Page 1 of The Gathering Storm

BOOK ONE

TRAVELLING

But when I draw the scanty cloak of silence over my eyes

Piteous love comes peering under the hood;

Touches the clasp with trembling fingers, and tries

To put her ear to the painful sob of my blood;

While her tears soak through to my breast,

Where they burn and cauterise.

D. H. Lawrence: ‘End of Another Home Holiday’

CHAPTER ONE

February 1936

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?’