he drew her out, little by little, and by the time the meal was finished he knew almost all there was to know about her, and she had relaxed. It seemed perfectly proper to allow him to escort her to Winterford in the curricle which appeared as if by magic when they went outside.
There had been a sharp frost overnight, and the hedges and trees as they left the town were covered in sparkling rime. In no time, they seemed to have left these and all other signs of civilisation behind them and were on an uneven lane, going straight as a die, towards a flat expanse of nothingness which stretched for miles, with hardly a hillock to be seen. There were no trees either, except a few frosted willows and alders growing along the banks of the ditches. There were a great many of these dykes, where geese and ducks swam on gaps in the ice. Strange windmills with buckets, instead of paddles, were dotted about the landscape, their sails hardly turning in the windless air. But the sky was magnificent, layer upon layer of dark cloud rising from a horizon that was so wide, it seemed to take on the curve of the earth itself. Each cloud was streaked by fire, red and mauve and awesome. Margaret found herself admiring it at the same time as it frightened her. She felt tiny and insignificant.
‘Most of this land was drained in the last century,’ Charles told her. ‘All but a few acres are owned by the Pargeters. Lord Pargeter is a good man, a fine fellow all round.’
‘What of Sedge House?’
‘That is not exactly in Winterford, but two or three miles further on. Have you not been there before?’
‘Never.’
‘It’s a bleak place, right on the edge of the unreclaimed fen, and Henry Capitain has done nothing to improve it. I doubt you will like living there.’
‘I have no choice.’
‘Everyone has a choice,’ he said softly, wondering whether to broach the subject of Roland and his dilemma. ‘You could marry.’
‘One day perhaps,’ she said with a sigh. ‘At the moment I cannot bring myself to think of it.’ She smiled. ‘Are you married, Master Mellison?’
‘I am betrothed to Lord Pargeter’s sister. We hope to marry soon. His lordship is unmarried, though his grandmother has been pressing him to find a wife for some time. He has to secure the lineage, you understand.’
‘Does he not wish to marry?’
‘Oh, yes, but he cannot find anyone prepared to live in this out-of-the-way place. But whoever becomes Lady Pargeter would have to, you see, at least three-quarters of the year. Roland is almost resigned to never marrying.’ He hoped his friend would forgive him the half-truth.
‘I am sorry,’ she murmured politely.
‘I shall introduce you to him.’ He turned to her as if suddenly thinking of it. ‘I’ll wager you would deal well together.’
‘I thought the days of matchmakers were gone,’ she said, smiling and revealing a twinkle in her eye and a dimple at the side of her mouth he had not noticed before; it gave him a twinge of conscience.
‘Sometimes it is necessary. Shall we stop at Winterford Manor, so that you may make his acquaintance?’
‘No, thank you,’ she said firmly. ‘I am flattered that you should think me worthy, but we are strangers and I am in mourning. Making calls will have to wait until I have settled down.’
He sighed and turned the curricle away from the village they had been approaching and down a narrow rutted track which ran alongside a high bank, on the other side of which was a wide ribbon of water which was too straight to be a river. Halfway along it was one of the strange windmills she had noticed before.
‘What are those for?’ she asked, pointing.
‘The land round here is often flooded in winter. The windmills take the water off the fields in the buckets and tip it into the dykes.’
‘How clever.’
They rode on in silence, Charles wondering how he could further Roland’s cause without frightening her away, and Margaret apprehensive of what she would find at the end of her journey,
She realised he was making for a speck on the horizon which, as they drew nearer, was revealed as a house. It was a big square brick building which stood almost abutting the lane. On its other side, an overgrown lawn went down to a boat-house and a tiny jetty where a rowing-boat was moored in the water of the fen. The road went no further.
‘Do you want me to wait?’ he asked as he pulled the horses up at the door.
‘No, thank you. I am grateful for your trouble, but I shall manage now.’ She did not want a witness to her first encounter with her great-uncle and was glad he took her at her word.
‘Very well. But if you change your mind about meeting his lordship, do not hesitate to let me know.’
As soon as she had alighted he turned the vehicle round and was soon bowling away along the flat road, back to Winterford. She sighed and turned to knock on the thick oak door.
She was taken completely aback when it was opened by a girl with a white-painted face, full red lips and several patches. She wore a pink satin open gown whose laces strained across her bosom, and a petticoat of red silk, beneath which Margaret could see white stockings and red high-heeled shoes. She stared at Margaret. ‘Well, you’re a little out of the ordinary, I must say.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Different, I mean. You look as if you couldn’t say boo to a goose.’
‘Then my looks belie me,’ Margaret retorted, putting her chin in the air. Who did the hussy think she was? ‘Is Master Capitain at home? I wish to speak to him.’
‘Henry!’ the girl yelled over her shoulder. ‘Come on out here and see what’s turned up.’
There was a shuffling noise behind her and a man pushed past her to stare at Margaret with myopic eyes. He wore white small-clothes which were stained with wine or tea, or something of the sort, and a shirt which was opened almost to the waist, revealing an expanse of flabby white flesh. His legs were clad in dirty white stockings but he wore no shoes. He had discarded his wig and his thin white hair stood up at all angles round his head. He had about six chins which wobbled down into a thick neck. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded. ‘Did I ask you to come?’
‘No, but I wrote to you. Did you not receive my letter? I am Margaret Donnington.’
‘Margaret who?’
She countered with a question of her own. ‘Are you Master Capitain?’
‘Yes, of course I am. Who else would I be? And I don’t remember any letter.’
‘I am your great-niece. I am Felicity’s daughter.’
‘Great Jehosophat! I thought she was dead.’
Margaret gulped hard to take control of herself, though she felt like fleeing back down the road. ‘She is dead. She died two weeks ago.’ She paused, but he seemed unable to take in what she was saying. ‘Before she died, she told me to come to you.’
‘Why, for God’s sake? We ain’t seen each other in…’ He racked his brain to remember. ‘It must be nigh on thirty years. I did hear she had married. What did you say your name was?’
‘Margaret Donnington.’
‘How did you arrive here?’
‘I came by stage to Ely and then a gentleman going to Winterford Manor brought me on.’
‘Pargeter!’ There was no attempt to disguise the contempt in his voice.
‘No, it was one of his guests.’ She paused, waiting, then added. ‘Are you not going to invite me in?’
‘The house is all in a muddle,’ he said. ‘Not fit to be seen. This slut——’ he indicated the girl at his side, who had continued to stare at