Edwin said gently: "It's good to be here."

Christabel looked very pretty that evening. It might have been the candlelight which gave her that added lustre, or it might have been something else. My mother always said that candlelight was more flattering to a woman than any lotions or unguents. She wore a beautiful gown, too. The long pointed bodice was cut rather low, and worn without kerchief or collar showed her attractively sloping shoulders. One curl had been allowed to escape from those tied in the nape of her neck and hung over a shoulder. Her gown was of lavender silk and under it was a grey satin petticoat. I wondered at the time how she had come by such a dress in that cheese-paring rectory and I learned that it had come from Westering Manor. As she said, it was one of the "cast-offs for the needy," and when I saw it in daylight I would see that it had become too shabby for her ladyship's use.

I wore my blue silk, and although I had previously thought it rather charming it seemed insignificant beside Christabel's.

Both Edwin and Leigh changed from their elaborate uniforms, but I thought they looked very fine-both of them-in their knee-length breeches and short jackets which were fashionably beribboned, Edwin's slightly more so than Leigh's, for Edwin followed the mode more slavishly than Leigh who I suspected was more than a little impatient with the laces and ribbons which had come into vogue as a kind of turnabout after the puritanical style of dress.

Carl was full of excitement because of the arrivals and we were a very merry party at the table. The servants were delighted as always to have the men home, and I knew how disappointed my mother would be to miss them.

They talked of their adventures. They had been serving in France, from which country they had recently come, but what I remembered from that night and what was really a prelude to the events which were about to begin was the talk of Titus Oates and the Popish Plot. It was like the overture before the curtain rises on the play. Being so much with Harriet had made me think that all the world was truly a stage and the men and women merely players.

"There's a feeling in England," said Leigh, "that wasn't there when we left."

"Change can come quickly," added Edwin, "and when you've been away and come back you are more aware of it than those who have had it gradually creep up on them."

"Change?" I cried. "What change?"

"The King is not an old man," said Edwin. "He is past fifty."

"Fifty!" cried Carl. "It's ancient."

Everybody laughed.

"Only to infants, dear boy," said Leigh. "No, Old Rowley will live awhile yet. He must. A pity he hasn't a son."

"I was under the impression that he had several," said Christabel.

"Alas, born on the wrong side of the blanket."

"I'm sorry for the Queen," said Edwin. "Poor, gentle lady."

"To accuse her of being involved in a plot to kill the King is the utmost idiocy," added Leigh.

Carl leaned forward, forgetting his lamb pie-a favourite of his-in his excitement. Carl was old for his ten years. My father had always wanted him to grow up quickly and he had. He understood about the King and his mistresses and the right and wrong sides of blankets-a fact which Sally Nullens deplored. She would have liked to keep him in her nursery until he married.

"Was she?" he demanded. "Did she want to kill the King? Has she got a lover?"

"What a blase old fellow this is!" cried Leigh. "My dear Carl, the Queen is the most virtuous lady in England-present company excepted." He bowed to us each in turn. "This Titus Oates will hang himself if he doesn't take care."

"In the meantime," said Christabel, "he has succeeded in hanging several others."

"If only it could be proved that the King had married Lucy Walter that would make Jimmy Monmouth the next to wear the crown."

"Is he suitable?" asked Christabel.

"I believe he is rather wild," I added.

"He is fond of feminine society, yes. Who isn't?" Leigh included us both in his smile. "None could be more devoted to your sex than the King himself. But Charles is wily, clever, shrewd and witty. He once said when he returned to England after that long exile that he was determined never to go wandering again, and I believe he meant that more than he ever meant anything in his life."

"The people love him," said Edwin. "He has that unmistakable Stuart charm. A good deal is forgiven to anyone who possesses that."

Leigh took my hand and kissed it. "Look what you forgive me, fair coz, for my unconquerable charm."

We were all laughing and it was difficult to treat any subject seriously, and how could any of us have guessed that moment that the politics of the country could be of any importance in our lives?

Christabel sparkled that night. She looked quite beautiful in Lady Letty's cast-off gown; she was delighted to sit at our table and I was interested to see how between them Leigh and Edwin swept away that inner uncertainty or whatever it was that set the resentment smouldering. She was eager to show that she had a greater grasp of the country's history than I had and she turned the conversation back to current affairs.

