Darkwater by Dorothy Eden

to realise that this was Amelia’s year, and Fanny must be kept in the background.
    For instance, that extravagant unnecessary gift to Fanny of the sapphire pendant had been an error of major importance. It would only serve to make the girl flaunt her looks even more. Edgar refused to see that. But then Edgar always had been stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid; thought Louisa, the comb snapping in two in her clenched hands.
    Amelia sprang towards her.
    ‘Mamma, have you hurt yourself?’
    ‘Of course I haven’t.’ Louisa laid down the broken comb calmly. ‘I was only wondering why you compare yourself with Fanny. The circumstances are entirely different. Your father and I will certainly make it our business to see that you meet plenty of young men, if not here, then in London.’
    ‘London, Mamma!’
    ‘It occurred to me we might open our house there for your ball. But that will depend on your father.’
    Amelia clapped her plump small very white hands. (Some day someone would say to her, ‘You have very little hands like water lilies, see, just curving open.’ And then he would bend his head and kiss her palm.)
    ‘Papa will do anything for me!’
    ‘Will he, indeed. You know I won’t permit him to spoil you. And don’t be too confident. We have so much worry with George now, and these wretched children arriving are another problem.’
    ‘Fanny will look after them,’ Amelia said blithely. ‘George will help her. He’ll love it. His adored Fanny!’
    Louisa frowned. ‘Don’t speak like that. I won’t have this stupid infatuation of George’s encouraged. It’s nothing but an aspect of his illness. I’d ask you to remember, Amelia, that you are not the only person in the world whose happiness has to be considered.’
    ‘Oh, Mamma! It will take so little to make me happy. Just a ball in London, and a husband I truly love. And a little money, of course, and jewels, and—and—’
    Amelia had her face pressed to the window. The moors, dark fold on fold, stretched away to the edge of the earth. The sky was colourless, like river water. There was the far-off cry of a bird. A heron from the lake, perhaps, or an owl. Or the trapped bird in the chimney that Grandmamma was always talking about.
    Suddenly Amelia shivered. At dusk she hated the moors, she hated the thought of the grim grey prison ten miles away in its bleak setting. She hadn’t minded so much when the prisoners had been French. That had seemed romantic. She had imagined them singing La Marseillaise and wanting to die for their country. But now the cold dank cells were occupied by the riff-raff from the streets of London and Liverpool, thieves, forgers, would-be murderers…Sometimes one escaped and the countryside was in terror, with the hounds baying in the mist—for an escaper always chose a time of thick mist when his capture would be doubly difficult. Amelia would imagine she saw the bearded desperate face at her window, and would be torn between terror and a terrible fascination. If it ever happened that a prisoner did appear at her window, would she scream, or hide him beneath her bed and temporarily have the violent creature at her mercy? She didn’t know why such thoughts came into her head. She only knew that they made her long to get away from here. She would marry and have six children and live in London where one could go to the theatre or a dinner party every night. And there would always be lights, and no lonely night wind.
    ‘Mamma!’ she turned slowly, her voice intense, ‘I would do anything to get those things.’
    Her mother was clasping her topaz necklace—good enough for the governor of Dartmoor prison—round her plump neck.
    ‘What woman wouldn’t! It’s always been her aim in life, a good husband and security.’
    ‘You got them, Mamma. You must be very happy.’
    Louisa’s mouth went down at the corners. Happiness didn’t consist of a house full of servants, a wardrobe overflowing with expensive clothes, a warm