How time has flown. I imagine you must have grown enormously. I hope not as much as your brother, for I am now over six feet.

I have grown to love Eton. I play fives in the buttresses of the college chapel. It is a sociable form of exercise which needs cunning rather than skill. (Would our dear father count it as sport? I rather think not.) I am a member of the college chapel choir a how you would love the singing.

Two incidents occurred last term. I won't bore you with the details, but it is now generally believed that I have supernatural powers. It has secured me quite a reputation. In retrospect both occasions were rather more luck than anything else but it seems sometimes even this most unwanted gift can have certain advantages.

There have been many changes, mostly good. The dreadful ritual 'Tossing the Blanket' has been banned from my house and lock-up abolished, and though we work hard, we are given more time for our own amusement.

On Sunday afternoons in fine weather, we row on the River Thames. We tell stories, anecdotes of things we have done, and countries we would like to visit. I believe my dreams have been rekindled and I shall travel after all. In the winter months we take tea in our lodgings and regale each other with news and political gossip. Even Kirkpatrick has softened and shares the occasional joke. Gilbert Paxton-Hooper continues to be my friend and I have spent time with his family. You would love them a chaotic, learned and totally unlike us.

Yesterday, according to tradition, I inscribed my name into the lid of my desk. When I had finished, Paxton-Hooper added a postscript, 'Thomas Charles Edward Keyt has the gift of second-sight.' And so I am there, buried in the wood for future generations to find.

Tomorrow I will say goodbye to my friends and teachers. Lorenzo will come to collect me, and, little sister, I will see you again. We shall spend Christmas together, and you will help me to decide how to spend the rest of my life.

In anticipation, Your affectionate brother Thomas Dorothy folded the pages. Unlocking the bureau, she placed it beside his previous correspondence. Afterwards she took out another letter, one addressed to Molly Johnson. Many times she had considered destroying it too, but something had restrained her.

When Thomas arrived two days later, they were all waiting in the drawing room: Lizzie, her mother, even her grandmother had come for the occasion a everyone except Sir William. When the carriage stopped in the courtyard, Dorothy was the first to the door, opening it before Whitstone or the footmen had time to get there. Lorenzo stepped down from the box and held the horses while the grooms ran towards him. At the same moment, the dogs dived down the steps and hurled themselves at Thomas. Dorothy followed, throwing her arms tightly around her brother's neck.

'Are you trying to kill me before you have said hello?' he asked, laughing.

'Well now, quite the handsome gentleman, aren't we? I'm sure you must have cut a dash amongst the female population of Windsor.'

'And you are as pretty as ever, if a little taller, and still with the same impossible tongue!'

Dorothy laughed and glanced at Lorenzo.

'Good afternoon, Miss Dorothy,' he said, his gaze fixed upon her.

'Good afternoon, Lorenzo,' she replied.

Seeing Lizzie in the doorway, Thomas ran up the steps towards her.

'Lizzie!' he said, taking her hands. 'How I have missed you.'

'I have counted the days until your return,' she said.

Finally he walked towards his mother. If the sight of her careworn face startled him, he did not show it. 'Hello, Mama.'

'Hello, my son. And what a fine young man you are.' She put her hands either side of his face. 'How proud I am.'

'Where's Father?' Thomas said at last.

'He's in his study; he wanted us to let him know when you arrived,' she lied. 'I suggest you go to him.'

'I'll go now, before I change,' he said, his disappointment obvious. 'I hope we shall be dining together tonight?'

'Of course, my darling, at thirty minutes past the hour, as usual.'

Dorothy walked with him to their father's study. 'You go in, Thomas. I'll wait for you here.'

'Thank you, Dotty, but please come in with me.' He knocked and carefully opened the door.

'Oh, it's you,' their father said gruffly.

'Yes, sir.'

'How was school? Have you learnt anything?'

'I have learnt a great deal, sir.'

'Well then, perhaps you should now finish your education at Oxford. You're seventeen years old. It's time you went.'

Her father's words rekindled Dorothy's resentment; her poor brother had only just arrived.

'I would like to stay home for a while, if I may? I have spent so much time away from my sisters.' A hint of sarcasm sharpened his tone.

'Very well, but Oxford soon. Now forgive me, I have work to do.'

As they walked out along the passage, Thomas smiled wryly at his sister. 'That was a jubilant welcome, was it not?'

