carriage came lurching and bumping into view with Mrs Lynch walking alongside. ‘Oh goodness me,’ she wailed when she saw them. ‘I swear this must be worse than being at sea. The tracks get more and more impossible.’
‘You will find it easier going as from here,’ John Millman assured them. Soon the road levelled out and ran evenly between avenues of elm and whitebeam. They entered Ashbrook village with its church and inn, where hordes of bare-footed children and scraggy dogs came bounding towards them, cheering and hollering. The road climbed the gradient once more and they broke the brow of the hill. There, at a crossroads, stood a huge oak tree with the remnants of a gallows rope still tossed over its highest branch. A fifth track passed between two tall stone gates which flanked a long avenue of lime trees. And there, at the end of the avenue, was the house Alexander had shown him from the top of the moor.
‘Welcome to Ashbrook House,’ exclaimed Alexander.
‘Oh!’ Thomas gave a small gasp. Then was silent. This was worse than he had imagined. Alexander wasn’t just a gentleman, he was more like a prince. Thomas could have leapt from the coach and run away. This was no place for the likes of him – where he was lower born than the servants themselves.
‘Am I not normal any more, now that you see where I live?’ asked Alexander with a smile.
‘You are normal for your kind and I for mine,’ answered Thomas warily, not wishing to offend. He couldn’t imagine such a place being a home, not home as he knew it: a one-up, one-down, and his mother smoking her herrings, the chickens and hens strutting in and out of the door as if they owned the place, and all his brothers and sisters tumbling around, the big ones in charge of the little ones, each with their tasks, and his father with shirt sleeves rolled above his elbows and bibbed apron, hammering and sawing, and the geese honking demandingly, the pig snuffling in its box out in the yard and a cow tethered in the shed. That was his home.
As the carriage wound round the forecourt to the great porticoed front door, scarlet and gold liveried footmen in white wigs and white gloves were already running down the steps to open the carriage doors and carry in the baggage. Several hounds of various sizes came lolloping out, wagging and barking, not yet aware of who they were greeting.
‘Alex, Alex! Alexander is here!’ Young voices yelled out joyfully and, as Alexander jumped down, a small boy and girl hurtled out of the house and flung themselves on top of him, followed by a large, black, long-haired dog, determined not to be left out of the welcome. Alexander, half strangled by loving arms, managed to greet them all, kissing and patting child and beast and calling out to Thomas, ‘Hey, Tom, Tom – these little horrors are Edward and Alice, and this great shaggy beast of a dog here is Bessie. Dear old Bessie – she’s as old as I am, you know, and this – is this Zanzibar? I thought he was a puppy, but look at him!’ Alexander gathered up the large wriggling creature and attempted to hug him, but the dog leapt from his arms and went bounding around in excited circles. ‘We’ll train him up to be the best hunting dog – you’ll see. We’ll go hunting in Ashbrook Woods . . . and where’s Isobel?’
An upright lady in a stiff bonnet and stiffly starched grey skirts appeared in the doorway. She was accompanied by two young ladies, whose excitement she seemed intent on controlling. She lost the battle with one, who simply flew down the steps, all hooped petticoats and frills and ringlets tossing beneath her cap, and clasped Alexander, little ones and all, in her arms. ‘Alex, Alex, welcome home! At last you’ve come. We expected you hours ago.’
Alexander plonked the two little ones down, who hugged his knees and nearly toppled him over, while he embraced the girl.
‘Oh, Alex,’ she burbled, ‘look at the size of you! You’ve grown as tall as Papa.’
‘This is my sister, Isobel,’ laughed Alexander introducing her to Thomas, who bowed shyly, his cap clasped in both hands. ‘Isobel, meet Thomas. He is the most splendid fellow that ever walked the earth and the funniest!’
Isobel was smiling broadly, and Thomas immediately thought how nice she looked with her laughing face. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you. Very pleased indeed, Miss Isobel!’ he burst out, bowing over and over again.
The other girl at the top of the steps still hadn’t moved. She was very pretty, with a delicately featured face, rich auburn hair and briefly glimpsed eyes, blue as thrushes’ eggs, before she lowered them. Thomas wondered if the stiff lady next to her was Lady Ashbrook, for she held herself so proudly.
Alexander, still entangled by excited younger siblings, was dragged up the steps by Isobel. ‘Alex, this is Mrs Milcote, our governess. She has been with us some weeks now,’ cried Isobel. ‘She’s Mama’s cousin, you know.’
Alexander took the stiff lady’s hand and kissed it, bowing low. ‘A pleasure, Mrs Milcote.’
‘My pleasure, Master Alexander. My pleasure indeed.’ Mrs Milcote’s clipped accents seemed to have trouble coming out of her tight small mouth, though she took a while to withdraw her hand. ‘You have been much spoken of and so highly praised that I have been awaiting your acquaintance with great impatience. My daughter too; please meet Melissa.’ She nudged the girl almost imperceptibly, but Thomas noticed. Melissa bobbed shyly as she took Alexander’s outstretched hand, but did not lift her eyes.
‘Melissa is my dearest friend – my sister,’ enthused Isobel, throwing an arm round her shoulders. ‘My life has changed since she came. I had been so lonely after you went away.’
‘And Thomas is my dearest friend,’ replied Alexander with quiet warmth. ‘Mrs Milcote, Miss Melissa, meet Thomas.’
Mrs Milcote merely nodded politely. She did not look Thomas in the eye nor extend her hand to take his which he had held out, and by keeping her arm firmly linked with Melissa’s, prevented her daughter from doing more than giving a slight bob.
Thomas withdrew his hand quickly, feeling a rush of blood seep over his face and neck. He bowed low and stood back. Now he remembered why he had felt anxious about coming to Ashbrook.
The first day was an ordeal for Thomas. The meeting on the steps of Ashbrook was just the start of it. How he wished he had never come; how he wished that the ground could have opened and swallowed him up. Why, even the servants were better dressed than he, even when he wore his uncle’s clothes. Never was he more ashamed than when he saw their eyes scan his heavy jacket and breeches, his hob-nailed boots and cotton shirt – and these were his best clothes. How would he get through four weeks? He was spared meeting Sir William Ashbrook, who had had to go to Bristol to see one of his ships, late in from Barbados.
Lady Ashbrook had been solemnly kind and enquiring and tried to put him at his ease, but it was the bowing and bobbing and intricate details of the pecking order that existed in the household which left him clumsily bewildered. The arrogance of the butler, the superciliousness of the footmen and the whispered jibes of the servants, scullery maids and housemaids made him feel like a piece of clod from the farmyard which should be swept out of this elegant house.
At that first dinner, he could almost sense the sneering laughter at his elbow as he tried to serve himself from the platters, and he was sure that the way he was always a little after everyone else in picking up a piece of cutlery, glancing round first just to ensure that he lifted
