Eden Falls by Jane Sanderson

inns, which thrilled Isabella, who had revelled in the novelty of discomfort: lumpy mattresses, chipped chamber pots, greasy eggs served by surly landladies. She enjoyed it so much that Tobias began looking for patently unsuitable hostelries, so that as they drove away the next day they could scream with laughter at what they’d seen. This shared adventure had only increased their mutual affection, and by the time they rolled into Netherwood they were the greatest of friends as well as the fondest of siblings.
    Isabella fell quiet as Tobias steered the motor past the lodge at the bottom of Oak Avenue, where old Bartholomew Parkin held open the gate, though it was a long time now since his milky eyes had been able to see to whom he was granting admittance. The drive from the gate to the house was exactly one mile, and the details of it rushed at Isabella, assailing her with their familiarity: the staddle stones mottled with lichen, the pinkish gravel raked into stripes, the rise and swell of the parkland, the towering oaks. The grass appeared greener than the grass anywhere else, the deer prettier, the late spring flowers pinker, bluer, more abundant. The place seemed flooded by light and colour. She hadn’t been back in three years: she had forgotten how much of herself she had left behind.
    Isabella was discovered first by Parkinson. He stepped outside to greet the earl and there she was, and he smiled with such heartfelt pleasure to see her that she burst into tears.
    ‘I’m so glad to see you, Parkinson,’ she said through the sobs. ‘I’m so happy to be here.’
    ‘Goose,’ said Tobias and gave her a little shove, but the butler was touched beyond words. Lady Isabella belonged at Netherwood Hall; this was Parkinson’s belief, though he did understand that when her mother remarried and went to Denbigh Court a duchess, the child had to go too. But it was just one sad and sorry outcome of a sadder, sorrier event: the premature death of the sixth earl. His fatal accident, so freakish as to seem like an act of cruelty by a bored and spiteful God, had dealt a devastating blow to the rhythms and cycles of family life, and the departure of Lady Isabella, baby of the clan, darling of her father, had seemed, to the butler, to be a further rent in the fabric that held them all close. Parkinson loved this family. It wasn’t his place to love them, he knew this, but nevertheless, he did. And in his private rooms, his inner sanctum, he had wept more than once over the frailty and impermanence of human life and happiness. Now, though, here was Lady Isabella restored, albeit temporarily, to the house in which she had been born and raised. Quite grown up, but weeping joyfully in the entrance hall where she had once played hopscotch on the marble. Parkinson’s eyes were damp as he carried her modest trunk: a footman’s task, in truth, but at this moment he considered it an honour.
    ‘Isabella! Goodness me.’
    Henrietta, fresh out of the saddle, strode in through the front door. She slotted her crop into the umbrella stand and held her little sister at arm’s length, looking her up and down.
    ‘I’m not a filly at the horse fair, Henry,’ said Isabella.
    ‘No indeed, but you’re a sight for sore eyes. There simply aren’t enough of us since Mama stole you away and Dickie ran off to Italy. I won’t hug you because I’m covered in Marley’s hair.’
    She released her sister and Isabella wondered if the horsehair was just an excuse. They had never been particularly close: too much of an age gap, too many differences in personality. As a child, younger by twelve years, Isabella had found Henrietta aloof and a little austere, and had always considered her a rival for their father’s affections. Teddy Hoyland had adored Isabella, of course, but he had depended on Henrietta; they had had shared interests, odd things such as coal prices, mining equipment, septic tanks and silage – things that no one else in the family