The Bear and the Thistle

PART ONE

SACRIFICE

CHAPTER ONE–BIRTH

Lochmorland Castle, Scotland

October 1917

Are you sure you’re not having twins?

Lady Cordelia Saywell-Stuart, the Duchess of Lochmorland, turned her gaze from the children playing around a massive oak tree and looked at her sister-in-law, Lady Harriet.

Doctor McLaren assures me I am having one baby; he can only hear one heartbeat.

Harriet snorted with derision.

He’s so old and deaf it’s a wonder he can hear anything with that ancient stethoscope.

One big baby, probably a boy, Cordelia said and sighed. The implications of that statement hung between them. If only wishing could make it so. Her third pregnancy had been a surprise, a delightful one, but she was thirty-three and she knew Harriet had decided the danger of a male heir was over, her son would be the next Duke.

Iona was a big baby, Harriet said, referring to the Duke and Duchess’s second daughter.

Wouldn’t think so to look at her now.

Two girls were chasing each other around the base of the tree. Lady Arabella was nearly ten and Lady Iona was seven. Their cousin, Harriet’s second son, Albert, was too young to walk and sat leaning against the tree, laughing and clapping. The girls were tall for their age, with long limbs and dusky skin. Bella had hints of her father’s auburn hair and Iona was the fairer of the two and a glorious redhead. Their laughter and the little cries of pretend fear rang across the lawn. Cordelia sighed again and wrapped the fur tighter around her shoulders. The sunlight was getting weaker as autumn took hold and it was time they all went inside.

But you really are huge, Harriet said and sipped her tea.

Sometimes the woman could be so infuriatingly tactless, Cordelia thought and tried yet again to put herself in Harriet’s place. Sir Maxwell Campbell-Browne, a self-made man, owned Browne’s, a vast Mayfair emporium in London and had been delighted when his wayward daughter married Angus, the second son of the Duke of Lochmorland. Harriet’s new social position would be good for business. Her rich friends needed to shop somewhere, even if they were used to selecting their clothes in the privacy of their huge homes. He’d decorated a special salon on the third floor and brought in the latest fashions from rising star designers in Paris and New York. To compliment the gowns and daywear, he sold the very best of cosmetics, hats, jewellery and footwear. The dowdy grand ladies from the country houses may stick rigidly to the floor-length hemlines, but the city women wanted to shimmer like the goddesses in the silent movies.

But the marriage had been a disaster. The seventh Duke was appalled that his second son had married into trade and the more Harriet was snubbed, the more demanding she became. Angus was too fond of gambling and saw his wife as a ready supplier of cash. By far the best thing to come from it were the two boys. Nine months ago her husband had died in a fall from a horse because he’d been drinking and that wasn’t Harriet’s fault, but Eddie, now the eighth Duke, had been so good to her, paid off his brother’s gambling debts and invited the family to live in the Lodge.

Thank you, I’m almost full term.

Harriet looked up.

Have you heard from Eddie lately?

Cordelia felt another twinge of irritation. Why did she want to know? Was her brother-in-law on the front lines? Would that make her happy?

Last letter I had he was in Paris and quite enjoying himself, I think. Lots of card games and champagne. He seems to think the war will end sometime next year.

I hope he’s right. If the Germans break through and take Paris I wouldn’t want to be there.

They won’t, they haven’t looked like getting that far since 1914. Don’t be a pessimist, Harriet, our job is to keep everyone’s spirits up and believe that victory is coming.

Harriet shook her head.

Try telling that to my cook. She and her husband had a telegram last week, they’ve lost both sons now, Frank at the Somme and now Herbert at Passchendaele. Apparently, the Western Front is just hideous, all stinking mud and blood.

Cordelia experienced a sudden desire to slap her sharp-featured sister-in-law across the face. Harriet seemed to want to repay Eddie by wishing him dead. Cordelia understood why. The Lodge was perfectly comfortable and had six bedrooms, two parlours and a beautiful garden. Harriet had a cook, a chauffeur, a housekeeper, a nanny for the boys and a personal maid, all paid for by her generous brother-in-law.

