'It is His Word.'

'Mary,' Margaret whispered.

'Mary.'

'Mary,' Mary answered.

'Mary, you must bear witness. You have a task.'

'I cannot bear it. I am excrement, a husk.'

'It is His will. He has called you worthy.'

'I submit utterly.'

'Then you know what you must do.'

'What I must do?'

'Drive them out.'

'Yes. Yes, of course.'

'Now I will dance for you and shortly I will be gone. You will be left with your task.'

Mary sat and watched the angel dance. As it turned and twisted with joy, it touched the world, leaving brightness. Soon it was surrounded by the marks it made and danced in a wheel of obliterating light.

Hannah walked and recited the remarkable facts to herself - a poet, tall, handsome, strong, dark - and out of her thoughts he appeared. Under the bell of her skirt she stumbled, seeing him, but continued forwards, calm, preparing her smile.What would happen? In her mind, the apex of their next encounter was, outrageously, a kiss, his large arms around her and the fierce kiss kindling where their lips touched. He craned his head forward to identify the approaching girl, then lifted his wide hat.

'Miss Allen, is it not? I recognise the form.'

'Do you? It is. That is to say, I am. Good morning.'

He approached near enough to see her clearly and talk without effort of his voice. Hannah caught the sharp reek of his body as he did so.

'You're carrying a book,' he told her.

'Yes, indeed.'

'And what book is it, if I may ask?'

'Certainly you may. It's . . .' she lifted it and read the spine as though she had forgotten. 'It's Dryden, Dryden's poems.'

'You don't find him too dry, then?' He laughed at his own joke, appealing to her to do so also. She tried to and did, perhaps a little vehemently, to reward his friendly intent.

'And may I ask,' she said into the amicable silence, 'what you are reading at present?'

'You may, you may. Also poems, though with less pleasure, I imagine. My own. I'm preparing a volume.'

'Oh, that's wonderful.'

'Is it? I don't expect the critics will agree with you. If I ever publish it, I expect they will treat it no more kindly than my previous efforts.'

'Critics, they're . . .' She had no strong idea of what they were, so raised her arms disparagingly. 'They're critics. They aren't poets. And I certainly look forward to reading it. Perhaps you might inscribe a copy for me. It's very exciting to have a poet here, aside from Mr Clare, that is.'

'Mr Clare?'

'John Clare. He's a patient of my father's.'

'John Clare, the peasant poet? I see. That's . . .' Tennyson frowned. As he did so a small cloud slid away from the face of the sun. Colours deepened. The little pebbles glinted in the path. A breeze lifted the branches.

'That's better,' Hannah said.

'Hmm. I can do that, you know. Would you like to see?'

'How do you mean?'

'Stand still and watch.'

Tennyson approached even closer so that Hannah was inside his sharp smell. Was this it? What was he about to do - kiss her? Hannah stood absolutely still and closed her eyes also to receive the pressure of his lips. But it didn't come. She opened her eyes again to see Tennyson with his eyes and mouth firmly closed, pursed shut. So he hadn't seen her close her eyes.That horror of humiliation had not happened. She breathed deeply.Tennyson stayed as he was for a moment.Then, very gradually, he relaxed the muscles of his face until it was as expressionless as a death mask. He continued the outward movement, slowly opening his eyes and mouth, and opening them more, until his eyes were startlingly wide open and he smiled broadly with his eyebrows raised.

Suddenly, as though a fit had ended, his face dropped back to normal. 'There it is,' he said. 'The sun coming out from behind a cloud.'

'It's . . . remarkable,' Hannah said. She wasn't sure what it meant to be chosen to see this performance. Was he being avuncular, treating her as a child? Had it not occurred to him at all that she might presume he was about to kiss her?

'It's a party piece,' he explained. 'I used to do it for my friends at Cambridge.'

'Oh, yes.'

'Yes. Arthur Hallam. Well, he . . . I shouldn't detain you.'

'That's quite all right.'

'No, no. I should be getting back. Good day to you.'

'Good day.'

Tennyson tipped his hat and walked back into the murk of thought about his dead friend. Hannah watched him go, his long legs loosely hinged at the knees. Things she might have said clamoured within her. Nevertheless, they had just met alone and talked, and he had smiled and entertained her.There was good reason to hope.

Summer

A quickening in the leaves. Bright clouds. People working in the garden.

Mary stood in the rush of the day and watched them. How they suffered as they went about their tasks, muttering to themselves or instructing the air, laughing at nothing, shaking their arms, twitching, rocking back and forth, closing their eyes suddenly and holding still like a child awaiting a blow, like a wife awaiting her husband's fist. They were attacked, all of them; devils attacked them. Her truth would exorcise them. But it seemed that Simon was safe. She watched Simon, so large and soft with his big white hands. His coat was pulled smooth as a horse's hide across the breadth of his shoulders. His curly hair shivered in the breeze. He was not the first person she had to give the news. Somehow, in his idiocy, he knew. He was kind and frightened, and magnified the kindness in others, shamed their cruelty. More was not required of him. Look how he tended the vegetable patch with his watering can. The thick leaves purred and bounced under sparkling strings of water.