Dorothy squeezed his arm. 'I'm sorry.'

Molly hurried past, her head turned away from them. Dorothy dropped her hand from her brother's arm.

'Molly, is that you?' Thomas asked, bewildered.

Molly turned around. 'Hello, sir.'

'It's me, Master Thomas.'

'Yes, I know, sir.'

'Is that all you have to say?'

'I don't know what you mean. Should there be anything else? Forgive me, I have to go.'

Whitstone pushed through the servants' door. 'We appear to be going somewhere in a hurry, Miss Johnson. Anywhere in particular? Oh, Master Thomas. I'm sorry, I didn't see you. I hope you have had a pleasant journey.' It took the butler a moment to regain his composure.

'Yes, thank you, Whitstone,' Thomas replied. 'I would like to bathe and change for dinner. Please, will you have the water brought up for me, and would you get Hawkins to put out my evening clothes?'

'Of course, sir, immediately.'

When he had gone, Thomas caught up with his sister. 'What's going on? Why do I sense an atmosphere?'

'I'm not aware of anything,' Dorothy replied evasively.

While Thomas went to his room, she collected a coat and shawl and took refuge in the garden. She leant against the wall, letting tears of self-pity and frustration stream down her face. It seemed that even now, after well over two years of absence, her brother's thoughts went first to Molly Johnson. She looked up as the back door opened.

Her father came outside dressed only in his shirtsleeves, his eyes like a madman's. He grabbed an axe from the woodpile and disappeared towards the wild garden. Dorothy couldn't help but follow.

Outside the white gate the woodland he had planted only two years before flourished. The fifty saplings had survived their first harsh winters, but they would not survive Sir William's self-loathing. He lifted his axe and drove it into his precious trees. Dorothy watched in horror until he finally exhausted himself and sank to his knees amongst the ruin.

Dorothy tiptoed back through the gate until she was certain her father couldn't hear her, and then she started to run. She didn't stop until she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom.

Molly had longed and prayed for Thomas's return, but now she hid in the shadows. When he came near her that evening, she tried to slink away, but he caught her arm.

'Molly, you evade me. Come, and let us talk.'

'No, sir, I have to go,' she answered, aware of his new masculinity: the rich voice, the shadow on his chin.

'You did not answer my letters. Don't you care for me? Have I no hope?'

As she hurried away from him, she wondered what he meant. 'What letters?' she whispered. 'There were no letters.'

That evening, Thomas joined Elizabeth and Dorothy on the half-landing. Elizabeth was wearing a white dress, her fair hair secured with combs. 'You look beautiful, Lizzie.'

'Thank you, Thomas.' She pointed to her shadow moving on the wall behind her. 'Can you see my shadow floating?'

'I certainly can,' he replied, kissing her forehead.

'I think that when I die it will be like that. I shall be free at last.'

'Don't talk of death. You are still so young.'

'Forgive me, Thomas. I don't mean to be morbid. Pleasea.a. . tell us about your time at school. We have read your wonderful letters, but let us hear it from your lips.' Thomas sat down, and with his arm around Elizabeth's shoulders he told his sisters anecdotes about his days at Windsor. As they chatted in the candlelight the melancholy mood broke.

Elizabeth turned to her sister. 'Dotty, please will you pass me Miss Byrne's book? It's there, on the window seat. I'd like to show Thomas my drawings. I believe they are passable.'

Thomas stood up and leant over her shoulder. 'Look at John a such a likeness. That's how I remember him.'

'That's exactly how I remember him too,' Dorothy said.

Elizabeth clasped her sister's hand. 'Dotty, when I am gone, will you look after the book?' She closed the cover, speaking quickly and earnestly. 'It has become my life's work. It's the one thing I am proud of.'

'Now, now. We have banished any sad thoughts.'

'But listen. I have a request. If for any reason our family leaves this house, will you return the book to its original home? I'm convinced Miss Byrne would approve. I dream of it hidden beneath the floorboards, waiting to be found in hundreds of years from now.'

'I give you my word,' she replied.

Thomas kissed her on the forehead. 'Come on,' he said, lifting Elizabeth easily into his arms. 'Let's go to dinner.'

