I nodded. I knew about squatters’ rights. It was one of the reasons the parish wardens always moved Da on. They were always in a terror that he would claim that he had been there long enough to be a member of the parish and claim parish relief.

‘Don’t you move them on?’ I asked shrewdly.

James shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We give them a chance to work and they can either take a wage – not a very big one – or take a share in the profits of the estate. If they plan to stay then they join the corporation. We don’t have so many people that we cannot afford to take them on.’

‘And where does that man live?’ I asked. ‘The manager?’

‘That’s Will Tyacke,’ James said. ‘He comes from a very old family. They have been here longer than the Laceys. His cousin was the first manager here after your mother died. But he had an accident and Will came over from another estate and took over. He lives in the manager’s cottage,’ he pointed to one of the little squares on the map set a little back from the main street. The blue wriggling line which indicated the River Fenny went past the back of the cottage through a small paddock.

‘And south of the road and south of the village are fields,’ James said. ‘Some of them are resting, we leave them to grass every third year. Some of them are fruit fields – it’s very sunny there. Most of them are wheat fields. This is a famous estate for high wheat production,’ he paused for a moment. ‘There were battles about that in the past,’ he said. ‘In the old days, before it was a corporation. There was a riot, and arson when the Laceys were sending wheat out of the country but starving their workforce. But that changed when we started sharing the crop, and sharing the profits. We have fields as high up the hill as the horses can pull the plough. Above that the land is only good for sheep to graze. It’s very high land – up there on the Downs – covered with short sweet grass, and in springtime there are thousands of little flowers and orchids. There are great flocks of butterflies up there: tiny blue and yellow ones. The larks sing very loudly, and there are curlews.’ He broke off.

‘You love it here,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you live here?’

He shook his head. ‘I was going to marry your mother and build a house here with her,’ he said. ‘Once she was gone, I could not have lived here alone.’ He was silent for a moment.

‘I visit often,’ he said. ‘Will Tyacke knows more about farming than I will ever learn, but I like to come down to keep an eye on things.’

I nodded, looking at my land, spread out over James’s map like a patchwork of rich fabrics.

‘You will need to learn the land,’ he said quietly. ‘Now you are here, you will need to know your way around, and the crops that are planted, and the people who live and work here.’

I stared down at the map. It was as if it were my future laid out here, not just fields.

‘I suppose I will,’ I said.

‘Perhaps you would like to ride out, look round it,’ James suggested. ‘Will Tyacke said he would come this afternoon and take you out for a ride if you would like that. He is the best man to show you the land, and he knows everyone.’

I looked up at James and he could see the emptiness in my face. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘I’ll go.’

‘And Sarah…’ he said as I was at the door.

I turned. ‘Yes?’

‘You have wanted to be here, and now you are here,’ he said gently. ‘Let yourself enjoy the things here which are good. I won’t say forget the past because that would be folly and it would deny your previous life and the people you have loved. But open yourself up to Wideacre, Sarah. It is only you who are hurt when you see this place as something which has come too late for you.’

I paused for a moment. He was right. The hurt inside, the coldness inside would not go away, would not be healed by more grief and more disappointment. But I was stubborn. And I was angry.

‘Is that all?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he said, resigned.

I waited in my room until I saw the brown cob trot up the drive but when I got down to the stable yard Will was in one of the loose boxes, trying to get a bridle on Sea.


‘I told Sam not to worry him,’ he said pleasantly over the half-stable door. ‘He was having some difficulty with him and the horse was getting distressed. He looked frightened. Has he been ill-treated?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘He don’t usually like men.’

Will smiled. ‘I don’t usually like hunters,’ he said. ‘We’ll both make an exception.’

He tightened the girth and led him out. ‘We’ve a lady’s saddle somewhere,’ he offered. ‘Sam can hunt it out for you if you prefer side-saddle.’

I shook my head and took Sea from him. ‘Nay,’ I said. ‘I wear my breeches so that I can ride astride. I only ever wore the habit…’ I broke off and cursed myself inwardly. ‘I don’t have a habit.’ I said. ‘I s’pose I’ll have to get one and ride side-saddle all the time.’

Will nodded, and held Sea’s head while I swung into the saddle.

‘I thought I’d take you up to the Downs,’ he said. ‘So you can get a hawk’s-eye view of the estate. It’s a good day. We’ll be able to see clear across Selsey to the Island looking south.’

I flinched inside at the mention of Selsey, but kept my face impassive. Will mounted his horse and led the way down the gravel of the drive, past the terrace with the rose garden on our right and out into the rutted stony lane.

The track was so old it seemed to have sunk into the soil and become part of the earth itself. The stones in the ruts were wet and shiny, yellow in colour and the little drainage ditches either side of the road were pale and yellow too, speckled with the black of peat.

‘Sandy soil,’ Will said, following the direction of my look. ‘Wonderful for farming in the valley.’

We were shaded from the spring sunshine by a network of branches over our heads. The new leaves were showing like a green mist and the hedgerows and the woods looked as if a light grey-green scarf of gauze had been tossed over the black bones of their branches. Sea pricked his ears forward at the clip-clop noise of the hooves on the wet stones.