But the Lodge wasn’t Lochmorland Castle. The magnificent stone edifice behind her had been her home since she’d married the Duke when she was twenty and he was twenty-five. Her father was an English Earl and she’d grown up in a stately home with domestic staff. But her beginnings were not what one might expect of a Duchess. Her father owned a sugar plantation in Jamaica and it had made him a wealthy man. When his wife died in childbirth, and his baby son three days later, he had decided to take a ship out to the Caribbean and see his property for himself. He’d stayed for over a year and some months after his return the daughter of one of the main plantation housekeepers had turned up on his doorstep in Derbyshire.

She was called Omnira and she was a biracial woman, her mother was Jamaican and her father was a white foreman on the plantation. She had an angelic face and a caring nature that had given him much comfort. She was also about seven months pregnant. He didn’t doubt that the baby was his and when she gave birth to a girl, he reluctantly understood that his lover wanted to return to her home. But her decision would cost her the child, the Earl would keep his daughter.

Cordelia had never even been to Scotland, but the lanky Scotsman, with an English accent and dark auburn hair, had swept her off her feet with his kind, gentle ways. No matter what was troubling her he could always make her laugh.

At the start it hadn’t been easy to fit into the ranks of Scottish nobility. His friends hadn’t expected his bride to have skin the colour of caramel, with black flowing tresses that had to be tamed and eyes the same colour as her paternal grandmother, a perfect clear azure blue. Edward was extremely protective of her and the people in their social circle learned very quickly that gossip would not be tolerated.

He’d been the Duke for two years when they married, and he had grand plans for the castle. The Duchy owned two vast textile mills in Lancashire and the industrial revolution had seen the annual income more than triple. People needed food so the beef cattle on the estate farm were as productive as the fine sheep’s wool which was used now to make military uniforms. To top it off the estate had a distillery that produced some of the finest single malt whisky in Scotland. The kitchen garden grew most of their vegetables and the orchard was bursting with fruit, wild salmon ran in the river and the land gave them beef, lamb, venison, pheasant and grouse.

Over the years they’d restored the castle where it needed it, so it was once again full of intricately carved wood, Italian marble, vibrant tapestries and resplendent silk wallpaper. On the outside crumbling masonry had been replaced and the roof reslated.

Over seven Dukes and three hundred years the family had gathered Chippendale and Louis X1V furniture and an extensive collection of European art, from a Raphael to a Van Dyke to an 1863 Monet and an 1885 pastel on paper by Degas. The Duke had satisfied his fascination with the ancient world by buying several pieces of Roman and Greek sculpture and Egyptian artefacts. He was a careful buyer and pursued the provenance of every artefact diligently.

There were thirty-eight bedrooms and countless bathrooms, parlours, drawing rooms, dining rooms, a grand hall for balls and parties, three libraries, two nurseries, wonderfully modern kitchens, staff quarters, a marvellous marble staircase and a variety of outhouses, stables, fountains, glasshouses and a folly in the southwest garden.

And if she had another girl, it would all be left to Harriet’s eldest son, Bartholomew, who was four. Eddie had been about to make him Viscount of Islay, which signalled his place as heir, when war broke out and now, three years later, Cordelia was pregnant-

Mummy!

Arabella’s high-pitched voice roused her from her reverie. She smiled into the little girl’s anxious face.

Yes, darling. What is it?

Arabella pointed to the gravel driveway, some distance away.

There’s a man over there, he’s on a bicycle.

Harriet rose to her feet, her hand to her mouth.

Oh no! Please God, not a telegram.

Trust Harriet to over-dramatize any situation. Cordelia peered through the low hanging branches of the tree and across the lawn. Her heart felt as if it was leaping into her throat, but she wasn’t going to let Harriet see that. Very slowly she rose to her feet. Everything ached but she hid that as well.

