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At eleven o'clock the next morning Hatton met her as she was crossing the hall on her way out, evidently about to ride, since she was wearing her habit, and said, "His Lordship wishes to speak to you.

Miss. He's in his study. "

In the study she was surprised to see Clive already there. She had left him painting not long ago in the nursery after failing to persuade him to join her in a ride. Her father, she saw immediately, was angry; the whiteness around his mouth gave an indication of this, and she imagined that he had found out they had been drinking, for Clive had lifted another bottle from the cellar, and when, his Adam's apple working violently above the line of his cravat, he demanded, "What is this I hear. Miss? Such conduct. Explain yourself, and at once," she glanced at Clive; but he only stared back at her, his expression blank; and so to be on the safe side she parried with, "I don't know what your meaning is. Father."

"You don't know what my meaning is, girl? Do you deny you took your horse yesterday and deliberately knocked down the walls of a dwelling on the fells?"

As her eyebrows moved upwards, her lids shaded her eyes.

"It was the work of a scut. You forget yourself and the house you represent. What have you got to say?"

When she did not answer, he cried at her, "You don't deny it?"

Now she was looking fully at him.

"No, I don't deny it. Father."

Her boldness seemed to infuriate him and, marching to the desk, he swept a pile of papers aside. Some floated in the air around him while he cried at her, "Do you know you nearly killed a child? If you had had your way and knocked the last wall down you'd have buried a child lying in a basket."

When she made no reply, he stood glaring at her. The fact that she might have killed a child really did not concern him; from what the minister had told him there were ten of them and one less would be taken in the form of a blessing. But that wasn't the point; his daughter, a Fischel, had lowered herself to retaliate against a low squatter. If the act had been done by her brother he could have understood it; but she was a girl, a young woman, and women did not stoop to such things. Her mother, wanton that she was, would not have lowered herself even to address such a person, let alone acknowledge her existence by attacking her. As he continued to stare at his daughter, she began to speak, "I did it to teach her a lesson. It was much less cruel than reporting her and having her sent to prison for striking me." She tapped her finger quickly against her cheek, then glanced at Clive; but he lowered his eyes as she ended, "Also, she and her brother were poaching."

"I know all about that." His voice was rasping.

"The girl told the minister the full facts of the case. She admitted her brother was poaching, but I understand that she also stressed the point that the child was not five years old and that you tied him in his own trap.

What is in you, girl, to do such a thing? "

"She struck me."

As Clive's head came up quickly, her father said,

"The girl says you lifted your walking stick to her and, to prevent your striking her, she tore the stick from your hand and you fell back to the bushes. Is this true?"

"No." Again her eyes flickered towards Clive. And now her father, his voice dropping low in his throat, said, "Then your brother, too, is a liar, because he has already borne out the girl's story.... Now listen to me and listen carefully. I forbid you to go near that girl's habitation again; and if you can't conduct yourself like a lady then I'll have to think up some ways and means of teaching you.... You may go, both of you."

When the door had closed on them he stood looking down at his desk and the papers scattered over the floor. He hesitated to ring for Hatton to pick them up and sat down heavily in his chair and, resting his chin in his hand, slowly began to tap his forefinger on his lips. The girl was going to create trouble; how was he to put up with her? What was the alternative? She was too old for school. Where could he send her?

There was only Anna. But no. No, he couldn't imprison her on that stark island in the Hebrides with his austere sister and her wildly ranting husband. No, that would break any spirit; and he wasn't out to break his daughter's spirit, only to find some means of putting a great distance between them.

The following week it rained every day and in spite of roaring fires, even in the bedrooms, the house retained a dank odor. Some days, so dark was it, the candles had to be lit on the dining table at three o'clock in the afternoon.