"Perhaps the King will divorce his wife, marry again and get a son," she suggested.

"He never would," replied Leigh.

"Too lazy?" asked Christabel.

"Too kind," parried Edwin. "Have you ever been presented, Mistress Connalt?"

The bitter smile appeared momentarily. "In my position, Lord Eversleigh!"

"If you had," went on Edwin, "you would see at once what a tolerant man he is. Here we are talking of him thus. That would be dangerous in some reigns. If he could listen to us he would join in the discussion of his character and put us right even to his own disadvantage. Our assessment would be a source of amusement not irritation. He is too clever to see himself other than what he is. Is that not so, Leigh?"

Leigh said: "I am in wholehearted agreement on that. One day it will be realized how clever he is. It is a devious game he plays. We saw a little of that in France. The French King thinks he leads Charles by the nose. I would say that it might be the other way round. No, while Charles is our King, we shall get along. It is the succession which concerns the nation. That is why we deplore that with so many sons who according to convention should not have been born-and who are a perpetual drain on the exchequer-he cannot produce one who would be worth a little expense and give the answer to the burning question, Who next?"

"Let's hope that he lives on and on," I said. "Let's drink to the King."

"A health unto His Majesty!" cried Leigh, and we all lifted our glasses.

Carl was getting a little sleepy at this stage and trying desperately to stay awake. My mother had protested about his being allowed to drink as much wine as he liked, but my father said he must learn to take his liquor. Carl was learning.

Christabel drank sparingly, as I did, and the soft colour in her cheeks and the shine in her eyes was not due to the grape. She was different from the girl she had been so far. I realized that she was enjoying this with a sort of feverish excitement and I was sorry, for such occasions as this were not unusual in our household. We always had celebrations when my parents returned from Court or I or Carl had been away on a visit. How dreary her life must have been in that gloomy rectory!

She was far more knowledgeable about affairs than I was and she seemed anxious that both men should have no doubt of this.

"It's really a religious conflict," she said. "Political conflict almost always is. It is not so much a question of Monmouth's legitimacy as shall we allow a Catholic to ascend the throne."

"That's exactly the case," said Edwin, smiling at her. "James is a Catholic-no doubt of that."

"I have heard it whispered," said Leigh, bending forward and speaking in a whisper, "that His Majesty toys with that Faith ...but let it not go beyond these walls."

I glanced at Carl who was nodding over his platter. Leigh was inclined to be reckless.

Edwin said quickly: "It is only a conjecture. The King would never wish to displease his subjects."

"What is he going to do?" I asked. "Legitimatize Monmouth or let his Catholic brother come to the throne?"

"I hope ...most fervently ... that it will be Monmouth," said Leigh, "for there will be a revolution if we ever have a Catholic King on the throne. The people will not have it. They remember the fires of Smithfield."

"There has been religious persecution on both sides," said Christabel.

"But the people will never forget Smithfield, the influence of Spain and the threat of the Inquisition. They'll remember Bloody Mary as long as there is a king or a queen to reign over us. That is why it is imperative for Old Rowley to go on living for another twenty years." Leigh lifted his glass. "Once more, a health unto His Majesty."

After that we talked of the man Titus Oates who had caused a stir throughout the country by discovering, as he said, the Popish Plot.

Edwin told us that he had taken Holy Orders and had had a small living which had been presented to him by the Duke of Norfolk until he was involved in some legal trouble and had had to retire, after which he became a chaplain in the navy.

"He is a man who lives by his wits, I'm sure," Leigh went on, "and this discovery of the Popish Plot is meant to work to his advantage in some way."

"The country was ready to listen," said Christabel, "because the people have always been afraid that Protestantism might be in danger and, of course, with the Duke of York heir to the throne, and its being known where his sympathies lie, it is easy to arouse people's anger."

"Exactly," said Edwin, smiling at her with admiration I thought both for her intelligence and good looks. "The plot is supposed to be that there is a scheme among Catholics to massacre the Protestants as they did in France on St. Bartholomew's Eve, to murder the King and set his brother James on the throne. Oates has succeeded in arousing the wrath of the people. It's a dangerous situation."

"And not a grain of truth in it, I'll swear," added Leigh.

