that held her long, dark hair in a twist. One of these days, she promised herself, she'd have Marlene cut it short. Then she wouldn't have to worry about no more pins.
Racing after Marlene up the long driveway to the Manor House, she didn't realize they'd left Ma far behind them until she'd climbed off her bicycle and thrown it down on the grass.
Lady Elizabeth had donated a portion of her once pristine lawn to the village for their Victory Gardens, and now, at the height of summer, green shoots and thick leaves sprouted from every inch of the plots. A few women from the village were already hard at work, either kneeling in the dirt or bending over their tasks.
Polly had no trouble spotting the plot that had belonged to John Rickett. Instead of the orderly pattern of neat rows, tall white and yellow weeds nodded their heads in a tangle of stalks and spindly vines. "Ooh, 'eck," she said, gazing gloomily at the mess. "That's going to take some bloody doing."
"Better not let Ma hear you swear like that." Marlene pulled on a pair of gardening gloves and unstrapped a hoe from her bicycle. "Come on, let's get to it. You start digging up that end and I'll start at the other. We'll have it half done by the time Ma gets here."
Polly dragged a spade from its harness. "Not blooming likely. She's halfway up the drive already." She stepped onto the edge of the dirt and aimed her spade. "Here, wait a minute!" She poked a freshly turned mound of soil with her foot. "It looks like someone started digging in here already." She wrinkled her nose. "It don't half smell 'orrible, too."
Marlene, busily wielding the hoe at the other end of the plot, didn't even look up. "Probably someone dug in some horse dung."
"Well, I wish they'd waited until we'd finished weeding." Polly stuck the edge of the spade next to the mound and stepped on it. "It would have been—" She broke off as her spade struck something solid. "Blimey, what's this, then?" Grunting, she shifted the blade of the spade to get under whatever was blocking it.
Bent over the handle, her nose just a foot or two from the ground, she felt something give. She shoved her foot down hard on the blade, and the object shifted, breaking through the crumbling soil to the surface.
For a long moment Polly stared at the thing lying right at her feet. Something cold slammed into her stomach as she realized what it was.
The human hand lay lifeless in the dirt, the fingers drawn into a claw. Just below where the rest of the arm disappeared beneath the ground, a gold watch clung to a grimy wrist, winking at her in the glow of the evening sun.
Polly let out one shrill, penetrating scream, then twisted away and was violently sick.
CHAPTER
2
If there was one thing Elizabeth disliked about riding a motorcycle, it was the way the wind tended to dislodge her hat, despite its firm anchor of pins and elastic. Her bunched-up skirts were another cause for concern, though she was careful to arrange them in such a way that she remained within the boundaries of decorum.
One had to make sacrifices in wartime, true, but as her dear, departed mother had impressed upon her at every possible opportunity, to a Hartleigh, appearance was everything. Which meant a hat and a decent frock whenever she appeared in public.
The misfortunes of her ex-husband at the gambling tables had left her almost destitute, and the constant struggle to keep up at least a semblance of affluence became, at times, overwhelming. It was, however, crucial to maintain the standards expected of her.
The Manor House, and all it stood for, was a symbolof continuity in a world gone mad. The mansion had stood on the hill overlooking the village of Sitting Marsh for more than three centuries, home to the Earls of Wellsborough and their families. The fact that, thanks to the untimely death of her parents, there was no longer an Earl of Wellsborough was bad enough. The villagers had been forced to accept not only a woman as their guardian and
Racing after Marlene up the long driveway to the Manor House, she didn't realize they'd left Ma far behind them until she'd climbed off her bicycle and thrown it down on the grass.
Lady Elizabeth had donated a portion of her once pristine lawn to the village for their Victory Gardens, and now, at the height of summer, green shoots and thick leaves sprouted from every inch of the plots. A few women from the village were already hard at work, either kneeling in the dirt or bending over their tasks.
Polly had no trouble spotting the plot that had belonged to John Rickett. Instead of the orderly pattern of neat rows, tall white and yellow weeds nodded their heads in a tangle of stalks and spindly vines. "Ooh, 'eck," she said, gazing gloomily at the mess. "That's going to take some bloody doing."
"Better not let Ma hear you swear like that." Marlene pulled on a pair of gardening gloves and unstrapped a hoe from her bicycle. "Come on, let's get to it. You start digging up that end and I'll start at the other. We'll have it half done by the time Ma gets here."
Polly dragged a spade from its harness. "Not blooming likely. She's halfway up the drive already." She stepped onto the edge of the dirt and aimed her spade. "Here, wait a minute!" She poked a freshly turned mound of soil with her foot. "It looks like someone started digging in here already." She wrinkled her nose. "It don't half smell 'orrible, too."
Marlene, busily wielding the hoe at the other end of the plot, didn't even look up. "Probably someone dug in some horse dung."
"Well, I wish they'd waited until we'd finished weeding." Polly stuck the edge of the spade next to the mound and stepped on it. "It would have been—" She broke off as her spade struck something solid. "Blimey, what's this, then?" Grunting, she shifted the blade of the spade to get under whatever was blocking it.
Bent over the handle, her nose just a foot or two from the ground, she felt something give. She shoved her foot down hard on the blade, and the object shifted, breaking through the crumbling soil to the surface.
For a long moment Polly stared at the thing lying right at her feet. Something cold slammed into her stomach as she realized what it was.
The human hand lay lifeless in the dirt, the fingers drawn into a claw. Just below where the rest of the arm disappeared beneath the ground, a gold watch clung to a grimy wrist, winking at her in the glow of the evening sun.
Polly let out one shrill, penetrating scream, then twisted away and was violently sick.
CHAPTER
2
If there was one thing Elizabeth disliked about riding a motorcycle, it was the way the wind tended to dislodge her hat, despite its firm anchor of pins and elastic. Her bunched-up skirts were another cause for concern, though she was careful to arrange them in such a way that she remained within the boundaries of decorum.
One had to make sacrifices in wartime, true, but as her dear, departed mother had impressed upon her at every possible opportunity, to a Hartleigh, appearance was everything. Which meant a hat and a decent frock whenever she appeared in public.
The misfortunes of her ex-husband at the gambling tables had left her almost destitute, and the constant struggle to keep up at least a semblance of affluence became, at times, overwhelming. It was, however, crucial to maintain the standards expected of her.
The Manor House, and all it stood for, was a symbolof continuity in a world gone mad. The mansion had stood on the hill overlooking the village of Sitting Marsh for more than three centuries, home to the Earls of Wellsborough and their families. The fact that, thanks to the untimely death of her parents, there was no longer an Earl of Wellsborough was bad enough. The villagers had been forced to accept not only a woman as their guardian and
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