Free A Gathering Storm by Rachel Hore

to go and live with her widowed sister in Weston-super-Mare.
    Mrs Wincanton pulled on a pair of white gloves and remarked, above Beatrice’s head, ‘Mrs Marlow, I imagine she’ll do rather nicely. Speak to your husband about the matter and let me know what you decide. The sum involved will be quite modest, I assure you.’
    Beatrice, bewildered, stumbled out a reply to Mrs Wincanton’s, ‘Goodbye, dear,’ and trailed out behind them into the hall. Cook opened the front door, and beyond the garden gate could be glimpsed the sleek black wing of a motor car. After they’d watched it bear Mrs Wincanton away, Mrs Marlow touched Beatrice’s hand and whispered, ‘Well, ma petite, I can’t think what your father will say.’
    ‘Say about what, maman ?’ Beatrice asked. ‘I don’t understand.’
    Her mother pressed her palms together, as though in prayer, though she wasn’t outwardly a very religious woman. ‘Mrs Wincanton would like you to go to Carlyon Manor every day to be a companion for her daughter Angelina.’ She went on, ‘You would join her and her little sister in their studies from September. A Miss Simpkins lives at the house and teaches every morning. The boys will naturally be away at school and Mrs Wincanton says Angelina needs the company of suitable girls of her own age. There is only one month between the two of you.’
    ‘Oh!’ She would be with Angelina. She could not think how to respond. What had she – thin, shy Beatrice – to offer lovely, golden Angelina? The girl seemed older than her; indeed, if her birthday was in August she was a whole school year ahead. If they were going to school, that is.
    ‘I’ll talk to your father’, Mrs Marlow sighed. ‘I hope he will agree.’
    Days of argument followed.
    ‘It is a marvellous opportunity for her,’ Delphine would say.
    ‘We’ll be beholden to them,’ Hugh would object. ‘And she’ll start expecting to live the high life.’
    ‘Oh come, that’s nonsense – not our little Béatrice,’ she would counter.
    Eventually Hugh Marlow gave way, astonished at his wife’s unusual insistence.
    It was early in July when Beatrice was first invited up to the house. Her mother went with her. Up the cliff path, then a short walk alongside a field of ripening corn to a lane that ran between stone hedges to the gates of Carlyon Manor. Beatrice yearned for the house until they rounded the bend of the drive, then there it was, a wide expanse of Cornish granite with diamond-hatched windows, high chimneys and a slate roof. They passed a croquet game, abandoned on the front lawn. As they neared the front door their footsteps slowed, and though she said nothing, Delphine held her daughter’s hand more tightly.
    A little maid with beady eyes, like a jenny wren, admitted them. ‘The mistress is still out riding,’ she told them, and showed them into the drawing room to wait. Beatrice, who had never been in a place so splendid, gazed at the sunlight dazzling off the electric chandeliers. The french windows stood open and beyond were lawns and flowerbeds and swaying trees.
    ‘May I go out in the garden?’ she asked her mother.
    ‘No, mon amour , we are not invited,’ said Mrs Marlow, tenderly brushing a lock of hair from her daughter’s face. There was a great tarnished mirror over the fireplace and Beatrice wandered across to make faces in it, though she was barely tall enough to see. She noticed the carved mantelpiece itself and ran her fingers over the pattern of leaves and flowers and fruit, wondering at the warmth and smoothness of the wood. Then her keen eyes spotted a carved insect hidden amongst the petals of a flower. It was a bee, its wings spread wide, and so delicately wrought she could see the markings on them. She traced its shape with a fingertip, thinking that because it was so small perhaps she was the only one who had ever noticed it. When she took a step away from the mantelpiece, the bee could hardly be seen. She was still