Arabella started to run across the lawn towards the figure on the bicycle. When she reached him, he stopped peddling and she threw her arms around him. She knew him, Cordelia thought as she breathed out slowly and held onto the edge of the wicker table. Arabella pointed towards them and started to run back. He mounted the bicycle and peddled hard down the drive. Arabella beat him to the group.

It’s Toby, she gasped as she sucked air into her lungs.

Who? Harriet looked at Cordelia. Was there a flicker of disappointment? Cordelia was too relieved to care.

Tobias Clarke. He’s one of the estate boys, works in the garden. He enlisted in 1914. Do you remember him, Bella? The girl shook her head.

Not really, but he says he works here, and he’s come back to us, from the war.

He reached the edge of the lawn they were standing on, dismounted and walked over to Cordelia. He was in uniform, and she recognised the red and blue ribbon with a round silver medal hanging from it. The Distinguished Conduct Medal. He bowed from the neck.

Your Grace, he said. She held out her hand and he took it. Suddenly she remembered buying him an iced lolly at her first estate fair and how he used to leave bunches of her favourite flowers in her sitting room in the summer.

Toby! How wonderful to see you! You must come inside and have some tea and something to eat and tell me all about where you’ve been and what it was like.

He opened a pocket on his jacket and withdrew an envelope.

I would like that very much, Your Grace. But I mustn’t forget to give yer this.

He handed it to her. It was a bit dirty and a bit wrinkled, but she knew the hand immediately. The words To my Darling Cordelia leapt off the paper at her.

Have you seen him? she asked, looking up from the envelope to Toby.

Aye ma’am, I saw him last month.

She kept her voice as level as she could.

How is he?

Toby grinned at her.

He’s grand, Your Grace, and he told me about the bairn almost straightaway. Things like that are very important when ye’re….away from home.

Cordelia gathered the girls close to her and turned to Harriet, who was watching with an expression Cordelia couldn’t read. Suddenly her irritating sister-in-law didn’t matter anymore.

You must forgive me my dear, but I want to spend some time with Tobias and read Eddie’s letter and share it with the girls. We’ll see you very soon.

With that she turned her back and ushered the girls and the solider towards the huge front door of the castle.

Very good said Harriet quietly. It’s another girl, she said to herself as she carried Albert and walked towards the driveway down to the Lodge.

She flicked her eyes open. It was dark. The bed was warm, but the room was cold. The fire in the grate had gone out. Had she felt that pain or had she dreamed it? She dreamt a lot about pain, labour and the result, holding her baby. More than anything she wished that Eddie was here. He’d go downstairs and wait in one of the libraries or his study, pretend to read a newspaper and drink real brandy, and when it was over, he’d rush up the stairs to see her and the new-born. His expression showed not the slightest disappointment, he had stared with an awe-struck wonder at both of his daughters and kissed her so tenderly and told her what a marvellous job she had done. But he wasn’t here, he was in a foreign country fighting a battle against the Kaiser. But she did have Beryl, her lady’s maid.

Beryl had come north with her when she’d been an innocent young bride and had been there for her every day since. She was the one who’d encouraged her charge to read and discover Cordelia was the youngest daughter of King Lear in Shakespeare’s play, loyal to her father to the end. Beryl had giggled with Cordelia while she put her mistress’s soft black locks up into intricate patterns and taught her to make the most of her cheek bones and the heart shape of her face and how to wear the wonderful jewellery she had inherited from a woman who wasn’t her biological mother. When she’d fallen in love, Beryl was the one who convinced her that although marriage invariably meant children, childbirth did not mean death, even if she had seen the grief her father felt long after the loss of his wife.

But in this cold bed, alone, she felt herself in the grip of premonition. Her unspoken role in her Scottish life had been to have a son. So far, she hadn’t been able to deliver. Why would this be any different? At what point would her sister-in-law press home her advantage and install her son, Barty as the heir? Cordelia and her daughters would be left to manage in The Lodge, if she was lucky. She couldn’t help a shiver and sank back into reassuring thoughts about Beryl.

