Burnt Norton by Caroline Sandon Page B

again. It’ll do you good,’ he said. ‘Now, I have to be at my constituency this afternoon. I must be off.’
    Dorothy watched him canter away. She wanted to trust him, to give him affection, but she remained wary. Her father was too unpredictable.
    She named the mare Fidelia, and from that day, a happy new ritual began. At eleven o’clock each morning, her unruly hair tied beneath her veil, she would wait impatiently at the mounting block. When Lorenzo arrived with the horses, his handsome face smiling, her heart lifted. As they cantered through the pasture, she would laugh in exhilaration, for Fidelia proved a worthy successor to Ophelia. As they ambled through the woods, letting the horses cool, she felt contented. She learnt of Lorenzo’s background: of his mother, an idealistic Italian girl, who was romanced by an English valet on Sir William’s grand tour of Italy. He told her stories of his mother’s journey to England with the Keyt entourage, her subsequent misery and return to her own country, taking her young son with her. She heard of the sixteen-year-old boy’s courageous decision to return to England, his love of horses, and his apprenticeship as the Keyt coachman. She learnt of his unfailing loyalty to her father and his sense of accountability.
    ‘I should have checked the bolts,’ he said. ‘Your father has never blamed me for the accident, but if only I had checked the bolts . . .’
    He told her of his half-brothers and sister and his cousins, all living and working on the farm near Florence, and his dreams of one day returning there. ‘In September, when the grapes are picked,’ Lorenzo said, his voice soft with memories, ‘we celebrate the vendemmia , the harvest. In October, the olives are gathered and the world is good.’ Dorothy imagined him at ease amongst his own people. Occasionally her imagination went further.
    The seasons moved on, and Dorothy’s life gained equilibrium. She rode with Lorenzo (the hour she most looked forward to), took dancing lessons once a week, and continued with her schooling. She made a conscious endeavour to control her emotions. With considerable personal effort, a tactical understanding formed between herself and Miss Johnson: they avoided each other.
    One morning, running to the landing with a feather she had found, Dorothy noticed Lizzie hiding her sketch book beneath her blanket. ‘Lizzie, I found this in the woods and thought you would like it. Why have you put your pad away? I want to see.’
    ‘You can’t,’ her sister said, a little abruptly, ‘but thank you, it’s a gorgeous feather. I shall use it for my painting tomorrow.’
    Although Elizabeth smiled, her tone concerned Dorothy. She found her mother in her sitting room writing letters. ‘There’s something wrong with Lizzie,’ Dorothy said anxiously.
    ‘Of course there is, Dotty,’ her mother said, putting down her pen. ‘She can’t do any of the things you can. We all think Lizzie is all right because we believe she accepts her fate, but her heart is more troubled than you think.’
    Dorothy left the room, chiding herself for her blindness. She vowed to be a better sister, and for a good while, she was.

15
    Thomas had been away for four months when the post boy arrived at Norton, carrying a packet of letters. ‘I’ve brought these myself, miss. The postmistress is busy, and it’s on my way home.’
    Dorothy thanked the boy and gave him a generous tip, taking the packet into the house. Two letters were for her father, but at the bottom of the pile were three letters tied together with string. She recognized the script instantly. After delivering her father’s post she ran upstairs to her room and untied them. On top there was a letter from Thomas to her mother, then one to herself. The last was a letter to Molly. With shaking hands Dorothy looked at the envelope. After a moment’s hesitation she broke the seal.
    Dearest Molly,
    I hope I may call you that.
    Firstly, may I