The Favoured Child

7

I ran up the steps to the front door in a rush and found the door on the latch and the hall deserted. I peeped into the dining-room and saw the table set. I was not late. I had not missed breakfast. The parlour door was firmly shut, and I guessed Richard was still hard at work.

The hem of my dress was muddy from walking in the lane, and the back all dusty. I hurried to my room to change it. One of the new gowns Mama had ordered from the Chichester sempstress had arrived, and I took it from its box.

It was a wonderful colour, the palest green, almost silver, the colour of new corn before it grows tall and strong. In my haste, tumbling into fresh petticoats and the new gown, I glimpsed myself in the mirror and it made me pause.

It was an old mirror, speckled and shadowy, but the reflection of myself that it showed me – my shift cut square across my growing breasts, the line of my cheek-bones, the shadow of my hair tumbling down over my shoulders, the tilt of my head and the haziness of my eyes, which gleamed like grey slates in rain-drew me across the room to look at myself more closely. The reflected eyes gazed back into mine. If only I could learn who I was by staring. Mama had been right to scold me for not wearing a hat every day – I had a speckle of freckles across my nose like the pinpricks of colour you see on a hen’s egg. My skin was hen’s-egg cream, and as smooth. My face seemed to have lost, in this one morning, my rounded girlish prettiness, and become finer, clearer.

I gazed at myself as though I had never seen myself before.

‘I have taken Beatrice’s lover,’ I said in an awestruck whisper. ‘She has possessed me utterly. I went up the drive to her home and met her lover in the very place where she met him. And we lay together as if I were her. I was full of the longing that she felt for him, and I could not bear the longing until she possessed me and I did what she used to do.’

My eyes dropped from the mirror and I turned away. I had to hide this secret joy, and I had to hide this secret strength. This morning I had to make my peace with the two men who ruled this household – Uncle John and Richard – and I would not be able to do it with that sated look in my eyes and that secret smile on my lips.

The gong for breakfast sounded and I shook my head, clearing it of magic, and turned and ran downstairs, pushing one final pin into the ringlets on the top of my head as I ran.

The newly drawn plans for the hall had arrived, and we hurried breakfast so that we might look at them before Richard went down the lane to his lessons in Acre. The architect had drawn a fascinating house, very much in the modern style, a fine plain building with a delightful rounded tower at one corner and a square frontage with the familiar great doorway and high clear windows. It was three storeys high.

‘A palace!’ Mama said.

‘The old hall was as big,’ Uncle John reminded her. ‘You have been living in Lilliput-land for so long you have forgotten how to live in a proper-sized house.’

‘Gracious,’ I said, awed. ‘It does look very fine, Uncle John.’

‘We shall be very fine to match it,’ he said firmly. ‘How will you like to be Miss Lacey of Wideacre Hall, Julia?

‘Very much,’ I said. Then I remembered what Richard wanted of me. ‘But more than anything I am looking forward to seeing Richard as squire in a proper hall.’

‘And speaking of fresh starts and new plans,’ Uncle John said, smiling, ‘I think it is time the pair of you started learning to ride in earnest. It is Chichester horse fair today, and I am going with the hope of buying a useful hunter for myself, and I have a mind to buy a horse each for you. If I can find something suitable.’

I did not say a word, I could not speak. I realized my hands were clasped under my chin and I had half risen from my seat, but I said nothing.

Richard was oddly silent too.

‘I will assume that silence betokens consent,’ Uncle John said teasingly.

Oh, yes!’ I said longingly. Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, yes!’

Uncle John laughed, his eyes on Mama. ‘They really are delightful, Celia,’ he said, speaking over our heads as if we were very small children. ‘They truly are delightfully unspoiled, I agree. But Wideacre or no, they must go to town and university and have a little polish rubbed on them.’

‘Dreadful!’ Mama said. ‘Julia, you put me utterly to the blush! Stop saying, “Oh, yes” like that and say, “Thank you,” as though you had a ha’p’orth of wit. And, Richard, it’s not like you to have nothing to say for yourself.’

