Free In Distant Fields by Charlotte Bingham

but certainly every day. In her heart of hearts she blamed her father, who had been frightened that she would become a spinster.
    â€˜You’ll end up a spiky-faced woman with a moustache, never seen out of her gardening shoes,’ was how he liked to put it.
    Her father’s anxiety over her marital status would have been touching had not Maude known that it was less concern for her happiness than fear that she would die without giving birth, and would, Maude being his only daughter, therefore prove to be the last in the line for, most unusually, the Earl’s title could be passed through the female line. So marry Maude had, the first man who asked her, and it happened to be Cecil.
    Cecil, who changed his name to accommodate her family pride, brought nothing except himself to their marriage, a union that became increasingly uncomfortable as his sense of inadequacy increased, but as with so many people who are unpopular, Cecil was quite sure that it was all the fault of the rest of the world, while Maude was equally sure that having made her bed, she would jolly well have to lie in it.
    â€˜Maude?’
    Cecil was standing in front of her.
    â€˜Yes, Cecil?’
    â€˜I want a word with you, please. I have a bone to pick.’
    How Maude hated that phrase of his, ‘a boneto pick’. So ghastly, as if they were both dogs in a courtyard.
    â€˜Some new complaint, have you, Cecil?’
    Cecil always managed to look both cruel and petulant at the same time, which Maude thought quite a feat.
    â€˜The flower arrangements in the dining room are vulgar, Maude.’
    â€˜They are modish, Cecil.’
    â€˜I have had them removed. The servants have thrown them out.’
    Maude rose from her chair and as she did so she cursed the fact that she knew she had lost colour. She hated to show Cecil that she had any feelings at all, at least as far as he was concerned.
    â€˜The servants are to do no such thing, Cecil.’
    Every year it was the same – some new disruption, some new complaint, and always stored up for the day of the ball, something that he had probably planned for days.
    He caught at her arm. ‘Where are you going, Maude?’
    â€˜I am going to have the flowers replaced, Cecil. There are no more to be had anywhere on New Year’s Eve, and you know it. The hot-houses are quite bare.’
    â€˜Too late, Maude. I had them burned, earlier.’
    Maude stared at him, and fell to silence. The phrase ‘murder in her heart’ would be too mild for what she was feeling. She shook off Cecil’s grip, and left the room.
    *    *    *
    Snow was making the countryside surrounding Bauders look enchanting. Darkness had long fallen when everyone inside was to be found preparing themselves for yet another ball.
    â€˜Myself, I find I have not the energy I used to have,’ the Duke confided to Wavell. ‘ Autres temps, autres moeurs , if you know what I mean, Wavell.’
    â€˜Yes, Your Grace,’ Wavell nodded. He had no idea what His Grace was on about with his French, but cared less, since they were both enjoying what His Grace always alluded to as ‘a jolly good snifter’ in the snug near the servants’ hall – a particularly good Highland snifter it was too.
    However, if His Grace was feeling weary at the idea of facing another ball, the young were still very much on their toes, and showing no signs of flagging. Partita particularly seemed to be imbued with an endless amount of energy, dancing in and out of the rooms, Tinker following with an increasingly hopeless expression.
    â€˜You are a jumping bean, that is what you are, Lady Tita,’ Tinker grumbled. ‘Gunpowder is it, that you swallowed at luncheon today?’
    â€˜I love New Year’s Eve,’ Partita confided to no one at all, staring at herself in the dressing mirror. ‘It is almost shuddersome, don’t you think? Wondering what is going to