Mask Of Duplicity: The Jacobite Chronicles, #1

Prologue

Scotland, September 1741

The young Highlander strolled aimlessly across the plateau, his feet negotiating the uneven terrain automatically, his mind totally occupied with the new life he was about to embark on. He was a tall, well-proportioned young man with the muscular build of the accomplished warrior and the light, graceful walk of one accustomed to moving silently and stealthily through nature, by day or night.

He was not, however, accustomed to the life he was about to embrace, and had no wish to be. In fact, he dreaded it. Idly, he wondered how long he might survive. Not long, probably, when the slightest error could cost him his life. But then, that had always been the case, for him and all who shared his surname. In the past the rewards had never consisted of any more than a full belly and a safe place to sleep for a few days, or weeks. Now, though, although the risk was greater, and the dangers very different to any he had faced in his life up to now, the rewards, if he was successful, would be enormous. Even so, he was finding it extremely difficult to maintain a southerly direction, his heart already yearning for home. The knowledge that unless he was very careful he might never see it again, weighed heavily on him. That was why he had taken the opportunity to be alone for a short time, to say farewell to his beloved country. His brothers understood and had gone on ahead, knowing he would catch them up when he was ready.

Totally absorbed in his own gloomy thoughts, he only became aware of the group of soldiers as they appeared over the ridge ahead of him, whereas if he’d been on full alert as he should have been, he would have heard their approach long before they came within sight. He froze instantly, made a lightning assessment of his options, and then dropped like a stone to the ground. He wriggled along carefully on his belly, coming to rest finally in a waterlogged depression in the soil, surrounded by a thick patch of heather. He was dressed in kilt and plaid in shades of green and brown, which blended well with his surroundings, and his hair was dark, which was a blessing. Quickly he splashed the muddy water over his bare legs in an attempt to camouflage them, and then the men were upon him and he froze in place, aware that his hiding place was far from ideal, and that any more than a cursory examination of the territory would reveal him. Any other passing Highlander would have seen him immediately. But the men who were now within feet of him were not Highlanders, not even Scots, but English redcoat soldiers of King George’s army, unused to the Scottish terrain and the ways of its indigenous people.

The young man knew that even though his right hand was still in plain view to anyone who cared to look down, any movement he made at this point would attract the notice of even an untrained eye, so he left it where it was, nestling in a clump of heather. His heart was banging hard against his ribs, but he forced his breathing to slow, his chest hardly moving.

The redcoats were chatting as they approached, clearly in high good humour. There were four, no, five distinct voices. Too many for him to take on, fully armed as they would be, unless he was discovered, in which case he would run, or kill as many as he could before they finished him off.

Bloody hell, how anyone can live in this godforsaken hole is beyond me, one man was saying. The sooner we’re called back to England the better.

We’ll be lucky if we’re recalled before spring, now, came a younger, higher-pitched voice. We’ll be at Inversnaid till April at least, unless the Frenchies attack.

No chance of that, not this year, replied the first man. They were right next to him now, no more than two feet from where he was lying, and had paused for a moment. Why had they stopped? There was nothing here to divert them; the top of the hill where they were consisted of a fairly level stretch of uninteresting scrub, followed by a reasonably steep descent to the valley below. The hill was not even high enough for there to be an interesting view from the top. Perhaps they had seen him. He felt the adrenaline roar through his blood, listened for the sound of swords being drawn, felt his body tense ready for action.

There’s still some fun to be had, though, another voice said. This man was older, with the flat vowels of the northern Englishman. Less chance of getting the pox than with the city whores, too. The tone was relaxed. They had still not noticed him, then.

The feet moved closer, a pair of muddy black leather boots coming into the view of the hidden man, whose face was turned slightly to the side.

I still think we should have buried her, though, afterwards, said the young soldier.

Why? Do you think her ghost’ll come back to haunt you? the older man teased.

No, course not, it’s just...well, it seemed wrong to just leave her there, for the animals and crows to have a go at.

Suffering from a guilty conscience now, are you? Still took your turn, though, another voice said, laughing. Six of them, then, at least. I’m sure her husband’ll find her when he gets back from whatever thieving he was up to. He’ll bury her. Save us the trouble.

Are you coming, then, or are you staying to admire the scenery all day? the first man said.

The other voices were receding, but the northerner was still standing next to the prostrate Highlander. He spoke again now.

