Josephine looked over Violet’s gate and saw the C mark branded on a back which was hollow with age. ‘Is she a war horse?’ she asked.
‘Yes. She’s the only one we’ve got left now, but there were several here at one time. Mr Motley went over to bring as many back as he could – anything to stop them being sold off to French butchers. I remember one in particular, a chestnut called Timber. She’d lost an eye in the Dardanelles, but she was sound as a bell otherwise and God, was she a beauty. When you gave her her head, it was like riding fire.’
What a powerful image, Josephine thought. She watched as Violet ate contentedly. The hair around her muzzle was mostly grey, but her eyes were half-closed in delight and it was hard to believe that she had ever been shipped off to a world which was as unfamiliar and horrifying to her as it had been to her human counterparts. ‘At least she found a good home in the end,’ she said.
‘And it’s no more than she deserves after what she’s been through. It must have been terrible for them – flogged through the mud by city men who hadn’t a clue about horses.’
Josephine had to agree. She remembered one letter that Jack had sent her just before he was killed. He’d described finding a mule in the middle of the road with both of its forelegs shot away. The poor brute was battling with the mud, writhing and tossing its head, and trying desperately to get to feet which were no longer there. Jack had stopped to put it out of its misery with a bullet and, in so doing, had probably risked his own life and those of his companions – but there were no complaints. It was a long time before the image stopped visiting her in her dreams, and it had never lost its horror. ‘Sometimes it’s too easy to justify the cost,’ she said, stroking Violet. He said nothing, and she wondered if he was quietly thanking fate for the handful of years which had kept his generation from that conflict, or imagining when his turn would come. They stood in silence for a while, both of them taking pleasure from the horses’ obvious happiness. ‘I’d better go,’ she said at last, ‘but I’ll drop in on them again if that’s all right?’
‘No problem,’ he said, and turned back to his work. ‘If it’s not me, just tell whoever’s here that you’re at the house and they’ll let you stay as long as you like.’
Josephine took a last, admiring look at Shilling, and went to find Archie and supper. The elegant line of a formal laurel hedge, dotted with tall, exotic-looking palms, led her on towards the house but she paused at the edge of the kitchen gardens for a moment, enjoying the silence of the evening and the illusion that the crumbling, red- brick walls could somehow protect these ordered, domestic areas from the unhappiness that trespassed on the rest of the estate. She was a guest here and the problems were not hers; nevertheless, she welcomed a peace which seemed as precious and as fragile as the flowers grown in the nearby hothouses. She walked on after a few minutes, through an old arched gate, and was pleased to see that Archie had left some lights on to show her the way. The back door opened straight on to the dairy, where black and white marble slabs on the floor and a series of broad slate shelves along the length of the walls made for a chilly, unwelcoming room that she was glad to leave behind. A short corridor with larders on either side led to the kitchen, and she was drawn towards the cheerful sound of voices. She stood unnoticed at the door for a second, watching as Archie wrestled a large ham out of the oven under the Snipe’s careful supervision; Ronnie was perched on a wooden tinderbox by the hearth, entertaining her father with a long and salacious story about Gertrude Lawrence, while Lettice chipped in and picked idly at the dishes laid out on the kitchen table. Brief as the scene was, it gave Josephine a marvellous sense of how it must have been in that kitchen while the girls were growing up, and the insight into this small, private world – a carefree haven from the responsibilities that lay outside – both warmed and saddened her; whether the sadness was because she sensed that this haven was now under threat, or whether it was a more selfish longing for something similar in her own life, she chose not to analyse.
William was the first to notice her. ‘Ah, Josephine – lovely to see you,’ he said, getting up to welcome her with a kiss. ‘Did you manage to find Shilling?’
‘Yes, and he’s magnificent,’ she said. ‘There’s no doubt about that, but he’s obviously finding it difficult to choose between proud and haunted at the moment – not unlike someone else who’s grieving for Harry, I suppose.’ She looked at Archie, who nodded in agreement. ‘They’re all beautiful in their own way, though – and I’m afraid I already have to confess a particular soft spot for Violet.’ William looked pleased, and she guessed that her preference reflected his own. ‘The estate must have lost a lot of horses to the war – it’s nice to see that you got some back.’
