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would the premature despatch of troops from Manchester. Lord Delamere, Goodchild advised St Clare, should be warned to send no troops for two weeks and better still none until the eve of polling day itself.
    Having written these letters, Goodchild had visited his secretary in the steward’s office to ask whether he had heard any news of the riot from any other sources. He had not; but before Goodchild could leave the room, the man had requested his master’s signature to a cheque for almost five hundred pounds made out in favour of a London dressmaker, Lord Goodchild, within his limited capacity for such things, had been attempting to reduce his own expenditure during the past year and this bill, announcing so clearly that his wife had not done likewise, following so hard on the heels of the morning’s other unwelcome news, had sent his lordship hurrying across the rotunda cursing under his breath.
    He was about to open the door of the morning room, where he expected to find Lady Goodchild, when a footman came up behind him and begged to inform his lordship that a Mr Strickland was asking to see him. Goodchild, who had forgotten that the painter existed and had in any case intended his wife to interview the man, snapped out: ‘He must wait,’ and threw open the morning room door.
    As he entered, he saw Helen Goodchild’s reflection in the pier-glass between the tall windows. She was sitting reading near the fire; her face protected from the direct heat of the flames by an oval fire-screen. In his agitated frame of mind the peace and stillness of the room irritated Goodchild.
    ‘My dear, not gone yet?’ murmured his wife, laying aside her book and smiling at him with a mixture of concern and covert amusement. ‘Surely the meet is not cancelled?’
    To any outsider, seeing Helen’s brown questioning eyes and pale upturned face – redeemed from classic perfection by asprinkling of faint freckles across the bridge of her nose – these questions would have seemed entirely innocent, but to Lord Goodchild they contained unpleasant traces of mockery.
    ‘And why pray might the meet be cancelled?’ he asked curtly.
    Lady Goodchild shot him a surprised and reproachful glance.
    ‘A bad frost perhaps? The ground too hard for the scent to lie well?’ She gave a little shrug. ‘You’re the one who knows everything about such things.’ She raised a hand to her temple where a lock of auburn hair had escaped from the narrow bandeau of lace, serving as a cap. The studied grace and calmness of this movement made Goodchild grit his teeth. No worries for her about last night’s violence or the approaching election. He threw down his whip and moved closer to her.
    ‘I am asked to settle an account of yours to the tune of five hundred pounds. Is it in order, madam? I daresay you have looked it through?’
    ‘Do you look through tradesmen’s bills?’ she asked, as though surprised that he should be suggesting such an unfamiliar procedure .
    ‘I have recently made such matters my business,’ he muttered, stung by the irony of her tone, and reddening as he saw her nod understandingly and then raise the tips of her fingers to her lips as if to conceal a smile. But he detected no amusement a moment later when she said:
    ‘Am I reproved for dressing as your wife ought to dress? I have done so out of respect for your position, not from vanity.’
    ‘Position be damned. If you wore rags you’d still be my wife. Clothes don’t come into it.’
    She stiffened and he saw a hard glint in her eyes.
    ‘You spend as much on pelisses for your troopers.’
    ‘It’s expected, Helen.’
    ‘And what may I expect?’ she asked after a sharp intake of breath.
    ‘If I may see the bill,’ he replied calmly, ‘I will tell you.’
    Helen rose and moved towards the bell-pull by the marble mantelpiece.
    ‘Don’t ring. I would prefer you bring it yourself.’
    ‘Cooper does not read my letters,’ she replied with offended dignity. When