Though she knew Ivor would think it extremely undignified, Delia didn't hand Petra back to her nurse, but carried her into Shibden and up to the rooms set apart as a nursery. She had determined to take an even greater part in her daughter's day-to-day care and was setting out as she intended to carry on.

Within days, Ivor was summoned back to London for a meeting of the Privy Council. "The war is at a crisis point," he said bluntly as she walked with him to his car. "Now Lloyd George is no longer chancellor but minister of munitions, he is doing all he can, but so far it isn't enough. I hate to say this, but I think the fault lies with Herbert. He was an excellent prime minister when we were at peace, but war is a very different kettle of fish. If Lloyd George were to make a bid for the premiership he would have my support."

Delia was so shocked, she was speechless. Long after the Silver Ghost had disappeared she stood on the driveway, staring after it. Just as it was impossible to think of Buckingham Palace not being home to King George and Queen Mary, so it was impossible to think of H.H. and Margot not at 10 Downing Street.

Heavyhearted she walked back into the house just in time to take a telephone call from Gwen. "Darling," her sister-in-law said, "I'm on my way to Hunstanton to stay with the Den-bys and thought I would call in at Shibden and stay overnight. It's so long since I've been able to have a really good chat with Ivor." The static on the line made Gwen's next few words unintelligible. "And so there will be two of us ... so kind of you, darling."

The line went dead before Delia could tell Gwen that Ivor was in London and that for Gwen to go out of her way to see Ivor at Shibden was pointless.

When she rang Gwen back, it was only to be told by the butler that Gwen hadn't been at home all morning and would be in Norfolk for the next few days.

Faced with the choice of telephoning a whole host of Gwen's friends to see where she was or simply letting things stand, Delia decided to let it go.

"Lord and Lady Pugh will be staying overnight," she said to Parkinson. "Please make sure the maids have a room ready for them."

Much later in the day she put on her riding clothes and went to the stables. The horses Ivor and his guests rode looked toward her, hopeful of an afternoon ride.

"Sorry," she said, as Charlie saddled Juno. "I'm afraid I'm a one-horse woman, boys."

That Juno was there was an achievement in itself, for Ivor disapproved of her riding when pregnant.

"I'll stop in three months' time," she had said when they had argued over it, "and I won't gallop hard. I promise."

It was a compromise neither of them had been happy with but one which, as in so many other instances in their marriage, they had settled for in a spirit of give-and-take in order to keep their life together acceptably harmonious.

"And I didn't promise not to gallop," Delia said, leaning forward to pat Juno's neck as they trotted out of the stable yard. "I said I wouldn't gallop hard."

All through May the weather had been beautiful, and even though it was now late afternoon, it was still warm, the sky a bright blue flecked with clouds. She headed east over Shibden's parkland toward a narrow lane that led through flat countryside thick with grazing sheep. In the distance was a drainage mill, its slowly revolving sails looking, to the uneducated eye, like a windmill.

"The land is so low that without the mills it would be underwater," Ivor had said the first time he had brought her to Shibden. "And don't keep using the word 'river,' Delia. In Norfolk, the rivers and lakes are known as broads, and always be careful when riding over the humpbacked bridge that crosses it. It's treacherously steep."

As Delia carefully walked Juno over the bridge the reed-edged water beneath it was as hard in color as a stone. Suddenly she became aware of the eerie stillness that presages a storm. She reined Juno to a halt, looking up at the sky, wondering whether to continue to the beach, which was a mile or so away. The sky was still a vivid blue. The wispy clouds were a snowy white. Secure in the certainty that any storm was a long way off, she urged Juno into a canter, looking forward to the day when she would be able to enjoy such outings with Petra riding beside her.

When she reached the sea, the sand was deserted as far as the eye could see. She gave a deep sigh of pleasure. Here, with the waves crashing rhythmically just yards away, she was able to ride as hard as she loved without any disapproving eyes watching her.

By the time she turned Juno homeward the sky was beginning to smoke with the first hint of dusk. Now the sensation of a coming storm was strong. Indigo-rimmed black clouds rolled in from the sea and she knew she would be very lucky to reach Shibden before they broke.

She headed toward the bridge at a brisk canter. To her amazement she saw that a horse being ridden sidesaddle was heading toward her.

"Whoever she is, she's an idiot," Delia said to Juno. "The only place she can be goin' is the beach, and by the time she gets there she'll be soaked to the skin."

She slowed Juno down and squinted to see the figure more clearly. The only large country house within riding distance was Shibden and the only person who could possibly be riding out from Shibden-a.s.suming, of course, that she had arrived there-was Gwen. Gwen, however, rarely rode these days and would certainly not come out with a storm about to break.

