In Dorothy's eyes, Molly Johnson had one purpose in life: to ingratiate herself within the Keyt household. Dorothy eavesdropped, learning everything she could about the landlord's daughter. Elizabeth liked her, and as Lady Keyt's distrust evaporated, she heaped privileges upon her new maid. The servants, particularly the men, openly admired her.

Mrs Wright was an exception, hardly bothering to conceal her dislike. 'Airs above her station, that one! She'll learn the hard way, she will.'

Her father's feelings were more difficult to discern, for though he had employed Miss Johnson, he seemed indifferent to the sound of her name.

Early one morning, Ruth knocked on Dorothy's door. 'Are you dressed, miss? Your father is asking for you in the hall.'

Dorothy went downstairs and found her father in his riding clothes. 'Dorothy, will you come with me to the coach house? I have something to show you.'

Lorenzo appeared leading a bright bay mare.

'This is Ophelia's half-sister. I thought you might want her. She's rather like Ophelia, don't you think?' Her father sounded uncomfortable, but when Dorothy saw the mare nothing else mattered. She put out her hand and the filly pushed her nose towards her.

'Thank you, Father, thank you,' she said, her arms already clasped around the horse's neck.

'Ride again. It'll do you good,' he said. 'Now, I have to be at my constituency this afternoon. I must be off.'

Dorothy watched him canter away. She wanted to trust him, to give him affection, but she remained wary. Her father was too unpredictable.

She named the mare Fidelia, and from that day, a happy new ritual began. At eleven o'clock each morning, her unruly hair tied beneath her veil, she would wait impatiently at the mounting block. When Lorenzo arrived with the horses, his handsome face smiling, her heart lifted. As they cantered through the pasture, she would laugh in exhilaration, for Fidelia proved a worthy successor to Ophelia. As they ambled through the woods, letting the horses cool, she felt contented. She learnt of Lorenzo's background: of his mother, an idealistic Italian girl, who was romanced by an English valet on Sir William's grand tour of Italy. He told her stories of his mother's journey to England with the Keyt entourage, her subsequent misery and return to her own country, taking her young son with her. She heard of the sixteen-year-old boy's courageous decision to return to England, his love of horses, and his apprenticeship as the Keyt coachman. She learnt of his unfailing loyalty to her father and his sense of accountability.

'I should have checked the bolts,' he said. 'Your father has never blamed me for the accident, but if only I had checked the boltsa.a.a.'

He told her of his half-brothers and sister and his cousins, all living and working on the farm near Florence, and his dreams of one day returning there. 'In September, when the grapes are picked,' Lorenzo said, his voice soft with memories, 'we celebrate the vendemmia, the harvest. In October, the olives are gathered and the world is good.' Dorothy imagined him at ease amongst his own people. Occasionally her imagination went further.

The seasons moved on, and Dorothy's life gained equilibrium. She rode with Lorenzo (the hour she most looked forward to), took dancing lessons once a week, and continued with her schooling. She made a conscious endeavour to control her emotions. With considerable personal effort, a tactical understanding formed between herself and Miss Johnson: they avoided each other.

One morning, running to the landing with a feather she had found, Dorothy noticed Lizzie hiding her sketch book beneath her blanket. 'Lizzie, I found this in the woods and thought you would like it. Why have you put your pad away? I want to see.'

'You can't,' her sister said, a little abruptly, 'but thank you, it's a gorgeous feather. I shall use it for my painting tomorrow.'

Although Elizabeth smiled, her tone concerned Dorothy. She found her mother in her sitting room writing letters. 'There's something wrong with Lizzie,' Dorothy said anxiously.

'Of course there is, Dotty,' her mother said, putting down her pen. 'She can't do any of the things you can. We all think Lizzie is all right because we believe she accepts her fate, but her heart is more troubled than you think.'

Dorothy left the room, chiding herself for her blindness. She vowed to be a better sister, and for a good while, she was.

15.

Thomas had been away for four months when the post boy arrived at Norton, carrying a packet of letters. 'I've brought these myself, miss. The postmistress is busy, and it's on my way home.'

