clean kitchen floor.
That was the start of a friendship for me – my friendship with Clary Dench – which did so much to reconcile me to my task of becoming a young lady of Quality. Not because Clary knew my world, or cared anything for its arcane restrictions, but because with her I had an escape and a hiding-place from the standards of my mama and from the discipline I had imposed on myself by my determination to be a good daughter and, in the future, a good wife.
With Clary I could be myself. I loved her despite the differences in our lives, despite the fight at our first meeting and our regular quarrels thereafter. We forged an unquestioning friendship, in that we took enormous pleasure in each other’s company without ever wondering why we liked each other so much. I just found that it suited me very well to go every morning to the vicarage with Richard, to leave him there for his lessons and then to meet Clary and spend an hour or two of my leisured empty days with her.
We often walked together, past the mill down to the Fenny. Old Mrs Green always had a smile for me now, and sometimes I would beg a twist of tea in a piece of paper from the Dower House larder, and Clary and I would go and sit by the tiny fire in the huge fireplace while Mrs Green made tea and told our fortunes in the tea-leaves. It was all a game – I think she had no real skill. She was copying what the gypsies did when they pitched their wagons on the common land for winter and came around to the houses, selling little wooden toys and whittled flowers, and offering to tell fortunes.
When the weather was good, Clary and I would walk on the common, or down to the Fenny. During the long hot summertime we would strip down to our shifts and bathe in the deeper pools of the river. Neither of us could swim properly, but if Clary held my chin above water-level with one brown hand over my mouth to keep the water out, I could kick along for a few yards before sinking inelegantly in splashes and gales of laughter.
Clary was better. Within the week she could splash from one side of the pool to the other, and she even learned to plunge underwater and swim for half the length before coming up gasping, hair streaming. ‘I must have been born with a caul!’ she said. ‘I shan’t never drown at any rate.’
I was lazing in the shallows, in bright sunlight, but I shivered as if a cold wind had suddenly blown over me. A shadow came over the sun as she spoke, and every hair on my body stood up and pimpled the surface of my skin.
‘What is it?’ she asked me. ‘Your face has gone all pale and funny.’
‘It’s nothing,’ I said hastily. I had suddenly seen her face deathly white and her hair washing around it, and water, river water, oozing from her mouth. ‘Ugh!’ I said. ‘A horrid picture in my head. Come out, come out of the water, Clary.’
‘All right,’ she said equably and swam towards me and heaved herself out on to the bank to dry beside me in the sunshine, our naked bodies as white and shiny as the breasts of doves.
‘Promise me something,’ I said, suddenly serious, that picture of her face, soaked and sodden, still vivid in my mind. ‘Promise me you’ll never swim alone.’
She twisted around propped on one elbow. ‘Why’s that, Julia?’ she asked. ‘Why d’you look so odd?’ And then, seeing my face, she said, ‘All right! All right! I promise. But why do you look so strange?’
‘I saw …’ I said, but I was vague and the picture was fading from my mind. ‘I thought I saw something,’ I said.
‘It’s the sight,’ she said, portentously. ‘I heard my ma talking to Mrs Green. They were talking about you and Richard. They say whichever one of you is the true heir is going to have the sight. One of you’ll get it as soon as you’re grown.’
‘That’s Richard,’ I said definitely. I rolled on my front and picked a grass stem to chew. The pith of the stalk was as sweet as nectar.
‘They say in the village that it could be you,’ Clary said warningly. ‘They say you’re the spit of Beatrice as a girl when she used to come riding into the village with her pa. They say you’re her all over again. They say that you’ll be the one.’
I sat up and pulled my crumpled gown on over my head. ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I wouldn’t want it if it was offered to me on a plate. Richard is her son. Richard is her heir. Together we will be Laceys on the land again, but Richard will be the squire and I will be his lady. I want that, Clary!’
‘Aye,’ she nodded, and smiled her slow smile. ‘Does he kiss you, Julia?’
‘No, not really,’ I said. ‘I suppose it’s not like that for Quality, Clary. He’s more like a brother to me. Sometimes we’re very close, sometimes we quarrel. But it’s not like in novels.’
Clary looked sceptical and worldly-wise. ‘Wouldn’t do for me, then, Quality life,’ she said boldly. ‘Matthew and me hold hands and kiss often. And we’ve plighted our troth and carved our names in a tree, and everything. But he’s not strong,’ she said anxiously. ‘I wish there was more money in the village. I’m afraid for him. He coughs so much in winter, his gran thought she’d never rear him.’
‘Maybe he’ll get work indoors,’ I said helpfully. ‘You say yourself he’s thoughtful and clever. Maybe he’ll become a clerk or something and work in Midhurst! Or even Chichester! I’d like to see you in a fine town house, Clary!’
We laughed at that, but Clary tossed her head. ‘I’d not leave Wideacre,’ she said. ‘But my Matthew is clever enough for anything. Even when we were little children, he taught himself to read, and he’s always written and read letters for people in the village. And he can make rhymes as good as in books.’
I nodded, impressed; and then I turned for her to button up the back of my gown so that I could arrive at the vicarage to go home with Richard looking at least half presentable.
I had laughed off her belief in the sight and in Beatrice’s heir. But the way they looked at me in the village and the story of the old god of Wideacre stayed with me all the time I was growing and trying to be an ordinary girl in the Dower House. All the time in the back of my mind was the thought of Beatrice and the dark god who came for her and the legacy of magic she had left for her special heir, whichever one of us it was.
I tried to shrug off the Acre legend. I always knew it was some fanciful version of the night of the Wideacre fire, all exaggeration and pretence. Mama had scolded me often enough for being scared out of my wits by Richard’s ghost stories. I should not be made fearful by some silly village gossip.
But I could not forget it. It haunted me: the story of the man who was one of the old gods, who came for Beatrice. And Beatrice, who was the beautiful cruel goddess-destroyer. I carried that picture of her in my head, despite myself. It was so unlike Mama’s version of those days – Beatrice and Harry working the land in harmonious partnership. Half a dozen times I shrugged my shoulders and told myself it was forgotten. But the horse which left flaming hoofprints up the oak stairs rode into my dreams every night.
And then I started dreaming a special dream.
It was like the other – the dream I have of the woman who was me, and the baby who must be taken to the river. But
