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‘Perhaps you should get your violin. Music hath such charms to soothe the savage breast?’ He seemed to be lost in abstracted thought. ‘It’s interesting what you say about conserving the bees. I had not concerned myself with their welfare, but I suppose it’s fundamental to many connections in the natural world.’

‘Indeed, the more healthy and numerous our bees, the better our crops.’ Sybella had not forgotten her social responsibilities. ‘Can I offer you any refreshment, Mr Brabazon?’

‘That is very civil but thank you, no. I have to prepare to return to Town tomorrow. Freddie is restive.’

‘And are you?’ She looked up into his austere face.

‘There are attractions to both places.’ He was thoughtful. ‘You have given me some pause about my land husbandry. I may seek your advice again.’

They had arrived in the stable yard just as George trotted in on his horse and leading a small brown and white pony. He was a tall, fine-looking ex-soldier entirely at ease in his strong, long-limbed body. Sybella introduced him to Mr Brabazon and was amused to see George straighten his back, his usually friendly eyes narrowed and keen. She knew how much he felt his role as her right-hand man on the estate and protector of his old master’s small family. The two men bowed just as the kitchen door opened and James appeared on the step, wide-eyed at the scene. He extracted his hand from his nurse’s grasp and ran towards George, throwing himself at his legs. ‘George, George! My pony?’ George chuckled and swung the small boy into his arms so that he could reach the pony’s head. James immediately stroked the animal’s neck and cheeks, cooing. ‘Ride ’im, can I?’ He looked from his mother to George with an ecstatic glow.

‘I’ll put you on his back if you hang onto his mane.’

James then buried his face in the pony’s neck, saying, ‘My Dasher, love you! Look, Mama! Look, George.’ Then his flushed face turned towards his mother’s companion. His brow wrinkled in an attempt to remember his name. Suddenly, he said, ‘Mr B, my Dasher! Yours too?’

‘I’ll show you Hades. He’s a bit bigger than Dasher, though.’ Mr Brabazon went to the stable, where Gem handed him the reins. James tried to whistle in appreciation. He gazed at what seemed to him to be an immense black horse, bigger than any horse he had seen.

‘He ’normous!’ he said in awed tones. Lucie had come into the yard to see James’s new pony and she too was momentarily arrested by the beauty of Mr Brabazon’s mount.

‘Bella, he quite puts your Scipio into the shade!’ She looked across at Mr Brabazon. ‘Good afternoon, sir. That’s a beautiful horse indeed.’

‘Why, thank you.’ Making his farewell, he inclined his head to them. ‘Mrs Lovatt, Miss Carey, James, or should I say Jim? George. I must go.’ Then, taking Sybella’s hand, he bowed. ‘I know you are coming to Town for the Season. Our paths will cross, I’m sure. But if ever you need any help with vouchers for Almack’s, or any other service, don’t hesitate to call. I’m in Grosvenor Square, Brabazon House on the south side.’ His tone was as nonchalant and unruffled as ever. Then, in one athletic movement, he swung lightly into the saddle and set off across the park, without once looking back.

Anthony Brabazon had the fifteen-minute ride back across the fields and through the woods in which to properly restore his equilibrium. He had learned in childhood that to survive under his father’s aegis he needed to develop an armour of studied sprezzatura. This code of the courtier had so impressed the elder Mr Brabazon, who discovered Castiglione’s work while on the Grand Tour, it informed all his activities including the tender offices of the heart. It encouraged an aristocratic froideur in public, where nonchalance and assumed mastery carried the day, but the necessary suppression of feeling distorted his closest relationships: inevitably his wife and son suffered most from his ironic yet demanding detachment.

His son had inherited this demeanour of effortless superiority. It bestowed a languorous sang-froid that hid a sharp mind and uncanny omniscience that missed little. But a crack had appeared in his usually impregnable soul. The simple happiness of family life glimpsed on this random day in late summer, the music, the bees, had all conspired to intrude on his carefully maintained equanimity. Above all, he needed to be free to return to his previous life without the sense that there was something missing, something more expansive, something freer for him in the world.

He gave Hades his head and they galloped through the parkland. Man and horse were as one in their shared power and exhilaration. As he covered the miles and emerged into the demesne of Shotten Hall, he had repaired the fissure in his protective shield. He could return to his life once again. Suddenly exhausted, he gave Hades’s reins over to John, his groom, and entered the Hall in search of brandy.

Lord Lynwood was in the library, awaiting his guardian’s return. He looked up, curious at his agitated footsteps in the hall, but thought better of greeting him with his usual raillery. Brabazon’s expression was as unfathomable as ever. His ward wondered what had happened at the Manor but with uncharacteristic tact did not enquire. His curiosity was further piqued when his guardian placed a fatherly hand on his shoulder. ‘I know I give you a hard time about your ramshackle ways, but you have the makings of a man of real consequence, a regular out-and-outer.’ His words were so unexpected and so quietly said, Lord Lynwood looked up, startled at this rare approbation, but met only the usual ironic smile.

The cousins sat either side of the fire and drank deep into the night. They were silent, isolated in their own differing thoughts and desires.

