little cottage bedroom.
Healthy but motherless.
Poor Betsy Creeley, just twenty-six years old, was exhausted even before the operation began. She lost too much blood and never recovered consciousness. By the time dawn broke on 24 August, the little boy’s mother was dead.
And there it was.
Two births.
One death.
One selfish act with terrible consequences.
A beginning.
Jack Creeley couldn’t keep his son, of course.
He was a single working man with a little girl already dependent on him. In the short term, there were local women happy to help out, but in the longer term, he could see no option other than to ask his sister – now living ninety miles away in Devon – to take both the girl and the baby. His sister would certainly agree, but Devon might as well have been the other side of the world for all that Jack would ever see them. He felt like a man living with the pain of a triple bereavement.
But help was closer than he thought.
Up at the big house, Sir Adam and Lady Pamela had a worry of their own. Their new-born son, Alan, had a cough. Not a big one. In fact, it was quite definitely a minor one. The midwife said the cough was normal. The doctor agreed. Sir Adam agreed. But it was a cough. Pamela had already lost two children under the age of six weeks and she was terrified of losing a third.
Sir Adam spent a day thinking things through before making his suggestion. His wife agreed instantly and Sir Adam went to approach Jack Creeley. His proposal was this.
Jack Greeley’s young boy, christened Thomas after his maternal grandfather, would be taken in by the Montagues. He and the tiny Alan Montague would grow up as brothers. They would share rooms, toys, schooling – everything. In Sir Adam’s words, the infant Tom ‘would grow up as one of our own. He would in all ways be brother to our own son Alan. You, of course, will still be his father. He’ll call you Father and me Uncle. You’ll see Tom whenever you wish, just say the word.’
For Jack Creeley, the offer was far too good to refuse. It meant his son would grow up in sight and sound of his father. It gave the poor man some good thing to snatch from the wreckage his life had so suddenly become. He said yes.
For the Montagues, the new arrangement brought only benefits. There was guilt, of course. Guy’s behaviour had been unforgivable – and he had been well beaten for it. On a more constructive side, offering a home to Tom seemed like the least they could do.
But it was more than that. Pamela loved babies, and the borrowed child went some way to make up for the two she had lost. But what was more, something about Tom’s arrival seemed to work like a charm on the infant Alan. From the moment Tom’s crib arrived in the big house, Alan’s cough went away, never to return. All through the dangerous first years of childhood, neither Alan nor Tom was once affected by any serious illness.
Even better, and from the very first months, it became clear that the two boys were unusually close. As babies, their cribs stood in the same room. If, for any reason, one of the cribs were moved, the other baby would instantly wake up and scream. Likewise, when they were toddlers Tom began to be taken down to his father, Jack’s, cottage for regular visits. At first it was thought that Tom would prefer to go by himself, but any time the experiment was tried, the little boy would turn black in the face and knot his fists until Alan was allowed to come along too.
By the end of the century, the two boys were six and a half years old. They were thriving, happy, and healthy.
Alan had grown a fraction taller, Tom a fraction broader than the other. Alan was pale-haired, with eyebrows so blond you could hardly see them. Tom was already developing dramatic good looks: glossy, dark, curly hair with eyes of a startling blue. The boys were infinitely close. They went everywhere together. Their communication was so close, they often appeared to read each other’s thoughts.
Visitors to the house invariably mistook them for twins (not identical, of course), and after a while the Montagues stopped bothering to correct them. The boys were twins. Born the same night, reared in neighbouring cribs, suckled at the same breasts. The boys were twins. The only difference was that one called Sir Adam ‘Father’, the other referred to him as ‘Uncle’. The difference is a small one, even tiny. But that wasn’t the point.
Even the smallest things can grow big enough to kill.
New Year’s Day 1901.
In the newly sanded stable yard, horses and huntsmen milled in impatient circles. Frost glittered from the clock-tower. Hounds pawed the ground, anxious to be off.
Tom Creeley, seven and a half years old, wasn’t yet old enough to ride with the hunt, and he was annoyed. For the last half-hour, he’d hung around the stable yard with Alan. The two boys attempted to scrounge one of the glasses of sherry that were being passed amongst the horsemen. They’d stolen hot pastries from the kitchen to feed to the dogs. But Tom was still annoyed. He wanted to ride and wanted to hunt.
‘I’m going in,’ he announced.
On the way back in, he passed close by Guy’s grey mare. The mare bristled at something, and stepped backwards, knocking into Tom.
Guy turned in the saddle. ‘I’m so sor –’ he began, before seeing who it was. ‘Careful, brat,’ he said, flicking his whip so Tom could feel the rush of air above his head.
Tom scowled. There was no love lost between the two boys. Guy was a bully, Tom his target. But Tom was a fighter, who gave as good as he got. On this occasion, Tom dodged away from the whip, braying as he did so. The braying sound was a carefully chosen insult. As a boy, Guy had been nervous of horses and had been taught to ride on a donkey. Tom, as fearless on horseback as he was in most other situations, was already confident on Sir Adam’s sixteen-hand hunters.
‘Stable boy!’
But Guy’s last insult bounced off Tom’s back. Tom was gone to search for new entertainment.
His first trip was down to the kitchen: usually good for warm food and interesting gossip. But today his luck was out. He’d been spotted pinching the pastries and right now he wasn’t welcome. Tom thought about getting Alan and going down together to Tom’s father’s cottage. Jack Creeley had been teaching the two lads how to poach: how to tickle trout, how to set traps for rabbits,
