Farm and the few acres surrounding it now belonged to Josh and Mary Carpenter. The young girl, innocent of the hurts of the past, had no cause to think
any worse of the Dunsmore family than that they were the ‘posh folks who lived at the big house’. All she knew was that her friend, Micky, and all the Morton family worked on the
estate, their homes owned and their lives ruled by Stephen Dunsmore.
And so she was oblivious to Richard’s anxious glances towards his wife, of Eveleen’s hands, resting in her lap, clenching involuntarily. All Bridie wanted was to ride past the big,
wrought-iron gates and show off Uncle Richard’s fancy new motor car.
Richard took the car up the steep hill beneath the overhanging branches of Bernby Covert. At the top of the hill, he turned the car and they hurtled down again, Bridie shouting with delight. The
tension left Eveleen’s face and she clutched at her hat and laughed aloud too. But as they approached the gate to Fairfield House again, a horse cantered out, the rider unprepared for a
horseless carriage rocketing down the hill towards him. Richard operated the brakes. The car slithered and shook and the horse whinnied and reared and then leapt over the hedge into the field
opposite the driveway and galloped away, terrified by the noisy monstrosity. Halfway across the field, the rider was unseated and fell heavily to the ground where he lay motionless.
The car came to a shuddering halt and Richard cut the engine. At once Bridie was climbing out of the back seat. ‘That was Mr Stephen. He might be hurt.’
‘Bridie—’ Eveleen began, but at once Richard put his hand on hers. Quietly he said, ‘We must see if the fellow’s hurt, my darling. But Bridie and I will go. You
stay here.’
Already Bridie was running to the gate into the field a little further down the lane. Richard followed her, his long legs loping easily over the ground. Eveleen remained motionless in the car,
her heart pounding, afraid to even look across the field towards where Stephen Dunsmore lay.
Eight
When Richard reached the prone figure, Bridie was already squatting beside him. ‘Mr Stephen. It’s me, Bridie. Are you hurt? Shall we fetch help from the
house?’
To Richard’s immense relief the man on the ground groaned loudly, rolled over and sat up slowly. He felt his head and then carefully all over his body. Richard stood watching. He had not
even spoken to the man, leaving Bridie to play nursemaid.
‘Can you stand up, Mr Stephen? Lean on me.’
The man looked up at Richard. ‘What the hell do you think you were doing driving that monstrosity about the countryside like a maniac?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Richard said curtly, ‘but you came out of that entrance without looking.’
‘I don’t expect to have to look on my own property.’
‘I believe the lane is a public highway,’ Richard said evenly.
Now the man was scrambling to his feet, hanging so heavily on Bridie’s outstretched hand that he almost pulled the girl over. ‘Is it, by God? We’ll see about that.’
Once Stephen was on his feet, Bridie retrieved his riding hat and whip, lying a few feet away on the ground, and silently handed them to him.
Stephen, his fair hair blowing in the wind, took it and glanced at her. His blue eyes sparked and his face was red with anger. ‘Thanks,’ he said curtly. ‘Oh, it’s you.
The Carpenters’ little bastard granddaughter, eh?’ His lip curled and he turned towards Richard, staring at him. ‘And I see who you are now.’ His glance went beyond the two
of them towards the motor standing in the lane.
He smiled maliciously. ‘And the lovely Mrs Stokes, no less.’ He pulled on his riding hat and slapped his whip against his leg. ‘Well now, perhaps we’ll say no more about
it if you’ll allow me to greet your delightful wife, whom I remember so very well.’
Puzzled, Bridie glanced between the two men. For a brief moment she thought Richard was going to punch
any worse of the Dunsmore family than that they were the ‘posh folks who lived at the big house’. All she knew was that her friend, Micky, and all the Morton family worked on the
estate, their homes owned and their lives ruled by Stephen Dunsmore.
And so she was oblivious to Richard’s anxious glances towards his wife, of Eveleen’s hands, resting in her lap, clenching involuntarily. All Bridie wanted was to ride past the big,
wrought-iron gates and show off Uncle Richard’s fancy new motor car.
Richard took the car up the steep hill beneath the overhanging branches of Bernby Covert. At the top of the hill, he turned the car and they hurtled down again, Bridie shouting with delight. The
tension left Eveleen’s face and she clutched at her hat and laughed aloud too. But as they approached the gate to Fairfield House again, a horse cantered out, the rider unprepared for a
horseless carriage rocketing down the hill towards him. Richard operated the brakes. The car slithered and shook and the horse whinnied and reared and then leapt over the hedge into the field
opposite the driveway and galloped away, terrified by the noisy monstrosity. Halfway across the field, the rider was unseated and fell heavily to the ground where he lay motionless.
The car came to a shuddering halt and Richard cut the engine. At once Bridie was climbing out of the back seat. ‘That was Mr Stephen. He might be hurt.’
‘Bridie—’ Eveleen began, but at once Richard put his hand on hers. Quietly he said, ‘We must see if the fellow’s hurt, my darling. But Bridie and I will go. You
stay here.’
Already Bridie was running to the gate into the field a little further down the lane. Richard followed her, his long legs loping easily over the ground. Eveleen remained motionless in the car,
her heart pounding, afraid to even look across the field towards where Stephen Dunsmore lay.
Eight
When Richard reached the prone figure, Bridie was already squatting beside him. ‘Mr Stephen. It’s me, Bridie. Are you hurt? Shall we fetch help from the
house?’
To Richard’s immense relief the man on the ground groaned loudly, rolled over and sat up slowly. He felt his head and then carefully all over his body. Richard stood watching. He had not
even spoken to the man, leaving Bridie to play nursemaid.
‘Can you stand up, Mr Stephen? Lean on me.’
The man looked up at Richard. ‘What the hell do you think you were doing driving that monstrosity about the countryside like a maniac?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Richard said curtly, ‘but you came out of that entrance without looking.’
‘I don’t expect to have to look on my own property.’
‘I believe the lane is a public highway,’ Richard said evenly.
Now the man was scrambling to his feet, hanging so heavily on Bridie’s outstretched hand that he almost pulled the girl over. ‘Is it, by God? We’ll see about that.’
Once Stephen was on his feet, Bridie retrieved his riding hat and whip, lying a few feet away on the ground, and silently handed them to him.
Stephen, his fair hair blowing in the wind, took it and glanced at her. His blue eyes sparked and his face was red with anger. ‘Thanks,’ he said curtly. ‘Oh, it’s you.
The Carpenters’ little bastard granddaughter, eh?’ His lip curled and he turned towards Richard, staring at him. ‘And I see who you are now.’ His glance went beyond the two
of them towards the motor standing in the lane.
He smiled maliciously. ‘And the lovely Mrs Stokes, no less.’ He pulled on his riding hat and slapped his whip against his leg. ‘Well now, perhaps we’ll say no more about
it if you’ll allow me to greet your delightful wife, whom I remember so very well.’
Puzzled, Bridie glanced between the two men. For a brief moment she thought Richard was going to punch
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