Dorothy thanked the boy and gave him a generous tip, taking the packet into the house. Two letters were for her father, but at the bottom of the pile were three letters tied together with string. She recognized the script instantly. After delivering her father's post she ran upstairs to her room and untied them. On top there was a letter from Thomas to her mother, then one to herself. The last was a letter to Molly. With shaking hands Dorothy looked at the envelope. After a moment's hesitation she broke the seal.

Dearest Molly, I hope I may call you that.

Firstly, may I say that you have occupied my mind. I thought of you on the long journey to Windsor, that last look a your dear face smiling in the window a and I continue to think of you at the most odd moments. I will hear your laughter whilst translating Latin texts, or in the college chapel in the middle of the Nunc Dimittis. I believe there must be a name for my foolish fantasies.

My first few weeks here were lonely and frightening, but at least the worst is over. They have a ritual here called 'Tossing the Blanket'. Its sole purpose is to terrify and torture the new boys. I survived it, but only just, and indeed, I have survived my housemaster, Mr Kirkpatrick, who is as cruel as any man can be. There are ten boys in my dormitory, and each evening at eight o'clock we are locked into this bleak comfortless place, and left in the merciless hands of our tormentors a boys not much older than ourselves.

The misery may sound relentless, but that would be wrong. I have made my first friend: his name is Gilbert Paxton-Hooper. He passed me a note in our first lesson together. 'We will be friends, ignore the bullies.' You can imagine what that meant to me. He is bright and artistic, with exuberant dark curls.

My personal tutor is as kind as Kirkpatrick is cruel, so it isn't all bad. One day I shall inscribe my name in the ancient desks as others have done before me, and I shall come home.

I hope you will wait for me, Molly, and that these simple words haven't been too tedious.

Always, Thomas Dorothy balled the letter within her fist. She clutched her sides, all of her resentment and frustration welling over. She sank to the floor, panting in fury. Never in her life had she known such jealousy. Molly Johnson had stolen her brother.

When she felt she could stand she walked to the fire. She smoothed the creases in the letter and held it over the grate. The edges curled, slowly smouldering, until at last the flames consumed it. It gave her satisfaction to watch the words turn to ash and fall.

Calling for the dogs she ran outside. They trotted after her through the gate and into the wilderness beyond. A blustery wind pulled at the trees around her, and as the branches creaked and groaned above her, she drove herself up the hill, the dogs barking in excitement. The exertion calmed her, and her anger dissipated. By the time she reached home and returned to her bedroom, only despair remained. She sank into the armchair and with great difficulty read her letter.

Darling Dorothy, I know it has been a while since I said goodbye. Forgive me. Your letters have kept me going when school has been intolerable. You have a talent for bringing Norton to life.

Lizzie tells me you have a new horse, a gift from our father? I am glad, for you must have resolved your differences. Do you think he will ever tolerate his unconventional son?

Has Molly Johnson settled in well? I hope you like her a little better, for I have sincere hopes she could become your friend. Though she is in service, she is also a companion to our dearest sister. Try not to be hostile, and remember, while she is in our home, it is our duty to make her welcome.

Dorothy put the letter down. It was as if Thomas were beside her, reading her mind. Picking up the letter again, she skimmed the details of his initial miseries, which she had already read.

I am moving in exalted circles. A new friend, Horace Walpole, is the son of our current first lord of the treasury. I smile when I imagine our grandmother's delight at my social elevation. He is more eccentric than your brother. He writes sonnets, and his rhymes are more fantastic. Can you imagine the irony? Father hoped I would be made into a 'man' and I am encouraged to write poetry! I have actually received commissions of a romantic nature, though as the author I am required to remain anonymous. Whilst my pockets remain heavy with change I have no cause for complaint.

We have something else in common: Walpole despises physical exercise and any sport which involves killing one of God's creatures. At last, I am not alone! Anyway, sister, I have run out of time. Know that on my first night, your violets were my only source of consolation. They remain in my prayer book, and the scent, though diminishing, reminds me of you.

