The Secret Generations (8 page)

She had hoped her stepson, James, would also be at Redhill, as Wellington College was down for ten days. But at the last minute he had written to say he was going to stay with a friend in Farnborough
– the son of a local doctor, by name, Savory.

Since the changes that had come with The General
’s death, Sara spent the bulk of her time at the Manor, and – though she was loath to admit it – now acknowledged that the new peace and tranquillity of Haversage had advantages.

It would have been wrong to suggest she did not miss London; after all, until now, London was everything she knew.

But in the relatively quiet, different atmosphere of Redhill Manor and Haversage, Sara began to question the whole tenor of her life. She could never, of course, forsake London entirely, but the Manor had already begun to cast its spell.

She spent a great deal of her time wandering through the house, captivated by the sense of history which seemed to ooze from the walls. She loved the hu
ge hall, the great staircase and gallery, the reception rooms with their high ceilings, the oak panels in the long dining room and, especially, in The General’s study. The views from nearly all the windows also entranced her – in particular those from the upper rooms at the rear of the house, from where you could see the whole rise of the Downs.

From her own bedroom, which she shared with John, when he was there, the skyline curved, treeless, for several miles; yet, right in the centre, stood a small clump of bushes which, from the distance of the house, looked like an oasis. The household, servants and family alike, called this view
‘Egypt’, for the bushes looked exactly like a group of palm trees standing alone in a seemingly endless series of dunes.

The house, while in good order, still retained the decorations
– the wallpaper, paint, hangings and carpets – of the past forty years; and, as Sara roamed its rooms and passages, her mind turned constantly on change and improvement.

There had been little snow that month, but the cold and frost was lingering, though this did not stop Sara from going down into Haversage whenever possible. John said she should make herself known locally, and patronize individual tradesmen who would take it as a great compliment if she went to their shops personally.

So, on several occasions she got Ted Natter to take her down the hill into Haversage, usually in the governess cart pulled by a good-natured quiet little grey pony.

On this particular day, muffled against the cold, they returned to the Manor, taking the now familiar way east, along Hill Street from the market square, and up Red Hill itself, to the Manor gates on the left. The wheels crunched on heavy gravel, the great elms, bare against the cold clear sky, flanked the drive for a quarter of a mile to the house, standing with the pale glory of winter sunlight on its soft brick.

Redhill Manor was all the more imposing because of its size. The oldest part – ‘the core of the house’, as The General used to call it – lay, almost an exact square, in the centre. It stood now, just as it had been built, in the early sixteenth century, with its unusually large leaded windows and the main iron-bound oak door, set into a stone drop archway with carved and decorated hoodmoulds and spandrels.

The additional building consisted of two large wings, erected to left and right, making the whole place, if it could be seen from above, into the shape of a giant H: a square U at both back and front. These wings had been added so skilfully that it was difficult to detect change in style or stone.

The family maintained this was due to the patience and determination of Walter Railton – known in his day as ‘Buck’ Railton – who had commissioned the building’s enlargement in 1718, using a bursary presented to him by a grateful Duke of Marlborough, with whom ‘Buck’ had served with courage and distinction, at Blenheim and Ramillies.

To Sara, and many of the Railton women,
‘Buck’ appeared as a romantic figure; but they judged him by the portrait, which hung, with the other Railton likenesses, in the library, access to which could only be gained through The General’s study. ‘Buck’ looked a swashbuckler, and the painting, which showed the smoke and skirmishing of the initial attack on Blenheim village in the background, gave the impression that his eyes still mocked or invited, depending on your sex, as if sending strong signals forward across the centuries.

John could have had the same look, she liked to think, had he not gone into politics. The painting itself was in the style of Poussin
– Giles considered that it was done by a pupil, for he had an excellent copy of Poussin’s
The Spies with the Grapes from The Promised Land
in the Eccleston Square house.

For all his brilliance and devotion to duty as a politician, John lacked something present in all the other Railton men that Sara had met
– and certainly visible in the painting of Walter Railton. It was indefinable, but not, Sara concluded, the sexual thing – though she intuitively knew from the start that her husband was not the most driving of lovers.

She pondered on this after her return, having gone to the library with the great fire crackling behind its metal mesh guard. The room had no need of a fire, being already full of life, from the hundreds of books and the long row of Railton ancestors preserved in oils.

She glanced up at ‘Buck’s’ portrait, half-formed questions flitting through her mind. There was surely a special kinship between her and ‘Buck’ Railton, for family legend held that he was a deceiver loaded with lust, like herself, she thought; and the guilt of it gnawed at her conscience, while she worried that John would say something openly to Asquith.

Certainly there had been promise of a Cabinet post for John
– but never from Asquith. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, David Lloyd George no less, had promised. ‘What’s your payment, then? What do you ask?’ His hand cupped about her breast as he spoke, mouth close to hers. As his other hand reached, starting to lift her dress, will-power had drained away and her juices began to flow as never before. The magic of the man – his eyes, the mystery of his lilting accent and body. When she replied, her own voice held a rasp of dryness in the throat. ‘A Cabinet post for my husband,’ she had said.

The Welsh Wizard laughed,
‘Is that all? It’s done, my dear. You have my word. John Railton’s a lucky man. There… there… and there.’

So he worked his enchantment, and she understood why his reputation stood as it did. After her wedding, her mother had told her,
‘Promise me, Sara, if you are to mix in the world of politics, never allow yourself – not for a minute – to be left alone with Mr Lloyd George.’ She had promised. Another promise broken. Her marriage vows broken: not just the once, but on four occasions; and Sara knew it was not for the sake of a Cabinet post. It was for her own body, a need for the little Welshman with his winning ways, and the peace he brought after the passion.

