Page 1 of The Gathering Storm (Morland Dynasty #36)

CHAPTER ONE

The steward’s room was the warmest in Morland Place, with its cosy linenfold panelling and the big fire that had been banked the evening before and stirred back to life in the early morning.

The dogs knew it. They had slipped in with John Burton when he arrived and now made a hairy carpet before the hearth.

When Polly came in after breakfast she said, ‘I wondered where they’d all gone. You wanted to see me?’

Burton was silent a moment, thinking how fine she looked.

For some women, their mid thirties are a time when the dewy but unfinished beauty of extreme youth blends with the serenity and confidence of maturity.

Polly had always been a belle in the classical, blue-eyed-golden-haired mould: now she was a lovely woman, with a fine, upright figure in well-cut riding clothes, her golden hair drawn into a tight, practical bun.

She gave him a quizzical look. ‘What is it? Have I got a smut on my nose?’

He shook himself. ‘No, indeed.’ He hurried on: ‘I have something to tell you – well, two things. One personal, one business.’

‘Personal first, then.’ She perched on the edge of the desk.

‘I don’t know, really, whether it’s something you need to know, or even want to know, but I would feel odd not telling you. Joan – my wife – we are expecting a child.’

‘That’s wonderful. Congratulations.’ Polly’s reply was automatic, the product of her careful upbringing, as was her smile. And of course it was good news!

But when John Burton had first come into her life as her estate manager, she had been feeling very lonely – a young widow, recently returned from America, her adored father having also died.

Of course, she had been surrounded by relatives – she still was – but where was the special person to whom she mattered most in the world, who was interested in every facet of her life?

She had longed for that perfect intimacy; had wanted, in a word, a lover.

She had immediately liked and trusted John Burton, and as they had worked closely together, learning the complexities of running the estate, it was natural that a warmth had grown up between them.

It had been foolish of her to allow it to develop into a tendresse .

She had never so much as heard him mention Joan Formby’s name until the day he had introduced her as his fiancée.

Polly and Burton had spent so much time together, she had forgotten he might have a life outside Morland Place.

She was now ashamed of what her feelings had been. He was her agent, a nice, warm-hearted, straightforward man and an excellent employee: he would be mortified if he ever found out she had harboured a silly fancy for him. ‘I’m delighted for you,’ she went on. ‘When is the great day?’

‘Oh, not until September,’ he said, pushing back the lock of barley-fair hair that liked to escape and fall over his forehead. ‘It’s early days – we haven’t even told Joan’s parents yet.’

‘You’ll need a larger house,’ Polly said briskly. ‘Your cottage is really only suitable for a bachelor. Mrs Burton has been very patient to live there for eighteen months without complaint.’

‘Sixteen months,’ he corrected. ‘As a matter of fact—’

‘You already have somewhere in mind,’ she capped him.

‘As your agent, I naturally know all the properties on your estate.’

‘And which has taken your fancy?’

‘Kebble’s Cottage, on Moor Lane.’

‘Oh, yes. Isn’t it the one with the roses all over the front?’

‘That’s it. There’s a good bit of garden at the back, too. The previous tenant worked it well, so we’d be able to grow vegetables. Even perhaps keep a couple of hens.’

Polly had had enough of imagining their domestic bliss. ‘Well, you have my blessing to take it, and I wish you very happy there. Now, what was the business matter you wanted to raise?’

He reached for a piece of paper in front of him.

‘I’ve a letter here from York council. To summarise, they are continuing with the slum clearances in the Hungate area, and they want to build council houses outside the walls for the people they displace.

You know they did the same sort of thing when they cleared Walmgate and bought the land at Tang Hall? ’

‘What has that to do with me?’ she asked. She had a feeling she would not like where this was going.

‘They want to buy twenty acres of Morland land up at North Field, along the Knaresborough road.’

‘For housing? But that’s good farmland,’ she objected.

‘Indeed, but when you move people, you can’t take them too far from their jobs. And they need access to public transport, so you have to site the estate along a road – which makes it easier to lay in services, too: water and sewerage and so on.’

‘My father took years to build up the estate. I’m not going to reduce it,’ she said.

Burton gave her a troubled look. ‘You may not have a choice, ma’am. Under the Housing Act of 1885, local authorities have the power to purchase land compulsorily.’

Polly’s brows drew down. ‘You mean, they could make me sell?’

‘I’m afraid so. It’s the law.’