3

TO LONDON AND THE LIBERTINES

On a bitterly cold day in early January, the Carey/Lovatt family set off from the Manor for London. This was a major undertaking and Sybella was grateful for George’s military precision and planning. He had spruced up Mr Carey’s two old travelling post-chaises and had even bought some gold leaf and blue paint to touch up the faded Carey crest painted on the sides. The furled ribbon with the Latin motto was worn beyond repair but the outline of the optimistic Transit nebula sol restat was still visible. It reminded the sisters of their father, who would mutter, ‘The mist passes, the sun remains,’ when half-foxed. An extra four carriage horses had been hired to pull the second coach. George also acquired two fur blankets to help keep the occupants warm on what would be an onerous sixty miles or so through largely open countryside. There was a limit to how much a hot brick at one’s foot kept the chill at bay.

He was to remain at the Manor to run the estate and care for the horses, including Master James’s beloved Dasher, but Nurse would go with them to help with the son and heir and Alice would act as a lady’s maid and dresser for both sisters. Alice was the daughter of the gamekeeper at Shotten Hall. Young and fair-haired, her pink cheeks and cheerful disposition made her a sunny presence in the house and her vivid imagination was the source of much amusement. Gem had already ridden Sybella’s Scipio up to Lady Godley’s stables in the mews behind her house. Both Sybella and Lucie were competent horsewomen and they could share the horse, whose beautiful high-stepping form was a joy to ride and added greatly to their own elegance in the saddle. Gem had returned by stagecoach so that he could accompany the family party on their protracted journey to the metropolis.

The sisters and James travelled in the first carriage and Nurse and Alice in the second, along with the portmanteaus of luggage. Lady Godley had been kind enough to send a recent copy of Records of Fashion and Court Elegance and it had amused Sybella to see her hoydenish younger sister, who had never thought previously of clothes except as to their utility for horse riding and climbing, poring over the beautiful engravings of the latest Parisian fashions, taking notes. Madame Dupont had made a few special morning, afternoon and evening dresses for Lucie, copying the illustrations of idealised elegance as well as she might. She did exclaim at Lucie’s beauty. How well she would display her seamstresses’ skills! Lucie had insisted that Sybella have some new gowns made too, as she would chaperone her sister and appear at all the fashionable balls and private parties to which they hoped to be invited.

These precious dresses were stowed in trunks, interleaved with wrapping tissue, together with a number of simpler versions that the sisters had made themselves, or fashioned out of old dresses embellished with newly bought ribbons and silk flowers. Their favourite riding outfits had had their military-type frogging replaced, and the sisters hoped this would make them appear as good as new. A whole trunk was dedicated to any number of bonnets, two new and flattering pelisses and spencers each and all the necessary accessories of muffs, fans, shawls, fur tippets, hair ornaments, stockings, gloves, pumps, shoes and laced ankle boots. Gazing at the carefully packed miscellany of decorative folderols, Sybella hoped they hadn’t overlooked anything. She was a little anxious as to how adequately equipped they would prove to be, but did not worry Lucie with her misgivings. Her younger sister was delighted with the armfuls of silks and muslins and crepes in a variety of flattering colours, from soft rose pink through the sky blues to primrose, ivory and white that she had helped Alice to pack so carefully.

Their only valuable jewels were their mother’s diamond rivière necklace with matching drop earrings, and two strings of pearls with diamond clasps. So suspicious was Alice of the desperados she was certain marauded London streets, and especially the dastardly highwaymen whom she had heard frequented Hounslow Heath to prey on just such unwary country passengers, she insisted on stitching these jewels into the bodice of her petticoat. She had worked out that not even the most irredeemable blackguard, in search of loot, would dare to lay hands on that part of her person. Alice’s fears were not as outlandish as the Carey sisters liked to think. With very little law enforcement available, these lumbering coaches were like sitting game and George quietly gave his long pistol to Gem to stow, fully loaded, under his feet to deal with any trouble along the road. ‘Just show ’em the barker and they’ll know you’ll do the business,’ was his parting shot.

And so, with three hot bricks apiece placed under the blankets on the floor of each carriage, the occupants settled themselves, feeling various degrees of excitement and trepidation. As they moved off slowly, James was the most animated. He had already kissed Dasher goodbye and hugged George’s legs in a fleeting loss of heart, but was soon bright-eyed again and peering from the coach window on his first expedition beyond their local town of Newbury. It was fortunate that the Manor and its lands lay close to the Bath Road, one of the best maintained arterial routes into London, improving the speed and comfort of the journey.

George had arranged for them to change horses at Newbury and then at the Old Bull at Reading: with concern for James, Sybella requested an early overnight stay at Maidenhead, just twelve miles further. Her father used to frequent the Bear Inn in the centre of the town and she had booked the rooms ahead, knowing just how popular it was with travellers, particularly during the Season when carriages, post-chaises, stagecoaches and curricles were all rattling up and down between London and Bath.

The horses were soon labouring as the road climbed, with the Berkshire Downs rising to the north. The chalky backs of the uplands were still white with frost and the grey skeleton branches of the oaks, beech, elm and ash were etched smokily against a milky sky. The dark sculptural shapes of evergreen Scots pine and yew added emphasis to the frozen landscape, sparkling coldly in the pale sun.

‘Look, mountains!’ James pointed to the whale back of the Lambourn Downs.

‘They’re not as big as mountains. They’re called Downs,’ Lucie explained as James rubbed his nose in thought.

‘Why aren’t they Ups?’