Keep well, and keep the sordid details of this letter to yourself. Mama would be horrified. Please write to me with your news, and I apologize if I have lectured you in any way, it's only with the best intentions.

Send my regards to Lorenzo.

Yours always, Your devoted brother, Thomas She tucked the letter into the pocket of her pinafore. He had lied. The violets were not his only source of consolation a Molly had seen to that.

She went downstairs, and seeing Lizzie alone in her usual window, she sat down beside her and took the letter from her pocket. 'From Thomas?' her sister asked eagerly.

'Yes, shall I read it to you?'

'Please, Dotty. I long for Thomas's letters.'

When she had finished, Elizabeth took her hand. 'You mustn't be envious, little one. He's a boy. Maybe one day things will change and girls will go to school, but for now we have to accept our lives as they are.' Once again her sister surprised her. It seemed that both of Dorothy's siblings recognized her inner torment.

'Elizabeth, am I a bad person?'

'Of course you aren't,' she laughed. 'But jealousy can eat into your soul. I love you with all my heart, but life is what you make of it. Don't let the things you don't like about yourself destroy you.'

Dorothy smiled wryly. Fortunately her sister hadn't witnessed the scene in her bedroom, and she didn't suspect any other reasons for her jealousy.

16.

Molly's honeymoon with Norton lasted for less than three years, but it was long enough to make friends and establish herself within the household. Then, two separate events hastened her undoing: Sir William gave up his constituency in Warwick, and Thomas returned home a year earlier than expected, having passed his final exams.

Sir William's manner changed slowly a a smile, a lingering glance a but with each day Molly's isolation grew. If Sir William were to make an advance, would her new friends believe her? Would Annie and Ruth accept her story? She doubted it, for like a cloud, trust breaks in a storm. Never mind Dorothy, with her knowing looks a clever Dorothy, who watched and waited a or Mrs Wright, who would take out her innards with a spoon.

The worrisome scenarios she had formed in her head remained there and were never given voice. She sat with Elizabeth, her head bent to her sewing, her mind a thousand miles away.

'Are you all right, Molly? You look troubled.'

Looking into her sweet face, she longed to confide. 'I'm fine,' she said. 'It's only a headache.'

As Christmas approached, a fever of anticipation coursed through the household. Only Sir William shared none of the good humour. His eyes followed Molly relentlessly. She began locking her door at night. Fear shadowed her.

On the night of the servants' party, the tenth of December, she had finished her work and was closing the door to her mistress's bedroom. 'And Molly? No need to hurry in the morning. Enjoy yourself.'

'Thank you, milady. Goodnight.'

She leant against the wall, resting her tired shoulders. She smoothed the folds of her beautiful mint gown, the silk rustling beneath her fingers. It was mended now, the seams invisible, the bodice altered, and where the hooks were fastened she had sewn her own initials. She straightened, looked this way and that. The landing was clear; no one loitered in the shadows. But as she hurried to the stairs, a hand grabbed her in the darkness.

She ducked and tried to get away, but he held onto her skirt. She could hear the silk rip as it tore between his fingers. She screamed, but he caught her, covering her mouth. 'Be quiet, I only wish to talk to you. Why do you avoid me?'

'I don't, sir. Please let me go.'

'But you do. Are you saving yourself for someone else? My son, perhaps?'

'No, sir, please let me go. There's no one, sir.'

He leant towards her, his words slurred. She smelt the whisky upon his breath. 'All lies from your pretty lips. Do you know the punishment for lying? Dismissal. Shame on your family.'

She was trapped: the humiliation of disgrace or of compliance. A black cloud exploded in her head. She punched at his chest, clawed at his face. 'Leave me alone! Your wife will hear. For pity's sake, let me go!'

He pinned her arms. Tears poured down her cheeks as he dragged her through his bedroom door. 'You're not getting away from me this time.'

He slapped her face. She staggered, holding her ringing ears. He grabbed her hair, pulling her head backwards. His mouth crushed hers. His hands tore at her clothes. Her breasts slipped free of the last restraining fragments of silk, and for a moment he stopped and cupped them in his hands. 'Molly, you are driving me mad,' he whispered. Thrusting his knee into her groin, he threw her onto the bed, skirts pulled upwards, hands between her legs, pushing, forcing, invading.

