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  In memory of Charlie Coram James and David Sloane

  May they have wings to fly

  But to what purpose

  Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves

  I do not know.

  Other echoes

  Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow?

  Quick, said the bird, find them, find them,

  Round the corner. Through the first gate,

  Into our first world, shall we follow?

  T. S. Eliot

  Prologue

  In later life Edward could never recall why he had returned to the rose garden, or what had made him look up at that window once more. He did remember that it had only been a glance, yet in that instant, everything changed. He saw the girl leaning towards him, regarding him through a clear pane, her fair hair falling in tendrils about her face. He would remember those sea-mist eyes, reaching out to him, yet distant and unattainable. He stood beneath the window and raised his hand, but a cloud’s reflection grazed the glass. When it cleared, the girl had vanished. Once more the window was dark and dingy; only the small face with the down-turned mouth that he had drawn in the dirt remained.

  The morning had been hot, September’s last stand against the autumn. Across the valley, sheep grazed in the rough pasture and a gossamer haze hung above the ripened wheat. ‘Look, Eddie,’ his mother said as she stopped the car and pointed across the fields, ‘Burnt Norton.’

  As Edward followed her gaze towards the wooded hillside, his eyes rested on a Cotswold manor house. Four gables faced north towards the Malvern Hills, and in the changing light, shadows shifted across the thick stone walls. When she restarted the engine, they continued slowly along the drive and over the cattle grid. Below them, amongst the laurels, a stew pond glittered, and lower still, pushing its way through the tangled grass, Edward could make out the ruins of an ice house. A courtyard lay beyond a red-brick archway, and as they drove underneath, Edward could see his future stepfather crossing the cobbles towards them. Conroy smiled warmly as Edward’s mother stopped the car and opened the window. Edward could hear the tenderness in his mother’s voice when she greeted Conroy, and he recognized the enormity of this new step in their lives. As he climbed out of the car, his mother got out too, shutting the dogs inside.

  ‘This house, Eddie, was once simply known as Norton,’ Conroy said, putting his hand on the boy’s thin shoulder. ‘But after the fire of 1741, it has always been known as Burnt Norton. I hope you’ll grow to like it.’

  The fifteen-year-old smiled at his future stepfather and shrugged. ‘I hope so too,’ he said.

  The four gables of the north façade rising before him were too severe to be beautiful, but they had another quality, something intangible in the endless stone walls, the countless mullioned windows and the solitary bell suspended beneath the eaves. The coat of arms set above the main doorway held an indefinable fascination. Something deep within Edward made him feel as if he had been there before.

  ‘Curious, isn’t it?’ Conroy watched the boy’s sensitive face. ‘Norton can have a strange effect.’

  Edward, unable to look away, spoke at last. ‘You go on; I’ll catch up with you in the garden later.’

  ‘Good idea, we’ll leave you to explore.’ Conroy and his mother linked arms and walked towards a small gate at right angles to the house. Edward waited until they had disappeared into the garden beyond, leaving him alone in the courtyard. Burnt Norton. The name echoed in his head.

  A broken door led to a small internal cloister. He entered and climbed the worn steps to the back door. He turned the handle, it wouldn’t move. He pushed his whole weight against the weathered oak, until at last it gave way and he tumbled into the dimly lit hallway. On the wall above him a row of bells from another century remained. He read the names: Drawing Room, Dining Room, Boudoir, Library. He stopped in front of a mirror, and as his face distorted in the mottled glass he remembered Conroy’s words: ‘In a month or so, you can choose your own bedroom, but you must wait until the builders have replaced the broken boards.’

  Ignoring this, Edward crossed the flagstones, unhooked the Danger sign from the bottom of the wide staircase and stepped over the first missing tread. He paused for a while on the half-landing and looked over the rose garden below. The two beds were each split into four quarters, separated by a central gravel path. Each bed was enclosed by a low box hedge, but the roses themselves were dying, their petals drifting silently to the ground. Behind them, in the shade of a sycamore tree, a statue of a young horse stretched its neck.