Dinner that night was a strange affair. The wine, the finest from Sir William's cellar, was drunk liberally, and the footmen, dressed in their new livery of burgundy and gold, hovered respectfully, but it was not the celebration Lady Keyt had intended. Though Thomas's coat of midnight-blue velvet with pearl buttons and lace cuffs drew admiring glances from Lady Keyt and Elizabeth, Dorothy alone wondered bitterly whether his elegant clothes were a mark of respect for his family, or an attempt to attract Miss Johnson's eye. While Thomas watched his father warily, he wondered at Molly's reticence. Sir William, wearing an embroidered coat of his grandfather's, could only stare at his glass.

After white soup, followed by roasted duck, glazed carrots and potatoes, Thomas's favourite trifle was produced with a flourish. As soon as his plate was cleared, Sir William brought the dinner to an abrupt end.

'If you will excuse me,' he said, his speech more than a little slurred, 'I'm for bed. It seems I can't contribute much to the conversation.' He rose to his feet unsteadily, barking rudely at the footman who tried to help him.

Dorothy looked up, as if seeing her father for the first time that evening. She looked at the embroidered coat she had loved so much as a child.

'Papa, why do the dragons on your coat have fire coming from their mouths?' she had asked him many years before.

'Because they have very bad breath.' At the time she had laughed, but now as she watched him, she wondered what had happened to the man she had so loved. Part of her pitied her father, but she knew that she couldn't help him. He insisted on self-destruction.

The rest of the family retired to the drawing room. Thomas lowered Lizzie onto the sofa, tucking a rug about her knees, and Dorothy settled into her favourite armchair. She wished this cosy tableau could be fixed in time. She sensed transience in the air and was afraid. She looked up at the armorial shield hanging above the fireplace, representing the union of the Keyts and the Coventrys. The three kites emblazoned on the blackened wood appeared ominous and threatening.

Shortly before eleven Thomas stood up. 'If you will excuse me, it's been a long day and I'm very tired.'

Dorothy, Lizzie and their mother remained in the drawing room. They played cards until they were distracted by Molly's voice in the passage. 'Take your hands off me, Mr Whitstone! I beg of you, leave me alone!'

'You would have let me touch you once, but I've heard there are bigger birds in the sky, and you want a brace of them.'

They heard footsteps running, followed by Whitstone's bitter words: 'I'm sure Lady Keyt would be interested to know who has been warming her husband's bed!'

Dorothy turned to see her mother's cards drop from her hands, scattering on the floor beneath her. Lady Keyt picked up the bell and rang it fiercely.

Whitstone came in, his head bowed. 'Forgive me, milady. I thought you had retired.'

'No, Mr Whitstone, I have not retired. Would you be good enough to explain the meaning of your words?' Her face was ashen in the candlelight.

'They meant nothing, milady, absolutely nothing.'

'Do not lie to me. If you don't answer me truthfully, you will leave my employment tonight.'

Despite her distress, her mother kept her dignity. 'Whitstone, you have thirty seconds.'

The butler shuffled his feet, cleared his throat and began. Elizabeth's hands clutched the sofa, while Lady Keyt sat rigidly in her chair. Dorothy got up and stood in front of the fireplace, her eyes bright with fury, while he told them about Sir William's infidelity and Miss Johnson's betrayal.

'She didn't deny it,' he said at last, his eyes darting from one member of the family to the other. 'Mrs Wright confronted her with the bloodied sheet. I'm so sorry, milady.' Dorothy noted the sweat on his forehead and hated him. This pathetic man had destroyed her mother's fragile equilibrium.

'Thank you, Whitstone, you may go,' her mother said, quietly. 'I think for your own safety you should leave the house. My husband has been drinking and I can't answer for his actions.' Dorothy noticed a small pulse at the corner of her mother's eyes.

Lady Keyt stood and turned towards her daughters. 'Lizzie, I'm truly sorry. We have all been deceived by Miss Johnson. Dorothy, please ask Mathews to carry Elizabeth to her room. Forgive me. I will see you in the morning.'

Elizabeth had pushed herself into the corner of the sofa, where she sat shivering uncontrollably. Dorothy went to her and held her tightly.

'Oh, God,' Elizabeth sobbed, 'is there no end to this?'

18.

Lady Keyt was not given to anger. Only under extreme provocation did she succumb to rage, as was the case on this particular night. After unpinning her hair in her bedroom and brushing it furiously for several minutes, she slammed down her silver brush and marched across the landing to her husband's room, opening his door without knocking.