She reined Juno to a halt, sucking in her breath. The elegance of the rider, the provocative tilt of the hat, were unmistakable. When Gwen had said "and so there will be two of us," the other person she had been referring to had been Sylvia, not Pugh. And only Gwen, of everyone she knew, would so artlessly bring Sylvia on a visit to Shibden, for Delia was quite sure Gwen was the only person in London who didn't know that Sylvia was Ivor's mistress.

Having Sylvia as a guest when Jerome and sixteen or twenty other people were also there was one thing. Having her as a guest when the only other visitor was Gwen was quite another. How, in the name of all that was wonderful, was she going to survive it? Fortunately Ivor was in London and so Sylvia's hopes of being able to parade her closeness to him had been dashed. Presumably it was furious disappointment that had prompted her to take one of Ivor's horses and ride out uncaring of the storm clouds that were now rolling fast over their heads.

Delia spurred Juno into movement. If Sylvia wanted to keep riding away from Shibden, getting saturated in the process, she was welcome to do so. She, however, was going to head for home as fast as she could.

Sylvia was riding at a gallop, but whereas Delia still had a couple of hundred yards to go before the bridge, Sylvia was nearly upon it.

Delia saw her rein in far too late for safety, saw the horse skitter at the sudden steepness as lightning streaked down. The horse, now at the middle of the narrow bridge, reared and then bolted, unseating Sylvia with such force that she went flying over the low flint-stone parapet, into the water.

As thunder cracked deafeningly, Delia urged Juno into an all-out gallop, bringing him to a halt within yards of the bridge. The rain began coming down in sheets, making visibility practically zero. Hardly able to see where the reeds ended and the water began Delia slithered from Juno's back and hurtled onto the bridge for a better vantage point.

"Sylvia!" she shouted into the darkness as the rain plastered her hair to her head. "It's me, Delia! Where are you?"

"I'm in the water!" The response was terror-laden. "And I can't swim!"

As another bolt of lightning streaked down, Delia saw the pale oval of Sylvia's petrified face, her hair indistinguishable from the inky blackness of the water. In the split second before thunder followed the lightning, Sylvia disappeared beneath the surface.

Delia didn't hesitate. There was no time to take off her riding habit with its heavy long skirt; no time to struggle with riding boots that always needed an extra pair of hands to successfully remove them. As the rain sluiced down she lowered herself over the edge of the parapet and then took in a deep lungful of air before letting herself fall.

Her cousin Beau had taught her to swim at White Sulphur Springs when she was thirteen and, until now, water had never frightened her. This time, though, as the water closed over her head, she was unable to kick freely with her legs: this time she was hampered by c.u.mbersome boots and a beautifully tailored Busvine riding skirt.

As she struggled to break the surface, its weight acted like a force of gravity, pulling her down until she touched bottom. The deep mud of the broad sucked at her boots, debris swirling around her. Algae clung slimily to her face. Desperately she fought with the fastenings of her skirt. As she finally freed herself from the strap that ran through it to the hem to prevent the skirt from flying upward, her chest was bursting and her ears felt as if they were about to explode.

Then, at last, she was free of the unwieldy material. A second later she was gulping in air and a second after that, without a flicker of hesitation, she dove beneath the surface again.

It was an easy search. Though the water had seemed much deeper when she had been certain she was drowning, it was only a little over twelve feet deep. She had entered the water almost over the point where Sylvia had disappeared and she b.u.mped into her motionless body immediately.

Seizing hold of her under her armpits, Delia kicked her way up. Sylvia offered no resistance and when they broke the surface she did not gasp for air.

With one hand under Sylvia's chin to keep her nose and mouth clear of the water, Delia swam backward.

Unlike a normal river, the broad had no firm banks to scramble up. It was edged by thick reeds and, even when she was able to stand, the ground within reach was not firm enough to lie Sylvia on in order to try to revive her.

Sobbing with exhaustion Delia fell into the squelching reeds, taking Sylvia with her. Then, as they sank ever deeper into the marsh, Delia held Sylvia around the chest as tightly as she could, alternately squeezing her with a sharp upward movement and fisting her in the middle of her back.

"Breathe!" she gasped as the thunder and lightning rolled away. "Land's sakes, Sylvia! Breathe!"

There was a gagging sound and a flicker of movement.

Delia summoned up all her remaining energy and squeezed Sylvia again.

Sylvia retched, spewing up water. A moment later Delia heard the sound of hoofbeats.

"We're here!" she shouted hoa.r.s.ely as Sylvia continued to gag. "Here! Below you, in the reeds!"