"Yes, it's nonsense," agreed Edwin.

"Dangerous nonsense," said Leigh. "But look what it has brought Oates-a pension of nine hundred pounds a year and apartments in Whitehall where he carries out his investigations."

"How can it be allowed?" I cried.

"It is the wish of the people," answered Leigh, "so cleverly has he worked up feeling against the Catholics. I heard a disturbing piece of news and I was horrified to discover that it was true. A friend of ours, Sir Jocelyn Frinton, head of a Catholic family, was taken from his house, accused of complicity and executed."

"Horrifying!" cried Edwin. "It brings it home to you when it is someone you know."

"Was he involved in a plot?" asked Christabel.

"Ah, Mistress Connalt," replied Leigh, "was there a plot?"

"Surely your friend must have done something?"

"Oh, yes," said Leigh bitterly, "what he did was think differently from Titus Oates."

"It is a puzzle to me," put in Edwin, "and always has been why people who follow the Christian Faith in one way should become so incensed against those who follow the same faith by a slightly different road."

We were silent for a while and then Leigh said: "Enough of this gloomy subject. Tell us what you have been doing."

There was very little to tell, and the next day, said Leigh, we must all go riding down to the sea. We could go to the Old Boar's Head where they produced the best cider in the world.

Christabel reminded me that we had our lessons in the morning.

"Lessons!" cried Leigh. "I assure you we will endeavour to make the day most instructive for your pupil."

Everyone laughed. We were all in a very merry mood that night.

The next day we did ride out to the Old Boar's Head. We drank cider, which was a little heady and made us laugh immoderately over the smallest amusement. We galloped along the shore. Edwin kept very close to Christabel because he sensed at once that she was less sure on horseback than the rest of us, having had less practice and only being able to ride when Lady Letty's horses were to be exercised.

The next day Leigh suggested we ride in another direction, and once again Christabel's objections to joining us were overruled. I could see, though, that she was very happy that they should be.

She grew prettier as the days passed, and the reason was that both Edwin and Leigh appeared to have forgotten she was, as she rather bitterly called herself, "only the governess," and behaved as though she were a guest and intimate friend at that. They both paid her a great deal of attention. They were affectionate to me as they always had been but it was Christabel whom they tried to please. Her eyes sparkled within that fringe of thick lashes; there was colour in her cheeks and her mouth had ceased to quirk and quiver and had become fuller and softer. The change in her was obvious to me.

I was uneasy, asking myself: Is she falling in love? With Edwin? With Leigh? I felt apprehensive. Leigh fell in and out of love with ease, and I wondered whether Christabel knew this. Edwin was different, more serious. But then he was Lord Eversleigh, with an important name, rich estates and a family tradition. I had heard my parents discuss his marriage, and I knew he would be urged to make what would be called a suitable match, which would mean someone of similarly aristocratic birth and a supply of worldly goods. There were two contenders already in sight for the honour of marrying Edwin. One was Jane Merridew, daughter of the Earl of Milchester, and the other, Caroline Egham, daughter of Sir Charles Egham. There had been mild overtures between the families and I knew that this was in the air. Edwin knew both girls and liked them well enough. My mother had thought that Edwin-always so mild-would do what was expected of him. He always had, so why change now?

Christabel was good-looking and clever. Personally she was every bit as presentable as Jane Merridew or Caroline Egham, but she came from an impecunious rectory and I knew she would not be acceptable as the future Lady Eversleigh.

This vague apprehension clouded the happiness of those days, and then suddenly something so stupendous happened that I forgot about it.

It was about five o'clock, and a week since the return of Leigh and Edwin. It would have been dark, but there was a gibbous moon in the sky and it gave a shifting light as the dark clouds, whipped by the strong southwesterly wind, scudded across the sky.

It had been a pleasant day. We had gone riding through the woods where some of the oaks and hornbeams still carried wisps of foliage. Soon they would be quite bare, their branches making intricate patterns against the sky. We rode past brown fields where a faint line of green showed that the wheat had started to push through the earth. Winter was coming on. It would soon be Christmas. Most of the flowers were gone, though here and there was a spray of gorse. Leigh pointed it out with glee and quoted the old saying that the time to kiss a maid was when the gorse was out, and that was the whole year round. We saw just a few flowers-dead nettles, shepherd's purse and woundwort-pathetically determined to stay till the very last moment. There was something mournful about the occasional song of a bird. A blackbird tried a few notes and then was silent, as though disappointed with what he had done. And as we rode through the woods I heard the woodpecker. It was almost as though he were laughing in a mocking kind of way.

