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    CHAPTER ONE
     
     
    Before I met the Duke, life was beautifully simple.
    Perhaps it sounds rather prim to say this, but my childhood was utter bliss. I have always believed that good behavior breeds good fortune, and as a child, I was as well-behaved as they come. Though my father often remarked that my ‘sunshine blond hair would get me into trouble one day’, I was far from troubled as a young girl. I would run through the fields of barley neighbouring our humble country cottage, laughing and squealing with delight, and of course, most often of all, I would spend time with my lovely little pony, Dobbin. It was a rather silly name for an animal, I know, but I loved that dear creature.
    I was devastated when Dobbin departed this world. Honestly, it was the only bad thing that had ever happened to me, and it hit me hard. I swear, I was so head over heels for that beast that I would’ve married him if I could. On my sixteenth birthday, my mother and father gave me a present: a wonderful, gleaming blonde foal.
    ‘His fur matches your hair,’ said my father, giving me a stern look. ‘The two of you will get into some scrapes together, mark my words.’ Soon, my father’s frown crinkled up into a wide smile, and he rubbed my hair. ‘You two get to know each other for a while. Your mother and I are going to market.’
    Those words, gentle reader, were the last I heard from my father’s mouth.
    I’d never seen a police constable before, and when the thick-mustachioed man appeared on the doorstep with a stern look on his face, I knew something was wrong. My parents had been a victim of their own charity. They used to walk through the dangerous parts of York whenever they went in for a market day, giving alms to the poor. The police officer explained to me that a particularly unruly gang of miscreants had taken offence at the act, and things had very quickly become violent. Needless to say, as a sixteen year old, I was spared the more gory details.
    I didn’t have much time to grieve, and was sent immediately to stay with my uncle Norman on his sprawling farm in the middle of The Dales, the most rugged and beautiful area of Yorkshire. My uncle was a no-nonsense sort of man, and I was immediately put to work. Life was sad and lonely with my parents gone, but my uncle didn’t exactly take pity on me. I always thought that he was angry to have to look after me, and that maybe he would have been less stern had my parents still been alive.
    ‘You’re my flesh and blood, Briony, but by God if you don’t shift your weight, I’ll have you sling your hook,’ he would say to me. My blonde foal, who I’d called Honey, was to be trained as a work horse on the farm, to help pull one of the huge ploughs across arable fields as and when my uncle required. I watched Uncle Norman whipping Honey’s back with a harsh looking leather strap, wincing each time it made contact with his skin.
    ‘They don’t feel it, Briony, beasts of burden. That’s why God put them on this earth, to help man.’ My uncle had very old-fashioned opinions on almost anything you care to talk about, and I longed for company of my own age. My only companion was Robert, the stable boy. He lived in a village not too far away and would come up to the farm every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday to muck out the stables in which the horses lived. He was a ruddy-looking boy, and well-built for a lad of only sixteen. We used to play together after we’d finished our chores. He used to call me Sunny, on account of the golden colour of my hair, and we used to chase each other all around the golden fields in the dipping evening sun.
    I must admit that I changed a lot in those two years. I turned to the comfort of food and eating, to try to cope with the burden of grief my parents’ death left me with. I began to fill out, and then, I went a little past filling out. My arms and legs became creamy and full, my breasts and buttocks became swollen