SHE has been to church with the other servants and now she’s sitting a foot away from Michael on a wet wooden park bench. They are looking at muddied grass that stretches for yards and yards, as far as the lake. In front pass families, couples and even the odd person alone, all bundled up to their chins against the chill and damp.Grace’s calves are cold. The air is coming in through the bottom of her skirts and she envies Michael’s trousers, even though he’s jiggling his legs away in them. Maybe Grace should turn up in a pair. And what would he say to that? Michael, with all his wanting to change the world, might just be impressed.In a minute or two he’ll turn his face to hers, all dark eyebrows and jawbone, that dimple on his chin and skin already browning in the winter sun. They’re both dark. Where’d that come from, others asked back home, the Campbells look a family of gypsies.‘My hands are freezing,’ says Michael. His hips go forward and he’s slouching back on the bench, hands in his pockets.