Richard cleared his throat. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said politely. I think only I could hear the lack of enthusiasm in his voice, and I had a twinge of remorse and sympathy for Richard. I guessed he was thinking of Scheherazade.

‘Thank you, Uncle John,’ I said softly. ‘Mama is right and I have no manners at all. I was just so…so…so…’

Uncle John smiled at Mama as I ran out of words.

‘Boarding-school?’ he suggested.

‘Bedlam!’ Mama replied. ‘Julia, if you have nothing to say, you can go and fetch some writing-paper and ink for me, instead of kneeling there on the floor with your mouth open. Richard, it must be time for you to go to Dr Pearce.’

Richard bowed to her and bid us a general farewell and then took one last lingering look at the exquisite drawing, like a hungry man looking at a meal which might be taken from him. ‘Yes,’ he said unwillingly, and went to the door.

I waited for a smile from him, but I had none. He went from the house with his head down and not even a glance towards me, though I stood in the hall as he shrugged on his greatcoat and was at the front door when he went out. He went without a look at me. He went without a word to me, though he knew I was waiting patiently for either. I stood at the parlour window and watched him stride down the drive, watched in case he relented and waved to me, but he did not. Mama saw my stillness and my eyes upon his vanishing figure when she came into the parlour.

‘Will you write some letters for me, my dear?’ she said invitingly.

‘Yes, I will,’ I said without hesitation.

She looked at me closely. ‘Is Richard still angry with you about John Dench?’ she asked softly.

I did not have tears in my eyes. I did not feel an ache in my heart. I did not feel the sense of dread which I learned in childhood when I thought of Richard’s rage. I gave a little impatient grimace. ‘He’s in the sullens,’ I said, unimpressed. ‘He’ll get out of them.’

And ignoring Mama’s look of surprise, I sat up at the table, collected some notepaper, dipped the pen in the standish and set to writing to her dictation as if I had never cried for Richard’s approval in my life.

Uncle John was lucky at the horse sales; but Richard and I were not.

‘I could see nothing which would suit either of you,’ he said. ‘I am sorry to disappoint you, and I am disappointed too. I had promised myself the pleasure of coming home in the carriage with three horses trotting behind me. I found this grand old hunter for me, but nothing suitable for the two of you.’

‘What was the problem, sir?’ Richard asked courteously.

We were sitting down to a late dinner, and Uncle John smiled down the table at Richard as he carved a plump goose into wafer-thin slices and Stride passed them around.

‘Bad breeding,’ he said briefly. ‘I wanted something steady and sound for both of you, but something with a bit of breeding so that you could have more fun when you were used to riding. I’d have looked for something fairly lively for you, Richard, don’t fret! And something slow and steady for Julia. But there was nothing except some broken-winded hunters who would never get out of a trot without gasping like a landed fish.’

Richard laughed heartily. I watched him closely. He was out of his ill humour with me, and he seemed relaxed, even pleased. I could not understand it. I was trying very hard not to seem sulky, but I was so disappointed at Uncle John’s bad luck at the horse fair that I could have wept.

‘Perhaps you have saved your money, sir,’ Richard said. ‘I was thinking that, as I am going to Oxford, you would have bought a horse for me for nothing. I could not ride one there, I suppose?’

‘No,’ Uncle John agreed, carving the last slices of goose and sitting down to his own place. Stride served him with crunchy roasted potatoes, some succulent carrots from the Havering kitchen garden and roasted parsnip. Uncle John waved away the gravy, but took a liberal helping of Mrs Gough’s smooth lemon sauce. ‘But I had thought, Richard, to keep your horse here for you to use in the holidays. That is no great burden on the stables, you know.’

Richard smiled sweetly. ‘You’re kind to me, sir!’ he said. ‘But since you have had such trouble in finding a suitable horse at this fair, I do beg you not to trouble yourself any further. I have walked around Wideacre all my life, and am well able to continue to do so in the meantime. I am sure Julia feels the same.’

I opened my mouth to disagree, but a sharp blue look from Richard silenced me.

‘At any rate, there is no need for a horse this summer,’ Richard said smoothly. ‘I know Julia’s grandmama does not approve of ladies riding in summertime, and I am happy to go horseless to keep my cousin company.’

