“Carolan,” said Kitty drowsily.

Carolan leaped onto the bed and knelt there.

“Mamma, do you know what today is?”

“Tell me, darling.”

“Oh, Mamma, do you not know?”

“I am so sleepy yet, Carolan. Kick off your shoes, darling, and come in.”

So Carolan kicked off her shoes and came in; she snuggled close to her mother.

“Shall I tell you then?”

Yes, tell me.”

“It is my birthday. I am nine years old today.”

Kitty held the small body closer. Nine years ago that she had suffered so deeply. Nine years of humiliations from George Haredon. She put her lips against Carolan’s cheek, and Carolan lay still, contented. Kitty lay still too, thinking of the wonder of her first love. Had I married Darrell, thought Kitty lazily, I would have been a true and faithful wife to him. I have always been searching for someone like Darrell that is it. Now she was wishing she had been a better mother to the little girl lying beside her. She would see more of the child from now on; she would look more closely into the nursery life of Carolan. Was Jennifer Jay cruel to her? She had never asked Carolan that question, for if Carolan said Yes, what could she, Kitty, do about it? George paid his children’s governess; he would be the one to decide whether she should go or stay. How she hated George Haredon.

Ah! If only Darrell had not gone to Exeter! If they had gone to London together and married, there would still be this dear little Carolan and how they would have loved her, both of them!

Am I to blame ? Kitty asked herself.

Carolan’s little body was quivering with excitement. Her birthday, of course, Kitty thought in panic, and I forgot. She will be expecting me to have remembered. Peg always used to remind her of Carolan’s birthday, but Peg had married one of the farm labourers two years ago, and left Haredon. Then Dolly had taken it upon herself to remind her, but six months back Dolly had run away with a gipsy whose band had made their camp nearby. And how could she tell this little daughter that she, her mother, had relied upon two of the lower servants to remind her of this great and important day.

Kitty resorted to subterfuge, for subterfuge came easily to her.

“Carolan, I am very unhappy about your present. It is not ready, darling. They have disappointed me.”

“Mamma, when will it be ready? Tomorrow?”

“I hope so, darling.”

Carolan squealed: “Then it will be like another birthday tomorrow, Mamma!”

What a sweet child she was! Kitty’s eyes filled with tears. She stroked the unruly hair with the red in it; she kissed the smooth childish brow.

“I was so afraid you would be disappointed, darling; that it would be spoiled for you.”

Carolan’s hands round her neck were suffocating.

“No, Mamma, not spoiled … not spoiled at all. Tell me, is it blue … or pink?”

“Ah!” said Kitty.

“That would be telling.”

“It is pink. I know it is pink!” Carolan’s eyes were dark with hope.

“It might be green though! Mamma, is it green?”

So she wanted green, did she?

“Well,” said Kitty, suffused with mother-love, ‘as a matter of fact… it is… well, I ought not to tell you, ought I?”

Carolan was laughing hilariously now; she put her ear close to her mother’s mouth. Beautiful a child’s ear was, soft and pink like a sea shell.

“Whisper, Mamma!”

“It is green,” whispered Kitty.

“Is it silk or satin?”

So she wanted a dress. She was growing up, to want a dress. A dress she should have. Kitty must … simply must remind Therese to go out and buy one this morning. A white dress it should be, with green ribbons.

“I shall tell no more!” said Kitty, and Carolan knelt on the bed and rocked backwards and forwards in ecstasy.

Perhaps, thought Kitty, she would not send Therese; perhaps she would go herself to buy the dress.

“My little daughter!” she said.

“My dearest little daughter.”

And Carolan, overflowing with love for her, flung her arms once more round her neck.

Soon, thought Kitty, there will be another birthday, and another and another. Soon she will be fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. I was seventeen when I met Darrell.

Kitty held her child to her sharply. What had Carolan heard about her birth? Anything? Was it possible that there had been no hint, no whisper of what had happened? It was hardly likely. Wicked Jennifer Jay might have said something. Aunt Harriet’s thin-lipped disapproval? George’s ribaldry? Had any of these been noticed by the child?

Kitty raised herself and looked down into the face of her daughter. A sensitive face, very like Kitty’s own; very attractive it was going to be one day it was now with a slightly different attractiveness from Kitty’s, less obvious perhaps; but then it was not easy to tell. There was a look of Darrell in the child’s eyes, Kitty thought. She must hear it first from me! And impulsive as Kitty always would be, she decided there and then to tell her something.

“Carolan, lie still beside me. I want to talk to you. Has anyone ever said anything to you about about me … and … the way you were born?”

Carolan said quickly: “Yes, Charles says I am a bastard and not the squire’s bastard at that. He said it is well enough for a squire to have as many bastards as he likes, but I am not even a squire’s bastard.”

Kitty cried out to stop her.

“Oh, the wicked boy! I hate him! He is like his father.”

“I hate him too,” said Carolan happily.

“But I want to tell you, darling, about how you were born. It will not be easy for you to understand, but will you try?”

Carolan nodded. How lovely it was in her mother’s bed! There were sweet smells of powder and ointments in the room and the ornate posts of the bed enchanted her. She would have liked to draw the curtains tightly and be shut in with her mother.

“Darling, please listen very, very carefully. Years ago I loved your father.”

“Not the squire!” said Carolan.

“He is not my father, is he, Mamma?”

“No, not the squire. You see, I loved your father very dearly, and we were going to London to be married, and we were going on the coach. He went to Exeter to see about our going, but he went into a tavern there, and while he was in that tavern, the press gang took him.”

Kitty was crying at the memory, for she cried as easily at twenty-seven as she had at seventeen.

“Mamma, who is the press gang?”

Kitty clenched her hands and answered vehemently: “A wicked gang of cruel men who take men wherever they may be and force them into the Navy.”

“But why, Mamma?”

“Because they need men for the Navy.”

“And would they take any man at any time? Perhaps they will take Charles.”

Kitty whimpered: “How different my life would have been but for the press gang! We should have been together, your father and I. How you would have loved your father, darling!”

Carolan’s eyes were wide and dark; she could not grasp this very clearly. Her father not the squire in a tavern and a mysterious group of men called the press gang; they had cruel faces and they dragged him away while he screamed to be released.

“Oh, Carolan,” cried Kitty, ‘do not blame me, darling. Do not listen to evil tales of me. Remember only that I loved your father; I loved him too well.”

“Mamma, is there still the press gang?”

“There is still the press gang!” She added wildly: “There always has been; there always will be! Oh, my darling, the wickedness … the wickedness. And when you were born, my precious child, you would have had no father, so I married the squire in order to give you one.”

“But how could you give me one if I had none, Mamma?”

“Carolan, my own daughter, try not to blame me!” Carolan, whose nursery days were full of taking blame for real and imaginary sins, did not understand for what she should blame her mother. But it was pleasant in bed, and she was indeed sorry when Therese came bustling in to lift her hands and murmur: “What is here! What is here!” in her funny accents.