No, I need a piss. You go on, I’ll catch up in a minute. The soldier stepped forward, onto the hidden man’s hand, the heel of his boot grinding into the fingers. The Scot caught his breath, commanded his brain to ignore the excruciating pain, forced his body to remain still. He listened, hard. The other men were moving on, eastwards, their voices growing fainter. In less than a minute they would be negotiating the descent, out of sight of the man now fumbling with his breeches. He was clearly having some trouble. Was he drunk? His voice had been steady enough, but that did not necessarily signify much, if he was a regular tippler.

After a time there came the sound of water pattering on the earth, and then the Scot felt the stream of urine hit his back, soaking warmly through his plaid and shirt, in contrast to the icy water beneath him. He gritted his teeth and counted silently and slowly to thirty. The soldiers’ voices could not be heard at all now. Enough time had passed for them to be well out of sight.

The soldier grunted, and although he could still see no more than the black leather boots, the young man knew the redcoat was shaking the last drops of urine off before tucking himself away. As he started to button his fly, he took a step back, releasing the Highlander’s hand. That was the moment he had been waiting for.

Exploding from the heather and drawing his dirk left-handed as he rose, he drove the razor-sharp blade up under the redcoat’s chin, through his tongue and on into his brain. The force of his attack carried them both over onto the grass and as they hit the ground the Scotsman felt the tip of his dirk strike the inside of the man’s skull. The redcoat, although mortally wounded and unable to cry out for help, was not yet dead and flailed weakly at the attacker now straddling him, his hands pushing against the big man’s chest. The Highlander twisted the blade viciously, watching with satisfaction as the soldier’s eyes widened, then slowly glazed over. Carefully he withdrew the dirk, wiping it on the scarlet coat before sheathing it. He rose to his feet, looking around him, preparing to flee if the others doubled back, but there was no sound other than the wind murmuring gently through the heather and sparse grass. With his foot, he rolled the body roughly into the depression from which he had just so spectacularly materialised, and then cleared his throat, spitting accurately and copiously onto the corpse’s back.

Ye’ll no’ be murdering any more women, ye bastard, he said softly.

He examined his injured right hand, watching the scar that bisected the back of it from wrist to knuckle writhe snakelike as he flexed his fingers. Nothing broken, only bruises, although it hurt like hell.

He splashed some mud over the bright coat of the soldier, and then began to move rapidly southward, where his brothers would be waiting for him. In a while the redcoat’s companions would come looking for the northerner no doubt, but the Highlander would be well away by then. His nose wrinkled in disgust at the acrid smell of urine emanating from him. He would rinse his shirt and plaid in the river before rejoining his brothers. He’d never live it down if they found out he’d been pissed on by a redcoat. He grinned to himself, then jogged south across the plateau and down the rocky slope, his long legs eating up the distance effortlessly.

By the time he neared his companions, he’d changed his mind, decided to tell them what had happened after all. He could take a joke, and they needed cheering up. They had no more desire than he did to undertake this new venture. Its failure would result in torture and the worst death imaginable. But its success would result in the freedom, after a hundred and forty years, for his clan to use their own name again, and for him to legally carry the weapon he had just employed so effectively. Their stolen lands would be restored to them, and they would no longer be known as ‘Children of the Mist,’ an appellation that sounded romantic, but was only really another term for outlaw. Yes, the risk was worth taking. Well worth it.

He waved to his brothers as he came in sight of them, and paused for a moment, turning his face eastward, towards France and Italy, where lay salvation.

He would come, with an army, when the time was right. Until then, all the Highlander could do was use his particular and remarkable skills to the best effect, and then, once fully prepared, be patient, and wait.

For a man of action, waiting would be the hardest part. The rest would be easy, by comparison. At least, that was what he prayed.

Chapter One

Didsbury, near Manchester, October 1742

The stables were immaculate. Fresh straw had been laid, and the soiled straw was in a neat pile outside. The two people responsible for this order were now engaged in friendly dispute. The young woman held the bridle of a black mare loosely in one hand, and absently stroked the horse’s long nose with the other. The young man, who was really hardly more than a boy, thin and coltish, but with the promise of bulk to come in his wide shoulders, stood at the stable door, peering up dubiously at the cloud-covered sky with troubled brown eyes.

I don’t think it’s such a good idea, he observed sensibly. It looks like rain.

The young woman was in no mood to hear sense, however, and letting go of the bridle, moved across to stand beside him in the doorway.

Nonsense! she snorted. She had just spent two hours mucking out the stables, and now she wanted a little fun, by way of a reward. Come on, John, let yourself go for once. It’s not as though there’s anyone here to see, after all.