Mama smiled. ‘That is sweet of you, Richard!’ she said approvingly, and Uncle John nodded. ‘And he is quite right,’ she said to John. ‘It is not really the season to start to learn to ride. If there are no good horses available, perhaps the two of them can wait until the Christmas holidays.’

Uncle John shrugged. ‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘I should have liked to have produced two horses for the pair of you without further ado, but there is certainly nothing suitable in the neighbourhood for sale at the moment. I shall keep my eyes open for you both, you may be sure. If we cannot find suitable riding horses, then you will have to drive around and I shall get a cob or something to pull the gig.’

I bit my lip and looked down. I seemed forever to be getting so close to having a horse and then being disappointed.

Mama saw my downcast face and smiled sweetly at me. ‘Never mind, Julia,’ she said. ‘We will order you a riding habit when we are next in Chichester and then at least when we find the right horse, you will be ready to ride at once.’

‘Thank you, Mama,’ I said, trying to sound pleased. And I turned my attention to the roast goose as if I had been fasting all day.

‘I met Lord Havering in Chichester and told him some of my ideas about the revival of the estate,’ Uncle John said. ‘He was kind enough to call them radical poppycock!’

‘You did not quarrel?’ Mama asked with an anxious frown.

‘Most certainly not,’ John said. ‘It takes two to make a quarrel, and his lordship made sure I did not have a word to say. I told him some of the ideas I had and he was torn between laughter at my naivety and rage at my revolutionary opinions.’

‘Are you a revolutionary, Uncle John?’ I said, regarding him with some awe.

‘Compared to your grandpapa, I am a veritable traitor to the State!’ Uncle John said cheerfully. ‘But in all seriousness, Julia, I am just one of very many men who think that the world would be better run if the nation were not divided into a vast army of workers – something like six million people – who have no land, and a tiny minority – some four hundred families – who between them own it all.’

‘What would you do?’ I asked. ‘What would you do to change things?’

‘If I were made king tomorrow,’ Uncle John said, smiling, ‘I would pass a statute which would give everyone equal shares in the land, and order them to work in communities and farm the land all together. Everyone would have his own house and his own patch of private land, his own little garden and his own animals – see, Celia, I am not against private property, whatever your step-papa says! – But everyone would work together on land which was held in common. Like the old village fields when the elders of the village decided what was planted and how it was to be done.’

‘Hurrah for John’s kingdom!’ I said, and Uncle John laughed at my bright face.

‘I have a convert,’ he said to Mama. ‘There is no need for you to look so grave, Celia. I have a convert and the future is on my side.’

‘What will you do before you become king of England?’ she asked. ‘How will you explain to Acre that the golden age has come around again?’

‘I shall consult my adviser,’ he said solemnly and turned to me. ‘Prime Minister, Miss Julia: how shall we persuade Acre that they must all work together and take a share in the profits?’

I thought for a moment. ‘Is it a serious plan, Uncle John?’ I asked. ‘Do you really want Acre to share in the profits of the estate?’

‘I’m tempted,’ he admitted. ‘I spent many hours in India reading and thinking about what went wrong on Acre. It seemed to me then that the only way to run an estate justly is if everyone has a say in how it is to be run and a slice of the profits.’ He paused and looked at my intent face and Mama’s doubtful one. Richard was listening with his habitual courtesy.

‘How would it be if every cottager – tenant or labourer – in Acre was invited to buy a share in the profits of the estate?’ John asked. ‘They work the first year and the profits are put into a central fund. Out of the fund come the costs of running the estate, and the new equipment and seeds and animals needed, and the share which is to be paid to each worker. But the rest of the fund is their own savings.’

‘And what about us?’ Richard asked. It was the first time he had spoken, and his voice sounded sharp. ‘We’re Laceys of Wideacre,’ he said. ‘Where do we figure in this scheme? What do we benefit?’

‘We take our share of the profits,’ Uncle John replied. ‘We consider the money invested in Wideacre as our share of work, and we take out a share every year which would be the same as if we had invested money in speculation.’