‘Oh, it was terrible,’ William said. ‘We had to beg the ministry to leave us something to breed from. The money was welcome, if I’m honest, but I’d rather have managed without it – it was heartbreaking to lose so many of them, especially when I knew damned well what I was losing them to.’ He thought for a moment, and Josephine imagined the horrific scenes that must have greeted him in France when he went to fetch those poor, bewildered animals. ‘They say that seven thousand horses were killed in a single day at one stage,’ he added quietly. ‘Just blown to bits, and I suppose they were the lucky ones. You wouldn’t wish what the rest of them went through on your worst enemy. Lots of them starved slowly to death, you know – the men used to have to punch hole after hole in the girth just to keep the saddles on. Poor creatures – it was never their mess.’
‘You could say that about the men, too.’ Josephine spoke softly, hoping that Archie was too busy with the Snipe to overhear; he was already preoccupied, and this was not the time to give him reason to dwell on ghosts from his own terrible war. ‘Very few of the people responsible for the mess actually had to deal with it.’
‘Yes, but at least the men knew why they were there. You can’t expect a horse to understand why he has to leave somewhere as beautiful as this.’ Ronnie and Lettice had begun to carry the food through to the library, and William rinsed his cup at the sink, ready to help. ‘Still, we got a fair few back,’ he said, ‘and they’ve had as good a life as we could give them ever since – no one could stop us doing that.’ He smiled, and Josephine caught a glimpse of the determination which he had passed on to his daughters. It was an attractive quality.
‘You’re lucky with your stable hands, anyway,’ she said. ‘The horses are very well looked after.’
‘Harry’s a hard act to follow, but everyone’s pulling his weight,’ he agreed. ‘When things settle down a bit, we’ll look for someone permanent but, in the meantime, the lads are all doing their share. They’re a credit to the estate.’ Josephine didn’t embarrass William by suggesting that the credit was largely his, and held the kitchen door open for him and the ham. ‘Thanks, Dora,’ he called over his shoulder.
‘Yes, thanks,’ Archie said, embarrassing the cook with a kiss. ‘You’ve done us proud as usual. Can you manage that tray, Josephine?’
She nodded, but lingered behind in the kitchen until he was out of sight. ‘I saw Beth Jacks was at the cricket match,’ she said with an attempt at nonchalance. ‘How is she?’
‘Not too bad, Miss, thank you.’
‘You mentioned another woman last night, Mrs Snipe – someone else from the village who was in the same situation. Did you mean Morwenna?’
‘Morwenna Pinching? Why would you think that?’ She looked hard at Josephine, then went over to the door and closed it quietly. When she sat down at the table, she seemed unable to meet Josephine’s eye. ‘I was very young when I got married, Miss Tey,’ she said, and Josephine realised with horror what she was about to say. How could she have been so insensitive? ‘My husband – well, it turned out he was a weak sort of man, but he made up for that with his fists. At first, it was only when he was drunk. He’d come home late every Friday night, and anything I said would start him off. Then he acquired what you might call a taste for it.’ Her hands – red and rough with years of work – played restlessly with a loose piece of cotton on her apron, and Josephine could only begin to imagine how difficult it was for this proud, reserved woman to make such a confession. Once again, she cursed herself for prying into things which did not concern her, and wondered what on earth she could do to make this less excruciating for both of them. ‘It was much worse when he was sober,’ Dora Snipe continued. ‘It took him longer to tire of it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Josephine said quietly. ‘For what you’ve been through, and for arguing with you last night. You’re right – it’s none of my business. It was stupid and naive of me to interfere.’
‘You meant well, Miss Tey – and don’t think I don’t agree with some of the things you said. But it’s difficult for anyone who hasn’t been through it to understand. Of course women shouldn’t put up with that – but somehow we all do. You get used to the bruises, but not the humiliation – and it’s the humiliation that keeps you quiet. Men understand that.’
‘What happened to your husband?’ Josephine asked gently, trying not to look sorry for her: the one thing for which she would not be forgiven here was pity.
‘He disappeared,’ she said, and then, noticing Josephine’s expression, ‘but there’s no mystery about it – I know what happened, or most of it, at least. Charlie – that’s him – used to be clever enough not to touch my face,