The horses slowed to a walk to take the bridge.

"We're here!" she shouted again, certain it was a Shibden search party. "To the right of the bridge! In the reeds!"

"Holy G.o.d, it's her ladyship!" The voice was Charlie's. She heard him vault from his horse, shouting as he did so to the other horseman, "Shine the lantern over the edge of the bridge, Dan!"

Shibden's head groom did as he was bid.

As the light fell on her Delia uttered a devout prayer of thankfulness, took her arms from around Sylvia, and staggered to her feet.

"Don't mind me," she gasped when the two men had made their way through the sodden reeds. "See to Lady Bazeljette first. She's half drowned and is in a bad way."

Then, as Charlie's arm went around her, her legs buckled and she lost consciousness.

How Charlie and Dan got her and Sylvia back to the house she didn't know and-fearful that the answer would be slumped across the horses like sacks of potatoes-never, afterward, asked.

It was enough to know that she was safe. That she hadn't lost her unborn baby. That Sylvia was alive.

"Though only just, according to the doctor, my lady," Ellie said, taking a hot-water bottle that was beginning to cool from the bed and replacing it with a towel-wrapped hot one. "He's still here and says he will be remaining with her all night."

Delia looked down at her lace-trimmed nightdress and saw she had been given a bath. She wondered how many she'd had to take to get rid of the mud and slime. Completely disoriented, she asked, "What time is it, Ellie? Is it evening or the middle of the night?"

"Neither, my lady. It's just before dawn. Both Lady Pugh and the doctor insisted you shouldn't be left on your own, and so I've been sitting with you ever since you were put to bed. You don't seem to be able to stop shivering, my lady, and you've got a very high temperature. The doctor is worried you've caught pneumonia."

Delia closed her eyes. Pneumonia. She wasn't going to give in to pneumonia. Not after all she had just survived.

When she next woke, aching in every bone, the curtains had been drawn back and Ellie, still sitting by the side of the bed, said, "Would you like a little breakfast, my lady?"

"I'd like some tea and perhaps a slice of toast." She pushed herself up against the pillows, wincing. "Has his lordship been informed of what has happened?"

"Yes, my lady. Though Lady Pugh couldn't give him exact details because neither you nor Lady Bazeljette were in condition to tell anyone. She simply said that there was a storm, that you and Lady Bazeljette were thrown from your horses, fell into the broad, and were nearly drowned. He's on his way here and is expected within the next hour."

"Is the doctor still with Lady Bazeljette?"

"I believe he's downstairs, having breakfast."

To Ellie's alarm Delia threw back the covers and eased her aching legs to the floor. "You can't get up, my lady," she said, panic-stricken. "The doctor gave strict instructions you were to remain in bed. He's forbidden all visitors, even Lady Pugh."

Delia slipped her arms into her negligee and Ellie's panic grew. "You can't mean to be leaving the room, my lady! The doctor said it was a miracle you didn't lose the baby and that you have to be very careful!"

"Stop behaving like an old mother hen, Ellie. I will be careful. All I am goin' to do is to walk fifteen yards down the corridor to see Lady Bazeljette."

"She's in the Italian bedroom, my lady-and I doubt she'll be in any condition to appreciate your visit. She was more dead than alive when Dan carried her into the house."

Delia took no offense at being spoken to as if she were a recalcitrant child. She knew that Ellie was right. Bed was the only place she should be. The problem was, though, that if she stayed in bed she wouldn't be able to speak to Sylvia before Ivor arrived and there were things that needed to be said-not least her need for Sylvia to give the same account of what had happened that Delia had decided on.

Bennett, Sylvia's maid, opened the door with the words "Her ladyship is allowed no visitors ..." on her lips. They died the instant she saw Delia. "The doctor has given instructions that her ladyship has to have complete rest, Lady Conisborough," she said, making a valiant attempt to carry out her orders.

"I shan't tire her, Bennett. I intend to stay only ten minutes. Perhaps you would like to take advantage of my presence in order to get a cup of tea?"

It was a dismissal and Bennett knew it.

"Well... if you say so, your ladyship." Unhappily she allowed Delia into the room and, even more unhappily, left it.

Sylvia was lying in the center of a vast bed, propped up by a mountain of silk-covered pillows, her blue-black waist-length hair streaming loose. She looked like a beautiful ghost, her eyes darkly ringed, her skin deathly pale.

The only movement she made was a very slight turn of her head. "Ah," she said as Delia sat down in the chair beside the bed. "It's you. I knew you'd come."

"How are you?"

"Alive. Just. And for that I suppose I should say thank you."

"You don't have to. I would have done the same for anyone."