So, to alleviate her boredom after dinner, Isabelle went up into the nursery and watched Clive paint;

that was when the light was sufficiently good for him to work, and between times they would sip claret or port or whatever he had been able to appropriate from the cellar. His access to the wine cellar was simple; he merely waited until the servants were at meals, then went to the gun room where the cellar keys hung on a board with others, and let himself into the wine cellar, which was actually the cellar to the house, the door of which opened on to the side of the house. No one, as yet, had seen him come or go; and if there was a noticeable reduction along some shelves, Hatton would suspect Gilbert, and Gilbert, Hat- ton, for the butler and the under-butler were the only two who were allowed access to the cellar.

He had this very morning managed to acquire two bottles, and now at four o'clock on this early October afternoon they were indulging in a mixture of old brandy and port and were feeling warm and very merry.

The sun suddenly making a late appearance, they sprang up and dashed to the window and laughed and shouted like children, and Clive cried,

"Lookl Look, the sun. The suni We're back on earth."

"Let's go out."

"It's wet."

"Who cares? I'm hot, boiling inside." She tore at the neck of her dress.

"And your face is red, scarlet." She took his cheeks between her hands and shook his head from side to side; then they fell against each other laughing. But when she pulled him towards the door he dragged his hand from her grasp, saying truculently, "Don't, Belle; you're always pulling or pushing me. You think I'd never get along on my own, don't you? "

"Damn sure of it."

Again they were hanging on each other laughing, and, her head on his neck, she giggled, "If dear Papa could see us now, he'd have a fit.

What do you think he'd do if he found out? "

"God knows." Clive swung his head from side to side.

"It doesn't bear thinking about. And look," he wagged his finger at her, "we'd better steady up until we get well outside because I wouldn't put it past one of them to split on us. Good job nobody's allowed in here." He turned round and surveyed the room and the bottles and glasses standing on the battered nursery table, and with a dramatic gesture he scoffed, "Master dive's studio, sacrosanct, the garret where he creates his masterpieces, each one stamped with his name, Clive John James ..

Rembrandt . Fischel, Lord of the Manor of Houghton Hall in the County of Durham in the year of God, eighteen thirty-two. Damn me, as ever was. "

Isabelle was now doubled up with her laughter, but when it got overloud Clive warned her, "Sshi or you'll have Mother Hatton up here."

Making an effort to quell her mirth she opened the door saying, "I'll get my cloak," and he whispered, "Here, chew a coffee bean or Nelson will smell it from you."

"It's her ... it's her half-day. She's gone to visit her mama in the illustrious town of Shields, in a house, I understand, from whose windows you can espy the North Sea. Just think of that." He pushed her and she staggered forward but straightened herself at the top of the stairs and descended with exaggerated decorum to the first floor.

But her decorum vanished when, later, they crossed the hall and her laughter brought the butler's gaze on her; and behind his look of slight bewilderment was one of deep dislike. He could stand Master Clive, but the young miss, no. God prevent the day that she should ever be mistress of this house. It wasn't likely; but still one never knew. If anything should happen to the young master, and him not married, well, then there was only her to follow the master. But God forbid.

He opened the doors for them but did not immediately close them again;

instead, he watched the pair of them skipping across the gravel like hairns let loose to play. They would not have acted like that if the master had been at home; he'd be back the night and that wouldn't be a moment too soon. There was something odd about both of them. He screwed up his eyes. If he didn't know it was impossible he would imagine they had been drinking. Master Clive had had three glasses of wine with his dinner, but as usual she had had none. Yet they were acting very strange, very strange.

They acted very strange across the park and to the North Lodge and through the gate to Thornton's Farm. The farmer was at market, but his wife thought the young master and miss were very skittish- like, merry, going on as if they were at a fair, leaning over the stiles and pulling the pigs' tails. Did you ever see anything like it? But, of course, she daren't say anything. If they had been her own son and daughter she would have clouted their ears and ski ted them across the yard.

When they saw the cows being milked they went on as if they'd never seen teats pulled afore, the young miss worse than the master.

