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  But the journeys have begun to pall. Felix is not a good traveller and quickly feels car sick. No sooner have they left Walton Crescent than he says he wants to go home. He’s a restless child who hates sitting still, who loves playing with his wooden toys on the nursery floor.

  That Sunday Walter drives Moira to the gardens of Blenheim Palace. He takes a picnic basket with sandwiches, strawberries and champagne. They walk across the grass and over the bridge to Rosamond’s Well, where Walter spreads a mohair blanket close to the waters of the lake. The summer’s heat has begun to bake the grass into gold. Above them hangs an Italian-blue sky, cloudless and still.

  Moira looks pale and is very quiet. The colour only returns to her cheeks after she has drunk a glass of champagne extremely fast.

  “We should do this more often,” Walter says. “Spend time together… We’re so busy, what with work and Felix and everything.”

  “Indeed.” Moira stares across the lake, her face expressionless, as if she’s barely listening.

  “I’ve been thinking, darling.” He props himself on one elbow, looking intently at Moira, desperate for her attention. “Why don’t we take a holiday? How would you like to visit that aunt of yours in Cornwall?”

  Moira turns her head sharply to look at him. “Go to see Aunt Beatrice in Newlyn?”

  “Why not? I’ve always wanted to meet her. We could drive to Cornwall, stay with her for a few days, then go further down the coast to St Ives. I had a wonderful holiday there with Henry. I remember artists at work along the harbour. You could take your paints. The beaches there are beautiful. Felix could race around to his heart’s content. We could teach him to swim… I should love to go back.”

  “And when were you thinking of going?”

  “Why don’t we leave the minute term ends in a few weeks’ time? While this glorious weather lasts.”

  Moira turns her head away. “That’s impossible, Walter. My exhibition opens in a fortnight at The Ryman Gallery. It’ll run for two weeks. I’ll have to be at the gallery every day to meet buyers.” She adds acidly, “I expect it must have slipped your mind.”

  “Indeed it had not—”

  “You’ve also forgotten that Lizzie is marrying Christopher Dawkins in the middle of July. I’m to be Matron of Honour.”

  “Of course I haven’t forgotten,” Walter lies. He has been so busy worrying about Moira’s affair, searching her room for letters when she’s out, or stalking her when she goes to the Covered Market, he can barely remember what day of the week it is.

  “I’m looking forward to both events.” He refills their glasses with a shaking hand. “We could go on holiday after Lizzie’s wedding, couldn’t we?”

  Moira glances across at him. She reaches for a strawberry. Curving her lips around the ripe fruit, she gives Walter one of her long, stern stares. “I suppose we could,” she says. “As long as we plan on coming back.”

  Walter drives slowly home, perspiring and slightly drunk. Moira complains the road is full of dust that gets into her eyes. Walter promises to buy her a pair of modern goggles. He feels exceedingly proud of himself. He has managed not to mention that wretched Frenchman’s name, and he has sowed the seeds of his holiday idea. If he can find a cottage by the sea, somewhere cool in summer and cosy in winter, somewhere private, intimate and absolutely theirs, how happy he’ll be, for ever and ever amen.

  ***

  Over the following weeks Walter talks about his Cornish holiday idea whenever he can. He tells Felix making sand castles is glorious fun and buys him a wooden bucket and spade. Felix delights in banging the two together all day long and half into the night.

  Walter helps Moira with her exhibition. He trundles twenty-two watercolours to the High Street gallery, secretly astonished by how hard she has worked to assemble the collection – and wildly jealous of its enthusiastic reception. He bribes a friend to tell Moira at the preview, which he also helps to organise and wholly pays for, that in St Ives her paintings will sell like hot cakes for really high prices.

  Moira listens intently, seemingly impressed.

  Gearing himself up to play his part at Lizzie’s wedding, Walter is astonished one morning in July when Moira tells him over breakfast that the ceremony planned for the following weekend at St Giles Church has been cancelled.

  “What on earth has happened?”