  The air was hushed, heavy with sadness. Edward ran his finger across a pane of glass, drawing a small, cheerless face in the thick dust that had gathered there. Then he stood and climbed the last five treads to the first floor.

  An old mattress lay propped on its side. He prodded it, watching the dust burst into tiny particles. Beneath a broken skylight, books and magazines littered the floor. He picked up a copy of Punch, opened the yellowed cover and was reading the caption to an old-fashioned cartoon when a chair in the corner caught his eye. It had large wooden wheels. He ran his hands along the back, and as the chair moved, the wheels creaked in protest. Edward wondered at its history, for everything had a history in Edward’s imagination.

  A small doorway disguised as a bookcase further intrigued him. He pulled it open to reveal a winding stairway to the attics, where two rooms led off a small landing. In the first, sixties wallpaper peeled from the pink plaster and forgotten idols posed on faded posters. He entered the second bedroom. The small leaded windows fractured the sunlight into a thousand patterns on the wooden floor. An iron bedstead with rusting springs rested against one of the heavily beamed walls and in the corner a painted cupboard lay open. Flies buzzed on the ceiling, and the room had the air of having been untouched for centuries. This was the room he would choose. Edward lingered there, oblivious of time passing, until the dogs’ muffled barks reminded him that they had been left in the car. He ran out of the house, retracing his footsteps into the empty courtyard.

  When he opened the car door the dogs jumped out, free at last. He followed them into the rose garden, where they raced ahead of him – galloping beyond the rose beds, past the sycamore tree and the statue of the horse he’d seen from above – leaving Edward alone once more. Admiring the gentle west wing with its three identical gables, he recognized with pride the leaded panes of his new bedroom far above him, and below it, the large and dirty bay window where he had paused only a short time before. He turned away, walking up the bank onto a large flat lawn. At one end, the lawn was enclosed by a crumbling balustrade; at the other, two gateposts were buried in the undergrowth.

  He thought he heard his mother’s voice. He ran towards it, calling her name, but there was no reply. Only a statue of Diana the huntress, her arm shattered, her face pitted by centuries of weather, stared back at him from below.

  Slightly unsettled, Edward returned to the rose garden. He stopped in front of the window, where he looked up again and saw the girl.

  The dogs’ barking broke the spell, and Edward darted away from the house, under the brick archway, down a gravelled path, and into a wide-open space that merged with the woods beyond. Great oaks bordered two empty pools. He stopped there and leant against the entrance pillar. Shutting his eyes, he breathed deeply, and for an instant the pools filled with water, and children chased each other in and out of the shadows. Edward sat on a stone bench, the echoes of their laughter ringing in his ears. As the sun warmed his face, he reflected that Conroy was right: this house had a strange effect.

  His mother’s voice recalled him to
the present. He opened his eyes and looked around: the pools were empty once more. Following the sounds of their voices, he found his mother and Conroy half hidden by the wild grasses. Edward threw himself onto the bank beside them.

  ‘I thought you said the house was empty, Conroy?’

  ‘The last tenants left thirty years ago, so, yes, it certainly is.’

  ‘But there was someone in the window.’

  Conroy smiled as if everything was suddenly clear. ‘When I next see you, I will show you something very special. It is a first edition of Four Quartets by T. S. Eliot, given to me by my grandmother on my twenty-first birthday. The opening part of the work is “Burnt Norton”. I believe Eliot happened upon our garden sometime in the thirties when my family was away, and he sat down to write one of the greatest poems in history. Perhaps one day you will find an explanation, but for now, you can read this astonishing work and appreciate the mystery.’

  Looking at the scarred and empty pools, the trees towering above them, Edward wondered if Eliot had closed his eyes and leant against the same stone wall, and if he, too, had seen the children.

  1

  1731

  No memorial is guaranteed permanence. Thirteen hundred years ago, a Roman was buried on Kingcombe Hill. The grave overlooking the Vale of Evesham was thought an enduring place for the soul to seek the afterlife, and it remained undisturbed until one frosty November morning when a plough bit into the elaborate stone coffin, the lid was dislodged, and the Roman’s peace was destroyed. The fragile bones disintegrated on the morning breeze, the plough moved on, reducing all traces of vanity to useful rows.

