Page 2 of The Gathering Storm

‘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.’