  “Don’t ask.” Moira rattles plates onto the table. “I’m furious. Lizzie thought long and hard about accepting Christopher’s proposal. She has spent a fortune on her wedding dress. It’s made of soft ivory satin, trimmed with old lace. But Christopher has had second thoughts, says he’s not the marrying kind. Lizzie has been in tears for two days. Nothing I can say will cheer her up.”

  “Perhaps it would help,” Walter thanks his lucky stars, thinking fate might be on his side, “if you asked Lizzie and Mrs Farrell to come to St Ives with us? We could drive down there first, get ourselves settled, and then if we like it, you could ask them to join us.” He gives Moira a winning smile. “That would cheer her up, wouldn’t it, darling? Nobody can be in tears sitting in a deckchair beside the sea. Certainly not while eating Cornish ice cream.”

  Moira meets his eyes over the rim of her cup.

  “Do you know what, Walter? I think that might just be one of your better ideas.”

  Two other unexpected factors play into Walter’s hands.

  One is the weather. The unbearable heat continues, roasting Oxford’s streets and its occupants, scorching the grass in the University Parks, drying up the city’s rivers and canals, buckling the railway lines, making the drains stink and the air thick with dust. By the middle of July, farmers have desperately begun to harvest their crops, lest their livelihoods are burned to a crisp.

  The other factor is Felix’s health. He develops a form of dry eczema, patches of which scatter his body. His arms and legs swarm with dark-pink scabs. The doctor blames the weather, recommends Cuticura soap and ointment. But bathing Felix becomes impossibly painful. He’s often awake all night, plagued by irritation.

  By the middle of August, Moira is at her wits’ end.

  One evening when the house is so hot that they’ve left the front door open, hoping for a miraculous breeze, she rustles into Walter’s studio.

  “How far have you got with your latest portrait?”

  Walter dunks a brush into turpentine. “This is almost finished. The paint’s drying faster than I can apply it. Damn this infernal heat.”

  “I agree. I’ve had enough. Felix isn’t getting better. If I have another sleepless night, I’ll go mad. Lizzie will follow us to the coast once we’ve found somewhere to live and tell her we like it. You’ll be glad to know it’s Cornwall here we come.”

  “At last!” Walter takes his beloved girl in his arms. “I know you won’t regret it, sweetheart.” He smoothes an oily hand over Moira’s damp forehead, his heart bursting with relief. “We’ll go the day after tomorrow. Nanny can have a month off. Ask Bridget to make us a picnic lunch. And tell Felix that soon he’ll be beside the sea.”

  He lifts Moira off her feet, swings her around the stuffy studio. Now, he tells himself, it will be goodbye to Oxford and the bad old ways. They will never come back. Their Cornish life will turn out to be paradise. And Moira, the woman who has somehow always eluded him, will be his and his alone.

  Part Two

  Sprinter

  Woodstock, Oxfordshire,

  Sunday 19 January 1936

  A bitterly cold morning grips an iron fist.

  Across the frozen sweep of parkland dipping away from Blenheim Palace, every blade of grass stands to attention, stiff and pearly white. Paralysed by snow, trees spread their branches, waiting for the thaw. The sky lours, an implacable steely grey. Against its stillness seagulls call for food, swooping over the glassy lake, outraged as they skid with flapping wings on
to its ice-bound waters.

  The sound of laughter rings over the bridge.

  Two horses trot nimbly into sight, their hooves cracking against the gravel path, their breath swirling in the frozen air. One is larger, older, more experienced, her coat a glossy black. The other, younger, is the colour of ripe chestnut, a white stripe streaking his nose.

  Their riders are women: trim, immaculately dressed in tight black jackets and white jodhpurs, their faces pink with exertion, their cheeks flushed with delight. For an hour they’ve been riding their favourite mounts and now they’re returning to Blenheim Palace, eyes shining, thighs gripping, gloved hands guiding. Once off the path and on the grass again, their trot becomes a gallop.

  An open sports car roars through the arch of Blenheim’s gate at the end of the long drive. It zooms towards the palace. Its driver spots the horses and their riders. Joy and recognition flash across his face. He grins, increasing his speed, waving an arm, honking the horn, shouting a greeting.