  But something was left behind: a ring made of gold strands twisted like a serpent’s coil. Dorothy knew this ring well; her father wore it until the day before he died. She suspected that this ring had changed her family’s fortunes.

  The room was dark when Dorothy opened her eyes. She lay quite still, letting the last strands of a dream slip from her. As her dolls stared at her from the shelf, she remembered Miss Byrne’s words from the night before.

  ‘It’s only London,’ she’d said as she tucked the crisp white sheets around Dorothy. ‘And it’s only for a month. With Ophelia as lead horse, you can have no worries at all.’

  But Dorothy didn’t want to leave Norton and the security of her routine. She pushed back the covers, letting her feet swing over the edge of the bed. The house seemed quiet, but somewhere in the attics, the first servants would be stirring.

  Across the room, dresses like silver shrouds hung in the nursery cupboard. Moving them aside she found an old woollen cloak of her sister’s and pulled it around her shoulders. She fastened the hooks, put on her slippers and crept down the back stairs. On the half-landing she paused and opened the window. There was a new sharpness: the scent of autumn. Dorothy shivered. Something troubled her. She shut the window quickly, startling Annie, who looked at Dorothy from the courtyard below, her face luminous in the lamp light. The maid tripped, cursing angrily and stumbled on through the archway towards the ice house. Lorenzo opened the lodge door, pulled on his leather boots, and going in the opposite direction he disappeared into the darkness.

  Dorothy decided to follow him. A fox barked in the distance, and above the line of the yew trees, blue-black clouds sailed across the emerging sky. The lawn was wet, and by the time she reached the coach house, the hem of her cloak was heavy with dew. Ophelia turned her head, whickering softly; Dorothy entered the stall and buried her face in the horse’s silken coat.

  ‘Does Lady Keyt know you are up?’ Lorenzo stood in the doorway.

  Dorothy looked at him, her face colouring. ‘Please don’t tell her,’ she said.

  ‘Then come with me; you can help. There’s still a lot to do.’ She followed him to the harness room. The fire flickered in the grate, and the satisfying smells of soap and leather drifted towards her. She sat on a chair by the hearth, and when the flames rose up, they caught the hollows in Lorenzo’s face.

  While Lorenzo polished the buckles and greased the leather, Dorothy worked on Ophelia’s bridle. They were disturbed by a clatter in the yard outside.

  ‘Mornin’, Lorenzo, morning, Miss Dorothy,’ Jim Smith, the wheelwright said, his wrinkled face creasing into a lopsided smile. ‘This here’s taken me nigh on a month to make. Precision, that’s what it takes. Precision and skill.’ The old man rolled the wheel towards the carriage. ‘I’ll be along to the back door with me ticket just as soon as I’ve tightened these bolts.’

  ‘Make sure you secure them well,’ Lorenzo said. ‘I can’t wait, I have four horses to prepare.’

  Dorothy returned surreptitiously to her bed at precisely the moment her father, Sir William Keyt, Member of Parliament for Warwick and the owner of two considerable estates, stretched luxuriously in his own. He sat up and looked at his wife sleeping beside him. He traced the curve of her jawline with his finger and lifted a strand of hair from her forehead. She opened her eyes for a moment and smiled.

  ‘The opera,’ he said softly, with the pride of someone offering a great gift. ‘I shall take you to the opera.’

  He settled back in bed, knowing that after twenty-one years of marriage and four children – not counting the poor departed baby – his dear wife deserved every indulgent day of the month they would spend in London. He had no great desire to stay with his mother-in-law, the indomitable Lady Tracy, but he owed it to his family, and though he had visited the Vatican in Rome, the duomo in Florence and St Mark’s Basilica in Venice, he regarded his education as incomplete: he had never been to the opera. On this day, the eighteenth of September, he resolved to address this oversight.