Beryl had told His Grace that in mythology Cordelia was a goddess of spring and summer flowers and that her name translated to ‘heart of the sea’, she was the daughter of a sea goddess from an island far away. He’d bought her a striking aquamarine and diamond necklace to celebrate her azure eyes-

Ahhh!

She definitely felt that one. A sensation she knew, like someone had kicked her in the lower back. Before she could draw breath, Beryl was beside her. Beryl had been sleeping on a day bed in Cordelia’s dressing room for the last few nights, so she would be handy.

Now, now, there you go.

She turned on the electric light and carried some pillows to the bed. Relief flooded Cordelia as the gentle hands took her shoulders and the plump face beamed down at her.

Let’s get you sitting up a bit more. I’ll time the contractions and I’ll get Daisy to make you a nice cup of tea.

She took a strip of cotton and tied up the mass of black curls that tumbled everywhere. Cordelia lay on the sea of pillows and watched Beryl’s quick and efficient movements. She attached sheets to either bed post so Cordelia would have something to pull on when the pain set in later. Then she got a razor, cream and some warm water and shaved and cleaned the area between her mistress’s thighs and used a one percent Lysol mixture to make sure it was disinfected. She brought out the labour clothes, a short undershirt, a loose blouse and a petticoat, warm stockings to Cordelia’s knees and slippers on her feet and helped her to dress. Daisy was standing by the curtains unsure what to do next.

Daisy, light the fire, there’s a good girl, and get some more towels.

Cordelia was sipping her second cup of tea between contractions that were coming every ten minutes and getting stronger when Dr McLaren knocked.

Come in, Beryl called out in her calm and welcoming way.

He stood just inside the door and bowed his head.

You Grace, he said.

Beryl fluffed a huge white towel and put it underneath Cordelia.

Enough of that, Fraser, you’ve been through this twice with this lass and we don’t have time for formalities, Beryl said firmly.

He crossed the room to the bed. Cordelia’s face had a slick of sweat on it and her eyes stared back at him, the pupils almost entirely covering the iris. He opened his bag and got out his stethoscope, then took her wrist between his fingers and felt for her pulse.

How are yer, dear girl? he asked

Why did men ask such ridiculous questions? she wondered vaguely as she screwed up her face and grasped his hand.

In pain! And very…ahhh!….glad to see you.

He smiled.

Let me just have a wee listen and then we’ll address the pain.

He put the diaphragm onto her extended belly, the earpieces in his ears and listened. A frown crossed his elderly face. He moved the diaphragm around and listened in different places, then he dropped the stethoscope, so it dangled from his neck and used his hands to gently feel all around her stomach. Finally, he straightened. His expression was kind when he looked at Cordelia, but Beryl had seen a flash of something, anxiety, concern, fear?

All is well. Baby’s head is down. Let’s take yer blood pressure now, shall we?

He took the sphygmomameter from his battered bag and put the strap around her arm, pumped the blub and listened to the arterial blood flow through her body. Another contraction hit Cordelia and she leaned forward and screamed, both hands now clutching the sheets tied to the bed posts.

Ahhhh! Dear Lord, that hurts!

Dr McLaren turned towards Beryl.

Where are the girls, Beryl?

Both awake now and with nanny. Arabella has been through this before and she is reassuring Iona that all will be well, and Mummy will be fine, and they’ll have a new baby tomorrow.

He nodded and turned back to Cordelia.

Ye’re a fit, healthy girl, Cordelia, no reason why yer shouldn’t have another relatively straight forward birth. Yer blood pressure is normal and there’s a good strong heartbeat.

Cordelia wiped her face with the damp towel Beryl had given her.

Good. Now, let’s talk about pain!

I have nitrous oxide-

If Eddie was here, I’d have that …but he’s not, so if chloroform is good enough for Old Queen Vic, its good…enough for me. Lady Melva says you delivered five of her eight children with it. Oh God! Ahhhh!

He hesitated. Very well, but lightly. I’m going to need yer alert for the birth. If we need to go to nitrous oxide, we can.