There was a fair on in the nearby town of Manchester, and all the servants had been allowed the day off to go to it. Only John, who preferred the company of animals to people, and detested crowds, had opted to stay, along with Beth, who hated dressing formally and relished the rare peace of being alone in the house. She had spent the morning slouching around in a dressing gown reading a book, and then, finally tired of sitting still, had gone to help John at his work.

Besides, she added persuasively, there isn’t another person in the county who can ride as well as you – except for me, of course. Go on, just up to the top field and back. We’ll only be half an hour at the most. It won’t rain in that time.

You want to race cross-country? Bareback? No, it’s too dangerous, Beth.

Oh, pooh! she replied. "Riding bareback is more interesting. Besides, by the time we’ve saddled the horses up, it probably will be raining. And where’s the fun in racing along the road? And if I’m going to fall off – which I won’t, she added, blithely tempting fate, I’d rather do it on soft grass than on the hard roadway. Anyway, there’s more chance of someone seeing us if we’re on the road rather than in the fields." She impatiently brushed a tendril of yellow hair off her face, tucking it back under her kerchief, and inadvertently leaving a streak of dirt on her forehead, transferred from her none-too-clean hands.

I don’t know... John’s voice was still uncertain, but she detected the wavering in it and pounced.

Very well, if you won’t come with me, I’ll go on my own, although it’ll hardly be a race then.

That decided him, and two minutes later they galloped out of the yard, Beth astride the black, and John on a chestnut gelding. Once mounted, he lost all his inhibitions, and they charged across the field side by side as though all the devils of hell were after them, their shouts of youthful laughter carried back on the sudden breeze, heavy with the scent of the rain soon to come.

* * *

The man cantered along the lane, turning left into the cobbled driveway and gradually slowing as the house came into view through the trees, until by the time he arrived in front of it his horse was travelling at no more than a sedate walk. He came to a halt and looked up at the house with a mixture of eagerness and apprehension. It was much as he remembered it; a compact three-storey red brick Palladian cube, with square-paned sash windows. Two stone columns flanked the front door, which was reached by mounting four stone steps. Although small, it was still impressive, except that now the whole effect was somewhat dilapidated, as if reflecting the gradual decline of its previous owner’s health and fortune. One of the small panes of glass in an upstairs window was broken and had not been replaced, he noticed; instead the hole had been patched with a piece of wood. The green paint on the front door was flaking, as was the cream paint on the window frames, and grass was growing between the cobbles of the drive in places.

The man’s forehead creased with impatience. He had expected that someone would come out immediately to find out who this stranger was, but there was no sign of any interest from the occupants. He was reluctant to dismount at this stage. He knew what a fine figure he cut when mounted and in the splendid uniform of his dragoon regiment. His scarlet coat with its decoration of white lace at lapel, sleeves and pockets was a bright splash of colour against the greys and browns of the dull English day, and his black boots were polished to a mirrored shine below immaculate buff breeches. He was of athletic build, although his legs bowed slightly, and he was only of average height. But these deficiencies were not apparent when he was astride a horse.

Hallo, the house! he called, hoping that someone would now appear and call out the rest of the household to view this fine stranger astride the magnificent grey stallion. From his elevated position he could then identify himself as the master of the house, come to claim his inheritance.

No response came from the building.

Surely the whole household could not be out, even if the mistress was not at home? He rode around the side of the house. Perhaps the servants were all at the back. He remembered that the kitchen and laundry were in an annexe built on to the back, and it was possible they had not heard him call out. His attention was caught by the open door of the stable, which was moving slightly in the wind. Surely no one would go out for the day without closing the door behind them? The stable was clean but bare; clearly the mistress was not at home. The man was disappointed at the failure of his plan for a grand entrance. Nevertheless, he would get some satisfaction out of rousing the obviously lazy servants from their stupor, and by the time the lady of the house returned he would be well ensconced in his new position as master.

He had just released his feet from the stirrups, preparing to dismount, when the two riders tore into the yard, the woman slightly ahead of the man, and looking back as she skidded to a halt with a most unfeminine yodel of triumph at her victory. Although John rode in behind her, he was the first to see the stranger, who was now struggling to bring his startled horse under control without the aid of stirrups. By the time he had done, he was incensed.