He fumbled at his breeches. She closed her eyes and turned her face away as he mounted her. The pain ripped through her body, and she could smell his alcohol-pungent sweat, could feel the rough bristles on his cheeks as he struggled to hold her down, could hear his panting as he forced his way further between her thighs. She prayed for unconsciousness, but it didn't come, only a sickening shuddering as he pushed himself violently into her. Then it was over, and he fell heavily forward, his weight crushing her chest.

She pushed him from her and climbed from the bed. Taking the towel from the washstand she rubbed at the blood on her legs, and covering her body with the remains of her dress, she stumbled from the room.

Sir William woke to a pounding head and a heavy heart. He had broken every code of honour. He had betrayed his family. He had violated a young girl who was under his protection, and whose exuberance brought nothing but pleasure to those around her. Had he found the courage to kill himself at that moment, he would have done so, but now he accepted cowardice as yet another of his vices.

An empty bottle lay on the floor beside him a whisky, hazel, the colour of her eyes. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he threw it against the fireplace, where it shattered. He rose to his knees and crawled across the broken glass, hoping the shards would carve his corrupted flesh.

17.

When she was twelve, Molly Johnson had sat in church with her mother while they listened to the Very Reverend Charles Pearson, Dean of Warwick, deliver his sermon. 'And God said: If a man find a damsel that is a virgin, which is not betrothed, and lay hold on her, and lie with her, and they be found, then the man that lay with her shall give unto the damsel's father fifty shekels of silver.' When she had questioned the validity of the sermon, her mother had been unable to reassure her.

Now she remembered this. If these were God's words, then God was a man no better than all the rest. She stared at the ceiling, but no sleep came. She raised herself up, took off her ruined dress, and walked to the mirror. Dead eyes stared back. She touched her bruised thighs, her swollen mouth, and as she hid the dress at the back of the cupboard, a small laugh escaped her lips. You thought you could have it all, but you have certainly paid the price.

She took Thomas's poem from beneath her pillow, tore it in half and threw it away. She lay down again, closed her eyes and slept restlessly, a lonely figure curled on an iron bed. In her dream Thomas was waiting for her. His arms were open, and she ran towards him, but when she reached him, Sir William stood before her instead. 'You'll never be free,' he said.

In the morning she retrieved the torn paper and replaced the two halves beneath her pillow. She washed her body, scrubbing her thighs with a brush until her skin chafed. Still she felt soiled, for the stain lay deep.

'Are you all right, Molly? You look sick,' Ruth asked, full of concern.

'Yes, a little tired, that's all.'

'Lord,' Ruth said to Annie, 'she's been having it with someone; I'd stake my life on it. Do you think it's our Mr Whitstone? He's lusted after her for weeks, so he has.'

By the morning's end, all the downstairs staff were talking.

Mrs Wright stood before Molly triumphantly; the bloodied sheet a trophy in her arms.

'Found this on the master's bed. When the mistress finds out, you'll see what happens, my girl. It's the workhouse for you! What do you think of pretty Molly now, Mr Whitstone?'

Dorothy was on an errand for her mother when she heard the whispering.

She pushed open the swing door and was halfway down the passage when she heard hushed and excited voices coming from the scullery. Dorothy couldn't make out the words, and when she entered the room, the talking stopped.

'Please, may I have some rose water?' she asked Mrs Wright.

'Yes, Miss Dorothy. I'll get you some immediately.'

When Dorothy retreated down the passage she wondered what had caused such fuss. Mrs Wright's sharp eyes had looked flustered, and her prompt response was unusual.

She forgot about it upon seeing a letter on the hall table. It was from Thomas, his final letter from school. On this occasion, hers was the only letter. She took it to her bedroom and shut the door.

Darling Dotty, I am not sure whether you will receive this letter or your brother first. Either way I am writing to you with a mixture of anticipation and regret.

I shall see you at last, but if I am honest, my days in this damp, low-lying town beneath Windsor Castle have been some of the happiest in my life.