He took a contraption of valves, rubber tubbing, two glass bottles and a mask from his bag and put it down on the bedside table. Cordelia was wracked by another contraction, the longest and most painful yet.

Do yer want to know how it works? McLaren asked.

She shook her head violently.

You have no idea how little I want to know. Just make it do its job.

McLaren looked over at Beryl.

I need cold water and warm water.

Beryl was eyeing the jumble of tubes, boxes and flasks suspiciously. Dr McLaren shook his head at her.

It looks a bit complicated but it’s not. It’s all about vapour, ether and chloroform, and it means either she or I can control the flow.

Six hours later the baby was crowning. Cordelia was awake but exhausted and in a definite state of altered consciousness. Her pain was well controlled and when she took a deep inhale into the mask and turned her eyes on the doctor, she reached up and stroked his face.

Lovely man, she murmured.

Thank yer. Now we’re getting to the last part, Cordelia, the work part. Can yer hear me? Cordelia nodded her head.

I need to…what’s it called again? Push!

Indeed, yer do, but when I tell yer. I can see a patch of red hair. At the next contraction I want yer to pant, breathe out, until I tell yer to push. Then yer need to put yer chin on yer chest and push down as hard as yer can. Hang on to the sheets and give it everything yer’ve got. Do it for Eddie. Cordelia sat up and grabbed the sheets in each hand.

Okay, good lass, pant, pant, pant…and PUSH.

She strained till the end of the contraction and then slumped back onto the pillows. Beryl mopped the sweat off her forehead.

Here we go again…pant, pant pant….and PUSH. And another one, pant, pant, pant.

The baby’s head popped out, quickly followed by shoulders, torso and legs. Beryl descended on it with a towel to pat it dry and keep it safe.

What is it? the mixture of emotion in Cordelia’s raspy voice filled the room. Beryl went to her and grasped her hand. Before she could speak a very annoyed baby opened its lungs and bawled.

It’s a boy, Your Grace. He’s a fine bonny boy.

Beryl bent to kiss her charge on the cheek, but Cordelia pushed her away, her hands fluttering like a butterfly’s wing.

Fraser! Help! she called out, a confused panic in the cry. He was there instantly.

Talk to me Cordelia, what are yer feeling? Are yer bleeding? Does it feel like a warm gush? Where’s the pain?

NO! I need to push again. I have to push. Why?

Dr McLaren went to the other end of the bed.

Sit up again Cordelia, pant with me, pant, pant, pant and PUSH.

No, it can’t be, Beryl exclaimed into the stunned room. McLaren motioned for her to join him. There was a second head. Beryl covered her mouth with her hand. The doctor looked back into Cordelia’s dazed expression.

Here it is, the head. Black hair this time, now good lass, one more push…pant, pant, pant and….here he is.

The larger baby slipped into his hands and Beryl stood duty again with a fresh towel. Both babies broke into a chorus of crying.

Beryl!’ Cordelia called out, what’s…how many?"

Beryl shook her head at the doctor who was examining the Duchess. He straightened up.

No more, just the placentas to come.

Beryl moved to put her arm across Cordelia’s soaked shirt and caressed her face, pushing loose stands of hair away and mopping up the sweat.

You’ve done it my girl, her voice was a gentle croon, not only have you given Eddie a son and heir, but you’ve given him two. Twin boys. An heir and a spare in one pregnancy. And they both have a fine set of lungs.

Dr McLaren looked up and straight into her eyes.

Aye lassie, yer have indeed. They’ll be drinking the bairns’ health in The Red Deer. The Duke’ll be the hero of the night.

As the reality of Beryl’s words sank in Cordelia closed her eyes and let the sweet sense of release from months of tension run up and down her drained body like an electrical current. Oh, how she wished Eddie was there, how she wanted to see the tears of happiness run down his handsome face. She opened her eyes.

Make sure there’s a tab at The Deer, Fraser, no one buys a drink in Lochmorland tonight, and that’s what Eddie would want.