On our right were great old trees, growing thick right up to the very margin of the drainage ditch and the road. High grey-trunked beeches and the broad knobbly trunks of oaks. On the first bend the massive chestnut tree swooped its branches low over the track, the leaves spreading like fingers in their tiny greenness, bursting out of shells of buds as brown and sticky as toffee. Deeper in the woods, on little hummocks, there were tall pine trees and the scent of their rising sap made the spring air sweet, like a premonition of summer warmth. The birds were singing in the higher branches, as near to the sun as they could get, and in the depths below the trees was a rug of old leaves and bright spots of primroses and white violets.

‘These trees are all parkland,’ Will said gesturing with his whip. ‘Ornamental. They belong to the grounds of the Hall, we only fell the timber for clearing. But there’s game in them. Rabbits and pheasants, hares, deer. Ever since the estate was made into a worker’s corporation we’ve had no game laws here. The people from Acre hunt as they wish for the pot. We don’t allow hunting for sale. A few poachers come over from Petersfield or Chichester and we keep an eye out for them. We take it in turns to watch for them if it gets out of hand. But generally we’re left well alone.’

I nodded. I had a passing sense of belonging, as sweet as cold water after a day’s thirst. My mother – the woman who had called after the cart – had come here often. I could feel it. And her mother, too.

We rode in silence, I was looking around at the woodland on one side of the road and the tidy fields on the other.

‘This is the Dower House,’ Will volunteered. ‘Your family lived here until the Hall was rebuilt. It was your ma’s childhood home.’

I nodded and looked at it.

It was deserted but well secured. The double door at the front was shut tight, all the windows barred with shutters. The front garden was tidy, a flood of golden crocus under the front windows.

‘No one lives there now?’ I asked.

‘No,’ Will said. He gave me a rueful little smile. ‘The way the estate is run does not attract the gentry,’ he said. ‘We’ve not been able to get a tenant for it for some time.’

I nodded. I did not understand what he meant yet, but I was not ready on this ride to ask questions. I wanted to take the measure of this place, of these people. To see what this place was in reality that I had been dreaming of for so long.

‘It’s a good estate,’ he said tentatively. ‘Productive.’

I glanced at him sideways. He was watching the stony drive between his horse’s ears.

‘It’s not what I was bred to,’ I said frankly. ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

‘Not too late to learn,’ he said gently. I guessed he was thinking of my scream at James Fortescue that I had come to Wideacre too late. ‘If you were the son of the house, a Lacey, you’d be coming home from school at your age, ready to learn about the land,’ he said.

‘If I was coming home from school I’d have had a gentry childhood and I’d know how to read and write,’ I said.

‘Not the schools I’m thinking of!’ Will said smiling. ‘Real Quality schools teach lads to be as ignorant as peasants!’ He shot a little smile at me as we rounded a curve of the drive and came within sight of the little box of the gatehouse and the great iron gates which stood permanently open with white flowering bindweed entwined up the hinges. Will nodded to the left.

‘That’s one of our new crops,’ he said. ‘Strawberries. We’re harrowing now, to make the soil nice and soft. We’ll be planting later. I reckon we’ll sell in Chichester. There’s a growing market for soft fruit. Wideacre strawberries could be famous.’

I glanced over the hedge. Two great shire horses were pulling a harrow, a little lad walking behind them, yelling instructions, the earth turning sweetly under the tines.

‘We planted it when the land was handed over to the people,’ he said. ‘It’s a crop which needs a lot of careful work. Weeding, and especially picking and packing. A casual paid workforce could waste more than they earned. But when people know they are working for themselves, they take more pride.’

I nodded. I was trying to get used to the strangeness of it all. I was wondering if it were not really a dream. I might wake up at any moment to the rocking caravan roof and the bitter hard life of my childhood; and look over and see her…

I shook my head to clear my thoughts and saw that Will had pulled his horse up at the end of the drive. The door of the lodge house opened and a woman with a babby in her arms came down the garden path and dipped me a low curtsey when she reached her garden gate.

‘Good day, Miss Sarah,’ she said.

For a moment I did not smile. I did not reply. She had called me Miss Sarah. Miss. Not the only other handle to my name I had ever had – Mamselle Meridon the bareback rider – but Miss Sarah. As though I were gentry born and bred. As though it were natural to her to call me thus, and natural to me to respond to it.

I nodded my head awkwardly at her.

‘This is Mrs Hodgett,’ Will Tyacke said. ‘She is a Midhurst woman who married the gate-keeper. The Hodgetts have always kept this gate.’

I nodded again. ‘Good day,’ I said. I found I could smile my show smile, and I pinned it on my face. Then Will clicked to his horse, and Sea fell into pace beside it as we turned left down the drive to head towards the village of Acre.

‘Your village,’ he said half in jest. ‘In the old days, when Beatrice and Squire Harry ran the land, they owned outright every one of the cottages in the village, aye, and even the church and the parson’s house as well.’ He paused. ‘I suppose you still do,’ he said, surprised. ‘We’ve been without a squire for so long that we’ve forgot how the deeds run. Of course it would still be your village outright. The cottagers have not paid rent for years. Not since Squire Richard – your papa – was killed. Mr Fortescue excused all rents and fees so that we could launch the land-sharing scheme. All he withdraws for the Lacey estate is your share of the profits. We call the village Acre, you know,’ he said. ‘It’s a Saxon name, like mine. My family were here in this village long before the Le Says came over with the Conqueror and fought for it and won it from us.’

‘The who?’ I asked. I had never heard of the Le Says. Nor of the conqueror. I had a vague idea that it might be Bonnie Prince Charlie.