‘We share the profits of our land with Acre?’ Richard asked. The question itself sounded as if he were just trying to understand, but something in his voice made the nape of my neck feel cold and prickly. ‘Won’t that make them think they have rights over our land? And won’t they argue for a greater share than they have earned?’

Uncle John nodded. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But you would be the judge of their rights.’

Stride came forward to clear the table. He took the plates and refilled the wineglasses before Mama and John. No one was looking at Richard except me. He had gone quite white and his eyes were as black as a midnight sky, without a gleam of starlight or moonlight. He was trembling with rage as he sat at the table, and I dropped my gaze to the embroidered napkin on my lap, afraid that Richard would shout his claim to Wideacre and disgrace himself by an outburst of the temper he usually kept so well in check.

I should have known him better. By the time Stride came back with the puddings, a wonderful cream confection with meringue and apple sauce on top, and a plain jam tart, Richard was smiling and calm.

‘It’s a most exciting idea, sir,’ he said politely. I think no one but me could have heard the passion which was hidden beneath the calm tone. ‘Do you think you can take it beyond the stage of an idea?’

Stride served Mama and then me, and Uncle John accepted a plate with the jam tart from him and added Havering cream with a generous hand.

‘It depends,’ he said. ‘It depends on many factors. The people would have to like the idea. They suffered badly at the hands of Lacey innovators once, and they’re not likely to want to repeat the experience. Mr Megson assures me that they will not go to work for us unless they have some belief in the future and some trust in us.’ He paused and smiled down the table at Richard and me. ‘It depends on you two,’ he said gently. ‘It is your inheritance. It will be your decision whether this land is run in the old way which brought so much wealth and so much grief in one lifetime, or whether you would want to try a new way.’

I glanced at Richard; his smile was untroubled, his face clear. ‘I agree with you, sir,’ he said. ‘I can think of no better way to run the estate than to share the profits of the land with the people who work on it.’

Uncle John nodded and looked at me. ‘Julia?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. I did not sound as enthusiastic as Richard. But I could not readily explain how the thought of feeling no guilt in Acre – none at all – of being free of the cruelty of the Laceys and the cruelty of the whole class of gentry was like a hard cleansing wind after rain. ‘Yes,’ I said.

‘Early days for any decision,’ Uncle John said gently. ‘But I should like the two of you to go and see Mr Megson and tell him of your support for these ideas, and discuss with him his thoughts on them. It’s a good way for him to get to know the two of you, and a good way for you to learn the obstacles you will face in Acre. He’s a hard man to persuade – he’s not susceptible to sweetening! But he’s as straight as a die. I’d like the two of you to tell him of this talk of ours and see what he thinks the chances are for a plan like that.’

‘I’d be pleased to go,’ Richard said, claiming the right of the boy and the squire-to-be to work for the estate.

‘And Julia will go too,’ Uncle John said, reminding him.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I should like to go.’

‘No reason why you should not go down to Acre this evening,’ Mama said, determinedly brave with us, her two children, going to the village she still disliked. ‘You could take the gig, and the carriage horse,’ she said.

Uncle John smiled. ‘Indeed, yes!’ he said. ‘Mr Megson will doubtless give you tea and you can come home before it is dark if you would like it.’

I glanced at Richard. I had been in disgrace with him all day and I was not disposed to force my company on him if he was still angry with me. But the threat to his inheritance had driven all other injuries from his mind.

I ran to fetch my hat, and Richard went to the stable to tell Jem that we wanted the horse and the new gig. The sun was round and pink above a bank of rosy clouds as we trotted down the lane to Acre and I saw, with relief, that Richard was at ease on the seat of the gig, handling the reins well, unafraid.

‘I hope Megson is in,’ Richard said.

‘I’ll wager he’s expecting us,’ I said shrewdly. ‘I should think that Uncle John and he have spent some time with their heads together about the two of us as heirs to the estate.’

Richard glanced at me in surprise. ‘I suppose they might have done,’ he said. ‘Megson setting himself up as some kind of judge!’ He paused. ‘I don’t have to remind you not to put yourself forward in Acre,’ he said. It was not a question.

