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Without him, Tom might have been here.
    ‘Sir Hugh will be your brother,’ her mother had said to her once, when she had tried to tell her not to fuss around him so. ‘You must learn to love him.’
    She tried to write a list of all the things you might like about Sir Hugh, but in the end could only think of two: he was about to marry Emmeline, and he had a large house.
    ‘I find seasoning ruins the flavour of properly good meat. I think it is only intended to cover up the taste of the really poor cut. That is the kind of meat that people put in cans. As your customers find. Disgusting stuff.’ He turned to Rudolf. ‘I did send you some beef from my estate, did I not?’
    ‘Oh yes,’ rushed in Verena. ‘It was quite marvellous. We were delighted with it.’
    Sir Hugh inclined his head graciously. ‘I shall ask Carmichael to send further.’
    ‘That would be so terribly kind of you.’ Celia wanted to kick her mother under the table.
    They had visited Callerton Manor at the beginning of the year. Celia had hated every moment of it: the preparations, her mother bustling and flurrying, Emmeline vowing never to speak again to Michael if he teased Sir Hugh and despairing over everybody’s dress but her own. Then the journey, during which their mother told Celia that if she did not behave, she would not have pudding for two weeks. The huge, cold house had more windows than you could imagine. Stiff servants propped up every corner like vases. They took tea with Sir Hugh’s mother, who to Celia looked older than the oak tree in the back garden, staring at everyone through her lorgnette. And then there were hours spent wandering the frosty gardens, Verena cooing over even the tiniest flower bed. Every vowel of Sir Hugh’s declamations spoke of his endless family tree, informed them that however many elocution classes they took, they could never make their voices sound like his.
    During the visit, Michael kept his head bowed, asked attentive questions of Sir Hugh’s mother, winked at Celia when none of them were looking. Then, in June, Rudolf had bought a new Rolls-Royce motor car. He said it was what a man should have for the country lanes. Celia thought he’d bought it to impress Sir Hugh – who had two motor cars, one all the way from France. One afternoon when Rudolf was away, Michael had taken the keys and driven Celia down the lane and out to the village. Then, after she had begged him, they changed places. He showed her how to push down the clutch, set the accelerator. She stopped, started, stopped, started. ‘Push that one!’ he said. ‘More carefully. Think of it like a horse.’ She thought of Silver – and then they were away. She was driving, and they were free. ‘Let’s go to stupid old Callerton Manor!’ Michael said. ‘Come on, Celia. Turn right!’
    She followed his directions, wobbling around until they cameround the corner to the great iron gates of Callerton. ‘Go faster!’ Michael shouted. ‘You are a dreary old windbag, Sir Hugh!’ he cried. Celia laughed so much she almost took her hands off the wheel. She thought of it, Michael shouting, the wind battering her hair. He hadn’t laughed much since then.
    ‘The Callerton game is most superior,’ said Emmeline, graciously. Celia had to admit that her sister looked handsome, the jewels in her fair hair glittering in the light, the pink and white of her face set off by the peacock colour of her dress. The shadows from the candlelight made her eyes glow larger than ever. Jonathan, sitting next to her, looked at her, and Celia knew, as if she could read his mind, that he wished to speak to her but thought her too beautiful. Something in her stomach sharpened.
    ‘The news from Europe is shocking,’ said Sir Hugh, putting down his knife. He did not wait for a reply. ‘The Kaiser continues his aggression. First his man shoots the Archduke and now he threatens Belgium.’
    ‘The shooting had nothing to do with Germany,’ said Michael.