A tender THREAD
England, 1803
When Flora saw her sister sitting on the garden seat, it was a relief to see she’d remembered her gloves at least. All day, Hester had been distracted, favouring solitude over companionship, indolence over industry. Yet she added a dash of colour to the garden, in a pale emerald dress, a darker green pelisse and matching ankle boots. And those deep chestnut curls escaping from under her bonnet. Utter perfection on this, her 16th birthday. If only she could be happier. If only she would try.
‘Do you remember,’ Flora said, sitting next to her, ‘when we first came here? When we first saw this place? I was positively enchanted by it.’
She gazed around the garden, contented with its winter starkness. ‘By everything, in truth.’
Having lived in a townhouse for most of her life, she hadn’t come across such large grounds, with so many trees. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing fields round about.
‘Miss Cilla so wanted us to feel at home here.’ Flora pushed her feet at the ground and made the seat swing gently. It was just a piece of wood, nothing fancy or ornamented, but it fitted them perfectly and was secured, by two stout ropes, to the sturdy bough of an ancient oak.
Hester spoke at last. ‘I remember you dragging me across the lawn to sit on this as if it was the most wonderful thing ever.’ There was a frail sort of laugh. ‘How
