THE HOUSE AT HARCOURT

Published by ORION and available from Amazon.co.uk

Prologue - 1860

Such was the tension in the room that Amelia Eliza Forester, at only three and a half years of age, was aware of it even if she did not understand it. She watched intently as her mother, for whom she was named, threw her clothes hither and thither in agitation, whispering in an urgent way to Merry, Amelia's nurse. The little girl clutched to her a faded blue blanket which she called her babbit and which Merry constantly tried to take away from her but never succeeded in doing so.

'What was that?' Amelia Victoria Forester paused in her sorting, clutching a flower-encrusted bonnet tightly to her, crushing it. 'I heard a horse!'

Merry lumbered noisily across the oak-panelled room, pushed back the heavy brocade curtains and peered out of the mullioned window into the park of Harcourt Barton. 'Why, Ma'am, don't you fret. There's nothing and nobody there. Let's get this done quick, shall us? You look all peaky with nerves.'

'Is the child's trunk packed?'

'It is, Ma'am. And a right battle we had over which toys were to go, didn't we my lovely?' She turned but couldn't see the child and began to hunt the room for her. 'There you are! Hiding from Merry, were you? . . .' She pulled Amelia to her feet and began to brush her skirt with her large capable hands.

Suddenly the bedroom door was flung open with such force that it swung back and noisily splintered the panelling of the walls.

'So it's true! You whore!' Frederick Forester stood in the doorway, his feet wide apart, rocking back and forth as if he were still astride his horse. Sweat from a hard ride glistened on his face, his boots were coated with mud and there was anger in his eyes. Little Amelia clung tighter to her blanket.

'Freddie! Please!' Amelia Victoria cried out and swayed on her feet and dropped the bonnet. Merry nimbly stepped back, her bulk hiding the angry man from his child.

'I want you out of my house.'

'What have people been saying about me? Freddie, I beg you, listen to me.'

'Why? You'll only tell me more lies . . . May you rot in hell!'

Merry gasped, then crossed herself as he spun round to face her. 'You! Out!' He pointed imperiously at the door with his riding crop.

Merry wavered . . . her large skirt swaying back and forth like a giant black bell, shielding the child, delaying the inevitable as best she could.

'Out!'

'Merry, go.'

'And take that bastard with you!' he shouted.

With one swoop Merry scooped the child into her arms and made for the door as fast as her size would allow.

'Put me down! You're hurting me!' Amelia was wriggling. On the landing Merry put her back on her feet. 'Why's Papa so cross?'

'Never you mind.' Instead of scuttling back to the nursery, Merry bent low, one ear to the door. And Amelia heard the swish of a whip and the pitiful screams of her mother.

Amelia was in the nursery, she'd had her tea, not that she had wanted to eat. Neither was she playing with the model theatre, which, for the moment, was her favourite toy. She sat, hands in her lap, large tears plopping onto the picture book which she was not looking at. She and Merry could hear the rumble of thunder as an early summer storm began to brew. The air was listless, heavy, as if everything in nature was also waiting for an outcome. Both she and Merry's hearts missed a beat as the door opened. But it was her mother entering the room stealthily, dressed for travel.

'I am to leave. Immediately.' She stood ashen-faced, her eyes pink rimmed from weeping. She moved stiffly, as if in pain.

'We're ready.' Merry indicated the two tapestry bags and the large trunk in the middle of the room.

'No, Merry. The master won't let Amelia come with me.'

'Oh, Ma'am, no!'

'I've tried all entreaties. Merry . . .' She turned her back on her daughter. 'Oh, Merry, I'm so afraid.' She was whispering but not quietly enough.

'Mama, why are you afraid? You're crying. Did Papa hurt you?' She tugged at her mother's skirt.

The woman knelt down, placed her hands at either side of the child's face and stared at her intently as if memorising her image.

'Mama has to go away for a little while, but I'll be back to fetch you, I promise.'

'When?'

'As soon as I can. Don't be afraid, you'll be safe here with Merry to care for you.'

'Why should I be afraid? And why are you crying again?'

'I'll write and you can write to me. You will love to get letters, won't you?'

'I can't write.'

'You will soon. You're so clever.' Her voice sounded strange and muffled. She bent forward and kissed her daughter.

'I love the smell of you, Mama.' She sniffed appreciatively at the lovely perfume of roses which her mother always used, then put out a small hand and stroked her face, her lovely face. 'Come back soon, Mama.'

Amelia Victoria jumped up abruptly. 'I'll be in touch, Merry. Take good care . . .' Her words trailed off as the distraught woman rushed from the room.

Amelia stood on the upper landing and watched, through the balustrade, as her mother ran across the stone floor of the hall below, in haste to be gone. Her father stood at the front door, holding it wide open as if to facilitate her going. The realisation at what was truly happening galvanised the little girl. She flung herself down the stairs her feet barely touching the treads, screaming for her mother.

'Go back to your nursery,' her father shouted.

'I want my mama.'

'Eliza, go back to your nurse.'

'My name's Amelia.'

'Not any longer.' He slammed the heavy oak door shut. Amelia ran to it and began to pound on the panels with her tiny fists as she heard the sound of horses' hooves. Her father grabbed her roughly, pulled her away from the door and held her away from him at arm's length. She tried to kick him but his reach was too long. 'Listen to me child. You're Eliza from now on, and forever, and never again say the name of your mother in my house. You understand?'

'I'm Amelia!' The child said defiantly and her father slapped her hard across the face. 'Amelia! Amelia!' She shouted and he hit her again. Amelia now Eliza, sank onto the bottom stair and she bit her bottom lip. Defiantly she did not cry.'Come upstairs, my handsome.' Merry, who was crying too, fussed over her.

'No, I shan't. I'm waiting for my Mama.'

She had to be carried forcibly back to her nursery, struggling, kicking, scratching all the way. Each day for weeks she would slip away from Merry, sit stoically on the stairs in the great hall, opposite the large front door, and wait.

But her mother never came. Neither did her letters.

The House at Harcourt is available from Amazon.co.uk

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Last revised 28^th February 2002. Content © Anita Burgh and design © Artemis Web Design