‘No, I remember,’ I said steadily.

He gave me a swift sideways glance but said nothing, and then we sat in silence as the gig bowled down the street of Acre. The Dench children were playing in the patch of earth outside the cottage; Clary was sitting on the bench watching them in the evening sunlight, with a bowl of potatoes on her knees and a bucket of water to wash them.

I waved and Richard obligingly brought the gig to a halt. Clary came down the garden path with her long stride.

‘Good day,’ she said to the two of us. And with a smile to me she said, ‘Carriage folk at last, Julia?’

‘I’m so grand I can hardly trouble myself to speak to you,’ I said, grinning at her.

She laughed. ‘It’s a fine gig, Master Richard,’ she said with a smile to him.

Richard nodded but made no reply. He looked at her under lowered brows, his eyes a bright blue. ‘Maybe I’ll give you a ride in it one day,’ he said, making an effort. He was looking at her, but he lacked his easy smile. He looked at her as if she were something he might decide to buy in a market.

‘Thank you,’ Clary said easily, and stepped back from the side of the gig. ‘Are you going to see Ralph Megson?’ she asked me.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Is he settled in the Tyackes’ cottage?’

‘Aye,’ she said. ‘And Becky Miles is keeping house and cleaning for him. He’s expecting you.’

I nodded, and Richard clicked to the horse and we drove on down the lane to the cottage which was set back from the street down a little track on the left-hand side.

Richard looped the reins over the garden gate and the horse dipped its head. There was no hedge to crop. All the leaves had been taken for animal feed years ago, and then the bare sticks themselves used for firewood. Like every other garden in Acre, the earth was bare. First all the vegetables had been lifted and eaten, and then the surviving scrawny hens had picked the garden clean. Now there was nothing but grey dust and, when it rained, a mire of mud.

We walked up the flagstone path and I shivered at the thought of seeing Ralph, a tension so strong it was almost dread. When I raised my hand to knock, I saw it was trembling. I could hear the kettle singing on the stove, and its note was not higher or sweeter than the noise in my head now I was so close to Ralph. The door was opened to us not by Ralph Megson, but by Becky Miles, who seemed to have installed herself as cook, parlourmaid and kitchenmaid.

I looked at her sharply. She was a big lumpy downland girl with masses of fair hair and big dim blue eyes. The poverty of her family was held to be sufficient excuse for the fact that she wore dresses with bodices cut so low that you could see the top of her plump breasts and hems so high that you could see her ankles. I had always quite liked her. She had been one of the children who trailed around after Clary. I liked her cheery nature and the way she threw back her head to laugh. And I liked her sweet voice, which would rise in a clear soprano in carols at Christmastide. But today, for some reason, she seemed to me too large, too bright, too overpowering in the little room, and I wondered that Ralph Megson did not feel crowded by her and send her away.

He did not look crowded. He looked very much at home. The Tyackes’ cottage was the best in Acre, but it had only two rooms downstairs and three poky little bedrooms upstairs. The main downstairs room was the brick-floored one which served as kitchen and dining-and living-room. The front door opened directly into it, and winter and summer it was hot and stifling with the fire in the grate for the cooking.

Ralph owned a great round table, which was in the middle of the room, rocky on the uneven floor, and a high-backed settle, which had its back to the door. The master chair – a wheel-backed carver – was at the head of the table with its back to the fire, and beneath the table were three stools for guests. Through a doorway to the left was the parlour, used for the most solemn occasions. Only if there were a funeral or a wedding in the house would the neighbours get over the threshold into that room. And then in Acre – where poverty was a way of life and people had forgotten the time when they had furniture – they would find the room swept clean and as empty as a Wideacre wheat barn. The parlour table and chairs had been sold for pennies when the family was hungry, and they had never risen from the grip of poverty and been able to buy more.

Seeing Ralph Megson here reminded me that he was not Quality. He was one of the tenants. He lived in a cottage which was no more than five rooms. But I realized that he was wealthy in Acre terms. He had a proper chair, a proper table. He had china to eat from, not wooden plates and bowls. He had linen – there was a good plain tablecloth laid ready – he had a servant, if one could honour sluttish Becky Miles with that title.