He glared at the young woman, who was still mounted and was watching him through cornflower-blue eyes whose expression registered a mixture of curiosity and amusement at his undignified efforts. Even through his anger he could not fail to recognise that she was beautiful. His eyes travelled up her body, taking in her small feet, her well-shaped legs, exposed almost to the knee due to her position astride the horse, and her delicate, slender figure. Her kerchief had disappeared somewhere in the fields and her hair hung in untidy straggles around her face, but nevertheless it was the most beautiful shade of pale gold.

Yes, he thought appreciatively, she will be well worth a tumble later.

However, at the moment he had his dignity to preserve, and this strumpet was eyeing him as though she were his equal.

I presume your mount belongs to the mistress of the house. Am I correct? he said imperiously.

Yes, you are, replied the young woman, clearly unabashed.

And where is the rest of the household?

They have all been given the day off, to attend the fair in Manchester, she answered coolly. A suspicion was forming in her brain as to the identity of the visitor, but she did not say anything. Depending on the purpose of his visit, it could be better not to identify herself as yet.

And do you, the dragoon said, his eyes flickering briefly to the boy hovering uncertainly in the background, then back to lock on the woman, think that lady would countenance what I presume to be her scullery maid haring around the countryside on her horse, in a state of the most improper undress? His voice rose as he spoke, and ended almost on a squeak.

She knew without doubt who he was now. Ever since his voice had broken at the age of twelve he had been unable to control its pitch when he was in a temper.

No, I am sure Miss Elizabeth would be extremely angry if she were to find out that the scullery maid had been riding her horse, Beth replied, trying to sound humble and afraid. She would indeed be angry; the scullery maid was ten years old and had never been on a horse in her life.

The soldier now realised that he had this lovely girl under his power, which would render her suitably compliant to his wishes that evening.

Well, we will speak of this later. But now you will conduct me to your mistress, if she is at home. He would leave her to stew for a while. Later she would certainly be willing to do anything he wished, to avoid being dismissed or beaten. Maybe he would beat her anyway. He smiled in anticipation, but Beth, who was dismounting smoothly, didn’t see.

If you will follow me, I will show you to the drawing room, and tell Miss Elizabeth you are here, she said, her voice shaking slightly with repressed laughter, which she hoped he would interpret as fear.

He dismounted, and handing the reins to John, followed Beth round to the front of the house. The front door was unlocked, and opened onto a narrow wood-panelled hall, which ran the length of the house and which opened out two-thirds of the way down to accommodate a carved wooden staircase. Several doors led off the hall to the ground floor rooms, and it was to the second of these that she now led him, opening the door onto a comfortably furnished, if somewhat old-fashioned room, two of whose walls were lined from floor to ceiling with shelves of books. A coal fire burned in the grate, and a chair was drawn up to it. A volume lay open on a small table next to the chair. Clearly the mistress had been relaxing here earlier in the day, he thought.

May I tell Miss Elizabeth who is calling? she said softly, eyes downcast so he wouldn’t see the merriment in them.

You may tell her that her brother Sergeant Richard Cunningham, of his Majesty’s Dragoons has come home, and it seems, not before time, he said imperiously.

She bobbed a little curtsey and left the room, closing the door quietly behind her, before tearing up the stairs as fast as she could.

Fifteen minutes later a young lady walked gracefully down the stairs, dressed in a pale blue satin dress, its voluminous skirts draped over a hooped petticoat to form a bell shape. Her elbow-length sleeves ended in frills of lace. She had washed her hands and face and brushed her hair back, securing it with a ribbon. More than that she could not achieve without a lot more time. The main thing, Beth thought as she smoothed her skirts outside the library door, was to be presentable and as Richard would expect the lady of a small country house to look.

She opened the door and sailed in.

He was standing by the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back, examining a picture of their father, painted several years ago. The similarity between the portrait and the man standing beneath it was remarkable. In looks if not in temperament he was his father’s son to a T; just as Beth was her mother’s daughter.

Good afternoon, Richard, she said politely, and he turned to look at her.

She watched with amusement as his face first drained of colour and then flushed to a deep unbecoming red as he realised that he had been made a fool of.

Ah...I...em... he stuttered. She decided to be merciful and give him a chance to compose himself.

It is wonderful to see you, Richard, she said, wondering if it was, although you really should have written in advance to tell me you were coming. I would have had everything prepared for you. As it is, I cannot even send for refreshments, although if we go over to the kitchen I am sure there will be something cold in the larder. As I said, everyone is in town and I do not expect them back for at least a couple of hours. His colour had faded back to its normal sallow shade now, so she stopped talking.

