‘Well,’ she said. ‘What shall we do today? Since it’s holiday time you don’t have to do your lessons. Not until Bridget gets back.’
‘And can we have chocolate this evening?’
‘We can. Every evening!’
‘Huzzah!’ Starling shouted, running out across the yard into the sunshine, and sending the chickens scattering.
Later that day Alice went for one of her solitary walks, just for half an hour or so while Starling put a slab of pork belly in the oven to roast, and shelled peas to go with it. When Alice got back she was secretive – Starling was wise to it in an instant; a misaimed pea bounced across the work top and rolled onto the floor.
‘What is it, Alice? Is Mr Alleyn coming? Have you seen him?’
‘I have not. But… a little bird told me that we should make ourselves look festive, and be waiting on the far side of the miller’s bridge by middle morning tomorrow.’ Her eyes were dancing with excitement, a happier countenance than any she’d worn since Flint died. Starling hopped from one foot to the other in agitation.
‘Who says so? What little bird? Is it Jonathan? Where are we going?’ she demanded.
‘I don’t know, dearest. But I think it will be fun.’
‘Will we visit away from Bathampton, do you think?’ This was something Starling longed to do. The world, only heard and read about, seemed impossibly huge and thrilling to one who had no memories before the farmhouse.
‘We’ll just have to wait and see, my chuck,’ said Alice.
It took a long time for Starling to succumb to sleep that night; her anticipation of the day to come kept her mind alight and humming, and got her up at dawn. She was out and about before the yardman, even; while the air was still as cool and fresh as rainwater, and dew soaked the summer grasses. The sky was a pale, pristine blue, so high up and far away that looking up felt like falling. Swallows and house martins arrowed across it, adding their wheeling voices to the dawn chorus. Starling could smell the pea flowers and lavender in the kitchen garden; the damp stone of the farmhouse; the sweet greenery of the meadow; the familiar, reassuring stink of the muck heap. The chickens muttered at her as she reached beneath them for the eggs, but it was so early that not all had laid yet. She tipped the previous day’s kitchen slops into the sow’s trough and stayed awhile to stroke her piglets, which had skin as soft and pink as her own ears. But after all of that the shutters were still closed over their bedroom window, and Alice was therefore still abed, so Starling went to pester the horse in his stable. She could not be still.
After breakfast Starling chafed even more, as Alice washed her hair for her and combed it dry, tucking and fussing her red curls into their proper places. She put on her best white cotton dress, spat on a rag and rubbed her leather shoes into a semblance of cleanliness. Only then, when much primping and styling and beribboning was done, did they quit the house and set off towards the bridge. They paid the toll to cross and went up the lane towards Batheaston, and there waited in the shade of an ash tree because the climbing sun had grown hot. At the sound of a single set of hooves approaching, Alice’s hand on Starling’s shoulder squeezed; Starling looked up at her, grinning, as Jonathan Alleyn came into view, driving a small trap with a pretty spotted pony in the traces.
‘Good day, fair cousins,’ he called to them, with a wide smile. His dark hair had been pushed back by the breeze; there was a light tan on his skin from the bright spell of weather.
‘And to you, cousin,’ Alice replied, pointedly.
‘Why are you calling each other-’ Starling began to say, but got an elbow in her ribs from Alice. ‘Ouch! You didn’t have to! Where are we going?’ she asked, as Jonathan held out his hand to help them climb up in turn.
‘We’re going somewhere where nobody will recognise any one of us, or know that we are not three cousins, out together for the day. And… we’re going to a fair,’ said Jonathan. Starling gasped, and goggled incredulously at Alice, who was beaming. Bathampton had a May Day fair; it was a small event, where the village children danced ribbons around the pole, tea and ale were drunk and ferrets raced, and that was enough to make it a gala day for Starling. Jonathan clicked his tongue at the pony, and they moved off. ‘Bridget left on her visit as planned, then?’ he said.
‘She did, and will not be back until Tuesday next. And… Lord Faukes?’
‘He and my mother are in London this month and I find myself quite recovered from the slight head cold that prevented me accompanying them.’
Alice and Jonathan chattered and laughed as the spotted pony walked up and down the hills, and trotted along the flat, covering the eight miles north and east towards Corsham. Starling paid little mind to what they said, she was too busy staring around at the rolling hills, all bright and summer green; at the farmhouses and hamlets they passed; at the village of Box, with its stone cottages and pretty gardens. A good way back from the road in Box, she saw the dormer windows, gabled ends and tall chimney stacks of a very large, grand house, hidden by a screen of cypress trees.
‘See, there,’ said Jonathan, pointing to it. ‘There is my grandfather’s house, where I live.’
‘But I can hardly see it… can’t we drive up to it, just for a second?’ said Alice, eagerly. Jonathan shook his head.
‘I dare not… I’m sorry, Alice – I mean, cousin. The servants would surely see us, and wonder. And they cannot be relied upon to say nothing at a later date.’
‘Oh.’ Alice’s disappointment lasted seconds; soon she was merry and laughing once more. Starling looked back at the massive roof, and had the peculiar feeling that the house was watching her in return.
Corsham was a bigger town than Starling had ever seen before. It had an ancient high street between undulating stone houses, paved with buff slabs and cobbles. There were flags and flowers hanging from every shop front and lamp-post, and the scent of food was everywhere – hot pies, strawberries, fresh fudge and cinnamon buns. Starling’s mouth watered as she breathed it in; her stomach rumbled audibly, and Jonathan laughed.
‘Famished already, little coz? Fear not. I have a fistful of pennies with me, for this very purpose. You can eat whatever you wish.’
‘Anything I wish? Truly?’ Starling breathed.
‘Not more than one cone of fudge, and one of honeycomb, or you’ll be sick,’ Alice qualified. The high street and the square by the church were crowded with people and stalls; everything was for sale, from gloves to garden tools and corn dollies; jam to pig’s ears and liver pills.
From the church square, a long carriage drive led up to the towering, intricate walls of Corsham Court, a house so huge and elaborate that Starling could only stare at it in amazement.
‘Who lives there?’ she asked.
‘A man called Methuen. We dine there, sometimes,’ said Jonathan. At this, both Starling and Alice turned to stare at him in near disbelief. It suddenly seemed inappropriate that they should be in his company.
‘You have been invited to dine… in that house?’ Alice murmured. She’d gone a little pale, and Jonathan looked confused for a moment.
‘Oh – but have no fear, Miss Beckwith. Cousin Alice, I mean.’ He smiled reassuringly. ‘The family are not at home. There’s no chance of my being recognised.’ They walked on, and neither of the girls spoke. For a while, their Jonathan seemed a different creature entirely, and they were in awe of him, until he looked across and smiled his slightly bashful smile, and so went back to being the man they knew.