As Yet Untitled - Part One, Chapter Three.

Chapter Three
Very little had changed for the Crawford family and those others who inhabited the house as servants. Ida Crawford supposed that a great number of people across the globe must be worrying of what would happen next in Europe and to Britain and her extensive empire, and yet, however hard she tried, Ida could not join them. The sun had a hazy heat to it that warmed the soul as well as the mind. After all, August was a time for getting the horses in from their summer fields where they had grown fat and wild while they waited for the season to begin once more. Ida loved to ride the horses at this time of year, to feel them grow fitter with every mile of lane and field that they travelled. Mary preferred to leave this job to the grooms but Lord Beechwood found regular companions in his eldest and youngest children, Ida when her social duties permitted and Henry when he remembered. Rosebrior had shown herself to be a delight on the hunting field during the previous Winter and Ida could not wait for another. Another distraction was the work that was done on the farms at that time of year. Ida remembered fondly how she had often ridden on the great broad backs of the Shires and Suffolk Punches that worked on the estate when she was younger as they were led from the fields to their stables. She was reminded of all this on her daily walks, the estate was sun bleached and dry, gasping for the rains that would come. Her recent birthday had made her feel terribly mature, eighteen after all must be the year in which exciting things would happen, thought Ida. Ida would have done well to keep on top of the news that reached their sunlit country existence. 
 It was once more over dessert that the subject of the ultimatum that had been sent to Germany was broached. Lord Beechwood must have felt that the nature of the course could sweeten any bad news. It was as the family sat in the Library that the telegram was delivered. A scene of domestic bliss met the eyes of Mr Huxley the Butler as he entered the room. Lord Beechwood sat in the armchair closest to the fire gazing at the empty hearth through the contents of his glass that he gently swirled. Lady Beechwood was embroidering a piece while Mary did the same, a mirror image. Their heads were bent over their work as if in prayer. Henry dosed in a chair, rather like a dog, he was either in the grip of the need for physical exercise or he was sedated in near sleep. Ida read a novel that had been sent from a friend who thought she might enjoy it, surrounded by shelves full of books she found this one to be rather refreshing, one of modern taste. The Butler found all heads turned towards him as he held out the silver dish on which the telegram sat.
 “We are at war. Thank you Huxley.”
These simple words broke the spell of after supper silence and stupor. Ida looked at the unusually late time and realised that her father had been quietly awaiting this news.