That was most unfair of you, Beth, to play such a trick on me, he said grumpily, a frown creasing his brow. "You have made me look ridiculous. And in front of the stable boy, too. I assume he is the stable boy, and not some visiting dignitary?"

In anyone else this last statement would have shown that the victim had seen the humour in the joke, but Richard’s tone was formal, and she realised with a sigh that the young boy she had last seen when he was sixteen might have grown up, but he had not learned to take himself any less seriously.

Yes, John is the stable-boy, she answered. I’m sorry, I had no intention of making you look ridiculous. You did that by yourself, with your pompous manner, she thought. But when I realised you hadn’t recognised me, I couldn’t resist playing a little joke. Forgive me, she added, going for the conciliatory approach. Let’s start again. Shall I run down to the kitchen and see what I can find to eat? I’m sure you must be hungry.

He agreed, but by the time she returned, carefully balancing several plates of cold meat and cakes in her hands, his mood had not improved; one glance at his face told her that.

Here we are, she said gaily, ignoring his brooding look and setting the plates on the table. There’s a bottle of claret in the cupboard here. She bustled about gathering all the necessary things together, before throwing herself down in a chair, careless of her fine satin dress. He sat down more carefully opposite her and helped himself to a glass of wine.

I’ve been expecting you to come for three months, she said. Didn’t you receive my letter?

Yes, I did, he said. It reached me too late for Father’s funeral, but I did receive it eventually. I couldn’t take leave from my regiment at that time, though. We have gone into barracks for the winter now. This was the first chance I have had to come.

I see, Beth replied thoughtfully. Have you been in the Low Countries then? The war of the Austrian succession had broken out the previous year and many European countries were becoming involved, including England’s traditional enemy, France. A large force of British troops, amongst others, had been sent abroad and was now awaiting action. If Richard had been amongst them, it was quite understandable that he would not have been able to get leave, although he should at least have been able to write, which he had also not done. However, if he had been stationed in England all that time, she thought it unlikely that any commander would deny a soldier bereavement leave.

No, Richard answered, confirming Beth’s suspicions that he had stayed away voluntarily. But I am here now, and I see there is a lot to be done. You have let things slip, Beth. The house is not in a fit state to receive visitors.

Beth’s conciliatory mood evaporated instantly.

Have you read Father’s will? she asked.

Richard nodded, and opened his mouth, but Beth continued before he could speak.

Then you will know that he left everything to you, except for the sum he set aside for my dowry, which is considerable, I admit, but also inaccessible unless I marry or reach the age of thirty, neither of which I have yet done. Father was ill for some years before he died, she explained, her voice catching a little, and he was not able to keep up with repairs.

I didn’t know that, Richard said testily.

No, well, you wouldn’t, would you? You have had no contact with the family at all since you disappeared into thin air thirteen years ago. The only reason we knew you were in the army was because Sam the farrier saw you and told us. Mother and Father were beside themselves with worry until then. They thought you’d been murdered or had met with a terrible accident. You could at least have let them know you were safe. You must have known how distressed they’d be.

How would I know that? Richard replied hotly. Father never took any notice of me at all after he married your mother. How long was it before he noticed I’d actually left?

Of course he took notice of you! she said. He loved you. You were his son.

I might have been his son, but he never loved me. Not after the lovely Ann came into his life. All he could see after that was her. You weren’t there, you don’t know what it was like. And after you were born, the only time he spoke to me at all was to tell me why he was about to beat me! The venom and distress in his voice shocked Beth out of her temper. Was that really the way he’d seen their father?

I was nine when you left, Richard, she replied quietly. I remember a lot of things. I remember Mother always tried to be nice to you. You wouldn’t let her love you.

"She wasn’t my mother. My mother loved me. And until she died, I thought he loved me too. But I was wrong. He never loved me, he hated me, just like he hated Mama." Richard’s voice was harsh and petulant, and she was reminded again of the saturnine young boy who had skulked in corners with a permanent frown on his face. She had caught him by the pond once, when she was no more than five years old, pulling the legs off a frog, smiling cruelly as it struggled feebly in his grip. She had crept away quietly before he had seen her. After that she had been a little afraid of him and had kept out of his way as much as possible. Father had seemed to beat him a lot, that was true, but never without good cause. He was always naughty. Beth had been relieved when he left.

She looked across at the man sitting opposite her. Pain was etched on his face, and his eyes were deep pools of despair. Clearly he was also reliving some distressing event from the past. She had never realised how rejected he had felt. In her memory it had been him doing the rejecting. Richard had never accepted his father’s second wife, Beth’s mother, in spite of all her attempts to reconcile him to the marriage.