Yes, I thought, there is a warning in the air today. Winter is coming-a hard winter, perhaps, because there are so many berries, which are said to be nature's preservation for her children.

The woodpecker's laughter rang out again. Yes, there was a warning in the air that morning.

When we alighted at an inn I saw Edwin help Christabel to dismount, and I thought he held her hand rather longer than was necessary. Edwin looked elated, yet serious; Christabel was radiant.

Oh, yes, I could see trouble ahead.

When we went back through the woods I deliberately lost them. It was a sort of game we played and so far they had always caught up with me. This time they didn't, so I came home alone. They had not returned when I reached the stables. I didn't want to go into the house. I wanted to think of what was happening and speculate on the outcome. And that was how I came to be in the garden at that hour of dusk.

I was thinking that my parents would be back sometime soon, for their visits to Court were not of long duration. I know my mother hated to be away from home for too long. Christmas would soon be with us and there would be preparations to be made. We usually had a houseful for the twelve days of Christmas. I wondered who would be our guests this year. If Edwin and Leigh were home, as they no doubt would be since they had returned from abroad, I was sure we would be entertaining the Merridews and the Eghams.

Christmas was a time to look forward to. We would go into the woods and bring in the holly and the ivy. We would decorate the hall; the carol singers and mummers would come; there would be hot punch and great joints of roasting meat; there would be gifts for each other-wonderful surprises and a few disappointments; there would be dancing, games and hide-and-seek all over the house. Christabel would be with us ... and Edwin and Leigh.

I wished my mother were home and yet in one way I was glad that she was not. I feared that if she were here, matters would come to a head. Perhaps Christabel would be sent away. Where? Back to that cheerless rectory? She had made me see it so clearly; I had shivered when she had talked of it and actually felt the goose pimples on my arms. I had tasted the tasteless stews; I had felt the soreness of knees which had touched the floor so often in prayer. I had really become deeply involved with Christabel. And now I feared she might be hurt again.

As I walked in the gardens, thinking of all this, my steps took me to the haunted flowerbed. A gloomy place-but only because of its associations. It was really beautiful. A few late roses were blooming still, desperately holding on to life, which the frosts and cold winds of winter would soon be snatching from them. Beyond the rosebushes was a shrubbery, and it occurred to me that it was this which preserved the legend of the flowerbed's being haunted. It looked eerie in the shifting moonlight, and one could imagine ghosts lurking there, hidden from sight by the short, stubby firs.

I stood there among the red rose trees, looking back at the house, and thought of Edwin's father being murdered on this spot. I did not know the details, of course, but I should learn them in due course when I was allowed to read the journals. That would be in two years' time when I was sixteen.

And then as I stood there I was aware of a sound in the shrubbery, a rustle of leaves, a crackle of a branch. It could have been a rabbit strayed some distance from his burrow; yet somehow I knew it was not so. I could feel my heart thumping against my side. There was something in the shrubbery.

My first thoughts were that it was true the place was haunted. There was something here, and because I had thoughtlessly strayed out and come to this spot after dark, I was being made aware of it.

My first impulse was to turn and run back to the house, but my curiosity was greater than my fear and I remained still, staring at the shrubbery, my ears strained to catch every sound.

Silence ... The darkness of the trees was hiding ... what? The clouds had now almost completely obscured the face of the moon. I had a sudden fear that supernatural powers were at work. There would be utter darkness and mysterious hands would reach out to draw me into the shrubbery.

There it was again-that cautious movement. I felt that someone was watching me.

I called out: "Who is there?"

There was no answer.

"I know you're there," I shouted. "Come out. If you don't I will bring out the dogs."

I thought of our dogs-Castor and Pollux-two red setters who loved everybody and only barked and pretended to be fierce when they were playing with bones.

Then a voice said: "I must speak to Lord Eversleigh."

I felt a great relief. It was a man after all, not a ghost.