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YORK – 1915

The argument had been tame – polite, even – but there was no doubt in Alex Frobisher’s mind that if she didn’t make a decision, it would be made for her. She gave a small clicking sound and nudged her coal-coloured mare to pick up her pace. The familiar noise of hooves on the road soothed, and she tried to take her thoughts back to a time when the summers seemed to stretch forever in a warm recollection of shared laughter in Scotland. Such happy days before that August afternoon of 1905 when darkness descended on her family. It was this pain, forever haunting them, that she was sure was the root of her mother’s urgency for a wedding . . . even an unwelcome one for Alex.

Blackberry didn’t need guiding; she knew exactly where to turn left and enter the lush landscape of the sprawling green of the Knavesmire that flanked one of Britain’s favourite racecourses. The canter turned to a light gallop and soon they gained speed, the landscape melting into a pleasing blur of leaves. The glimmering late autumn sunlight, toppling fast into that golden hour just before dusk, found the bluish hint of Blackberry’s coat. The breeze tried desperately to stir free Alex’s hair, which clung stubbornly to its pins beneath her riding hat; a few wisps escaped, particularly one determined strand enjoying freedom as much as she was.

Not only had her hair deepened to the colour of chocolate over the years, but she felt her life had followed suit into maturity and this last year felt as though it had delivered her into a relentlessly dark place.

She let the debate play out once more in her mind as she pulled on the reins to slow Blackberry’s arrival at the entrance. The horse obliged, finding an easy walk, steamy breath blowing in the fading afternoon as a chill crawled over the open plain of the park. Alex relived the uncomfortable conversation that unfolded as vividly in her mind as if she were living through it for the first time. She replayed it now like a motion picture.

There was her father in his tweeds, sipping his afternoon tea, unhappily ignoring the pikelets he so enjoyed in order to escape the shrill exchanges between his wife and daughter. He’d moved to the bank of tall windows, with their small squares of glass panes framed by heavy plum velvet curtains, to look out across the grounds of the sprawling champagne-brick pile called Tilsden Hall. It had been home to the Frobishers for decades and Alex knew he searched out the duck pond. She instinctively understood that her father was wishing he could stroll now to the pond and gaze out at the two swans moving peacefully across the glass-like surface. Instead, he was suffering through yet another difference of opinion between the women in his life.

Alex watched her mother lift her eyes to the garishly painted ceiling in the Arts and Crafts style that her elder had embraced so eagerly. Minerva had often claimed that it was a ‘folk style’ of yesteryear, but her daughter glanced now at the frantic circus of flowers and geometric shapes on the timbered ceiling and felt a familiar gush of embarrassment. Alex switched her gaze to her mother. Minerva Frobisher’s pinched nostrils and pursed lips gave the impression she was attempting to shut out something particularly putrid.

‘Mother,’ Alex appealed, ‘I really must be allowed to make some decisions of my own.’

‘You can. You may choose whether you wish to be formally engaged to Edward St John, Ashley Langdon-Smith or Duncan Cameron, or indeed courted by all of them.’

‘Then, if it’s up to me, I choose none of them.’

Her mother baulked, giving a low gasp of indignation. Her father cut Alex a look of soft despair as though admonishing her for prodding an already enraged beast. She returned it with a tiny shrug of apology; they both knew he was about to be drawn into the discussion he’d aimed to avoid.

‘Charles!’

‘Yes, dear?’

‘What do you have to say to that?’ Minerva demanded.

Her father strolled over to stand near the fireplace; its blackened ironwork beneath the mahogany mantelpiece proclaimed its 1898 installation in bold relief. He turned his back to the dancing flames to pick up a warm pikelet that he folded neatly, careful not to spill a drop of the oozy butter or glistening jam. He bit into it deliberately to avoid speaking and nodded that he’d answer shortly when his mouth was no longer full.

Fresh exasperation was sighed out by Minerva. ‘Alexandra,’ she continued, ‘you should have been married years ago. But as an only child we’ve indulged you. We’ve given you plenty of time, far more than most daughters, plus you’ve grown up in a world of entitlement —’

‘I am aware of that, Mother,’ Alex replied, trying hard not to snap her words.

‘Are you? Really, darling, are you? Because you show no indication that you’re seriously taking on board your role.’

‘Please —’ Alex began.

‘While I pray each evening that Cousins Hugh and George are spared, I fear daily that both could be gone from us in a blink. I know that men’s lives are being cut down by the thousands, daily. Someone in this family has to be realistic about your future. Without Peter —’

Alex leapt in. She didn’t want to travel the whole emotional journey again. ‘I know, Mother. You want me to marry and give you grandsons, retain Tilsden. I do realise this.’

‘Both of us want this. But actually, Alexandra, I’m genuinely concerned that there is someone to look after you. Your father may not wish to press you but I know that women don’t get nearly as much say as they would like. Now, we can rail against it, and please don’t misunderstand me,’ she said, raising a finger, ‘I am full of admiration for courageous women who wish to change the way of the world, but our way, darling, is to cling to the traditional. I know you don’t want to hear this but I am going to say it one more time, very clearly, so you make no mistake about your role for the Frobisher family. And it is not any harebrained idea of pursuing a career! You can’t possibly contemplate working for wages – or you certainly wouldn’t be considered marriage material. Besides, you know nothing about anything, frankly. Leave business to the men in your life – that’s their role. Yours, my darling girl, is to marry. Most young women aren’t given such a selection but we love you deeply and we do want you to be happy in your choice.’ It was impressive how her mother could give offence even when her words were chosen to show affection. ‘Each is ideal in almost every way.’

‘Except the most important.’

‘I barely knew your father when I was betrothed and I did not run from my duty to marry him, even though I was far younger than you are. I very quickly grew to respect him.’

‘What about love, though, Mother?’

‘Of course I love your father,’ Minerva replied with fresh indignation, but conveniently missing the point, Alex thought.

‘Well, just so that we’re all clear, I don’t respond to any of those three men.’

‘Respond?’ her mother scorned. ‘What on earth does that mean, child? In what ways don’t you respond?’

‘Myriad ways.’ She sighed. ‘Let’s make this simple. Edward is pompous and has viciously bad breath; Ashley is scared of spiders and prefers to sleep with a lamp on – hardly heroic! Anyway, I sense Ashley is easily persuaded by his London society friends . . . and Duncan . . . well, Duncan is Scottish.’