Thank yer, Ma’am.

She needed rest so badly and yet one thought was swirling in and out of her exhausted delight. Harriet. Who was going to tell Harriet?

Daisy Clarke was skipping as she rounded the corner and through the grand bronze entrance gates. She’d been allowed to go home and tell her parents and her brother the wonderful news. She knew what it meant to them all, their jobs were secure, for life. Hopefully the Duke would come home and live a long life and the eldest of the twins would be a grown man when he inherited the estate. But even if he never came back, Her Grace, the kind and compassionate woman whom Daisy loved so much, would see to it that the new Duke understood his obligations to the people who worked for him. Two wonderful things had happened in Daisy’s world, first her brother Toby had come home from the war and now the Duchess had had not one, but two, boys! It was enough to make her want to burst into song.

And now she was off to see her best friend, Lucy, who was the personal maid to Lady Harriet in the Lodge, on her way back to the ‘big house" as they all called the Castle, where she lived. She didn’t want to see Lady Harriet, she wanted to see Lucy and then Lucy could break the news. She stopped at the gate to the garden path and patted down her cap, straightened her white apron and brushed some dirt from her shiny black boots, then walked to the front door. Lucy opened it, as Daisy knew she would.

Daisy! Any news? Has she had the bairn?

Lucy hadn’t given her time to put her finger to her lips. Surely Lucy knew she wouldn’t be there if she didn’t have news?

Ssssh! I came by to tell ye-

Lucy? The stern question came from the nearest parlour. Both girls turned towards the sound.

Lucy? Who is it? Is there news?

Harriet came to the parlour door and saw Daisy standing on the step.

It’s Daisy, ma’am, Lucy said, with a distinct lack of enthusiasm creeping into her voice.

Come inside girl. If you have news, come inside and tell us.

Daisy gave an inward sigh and followed Lucy into the parlour. It was about half the size of the smallest one at the big house but beautifully furnished. Lady Harriet walked to the windows and turned back to face her. Daisy could see the handkerchief she was twisting between her hands was tightly knotted. And her knuckles were white. Her grey eyes were filled with anguish, as if silently pleading for the news she craved. But she stood with a straight back and her chin tipped up. Daisy gave a little bob, not the kind of curtsey she would give to her mistress, but enough.

Her Grace…um…went into labour during the night, Daisy said, her voice barely above a whisper.

And? Harriet’s tone was shrill with impatience and anxiety. Daisy looked down at her shoes. There was no point in lying, the truth would come out soon enough, but how she wished she could be anywhere else at that moment. And she felt an almost irrepressible urge to smile.

Speak up, stop mumbling!

I’m sure Her Grace will send Mr Robertson down to yer with a note-

"I don’t want to wait for the damn glorified butler, or whatever he calls himself, you silly girl. I want to know now. What did she have?" Daisy took a deep breath.

Twins my lady, she has twin boys. Two bairns, both healthy and strong.

Harriet turned to the window and said nothing. Lucy had slapped her hand over her mouth so she wouldn’t let out a squeal. The tension in the room was suffocating. Daisy knew she had to get out of there.

And they are ever so bonny, she said, trying not to sound defensive but aware that her joy was becoming more obvious. Harriet held up one hand but didn’t turn around.

GO! You can go now….and give my best wishes to Her Grace.

Her voice trailed away at the end. Daisy glanced at Lucy who nodded, so she turned on her heel and ran out of the room, through the still open front door, down the path and through the gateway. Oh, poor Lucy! As she reached the road, she heard an inhuman roar, the rage and devastation of a caged creature flailing against fate, accompanied by the shattering of much glass. It filled her with such terror she sprinted all the way up the drive.

When she got back to the castle Daisy reported what she’d heard to the housekeeper.

Have yer told anyone else?

No, Mrs Robertson, just yerself.

Good lassie. Keep it that way, don’t say a word, not to Cook or any of the footmen or maids. Not even to yer brother. This stays between us, do yer understand?

