Louise’s uncle Roland, the senior of her grandfather’s six children, owned nearly ten per cent of the island’s arable land. Cricklade Manor’s estate itself sprawled over a hundred and fifty thousand acres, incorporating forests and farmland and parkland, even whole villages, providing employment to thousands of labourers who toiled in its fields and woods and rosegroves, as well as tending to its herds and flocks. Another three hundred families farmed tithed crofts within its capacious boundaries. Craftsmen right across Stoke County were dependent on the industry it generated for their livelihood. And, of course, the estate owned a majority share in the county roseyard.
Louise was the most eligible heiress on Kesteven island. And she adored the position, people showed her nothing but respect, and willingly extended favours without expecting any return other than her patronage.
Cricklade Manor itself was a resplendent three-storey grey-stone building with a hundred-yard frontage. Its long stone-mullioned windows gazed out across a vast expanse of lawns and spinneys and walled orchards. An avenue of terrestrial cedars had been set out to mark out the perimeter of the grounds, geneered to endure Norfolk’s long year and peculiar dual bombardment of photons. They had been planted three hundred years ago, and were now several hundred feet in height. Louise adored the stately ancient trees; their graceful layered boughs possessed a mystique which the smaller aboriginal pine-analogues could never hope to match. They were a part of her heritage that was for ever lost among the stars, alluding to a romantic past.
The paddock the sisters were walking through lay beyond the cedars on the western side of the manor, taking up most of a gentle slope that led down to a stream which fed the trout lake. Jumps for their horses were scattered around, unused for weeks in the excitement of the approaching rose crop. Midsummer was always a fraught time for Norfolk, and Cricklade seemed to be at the centre of a small cyclone of activity as the estate geared itself up for the roses when they ripened.
When they tired of the starships’ grandeur, Louise and Genevieve carried on down to the water. Several horses with rust-red coats were wandering round the paddock, nuzzling amongst the tufty grass. Norfolk’s grass-analogue was reasonably similar to Earth’s, the blades were all tubular, and throughout the summer conjunction they produced minute white flowers at their tips. Starcrowns, Louise had called them when she was much younger.
“Father says he’s thinking of inviting William Elphinstone to act as an assistant estate manager to Mr Butterworth,” Genevieve said slyly as they approached the mouldering wooden bar fence at the foot of the paddock.
“That was clever of Father,” Louise replied, straight faced.
“How so?”
“William will need to learn the practicalities of estate management if he is to take over Glassmoor Hall, and he could have nobody finer than Mr Butterworth to tutor him. That puts the Elphinstones under obligation to Father, and they have powerful connections among Kesteven’s farm merchants.”
“And William will be here for two midsummers, that’s the usual period of tutelage.”
“Indeed he will.”
“And you’ll be here as well.”
“Genevieve Kavanagh, silence that evil tongue this instant.”
Genevieve danced across the grass. “He’s handsome, he’s handsome!” she laughed. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, especially in those dresses you wear for the dances.” Her hands traced imaginary breasts over her chest.
Louise giggled. “Devil child, you have a faulty brain. I’m not interested in William.”
“You’re not?”
“No. Oh, I like him, and I hope we can be friends. But that’s all. In any case, he’s five years older than me.”
“I think he’s gorgeous.”
“Then you can have him.”
Genevieve’s face fell. “I’ll not be offered anyone so grand. You’re the heiress, after all. Mother will make me marry some troll from a minor family, I’m sure of it.”
“Mother won’t make us marry anyone. Honest to goodness, Genny, she won’t.”
“Really truly?”
“Really truly,” Louise said, even though she couldn’t quite bring herself to believe it. Truth to be told, there weren’t that many eligible suitors for her on Kesteven. Hers was an invidious position: a husband should hold equal status, but someone of equal wealth would have his own estate and she would be expected to live there. Yet Cricklade was her life, it was beautiful even in midwinter’s long barren months when yards of snow covered the ground, the pine trees on the surrounding wolds were denuded, and the birds buried themselves below the frostline. She couldn’t bear the thought of leaving it. So who could she marry? It was probably something her parents had discussed; her uncles and aunts too, most likely.
She didn’t like to think about what the outcome would be. At the very least she hoped they would give her a list rather than an ultimatum.
One of the butterflies caught her eye, a geneered red admiral sunning itself on one of the grass blades. It was freer than she was, she realized miserably.
“Will you marry for love, then?” Genevieve asked, all dewy eyed.
“Yes, I’ll marry for love.”
“That’s super. I wish I were as bold.”
Louise put her hands on the top rail of the fence, looking across the gurgling stream. Forget-me-nots had run wild on the banks, their blue flowers attracting hordes of butterflies. Some time-distant master of Cricklade had released hundreds of species across the grounds. Every year they flourished, invading the orchards and gardens with their fluttering harlequin colours. “I’m not bold, I’m a dithery dreamer. Do you know what I dream?”
“No.” Genevieve shook her head, her face rapt.
“I dream that Father lets me travel before I have to take on any of my family responsibilities.”
“To Norwich?”
“No, not the capital, that’s just like Boston only bigger, and I’ll be going there anyway for finishing school. I want to travel to other worlds and see how their people live.”
“Gosh! Travel on a starship, that’s stupendously wonderful. Can I come too? Please!”
“If I go, then I suppose Father will have to let you go when you reach your age. Fair’s fair.”
“He’ll never let me go. I’m not even allowed to go to the dances.”
“But you sneak past Nanny and watch them anyway.”
“Yes!”
“Well, then.”
“He won’t let me go.”
Louise grinned down at her sister’s petulant tone. “It is only a dream.”
“You always make your dreams come real. You’re so clever, Louise.”
“I don’t want to change this world with new ideas,” she said, half to herself. “I just want to be allowed out, just once. Everything here is so duty-bound, so regimented. Some days I feel as though I’ve already lived my life.”
“William could get you away from here. He could ask for a star voyage as a honeymoon; Father could never refuse that.”
“Oh! You impudent baby ogress!” She aimed a lazy swipe at her sister’s head, but Genevieve had already skipped out of range.
“Honeymoon, honeymoon,” Genevieve chanted so loudly that even the nearby horses looked up. “Louise is going on honeymoon!” She picked up her skirts and ran, long slender legs flying over the flower-laden grass.
Louise gave chase, the two of them giggling and squealing in delight as they gallivanted about, scattering the butterflies before them.
Lady Macbeth emerged from her final jump insystem, and Joshua allowed himself a breath of silent relief that they were still intact. The trip from Lalonde had been an utter bitch.
For a start Joshua found he neither liked nor trusted Quinn Dexter. His intuition told him there was something desperately wrong about him. Wrong in a way he couldn’t define, but Dexter seemed to drain life from a cabin when he entered. And his behaviour was weird, too; he had no instinct, no natural rhythm for events or conversation, as though he was working on a two-second time-delay to reality.