  His eyes fix on the riders, not on the way ahead.

  The car skids over an icy bend. For a single perilous instant it looks as if the driver intends his car to make straight for the horses. The glossy black one takes no notice, bravely gallops on. The younger chestnut panics, alarmed and terrified. He bucks suddenly, rearing his head. His front legs claw the air. His neigh – ferocious and desperate – cracks across the snow.

  His rider gasps and shudders. Her hands falter on the reins. She cries out, letting them slip altogether. She falls headlong onto the frost-hardened grass and lies there, limp as a wet autumn leaf.

  Her companion shrieks for help. The car screeches to a halt. The driver flings the door open and pounds towards her.

  The runaway horse, freed of his burden, tosses his head. He gallops across the grass to the end of the drive. Then, skidding and stumbling on the icy cobblestones, he crashes out through the Triumphal Arch into the centre of Woodstock.

  That same morning, eighteen-year-old Eleanor Drummond and her parents, Walter and Anne, are attending Sunday service at St Mary Magdalene’s in the centre of Woodstock. Only Anne is inspired by deep devotion. Walter and Eleanor sit beside her not because they are particularly religious, but because they like keeping Anne happy, enjoy meeting their neighbours, appreciate the feeling of community and adore singing hymns together in special harmony.

  Father and daughter look strikingly alike, although Walter’s dark hair is greying at the temples. Both have deep-set, violet-blue eyes that light up with ready laughter; both have sharp noses and full lips. They share a similar sense of humour, wear their clothes with nonchalance, and take each new day joyfully as it comes.

  Florence Budd, the baker’s daughter, pounds away on the organ with extra panache and vigour, her massive bosom heaving, her face pink with triumph. Everyone sings the hymns with unusual relish: their familiar words are considered afresh, every syllable clearly spelled out into the chilly air.

  The rector – genial, kindly, everyone’s special friend – offers ritual prayers for the recovery and health of their dear King George V. He has said them before, eight years ago, in 1928. But this time things are different. This time, everyone knows, their prayers, however fervent, will not help.

  Eleanor finds it hard to concentrate, either on the hymns or the sermon.

  She’s in her first year of reading English at Somerville College, Oxford, and her head is full of plans for the week. The Hilary term began only two days ago when Walter drove her to College with her bags, books and files. Yesterday she’d taken Collections, an exam based on her vacation reading. She’s only returned to Woodstock to celebrate her mother’s fortieth birthday before she’ll return to her small room in West with its single bed, dainty fire and daily scuttle of coal.

  Eleanor loves the Spartan feel to her College room, its view onto the green lawn of the quad, its sense of quiet purpose. She can hardly wait to return.

  The moment the service ends, Eleanor takes her father’s arm.

  “Let’s escape before we’re waylaid by neighbours. I want to get back to College as soon as we’ve eaten, and I still need to wrap Mummy’s birthday present.”

  Walter pats her hand. “What have you bought her, darling?”

  “Some cushion covers she can embroider. And some beautiful silk thread.”

  Anne Drummond is already deep in conversation with a friend.

  Walter taps his wife on her shoulder. “I’ll see you back at the house, dear. I’m going to work on that painting of mine before luncheon.”

  Father and daughter turn into the aisle, and push their way out of church.

  Walter begins to hum one of the hymns, “Oh, God, our help in ages past.” He catches Eleanor’s eye, and gives her his swift, infectious smile. “But I don’t think even He can help the poor old King. It’s happened fast, hasn’t it? Last year we were celebrating the Silver Jubilee. Never been to so many marvellous junkets in my entire life.”

  During the service a bitter wind has sprung up. Billows of powdery snow gather on every ledge, flinging icy dust into their eyes. Hunched against it, Walter and Eleanor dash across the memorial garden and turn onto Park Street. Their much-loved eighteenth-century house lies a few minutes’ walk away.

  The sound of a horse’s hooves cracking on cobblestones startles them, making them glance over their shoulders. A rider-less chestnut horse comes careering down the street, his head tossing, his eyes wild.