The pure water. Drops scattering. Seeds of light falling in the gra.s.s, on the earth. She made light, also. She must have caught it from the angel. Her fingertips left stains of golden brightness that she struggled always to leave in threes or multiples of three. She had to speak. She couldn't keep it in. As though her mouth were full of water. But to whom?

There was Clara, a witch, a friend of the devils. But not Clara. Not yet.

William Stockdale approached on his rounds. In his hand he carried a stained cloth and so she knew that he was the one she must try first. She could not see whether the stain was blood, but it was certainly ruddy, dark, human. He was Roman, a crucifier. He held the people in torment. She stepped into his path, held up her hands and he came towards her, not knowing that he had no choice but to come to her. He didn't see the shining tunnels in which people walked when they moved according to His Will. No matter. She stood still and he was brought to her.

'The Lord is love,' she began.

'Indeed,' he said, not stopping.

'He is love,' she repeated, stepping again into his path, halting him. 'And He is everywhere.'

'That's nice for him.'

'And returning. He will return and He will judge.' She tried to stare piercingly up into his eyes, but the sun burned behind the man's head. She addressed his waistcoat b.u.t.tons. 'You must shrive. Your soul is in danger. You can hold nothing back. All is seen.'

'I've seen plenty myself, and if you don't mind I've work to do.'

'Take heed. Hearken unto me. I bear an angelic message.'

'I'm grateful for the warning. Now if you'll let me . . .' He stretched out his left arm, placed it past her shoulder and tried to sweep her aside, but she gripped him, swung round like a door. She must see the change in him. The word must reach him.

'You must be pure. You must empty yourself.' Stockdale dropped the cloth onto the ground and with his free hand shoved at her forehead. Mary flew back onto the gra.s.s. She smiled up at the sky and its finely dragged high cloud. Suffering had been sent her. She felt his gratuitous boot sink into her stomach. Her work had truly begun.

Annabella was good with Abigail, soft-eyed, patient, able to play. The child stood entranced, trying to keep her wriggling fingers still as the beautiful older girl wrapped around them the thread of a cat's cradle. Dora sat nearer the light of the lamp, embroidering borders on the linens of her future married life. Hannah had taken the finest needle from Dora's sewing box. Carefully she pushed it into the skin of her fingertip and across, then out of the other side, making a white ridge where it pa.s.sed through. It wasn't painful, slightly tight, but not painful. She enjoyed lightly terrorising Abigail by showing her the sliver of metal pa.s.sing through her flesh.

'Look, Abi.' She wagged her finger over Abigail's eyes, then grabbed her own wrist and sucked in air as though in pain.

'Ow!' Abigail said.

'Don't be so childish,' Dora said.

Hannah pulled the needle out again, placed it back in the box.

'I saw Mr Tennyson the other day,' she announced, not at all childish.

'Indeed?' Annabella raised her eyebrows.

'Yes, I did. We had a most pleasant conversation.'

'Did you? Hannah, why haven't you told me about this? No, you need to pinch it there and there.'

'Can't,' Abigail complained. 'You do it.'

'But it's on my fingers.'

'You ought to be careful with your pleasant conversations, ' Dora warned. 'You don't want to be taken lightly.'

'Why would I be taken in any way? We met in the lane. We spoke.'

'Hmm.' Dora examined her st.i.tches.

'Has he heard you play the piano?' Annabella asked.

'Yes. That would be bound to induce a proposal,' Dora said.

'No, he hasn't. How could we arrange that? Take no notice of Dora. She is merely disappointed that her proposal has already come and it was from James.'

'I would be very happy with such a proposal,' Annabella said appeasingly.

'Neither opinion terribly interests me,' Dora said, smoothing the edges of a napkin.

'Here.' Annabella hooked her fingers through the thread, pinched and lifted from Abigail's fingers a neat crossed frame.

'Knock, knock,' said a voice. A loose bunch of wild-flowers appeared beside the door frame, then, smiling beside them, the face of James. 'Oh,' he said. 'There are lots of you.'

'Don't be frightened,' Hannah said. 'Come in.'

'Don't be impertinent,' Dora chastised.'I'll put those in water.' She got up, took the flowers from him, received with demurely downcast eyes his kiss on her cheek, and left.

'So,' he said when she was gone.

'Do sit down,' Hannah said.

He nodded and sat with a breathy smile in Annabella's direction, squinting as though her beauty were sunlight full on his face. He bent forward and patted Abigail on the shoulder; she looked at him and turned away.

'Those are your linens,' Hannah said.

'Are they?' he asked and bent forward to touch them.

The sight made Hannah shudder. It was precisely what had to be avoided: the life with linens, the dreary, comfortable, tepid life. She said suddenly, almost to punish him,'And will you be happy, married to Dora?'

'I . . . I . . . well, what a question. Of course I will. Mutual regard, a marriage founded on warm mutual regard . . .'

'I thought so,' Hannah cut him off. 'I'm sure that you will.'

Dora returned with the flowers in a jug. 'There,' she said. 'James, you look very warm. Are you ailing?'

Hannah snorted.

'Is Hannah being impolite?'

'Impolite is a very strong word.'

'I thought so. Hannah, why are you not capable of being just ordinarily civil?'