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were, intimations of mortality. He frowned. If he should die now, Maura would be totally unprovided for. Even her position as his ward was one that was quite unofficial. It was high time he made suitable provision for her and he resolved to make an appointment with his Dublin solicitor at the earliest opportunity.
    â€˜Are you feeling tired?’ Maura was asking him concernedly. ‘Would you like to leave discussion of the war until tomorrow?’
    He shook his head, rallying himself with an effort. Maura’s eyes darkened in concern. She had noticed his quick intake of breath a few moments ago, and the flash of anxiety that had darkened his eyes. She wondered whether she should suggest to him that he pay a visit to England in order to visit his London doctor. There were doctors in Rathdrum and Dublin, of course, but they were not men he had any confidence in. If anything was seriously wrong with him it would be better for him if he were in London rather than immured in the wilds of Wicklow.
    She had long ago ceased to think of him as being merely Lord Clanmar, her benefactor. He was far more than that to her. He was her friend and her family and she loved him as dearly as she loved her mother.
    In the soporific heat a butterfly darted amongst the riot of blossom. The air zoomed with bees. Drowsily Maura allowed her mind to wander, remembering her early days at Ballacharmish, remembering the wonder with which each moment had been filled.
    First of all there had been the almost paralysing experience of stepping alone into the carriage that had been put at her disposal. The donkey-cart had been sent for her paltry belongings but Kieron, who had driven it, had told her that Lord Clanmar had given instructions that on no account was she to arrive at her new home accompanying her luggage. She was to arrive in the manner from which now on she would be treated. She was to arrive as Isabel had arrived. As a young lady in a Clanmar carriage.
    The entire Murphy tribe turned out to see her go, much to her mother’s mortification. ‘Stinking Murphys,’ she said as old Ned rolled drunkenly down the bohereen to see a sight he otherwise would not believe. ‘If this was Sullivan country the air would be a lot cleaner and sweeter.’
    Maura was too stupefied with excitement to give any thought to the Murphys. The open carriage was huge and glossy black. On the door the Clanmar coat of arms gleamed richly.
    â€˜Am I really to get into it alone, Ma?’ she whispered, awe-struck. ‘I thought Kieron would be driving it. I thought…’
    A bemused footman had stepped down from the box and was holding the door open for her.
    Her mother put both her hands on her shoulders, her eyes holding hers. ‘Yes, you are, Maura Sullivan,’ she said firmly. ‘You are to leave the filth and stench of Killaree for good. I shall see you again but never back here, is that understood?’
    â€˜But what if I don’t suit? What if Lord Clanmar changes his mind?’
    At the anguish in her voice her mother’s face softened. ‘You’ll suit,’ she said with so much certainty that Maura couldn’t help but believe her. ‘Now off you go, little one, and God bless.’
    Maura had kissed her, made her promise that she would see her soon, and had then stepped bare-footed into the carriage. She was wearing a dress that no-one, least of all one of the many watching Murphys, could deride. It was the dark red dress that her mother had worn when Lord Clanmar had visited them. Her mother had carefully altered it, shortening the hem, taking in the seams, so that now it fitted Maura as if it had been made for her. She sat stiffly upright in the centre of the leather-padded seat, spreading her skirts carefully at either side of her.
    Killaree’s inhabitants had gathered intending to have a bit of fun at the freakish sight of one of their own in his lordship’s carriage. Now they began to