"Yes, you would, wouldn't you?" There was faintly amused mockery in her voice. "Your behavior is always admirable, isn't it? You discover you have married a man who is in love with someone else and you behave with a dignity far beyond your years-a dignity that earns you your husband's profound respect and that, in most circ.u.mstances, would have made him end his affair. You are vivaciously unconventional-and yet no one takes offense. Everyone is entranced by you. The Queen is fond of you-which is saying a lot because she isn't fond of many people, including half of her own family. The prime minister, a man with a weakness for women young enough to be his granddaughter, is more than a little in love with you. Instead of being ostracized by high society, no party is complete without you. You are not as I expected-and for that I hate you, Delia. Having saved my life makes no difference to my feelings."

The shocking words were said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"I never imagined for one minute that it would," Delia said, struggling to be equally impa.s.sive. "I'd like to know what I was supposed to be, though, when becoming Ivor's wife was such a surprise to everyone."

Sylvia lifted a perfect eyebrow. "It wasn't quite such a surprise to me, Delia. Ivor needed to remarry-and to remarry a young woman-in order to have the son Olivia failed so spectacularly to give him. I had no desire to see him wed the debutante daughter of one of my friends-and English society is such a closed circle I am on terms with almost everyone. My last words to him before he sailed for America were that a New York heiress would solve our problems admirably. What I didn't expect was for him to marry a Virginian who, no matter how well regarded her family, could in no way be termed an heiress-and a Virginian who, instead of being disconcerted at finding herself plunged into an alien way of life, threw herself into it with bewitching self-confidence."

For the first time she moved, pushing herself up against the pillows. "Having no family or contacts in England was supposed to ensure you would have no option but to be malleable when you discovered why Ivor married you." Sylvia's voice was withering. "Olivia was never malleable. She made life as difficult as possible for Ivor-and for me. G.o.d, what a b.i.t.c.h that woman was! She made me suffer endless public humiliations. Not for one minute did she allow anyone to forget that my background wasn't as good as hers. By the time she died, Ivor could barely bring himself to speak to her."

Her eyes held Delia's with chilly frankness. "And nothing could have suited me better. I didn't want Ivor to be in love with Olivia. Even on the day he married her, he wasn't. You, however, are different."

She paused, breathing in deeply, her finely drawn nostrils whitening. "From the moment I met you at Sir Cuthbert's birthday ball I knew Ivor was more than a little in love with you. You weren't quite what he had wanted in a second wife, but you are so shatteringly beautiful and amusing, and you handle your relationship with him with the skill of a far more experienced woman."

Her eyes hardened. "But you won't win him, Delia. What happened last night, in that filthy, murderous water, makes not one iota of difference. Ivor may love you a little, but he loves me more. And that's the way I intend it to remain."

She closed her eyes, unable to continue talking. Delia rose to her feet. "There's just one thing before I go, Sylvia," she said quietly. "It's about last night."

With great effort Sylvia opened her eyes, the expression in them wary.

"Gwen told Ivor that we were together when the storm broke and that our horses threw us into the broad. Unlikely though it may be, it's a version of events I'd like to stick to. I've no desire to become known as a heroine. Especially in these circ.u.mstances."

The faintest of smiles touched Sylvia's beautifully shaped mouth.

"That's fine by me," she said weakly, closing her eyes again. "I don't want the whole world knowing I owe you my life."

As Delia opened the door, Sylvia said, "And you were very brave, Delia. I'll give you that. We call it s.p.u.n.k in England. Is it something all Virginians have?"

"No, but I'm a Chandler, and all Chandlers have it."

On that note she closed the door behind her.

Half an hour later Ivor's Rolls swept up the drive. Delia's bedroom windows were open and within a second of the car coming to a halt she heard Ivor sprint across the gravel.

Thanks to Ellie, she knew exactly what Gwen had told him and since he believed both her and Sylvia to have suffered similarly, whom would Ivor rush to see first? Her, or Sylvia? He always behaved with the utmost propriety in front of servants and, as they all would know if he strode to Sylvia's room first, that alone was reason enough for him not to do so. He would also have to take into account the fact that Gwen was in the house. If he were to hurry to Sylvia's side first, even Gwen would finally realize the true nature of their relationship. Last but by no means least, Delia was pregnant-and according to the doctor, still at risk of losing the baby.

As she heard him take the stairs two at a time, she was certain he would come to her door. She couldn't see how, in all conscience, he could do anything else.

He rounded the head of the stairs and began striding swiftly along the corridor toward her room.

He reached it.

And pa.s.sed it.

Seconds later, without even pausing to knock, she heard him throw open Sylvia's door.