He smiled at her. “The Reverend Perilly says you’re not married. He says you’re not married till…”

“I know what he says. Your mother says the same. He’s right. I’m not married.”

“So are you going to marry me?”

She traced a finger down his nose, pretending to think. “Yes.”

“When?”

“In three days’ time.”

“I go back to Oxford in two!”

“I know.” She smiled.

They would marry. Even Sir George had given his consent, frowning after the Christmas morning service. He still thought her not the most suitable bride, would have preferred some girl with more certain prospects of a dowry rich enough to replace the roof of the Old House, but he would not stand in his son’s way. “You can’t marry her yet, Toby.”

“I know, father.”

The Reverend Perilly, consulted after matins, had outlined the difficulties. Campion’s marriage to Scammell, he had said, could be declared invalid by a properly convened church court and, even if Scammell dared attend the hearing, he could not fight the evidence of Campion’s virginity. But that, Perilly said, must be attested by good witnesses; doctors beyond reproach, trusted midwives, and the process would cost money and time. The church courts no longer sat in London, the whole process must take place in Oxford, and he suggested it would be an ordeal for Campion. He had shaken his head. “Are you sure Mr. Scammell won’t go to Chancery? There must have been a settlement.”

Sir George, hungover, had been gloomy. “I’m sure of nothing, Perilly, except that Toby won’t see sense.”

“You can hardly blame him, Sir George.”

Sir George smiled. “No. So it seems.”

Campion would go through the ordeal, though not till later in the year when the roads were fit for travelling. She smiled now, looking at the two dogs that slept fitfully before the fire, their paws twitching as they chased imaginary rabbits. Her cat, Mildred, slept on Campion’s lap. She had named the kitten, now almost full grown, after Mrs. Swan. “I wonder if she’ll get our letter.”

“Mrs. Swan?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.”

She still smiled. “Next Christmas we’ll be married.”

“I know. You’ll have to promise to obey me.”

“Like your mother obeys your father?”

Toby smiled. “Just the same.”

Campion frowned. “Do you think the Fleets are happy?”

“Mm,” Toby yawned. “Anne likes the fact that John’s boring. It makes her feel safe.”

“Will they really be enemies of ours?”

“No. Lots of families are divided. There’s not much hatred.” He twisted his head round to look at her. “I think the mistletoe needs us.”

“I think you’ve exhausted the mistletoe. I think I’m going to bed.”

“I’ll take you.”

“Toby Lazender, I am quite capable of climbing stairs on my own.”

“Someone might jump out at you.”

“Not if you stay here, dear.” She laughed. “That dreadful Ferraby boy might. Who is he?”

Toby smiled. There were times, he thought, when Campion began to sound like his mother. “Mother wants him to marry Caroline.”