Richard saw the sympathy in Beth’s face and froze. His face closed, his mouth became a thin hard line, and he looked at her with open dislike. God, she looked exactly like that beautiful slut who had stolen his father’s love. How could he not have recognised her in the yard earlier?

Anyway, that’s all in the past, and over, he said, his tone telling her that it wasn’t over at all. But the house is in need of some work before we can accept visitors.

We never have any visitors, Beth replied practically, welcoming the change of subject; the previous one had been far too deep for a first meeting after thirteen years.

You mean you are never invited to call at any of the local houses? Richard sounded incredulous. Clearly his memory of the past was not perfect, then.

No, Richard. You must remember that after Father married Mot...my mother, the family rejected him. The well-to-do Cunninghams had been appalled that a member of their noble family should stoop so low as to marry a penniless Scottish seamstress, and had virtually cut him off from their society. Initially upset, he had soon resigned himself to his eldest brother Lord William’s rejection, and had retired to the country to live happily with the woman he loved.

Yes, but she died years ago, Richard countered. Do you mean to say that they still aren’t speaking to you? He was worried. He was banking on using his family connections, coupled with his inheritance, to achieve promotion and launch himself into society. If they still held a grudge, it would be a serious blow to his ambitions.

Beth sighed. This conversation was a far cry from the joyous reunion she had envisaged, where they caught up with events, brought together by their shared loss of a father, regaling each other with tales of the lost years. Instead of which they had not yet exchanged two truly civil words.

It’s true that after Mother died some of them did contact him. I remember going with father to see Cousin Edward once, about four years ago. It didn’t work out very well. Her brow furrowed as she remembered sitting stiffly on the edge of her seat in a hideously uncomfortable formal gown. The conversation had dried up after ten minutes, becoming increasingly stilted, and she had sat politely, listening to the pendulum of the drawing-room clock tick away the silent minutes until they could leave. They had not returned, nor had they been invited to while her father was alive. Cousin Isabella came to Father’s funeral, Beth added. She apologised for Lord Edward, who was out of the country, it seems. Anyway, she said I could go to visit them any time I wanted.

And did you? Richard asked.

No. I never wanted to. I have nothing in common with them, Richard. I enjoy the simple country life.

Nonsense. The imperious tone returned. We will write to them at once and tell them we would be delighted to call. Of course we must make the necessary repairs to the house so that we can return the invitation.

Do you have the money? she asked.

Richard looked perplexed. Surely there is money in the accounts? he said. Father had a lot of investments.

That was thirteen years ago, Richard, Beth pointed out patiently. As I told you earlier, after Mother died, Father became ill and didn’t have the energy to manage his investments properly. We’re only just making ends meet. There is a little in Father’s bank account, but only you can access that. Otherwise he owned the house and all the furniture outright. He left no debt, but he left no great amount of money either.

Richard clearly did not believe her.

I haven’t been able to pay the servants since he died three months ago, Richard. That’s why I allowed them all to go to Manchester today, as a reward for their loyalty. We certainly can’t afford to entertain.

But I thought...he left such a generous dowry for you... surely he wouldn’t have done that unless he had plenty of money?

The will was made ten years ago, when he did have enough money to leave me such a dowry. He never got round to changing it. She didn’t add that if he had changed it recently, he would most certainly not have left his whole estate to a son who had persistently failed to contact his family. As it was, she was now fully dependent financially on a brother with whom she was already suspecting she would not get on. However, she would try. They had got off on the wrong foot, and she had to admit that was partly her fault. She had forgotten that he had no sense of humour.

Anyway, she said. The fact is that we are left in the position where the only decent sum of money available to us cannot be touched unless I marry, and even then it will go to my husband, not me, so it’s pretty useless really.

Richard looked like a child who’d just been allowed into the toyshop after years of standing outside, only to find the shelves bare.

It’s not that bad, she continued cheerfully. You have your career, after all. If you employ someone to look after the investments, or even better, someone who can teach me how to do it, I’ll be quite happy where I am. I can keep the house ready for whenever you want to come home, and I don’t need much to live on, so I’m sure there will be sufficient extra income from the investment interest for you to enjoy some luxuries. I’m not interested in clothes and jewellery, so you don’t need to be worried that I’ll fritter your money away if you entrust me with the charge of it. The only luxury I allow myself is books.

This was supposed to be reassuring, Richard realised that. He decided to accept the olive branch his sister