‘But the land belongs to me! If they can just take it, we might as well be living in Russia!’

‘The thing is—’

Polly turned away abruptly. ‘I can’t talk about it now. I’m on my way out.’

‘We’ll need to reply to them fairly soon, or—’

‘I’ll think about it,’ she snapped, and left him.

It was a dry day, but perishingly cold, and not a single dog volunteered to accompany her as she went out into the yard.

On the shaded side the frost lay like snow along the foot of the wall; it glistened on the cobbles.

One of the grooms, Hodgson, led Zephyr out and helped her mount.

She didn’t blame him for scurrying back to the tack-room as soon as she had the reins.

Zephyr clattered over the drawbridge and out onto the track, and Polly had a sense of being completely alone in the world.

There was no-one about; nothing stirred, not even a bird.

The gauntness of February was unsoftened yet by any new growth; even the blackthorn slept.

The trees stood stark and bare against a uniform grey sky, and the air was grippingly cold, the sort of creeping chill that worked its way inside your clothes, and numbed your hands.

Zephyr was inclined to be nappy at first, wanting to get back to his stall, but she drove him into a fast canter to warm them both up. They went out as far as Rufforth Grange before she turned back and made a circle towards Twelvetrees, her cousin Jessie’s place. She felt the need of advice.

Jessie was in one of the paddocks, lungeing a young horse, with her daughter Ottilie in the saddle.

Ottilie, slight with curly fair hair, the image of her mother, was small for thirteen, and Jessie often used her when backing a horse for the first time.

The appearance of Zephyr on the other side of the fence distracted the horse and it whinnied and tried to nap towards the gate.

Jessie looked round, then waved to Polly and called the horse in to the centre.

‘I need to talk to you,’ Polly said. ‘It’s important.’

‘Go on, I’ll join you in a minute,’ Jessie called back. ‘I’ve just about finished.’ She turned to her daughter. ‘Sit quite still and don’t use your legs. I want him to listen to me, not you.’ She sent the horse back out to circle on the other rein.

Polly rode on. By the time she had settled Zephyr in a spare stall, Jessie and Ottilie had arrived, walking the young horse between them. Polly heard Ottilie say, ‘I’ll take him, Mum. You go and talk to Polly.’

Jessie’s head appeared over the half-door. ‘Come up to the house and have a cup of tea,’ she said. Her eyes were watering with the cold and the tip of her nose was red. ‘I’m frozen to the marrow. I think we might be in for some snow.’

Polly gave Zephyr a last pat and joined her. ‘Oh, I pray not. That’s all I need to make a perfect day.’

‘Why? What’s happened?’ Jessie asked. They walked up the path to the house, their footsteps crackling on the skim of ice between the stones.

Twelvetrees was a solid, square, stone house, designed to keep out the weather.

Jessie and Bertie had had it built to their own plan, with modern amenities, and it was deliciously warm inside.

‘This must be the only truly warm house in England!’ Polly exclaimed.

‘I suppose you were used to central heating in New York,’ Jessie said, easing off her gloves.

‘I must say, it’s a treat on a day like this.

It’s making me soft, though. I was much hardier when I lived at Morland Place.

’ She had grown up there. She had inherited Twelvetrees from her father, and she and her husband bred and schooled horses for sale.

‘Icy draughts and cavernous spaces,’ Polly agreed. ‘A little pool of heat around each fire, and Arctic wastes in between. One of these days I’m going to have central heating put in – when I can work out where to put the boiler. That’s the trouble with an ancient pile – especially a moated one!’

Jessie smiled indulgently. ‘But you wouldn’t exchange Morland Place for any other house on earth.’

‘Well, no, but that’s nothing to do with it. You should see my chilblains.’

‘So, tell me what’s ruffled your feathers,’ Jessie invited, as they stripped off coats and gloves.

‘John Burton’s been lobbing bombshells at me. First he tells me his wife’s expecting a baby—’

‘Why is that a bombshell?’

Polly caught herself up. ‘Oh, you know how demanding a first baby can be. He’ll have his mind on anything but his work for the next year at least.’

‘I’m sure he won’t let it affect him. He’s tremendously diligent.’

Polly hurried on. ‘And then he tells me that the York city authorities want to buy some of my land for council houses. And tells me that they can force me to sell. It’s outrageous!’

Jessie said, ‘This calls for Bertie’s wisdom. I think he’s in his study. Shall we go and see?’