  He put his arm around his wife’s waist and pulled her towards him. ‘We will have the best time,’ he murmured, before sleep claimed him once more.

  An hour later, he woke to the sound of the butler knocking.

  ‘Come in, Whitstone.’

  The butler opened the door and hovered discreetly in the entrance.

  ‘Your bath is ready, Sir William.’

  ‘Thank you. Please tell Hawkins I’ll be with him shortly, and get him to lay out my burgundy travelling coat and the buckskin breeches, and before we leave could you get my diamond fob from the safe. And clean this, will you?’ He pulled a small ring from his finger. ‘The ruby eye is barely discernible.’

  ‘It will be done, sir.’

  Sir William would never have called himself vain, but if he was truthful, which he sometimes was, he was keenly aware of his appearance. He had a certain fondness for clothes and indeed for jewellery.

  After he was bathed and dressed to his satisfaction, he went downstairs to his study. He sat at his desk, stretched his long legs and opened the drawer. Someone had been there; whoever it was had moved his diary. It did not take long to determine the culprit. For a moment he was angry, and then he smiled. If only Thomas had some of Dorothy’s spirit, he thought.

  Miss Byrne found Thomas on the landing. ‘Put your book down, young man, and go and have breakfast. It’s hard enough to get your little brother’s nose into a book, and it’s hard enough to keep your nose out of one.’

  Thomas laughed. ‘Is John awake?’

  ‘It’s been the devil’s own job to keep him away from your poor mother. He has been up since six, talking about a new telescope. It’s all he thinks about. Your father is filling his head with fanciful ideas; that’s the job of your old governess, so it is.’

  Thomas felt a moment of jealousy. His father loved John the best.

  ‘Now don’t you be looking sad. Your father will buy you a present in London, I’m sure of it.’

  Thomas smiled at Miss Byrne, though he doubted her words. He could never please his father.

  2

  The Keyt children were waiting in the carriage, with their mother and Miss Byrne, when Sir William came down the front steps, flanked by his dogs.

  ‘Letitia, Sophie, go inside – you’re not coming.’ He stroked the spaniels.

  He approach
ed Ophelia, patting her side, then ran his hand expertly down her legs, checking for any swelling that would signal an impending lameness. When he was satisfied, he climbed into the carriage. ‘Good morning, my dear, good morning, everyone.’

  ‘Good morning,’ they replied. He parted the tails on his burgundy coat, and after rearranging a ruffle on his shirt sleeve, he opened his journal, the London Gazette, took his glasses from his pocket and declared that they were ready. ‘John, you may tell Lorenzo to release the brake.’

  The small boy clambered from his seat, banged on the partition with a chubby fist, and the coach moved off at a brisk trot. As the wheels clattered under the archway Dorothy turned to see the oak front door close behind them.

  ‘My darling, you were not in your bed this morning when Annie lit the fires.’ Lady Keyt turned to her daughter, but Dorothy dropped her eyes.

  ‘No, Mama, I was with Lizzie. I had a bad headache.’ She knew her sister would not betray her.

  ‘Well, have a care, or you will have to stay in your room to recover.’ Dorothy stared at the window, silent; her mother knew everything about her, even the things she didn’t want her to know.

  They had just passed Moreton-in-Marsh when Thomas rose to his feet. ‘Mama, Father, please listen to me.’ Dorothy’s heart lurched, for it was the same voice he used when something was wrong. It was the voice that drove her father mad. She raised her head.

  ‘We need to turn the carriage,’ he said, his blue eyes intense in his pale face. ‘We need to go home while there is still time.’

  ‘Thomas, enough of your nonsense,’ her mother said quietly, her hands flying to her throat.

  ‘There’s going to be an accident. One of us will die.’

  ‘Thomas, my angel, do not frighten us.’ Her mother’s voice was firmer now. ‘You mustn’t let your thoughts run away with you.’

  ‘A still tongue makes a wise head!’ her father snapped. ‘Sit down and keep your ridiculous ideas to yourself!’