  Walter grips Eleanor’s hand. “I know that horse, Ellie. It’s Sprinter, from Blenheim.” He pulls away. “I must stop him or he’ll kill himself.”

  Before Eleanor can say a word, her father hurtles across the street and flings himself at Sprinter’s head.

  It’s the last thing the horse needs. Born and bred at Blenheim, Sprinter knows its gardens, its bridges and its pathways – but he does not know Woodstock. The throng of people in the street, their staring faces, their shocked voices disturb him. The cold white stuff blowing into his eyes skews his vision, making him throw back his head. The reins no longer restrain or guide him. He has known nothing like this freedom, ever before. And then a man rushes up to him, tall and thin, wearing a silly hat and flailing his arms.

  Filled with sudden fury, Sprinter lashes out. He kicks the man hard: first in the stomach, then the head. Then, for good measure, he kicks again.

  The cold white stuff is coming down faster. Skidding, the horse tramples on the fallen limbs. Then, snorting with triumph, frothing at the mouth, ignoring the cries of alarm circling his head, Sprinter gallops on.

  Eleanor stares at her father lying in the middle of the street.

  She feels as if she’s locked into a nightmare, unable to move. Her limbs seem frozen; her lips are so cold she can’t move them to call out. Her voice rises only to a squeak, as though she has no power to summon it from her throat.

  In seconds, an anxious crowd has gathered around Walter, a huddle of coats and hats, pushing and shoving, murmuring concern.

  Someone shouts, “Why, that’s Walter Drummond, ain’t it? Good Lord above! Is he dead?”

  The words spur Eleanor into action. Slithering on the icy cobblestones, she elbows her way through the crowd.

  “Excuse me, that’s my father… Please let me pass.”

  She kneels at Walter’s side, the icy cold snaking from her knees to her thighs.

  He stares into her face, his hands flailing for hers. “Ellie? What happened? Why am I lying here?”

  “Sprinter kicked you, Daddy… The horse has gone berserk. He’s probably halfway to Combe by now, creating havoc.”

  Blood dribbles down Walter’s forehead into his eyes. “Where’s your mother?” He clutches his stomach. “I want my Annie… Why isn’t she here?”

  Eleanor looks up into the anxious eyes and worried faces surrounding her. “Please, could someone find Mrs D
rummond—”

  Anne heaves her way through the crowd. She stares down at Eleanor. “What’s happened? Why is your father lying there? Who hit him?”

  “Kicked him, Mummy. A runaway horse galloped out of Blenheim. Daddy tried to stop him.”

  “Typical!” Anne clutches her husband’s hands. “For God’s sake, Walter! Trust you to rush in. Why are you always so foolish?”

  “I’m sorry, Annie.” Walter, dazed and pale, stares into his wife’s face without focusing. “I had to stop the horse.”

  Anne smoothes her gloved fingers over the spurting blood, trying to halt it, smearing it away from Walter’s eyes. “Can you stand up, darling? Eleanor, take your father’s shoulder. Get him on his feet.”

  Walter slumps between the two women, a deadweight in their arms.

  “I’m all right…” His lips are blue with shock. “Just bruised, is all. I’ll probably have a blinding headache for a week.”

  Anne nods at the gawping crowd. “We’re fine, thank you… Yes, that’s my husband’s hat… Could you let us through? We live just down there on the High Street. Thank you for your concern.”

  A woman’s voice calls out to them. “Reckon he’s been badly hurt, ma’am. Seen a kickin’ like that once afore. Your husband will need a doctor, real fast.”

  They half-carry, half-drag Walter down the street. A neighbour has darted ahead of them and alerted Vera, their housekeeper. She’s waiting for them in the street as they struggle towards her.

  “Great heavens, sir! What have you done?”

  Walter stumbles into the house, undoing his coat with trembling fingers. “It’s only a scratch, Vera. Looks worse than it is. I’m just a bit shaky, is all. I’ll take to my bed for an hour. A stiff whisky would go down a treat.”

  “Bring me some hot water, please, Vera.” Anne throws off her hat and coat. “A flannel and some bandages. And a cup of sweet tea.”