Page 22 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle

‘Of course. But there’s no hurry. She’s only just seventeen, no need for her to marry for a year or two.’

Lady Bayfield held her tongue, but privately she had no intention of allowing Kitty to linger on the market. To get her married in her first year would reflect well on Lady Bayfield; a second-or third-season daughter was verging on shameful.

Kitty was thrilled with her first floor-length gowns and pinned-up hair; and since Mama had not told her she was to be on trial, she entered the Christmas celebrations with quiet pleasure. But she was too quiet for Lady Bayfield. With guests of her parents’ age, she was meek, polite, and never ventured an opinion of her own: that was just as it should be. The verdict of that generation was that she was ‘a nice, well-behaved girl’. But with the young people Lady Bayfield had gone to such trouble to acquire, Kitty behaved no differently. She smiled and listened, but did not join in. And with the young men, the smile disappeared, and she seemed almost apprehensive, as though faced with a strange dog that might bite. Lady Bayfield was exasperated.

‘You must not be so stupid in company,’ she berated Kitty, after one evening party. ‘You hardly said a word last night.’

‘I’m sure I spoke to several people, Mama,’ Kitty faltered. She hated to be told off.

‘Young Mr Woods sat beside you for ten minutes and could not get a word out of you.’

‘He’s very …’ Kitty began, and stopped. She hardly knew what – very male.

‘He’s just the sort of young man you will meet at your come-out. What will become of you if you can’t be agreeable like other girls? Surely they taught you how to make conversation at your school.’

Kitty hung her head.

Lady Bayfield saw tears beginning to gather. ‘Don’t cry, Catherine, for Heaven’s sake!’ she said impatiently. ‘We’ll say no more now. But you must try harder. Go to bed. You’re tired.’

Kitty hurried away, and Lady Bayfield sat down to think. A few more parties might harden Kitty and bring her on, but if they didn’t, perhaps she might, little as she wanted to, have to consider Miss Thornton’s suggestion.

*

Aunt Schofield did not believe in God. She was a rationalist and a Benthamite, but England was a Christian country and she felt it was important for Nina to be brought up in the Christian tradition. She had taken her to church regularly, so that she knew the forms of service, and had read the Book of Common Prayer and the Bible with her extensively. They were not only texts of literary beauty, they were the foundation stones of so much of English culture that an educated Englishwoman ought to be as familiar with them as she was with Shakespeare.

Christmas in Draycott Place was cheerful, much like a pagan midwinter feast. There was no Christmas tree, which Aunt Schofield dismissed as a German innovation of Prince Albert, but they decorated the fireplaces with holly and ivy. There was no mention of the star, the manger, the wise men and so forth, but there were big fires and lots of mince pies and mulled wine.

Aunt Schofield kept a small establishment – just Cook, the house-parlourmaid Minny, and Haydock, who had been butler and valet to the late Professor Schofield and now took his position as man of the household very seriously. With a live-out char for the heavy work, they lived pleasantly but economically for most of the year. But on Christmas Day no expense was spared. All the extra leaves were put in the dining-table and a very grand seven-course dinner was given for Aunt Schofield’s oldest and dearest friends – bachelor dons and spinster bluestockings, people who were not obliged to spend the day with their families. It was hard work for the servants, but the guests all tipped generously, and there were lavish left-overs to eat up.

Nina loved it too. Her aunt’s friends were highly educated, so the conversation round the table was lively and wide-ranging; and, having no children of their own, they spoke to her just as they did to each other. They listened to her seriously, disagreed courteously, and corrected misinformation diffidently, taking her new, tentative ideas and running with them, showing her a wider world and more diffuse applications.

There was no dividing after dessert, and coffee was taken at the table, because it was easier to converse sitting around the board facing inwards than when scattered around a drawing-room. The party went on until, late and reluctantly, the guests dragged themselves up from their chairs and took themselves away.

It was the perfect celebration, Nina thought, and the only shadow over it was wondering where she would be next Christmas.

On a raw day in January, Giles pushed away the ledgers he was trying to make sense of. Sickening suddenly of the confinement and stale air in the library, he decided to go out for a ride. At the stables, Giddins hurried towards him, alerted to his presence by one of the boys, and eager for conversation. But Giles was not in the mood for a chat. He asked curtly, ‘What is there for me to ride?’

Giddins’s eyes lit up. His new lordship had not been across a horse since he arrived, and apart from selling his late lordship’s hunters, had not shown any interest in the stables. Gloom had prevailed among the mangers – but perhaps this was the start of better times.

‘Well, my lord,’ he said warmly, ‘it’s certainly time we started to think about buying horses for you. You won’t want hunters yet, but a couple of hacks – and I do know of a very nice chestnut for sale—’

Giles stopped him. ‘I want to go out for a ride now. Any plain road-horse will do – you must have something.’

Giddins swallowed his disappointment and eyed him professionally. ‘What does your lordship ride these days? About ten and a half stone? Well, my lord, let’s see. Dexter would carry you – he’s quiet. Or if you wanted something more lively you could have Archer’s Abelard. He’s not going out this morning.’

‘I won’t deprive Archer. Dexter will do. I shan’t go far.’

‘No, my lord. It’s a nasty-ish day all right,’ Giddins said. He had the air of settling in for a chat, so Giles walked away to the other side of the yard to wait for his mount to be brought out. Dexter was a fifteen-two brown, docile, but fresh enough. The dogs had followed him, hoping for a walk, but when he rode up the hill they lagged behind, and soon turned back to make their own way home.

When they got out onto the hillside, Dexter indicated his readiness for a gallop, which certainly blew away the cobwebs. It was a dark day, clammily cold, with low clouds like hanging fog that soaked as effectively as rain. He was not surprised to have the hill to himself – it was not a day for pleasure jaunts.

When he’d had his head-clearing spin, he rode through the woods for relief from the mizzle, and coming out on the other side found he was not alone in the world after all. Shapes in the murk resolved themselves into Alice, coming along the crest on her liver-chestnut Pharaoh, followed by the groom Brandom. Dexter whinnied a greeting, and Alice saw him, stopped, and waited. When he rode up, she looked a little apprehensive, as though she expected trouble.

‘I didn’t think anyone else would be riding today,’ he greeted her. ‘It’s a nasty sort of day.’

‘I go out every day,’ Alice said, eyeing him nervously. ‘Mama said I could, though she said we can’t hunt while we’re in mourning.’

‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘You’re riding alone? Where’s Rachel?’