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Authors: Janet MacLeod Trotter
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saw now how she could distract Emily from plotting to disrupt the launch. ‘We need someone of experience and courage to carry out the task,’ she said, bending to pick up a whining Rosamund. ‘I naturally thought of you. Of course, it’ll have to be discussed with the others and put to the vote.’
Emily nodded but said nothing. Alice was too relieved that she had dropped the subject of the launch to notice her lack of enthusiasm.
‘Let’s go back inside,’ Alice said brightly. ‘The others will be arriving for the meeting shortly and I’d like to discuss the idea further with you before they come.’ Alice began to walk purposefully towards the house, clutching the spoilt Rosamund. ‘I’ll arrange for tea to be served in the drawing room.’
Skirting the summer pavilion with its huge stone urns, Alice marched them back to the house.
***
Maggie entered the grounds of Hebron House bursting with curiosity, Rose Johnstone at her side.
‘Look at the size of it!’ Maggie gasped as the gatekeeper clanged the side gate shut behind them. She had glimpsed the roof of the mansion from the top of her school building, but never before had she seen its vast frontage of classical pillars and lofty windows. ‘Have you brought a map with you?’ she laughed nervously.
‘Yes,’ Rose teased. ‘People have been known to get lost in there and wander around for years without finding a way out.’
‘Bet there’s folk in there think Queen Victoria’s still on the throne,’ said Maggie.
They hurried up the drive, moving to the verge as a horse and trap bumped its way past them to the gates. As they approached the house, signs of decay became evident; the paintwork had blistered on the front doors and the window-frames were faded and bleached a silvery white. The stone pillars showed as much black grime as the houses in Gun Street and the paving on the terrace was cracked and weed-choked. Its air of neglect surprised Maggie. For a moment she wished she could have brought Susan with her, knowing how fascinated her elder sister would have been, but the meeting was secret and Susan would have disapproved of it anyway. In front of the house, Maggie recognised Jocelyn Fulford’s shiny black motorcar.
Rose pushed her up the steps to the entrance.
Inside they were shown up a vast staircase shrouded by dark portraits of sombre men with hunting dogs and women in crinoline dresses to a bright room overlooking the front terrace. It was as big as the public reading room in the library and loftier than her old school hall. Maggie stared around in wonder at the drawing room crowded with deep easy chairs and huge jardinières holding exotic palms. A fierce fire blazed in a white marble fireplace overhung with huge mirrors, its mantel decorated with candlesticks. The walls groaned with oil paintings in heavy gilt frames squeezed in among dozens of framed photographs. Maggie had heard that Alice Pearson was an accomplished amateur photographer and glancing at one photograph by the door she saw a charmingly natural image of a pretty boy on a miniature pony.
Rose nudged her forward and Maggie found her buttoned boots made no noise as she crept over the carpet.
‘Come in, come in,’ Alice Pearson encouraged, waving her arms at them. Maggie recognised the tall, well-built woman with the sweep of chestnut hair and large outspread hands as their hostess. She had an expressive, full face, dominated by a bulky nose and bold brown eyes that never seemed to blink.
Rose had told Maggie that Alice had somehow avoided being married off and was now safely into spinsterhood, following her own pursuits. She can afford to, Maggie thought enviously, unable to stop staring at her surroundings.
‘This is Maggie Beaton,’ Rose introduced her nervously.
‘How do you do?’ Alice held out a hand with a warm smile.
Maggie, acutely aware that her hands could have been cleaner, responded awkwardly.
‘There’s tea on the table and then we’ll get
Emily nodded but said nothing. Alice was too relieved that she had dropped the subject of the launch to notice her lack of enthusiasm.
‘Let’s go back inside,’ Alice said brightly. ‘The others will be arriving for the meeting shortly and I’d like to discuss the idea further with you before they come.’ Alice began to walk purposefully towards the house, clutching the spoilt Rosamund. ‘I’ll arrange for tea to be served in the drawing room.’
Skirting the summer pavilion with its huge stone urns, Alice marched them back to the house.
***
Maggie entered the grounds of Hebron House bursting with curiosity, Rose Johnstone at her side.
‘Look at the size of it!’ Maggie gasped as the gatekeeper clanged the side gate shut behind them. She had glimpsed the roof of the mansion from the top of her school building, but never before had she seen its vast frontage of classical pillars and lofty windows. ‘Have you brought a map with you?’ she laughed nervously.
‘Yes,’ Rose teased. ‘People have been known to get lost in there and wander around for years without finding a way out.’
‘Bet there’s folk in there think Queen Victoria’s still on the throne,’ said Maggie.
They hurried up the drive, moving to the verge as a horse and trap bumped its way past them to the gates. As they approached the house, signs of decay became evident; the paintwork had blistered on the front doors and the window-frames were faded and bleached a silvery white. The stone pillars showed as much black grime as the houses in Gun Street and the paving on the terrace was cracked and weed-choked. Its air of neglect surprised Maggie. For a moment she wished she could have brought Susan with her, knowing how fascinated her elder sister would have been, but the meeting was secret and Susan would have disapproved of it anyway. In front of the house, Maggie recognised Jocelyn Fulford’s shiny black motorcar.
Rose pushed her up the steps to the entrance.
Inside they were shown up a vast staircase shrouded by dark portraits of sombre men with hunting dogs and women in crinoline dresses to a bright room overlooking the front terrace. It was as big as the public reading room in the library and loftier than her old school hall. Maggie stared around in wonder at the drawing room crowded with deep easy chairs and huge jardinières holding exotic palms. A fierce fire blazed in a white marble fireplace overhung with huge mirrors, its mantel decorated with candlesticks. The walls groaned with oil paintings in heavy gilt frames squeezed in among dozens of framed photographs. Maggie had heard that Alice Pearson was an accomplished amateur photographer and glancing at one photograph by the door she saw a charmingly natural image of a pretty boy on a miniature pony.
Rose nudged her forward and Maggie found her buttoned boots made no noise as she crept over the carpet.
‘Come in, come in,’ Alice Pearson encouraged, waving her arms at them. Maggie recognised the tall, well-built woman with the sweep of chestnut hair and large outspread hands as their hostess. She had an expressive, full face, dominated by a bulky nose and bold brown eyes that never seemed to blink.
Rose had told Maggie that Alice had somehow avoided being married off and was now safely into spinsterhood, following her own pursuits. She can afford to, Maggie thought enviously, unable to stop staring at her surroundings.
‘This is Maggie Beaton,’ Rose introduced her nervously.
‘How do you do?’ Alice held out a hand with a warm smile.
Maggie, acutely aware that her hands could have been cleaner, responded awkwardly.
‘There’s tea on the table and then we’ll get
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