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But let me think – we’re in June now.’ Clara frowned and pushed her sherry glass round the table, as though she were at a séance. She beamed. ‘But this is amazing timing. Serendipity. I’m going back home.’
    â€˜Oh,’ said Becky, crestfallen. ‘You’re leaving Essex?’
    â€˜I only meant to stay a year and it’s been almost eighteen months.’ Clara patted Becky’s hand. ‘I need someone to help me with a new project. How about working for me?’
    â€˜Working for you?’ said Becky.
    â€˜I have a little – venture, let’s call it. Something that’s been bugging me for years. There’s a book I must write before I lose the energy. I need help with research and editing, and –’
    â€˜A gardening book?’
    â€˜No, dear. A history book. On a subject very close to my heart. Now have you ever heard of the Battle of Sedgemoor?’
    Becky smiled apologetically. ‘I’m afraid not. Where did it take place?’
    Clara rolled her eyes. ‘England, of course! The Battle of Sedgemoor was the last pitched battle to be fought on English soil. 1685. Now who was King?’
    â€˜Er – a Charles. Um – or a James.’ Becky hoped this wasn’t a job interview; her knowledge of history was pretty gappy.
    â€˜Well done. Charles II and James II were both king in 1685.’ Clara’s eyes gleamed with something akin to passion. ‘King Charles II died without having a legitimate son so his heir was his younger brother. James was a staunch Catholic and not a popular man whereas the Duke of Monmouth – that’s Charles’ illegitimate son – was by many accounts a charismatic man. And a Protestant.’
    Becky tried not to wince at the mention of Monmouth; after this morning’s ejection from the hotel it wasn’t a name she particularly wanted to hear again but, as Clara went on, it seemed she would have to adjust to hearing it quite a lot.
    â€˜The Duke of Monmouth had much support from the people in the West Country, particularly the poorer farming folk. They fought the royal army armed with farm tools, scythes, billhooks – whatever they could get their hands on.’ Clara paused, lost in reverie, and Becky wondered if she was picturing herself there on the battlefield, whacking a royal soldier with a pitchfork.
    â€˜So what happened?’ Becky asked.
    Clara returned to the present. ‘Well, they lost, of course. Those who weren’t executed were exiled. It was tragic.’ She sighed. ‘I often wonder how many people in Somerset could trace their ancestry back to those poor men who were dragged from their families.’
    â€˜Can I ask why you’re so interested in the subject?’ said Becky. She couldn’t recall Clara mentioning any English ancestors.
    Clara seemed momentarily lost for an answer then shrugged and said, ‘let’s just say I feel sorry for the underdog. And that the Duke of Monmouth was a fine man.’
    Becky felt Clara was holding something back but was reluctant to probe more; perhaps the reason for Clara’s interest in the subject would become apparent later. ‘It sounds interesting,’ she said, carefully. ‘So how would I be helping?’
    â€˜Research: collating the hundreds of scrappy notes I’ve made over the years, typing it all up, and – well everything really. My son has bought me a laptop and done everything possible to entice me to use the thing but I can’t be doing with it.’
    â€˜This sounds almost too good to be true,’ said Becky. ‘You promise you’re just not feeling sorry for me?’
    Clara blinked. ‘I promise there’s a real job.’
    â€˜OK,’ said Becky. ‘So this would be a book about the Duke of Monmouth?’
    â€˜No,’ said Clara. ‘This will be a book about the poor people who fought to get him on the throne.