It was almost two years since they had visited the farm; and if they had acted childishly then she could have understood it, but not now, when they were a young gentleman and miss.

She was glad when they left, and she went to the gate and watched them going down the road, the girl running and skipping on and off the grass verge like a young lamb when the sun first touches it.

Isabelle would not, at the moment, have likened her feelings to those of a lamb. A mixture of emotions was whirling round inside her: a feeling of excitement, a strong desire to tease, to have fun, but above all, and not fully understood by her, an overpowering urge to come to grips with someone, to master someone besides Clive.

At this point they came to a part of the road that merged with the fell itself, and to the left of them the land sloped to a grassy hollow, at the bottom of which was a mound of earth bordered by a small copse; and towards this Isabelle now ran, with Clive close behind her.

Running between the mound of earth and the copse was a long narrow pathway, probably made by sheep, and coming along it now was the girl who had hardly been out of her thoughts for days. In one hand she was carrying a milk can, and behind her was a small child.

They all seemed to stop at the same instant and remain still for some seconds. It was Isabelle who made the first move. Wagging her walking stick in front of her, and curling her lip as if she were confronting a reptile, she exclaimed in chilling tones, "Out of the wayl" The track was too narrow to allow two people to pass. Cissie was within two yards of the end of it;

there was more than twenty yards behind her. She was in her right to go forward into the open. But she would have gone back except for the fact that the girl demanding she should do this was the one who had smashed the dwelling place and nearly killed Nellie; she was the one who had tied the wire around Joe's ankle; she was a wicked creature. Her da had always said, "A danger faced is a danger halved." She said now in a small but clear voice, "I'm near the end, I'm just a step off; if you'd move back I..."

"What! Move for you?" The point of the walking stick caught her in the middle of the chest and sent her staggering back, almost upsetting Sarah.

"Look. Go on back. It'll save you a lot of trouble." It was the young man speaking now over his sister's shoulder. His face was red, and he was laughing.

"I'll not." She did not look past the girl to the young man but kept her eyes fixed on the dark glaring face as she cried, "I'm in me rights. And another thing. Don't you poke me no more with that stick, I'm tellin' you."

"Rights? How dare you!" The stick came up and the milk can went flying. Then for the second time within days Cissie was struggling with the girl for possession of the walking stick.

Isabelle was stronger than Cissie; also she had the advantage of being well fed; but Cissie's thinness was a tough thinness bred of hard work and privation, and so they struggled equally for the moment while, behind them, Sarah cried, "Give over! Give overi Eehl our Cissie. Our Cissie." And behind Isabelle, Clive, backing into the open, laughed until his sides ached. That was until, still struggling, they came abreast of him and he saw the look on his sister's face. She was holding the stick no longer and her hands were clawing at the girl's neck.

Crying at her, "Belle! Bellel Let upl" he tried to push himself in between them. Then one of them slipped. He thought, afterwards, that it was the girl, for when they all fell together she was on her back, he on top of her, and Belle to the side.

The girl didn't move; she seemed stunned. Nor did he move, for he too was stunned, but in a different way. One of his hands was partly under the girl's armpit and partly on her heaving breast, but the other was actually gripping the flesh of her bare leg well above the knee. He glanced sideways to see the skirt and single petticoat rumpled up almost to the thighs. His glance at the same time took in Isabelle leaning against a tree, and he saw that the rage on her face had been taken over by a fiendish mixture of laughter and glee; and as if reading his thoughts she cried, "Well!

Why don't you? Go on. "

Unconsciously, his hand had been moving along the girl's bare flesh and upwards, but it stopped when the body beneath him drew in a deep shattering breath. He looked at the face under his and saw it for a moment through the artist's eye. The skin was beautiful, the lashes on the closed eyes silken; the lips slightly open were moist. An unbearable feeling was tearing at his loins. His body was hot as it in a fever;

he felt that if he didn't have release from this agony he would die.