He was not gentry, living here and served thus, but I had been quick to note that Uncle John always referred to him as Mr Megson. Although he could never be Quality, he had a certain air which made you question the whole idea of ‘sorts’ of people.

He rose to his feet when we came in and greeted us confidently as equals. He waved us towards the stools on either side of the table and took the chair again without a thought that perhaps it should have been offered to me. And he nodded to Becky to serve the tea as if she (who had never seen a tablecloth in her life, at my guess) might know what she was doing.

She did tolerably well. I tried not to watch her, but when she opened little cupboards or pulled out a drawer of cutlery, I could not help my eyes sliding towards her, partly to see what she was doing and partly to see what things he had. Pure curiosity, and I hoped he would not see it; but Becky made a clatter behind me and I glanced over my shoulder and he saw me look. He gave me a little smile – he knew very well that I was inspecting his goods, and his eyes were tolerant.

I settled on my stool then with a little silent sigh. He might be on company behaviour, and so was I, but there was an understanding between us which was a current flowing under the stream of talk. I had some silly, superstitious fear that he might know that I dreamed of him – that I dreamed of desiring him, and loving him, and holding him. The mere thought of him knowing that dream made me colour so red that the blush hurt my cheeks and made my eyes water. I kept my head facing down and felt myself burn with embarrassment.

I felt his eyes upon me and I flashed a quick look at him.

He knew something. He sensed something, like a keen bright-eyed animal. But the smile he gave me was easy. I did not think he guessed my thoughts. But I remembered that he had been very much in love with Beatrice, and I felt, with his eyes upon me, that he was tender to me. So I straightened my back, waited for my blush to die down and found the courage to smile and meet his eyes.

There are some things which need no words, and Ralph knew that better than I. So I sipped my tea and did not flinch when Becky clattered the kettle close to me behind my back, and I passed Richard some lardy cake as though I had not a care in the world.

We talked firstly about the plans Uncle John had for the land, and Ralph made us describe them in detail.

‘The idea is that everyone in the village should share in the profits of the land, not draw a wage as such,’ Richard explained, his tone neutral. ‘The profits are paid into a common fund which buys new seeds and equipment. We landlords draw a wage which represents interest on the money invested in the land. And the remainder of the fund is divided according to the amount of work each individual has done.’

‘The idea is to establish some sort of communality?’ asked Ralph. I knew he knew the answer, and I stayed silent, watching his face, watching him test Richard, judge him. Richard’s eyes were as limpid as a pool. You would have thought him a most ardent land reformer.

Richard nodded. ‘So that the difference between masters and men is erased,’ he said. ‘We are all working together. Success or failure, we all share in the profits.’

Ralph nodded. ‘It’s a good plan,’ he said. He looked at Richard carefully. ‘A generous one,’ he said. ‘What do the landowners gain from it, d’you think, Master Richard?’

‘Very little,’ Richard said frankly. ‘It’s my papa’s idea, to set Acre to rights. To repay for the bad things which happened in the past. It benefits the village. It helps the poor.’ He paused, glanced at Ralph’s dark face, tested the air: ‘Perhaps the best way is the old way, with the Laceys as squires owning the land, paying fair wages and supplying suitable charity in cases of especial need.’

Ralph nodded. ‘Is that the way you’d prefer?’ he asked.

Richard glanced at him, his eyes bright with calculation. ‘I want to make sure Acre is a good place for everyone,’ he said. ‘Whatever way we decide to do it, I want to ensure that the village is set to rights. At least in the old way, everyone knew where they were.’

Ralph nodded as if he had learned something. ‘And you, Miss Julia?’ he asked.

‘I agree with Richard,’ I said steadily, holding to my promise.

Ralph smiled at me, a little intimate smile which suggested he knew I was lying and that in my heart I wanted the village to own its land outright. One of the logs shifted in the hearth and a little plume of ash and smoke went up. There was a moment of utter peace, his eyes upon me and me smiling at him.

Richard moved irritably, and the spell was broken. ‘What shall I tell my papa?’ he said. ‘He asked us to discuss the scheme with you. May I tell him you prefer the old ways?’