Daisy nodded emphatically.

Oh aye, I do. Not another soul, as God is my witness.

Good lass, if yer keep yer eyes open and yer mouth shut yer’ll go a long way in this house. Now, away with yer, go upstairs and have a hot bath. Beryl tells me yer were a great help to her, yer must be fair wabbit, so have a bath and a sleep. Then come back down and Cook’ll make yer something tasty.

Thank yer, Mrs Robertson.

Lady Harriet looked along the line of people in front of her. They had all served her well but none of them were loyal to her, they belonged to her brother-in-law and his damn coloured wife. She’d had enough of the unending rolling hills, the bitterly cold wind and the lack of anyone remotely interesting. Staying had been a necessity for Barty’s sake but that dream was over now. She was going back to London but she sure as hell wasn’t going to take the train, so she’d need Bruce, the chauffer, but she wouldn’t keep him on as he was too old to be of any use to her father, he could catch the train back. And the nanny would be useful with the boys until they got settled in their new home, then she could choose one she could boss more. She cleared her throat.

The furniture that belonged to my husband has all been moved into the larger parlour. There is a truck from my father’s department store arriving tomorrow morning and it will take that furniture and two large trunks of my clothes, one trunk of the boys’ clothing and the nursery furniture to London. Everything else will stay in the house.

There was a small murmur along the line of people, she could see their anxiety.

Bruce, you will drive us to London in the Rolls and then get the train back, the Rolls stays with me. Mrs Simms you will accompany us as the boys’ nanny until we decide what to do with them. I suspect Father will want them to go to boarding school, she paused and then took a breath, "the rest of you, Lucy, Bruce, Mrs Caulfield and Mrs Trent, will be reabsorbed into the staff at the castle. Lucy, you will go back to being a housemaid. Mrs Caulfield, you will be under the instructions of the redoubtable Cook and she will call you Caulfield. Bruce, you will be in one of His Grace’s chauffeur pools. Mrs Trent, you will go wherever Mrs Robertson sees fit to send you and you will, undoubtedly, have to get used to being called Trent again.

I realise you may see this as a demotion, but you will be working back at the Castle and that is an envious job to hold. I’ve had enough of Scotland, there is nothing left for me, Barty or Albert here. We shall start again in London."

None of them moved. They had expected a reaction from her, but not this. She could see that they were stunned, and the best course of action was to keep them busy.

Now, Mrs Caulfield, you must start to pack up the kitchen. Mrs Trent, I want to take the contents of the wine cellar, all bought by my husband, see that it is packed carefully please. And add a dozen bottles of the estate’s whisky for my Father. Bruce, I want the car polished and ready for the journey. Mrs Simms, pack up the nursey and make sure the boys understand that we are going on an adventure. Lucy, come with me, we have to go through the clothes and decide what comes with me and what goes on the truck.

The next morning Cordelia was sitting up in her bed with Beryl and the twins. She was wearing a silk nightgown and dressing gown, no make-up and with her hair down. In truth, she had looked forward to her postpartum confinement, she could rest and read, and drink nourishing hot drinks and spend time with her baby boys. She stroked the little face beneath the mop of red hair with her finger and he turned towards her.

I had a letter from Eddie when I got past three months’ pregnant, and he’d been gone for a fortnight. I’d told him to think about names and he wrote if the baby was a boy, he would like him to be called Edward Robert Olwen.

Beryl looked up from the other twin who lay sleeping in her arms.

Olwen?

His mother had Welsh blood. Her great-great grandfather was a Welsh prince. Generations of Eddies were their mother’s favourite children, and Iona used to call him Little Eddie her Prince. His father was Big Eddie. My Eddie was devastated when she died. He was at boarding school, Eton, and he never got to say goodbye. But we called Iona after her. So, I thought we would call this one Little Eddie as a tribute to her.

And the Robert, I take it that’s a family name too? Beryl asked.

Cordelia shifted herself into a more comfortable position. Her breasts were feeling sore. It