Feeling a deep moment of depression, here in the library, Sara went over to the windows which, like those in the study, looked out onto the rose garden. The chill sun still shone, and she gazed out, dead-eyed, at the line of cypresses following the path, at the far end, to the bower, and what they liked to call the maze. To the right lay the walled kitchen garden, and far off on the left the Great Lawn. Beyond, to west and south, the lands of the estate reached for miles, up the Berkshire Downs where once the Roman legions had passed by. You could
just glimpse ‘Egypt’ from here.

The depression was coupled to a moment of self-hate, partly because of her folly
– particularly in lying to John, telling him Asquith had promised the post – yet also for her own dissatisfaction. The gloominess turned to anger so that during the lonely luncheon, served by Vera, she felt the old fire rekindle in her loins, the flames licking at her imagination.

Immediately on completion of her meal, Sara retired to rid herself of the obsession. Th
en, in a sudden need for cleansing, she sought out a pair of old riding boots, and by three in the afternoon – knowing there were less than two hours’ daylight left – she hobbled, now in her riding habit, to the stables.

Billy Crook had been sent over to warn Ted Natter, who prepared Fancy, a docile roan mare, for Mrs Railton.

‘Her be sweet tempered, M’m,’ Natter told Sara when she appeared in the yard.

But Sara
’s mood was not for sweet tempers. ‘When I want a docile animal I’ll tell you, Ted. I need something with spirit.’

In the harness room, while their mistress paced up and down the yard, Natter grumpily told Billy Crook,
‘Her wants somethin’ spirited, then ’er can ’ave Turk, an’ to ’ell wi’ ’er.’

Though he grumbled, Natter was no fool. Turk was The General
’s grey, a fine animal, spirited but easy to manage. Natter had loved his master, and knew better than to let a man of well past seventy out on a difficult mount. So he had no qualms about seeing Lady Sara – as they, incorrectly, thought of her – trot from the yard, having turned away all offers to be accompanied by either Natter or Billy Crook.

She rode hard and with concentration, the sting of cold on her face; the excitement of managing a large animal. As she rode, so the fantasies disappeared, and with them the fire. She knew that men talked of taking cold baths. They would be better taking a horse out, alone and at a wild gallop. She was now herself again, mind and body centred into staying on Turk
’s back; maintaining command.

So Sara became conscious only of the noise: the wind, her own breath, the great drumming of Turk
’s hooves, while around her, the rolling fields went by. She skirted two small copses, then began to gallop, intending to make a long curve that would eventually take her back towards the house.

She was aware of a particularly high hedge ahead, but urged Turk to take it. He seemed to slow slightly, hesitating, but she shouted at him, excitedly, for this was the first time Sara had jumped such an obstacle at speed, or on such a big animal.

Then she was in the air, with her stomach left behind; hands, feet and knees all working madly to stay in place. For a second the world seemed to stop. Turk appeared to remain suspended in space above the hedge, and it was in that split second of time that she saw the true danger.

Below, and in front of her, on the far side of the hedge, as she leaned back in the saddle hauling on the reins, Sara caught a glimpse of figures
– a knot of men working in the ditch directly below her.

She heard the cries, saw at least one startled expression, and was aware of men scattering. After that there was simply the sensation of hanging in mid air; sky where earth should be. Then turning upside down; earth; a pain reaching out slowly, swallowing her into darkness.

The next thing was a sense of warmth. Sara knew she was on her back. Voices drifted from the air a long way off, making little sense. As her eyes opened so a weathered young face swam above her, as though detached from its body.

‘
Is he safe?’ she asked. ‘Is Turk safe?’

The young man was kneeling beside her.
‘Spadger went after him, Ma’am. He was still galloping, but I doubt if he’s come to any harm. It’s you I’m worried about.’

‘
And the men? There were men.’

‘
No damage done there,’ he smiled, his voice holding the traces of a Berkshire accent, yet not broad like Ted Natter’s or the girls’ at the house. ‘I’ve sent to the Manor for the doctor, Ma’am.’

She pulled herself up, testing each limb carefully.
‘Doctor? What doctor?’

‘
You had a very heavy fall, Mrs Railton.’

‘
Just had the wind knocked out of me, that’s all. Tell them not to bother with a doctor.’

He nodded, gave a quick order, and one of the farm workers
– she recognized them now – hurried off, shouting, ‘Willum Plum… Yer, Willum… Come baack Willum… No cause for the doctor…’

‘
I’m so sorry.’ Sara felt sick and shaken, but was certain there was no serious damage done.

‘
As long as you’re not hurt, Mrs Railton.’

She smiled.
‘Who are you?’

‘
Berry, Ma’am. Bob Berry. Farm manager for the estate.’ She shook her head, suddenly realizing that she was hanging onto his arm. One of the men led Turk back. The animal appeared to be docile, only occasionally tossing his head. ‘You sure you’re all right?’ Berry asked again.

‘
Few nasty bruises, that’s all.’ She tested her legs and balance, conscious of the aches in her shoulders and, embarrassingly, all over her buttocks. ‘I’ve been lucky, Mr Berry. It could have been very nasty.’

He reached up and took Turk
’s bridle. ‘It was very nasty the
last
time…’ Berry stopped, as though he should not have spoken.

‘
Last time?’

‘
You were not to know, Mrs Railton. The hedge. They call it Lady Nellie’s hedge. Long before my time, over twenty years ago now. The General’s wife, Lady Nellie, fell at the hedge. They were hunting and…’

‘
Oh, my God!’ Sara felt dizzy. She knew all about the famous terrible accident. Lady Railton had been killed instantly. ‘I didn’t realize it was
this
hedge! Oh Lord!’