Ralph pushed back his chair from the table and stamped on his wooden legs to the door to throw it open and look out, up the little back track to Acre. ‘Look, you,’ he said, leaning on the doorpost and looking out. ‘This is a fine scheme, and a generous one from any landowner, even a bankrupt one. I respect that. But you are asking for someone to give up the way he has lived for the past fourteen years, wild, and without a master. Starving in winter maybe, but eating game and fish and fowl all summer. And free to work as he pleases, or poach as he pleases, or fish as he pleases every day of the year. You are asking a man like that to settle down into a routine of working.

‘And for what? You are not even offering a decent wage. You are offering the promise of a share in the profits on crops which are not yet in the ground. If the profits are small, you yourselves tell me that first out of the fund is the needs of the land, second is your share, and last are the workers. If there are no profits at all – well, you have the option to sell the land. And sell it now as a going concern with a village eager for work. But if there are no profits, then the people of Acre starve for another winter.

‘You landlords risk nothing – you have a derelict estate you cannot work or sell. If the village was to go for this scheme, you would have them back at work at no cost to you, and if they fail to work hard enough to make the profits your scheme needs, they are the ones who suffer. Landlords never suffer. They write the laws, they invent the rules. They make the world, and then they expect people to be grateful for small mercies!’

Ralph leaned back against the doorpost and smiled at us both as though we were rather charming brigands. ‘You offer no guarantees,’ he said. ‘Acre is guaranteed to you. Everyone here is so poor that there is nowhere they can go, and no freedom they can take. But you can suit yourselves. You can play at being radical for a few years, or you can sell the estate tomorrow at a profit, to the first buyer who comes your way, rack-renter, corn-forestaller, whatever. There are no controls over the gentry,’ he said and paused. ‘There never are,’ he added.

Richard and I sat in stunned silence. In everything Uncle John had said since his return from India, we had never seen the scheme like this. Ralph Megson, who was not of the Quality, saw the objections in a flash. And he had seen it as another ruse by the masters against the men, concealed, this time, in some persuasive egalitarian fair-share scheme, profiteering wrapped up prettily. I dropped my eyes to the tablecloth and coloured up to my ears with shame at my foolishness in not spotting such an obvious argument against the idea, and in my shame at being seen by Ralph Megson as one of the gentry who take what they have not earned and use what they have not made.

He left the door open and the evening sunlight streamed on to the brick floor and turned the dust into little stars floating in infinity. He trod heavily back to the table and the stars swirled at his passing. As he went behind me, the back of his hand just brushed the nape of my neck, and I knew it was a touch which meant forgiveness.

‘Tell Dr MacAndrew I’ll think on it,’ Ralph said, surprisingly. ‘It’s a bold scheme and if there were such a thing as a landlord one could trust, it would be a good one. It needs some guarantees from the two of you, or you will never persuade Acre to do it; and you’d not have my support. But if the two of you are committed to the idea, it might work.’

‘If you advise that the land is best worked in the old ways, with the squire owning everything and good wages paid, I think my papa would take your advice,’ Richard said quickly.

Ralph looked hard at him. ‘Do you now?’ he asked. And he said no more.

‘We must go,’ I said after a little pause. ‘Thank you for our tea, Mr Megson.’

‘You’re welcome,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Both of you must come and see me again.’ He nodded at Richard. ‘If you’re interested in hawking, my goshawk will be sent down from London in the next few days. I’d be happy to take you out with me.’

‘Thank you, I will!’ Richard said, and for the first time that afternoon his smile to Ralph was genuine – not the calculating charm he had donned since Mama and Uncle John had joined in backing Mr Megson against his accusation.

Ralph walked with us to the gate and helped me up the step into the gig while Richard loosed the horse. I put out my hand to him.

‘Good day, Miss Julia,’ he said with the mocking courtesy I had dreamed of this morning. Then he bent his proud greying head and kissed my hand. At the touch of his lips on my fingers I shivered like a birch tree in a breeze. He stepped back into his patch of garden and waved farewell to us.