“Miss?” The maid was nervous. “Miss?”

“Is Lady Margaret in?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Take me.”

She was nervous, excited, a hundred thoughts and emotions crowding her brain. She followed the maid down a long, gloomy, panelled passage and waited as the door was knocked. An imperious, familiar voice answered.

“Come!”

“Miss?” The maid held the door open.

Campion hesitated. The voice came louder.

“Who is it? Am I supposed to guess?”

Campion went in slowly, almost hesitantly. There had been moments when she had dreamed of this meeting, when the thought of Lady Margaret and her son had made the horrors of the Tower seem less real, but she had never thought again to see the aquiline face with the gray, piled hair or hear the impatient, ordering voice. Campion stood facing the garden room and smiled. “Lady Margaret?”

“Child!” And suddenly Lady Margaret was hugging her, clinging to her, saying unintelligible things in her ear, and Campion clung to the older woman until she was pushed gently away. Lady Margaret shook her head. “You’re crying, child! I thought you’d be glad to see me!”

“You know I am.” She was crying for sheer happiness and relief. They hugged again, and then talked as though they had only five minutes to meet. Campion was laughing and crying, talking and listening, clinging to the older woman’s hand.

Lady Margaret pulled off the bonnet and poked at Campion’s hair. “You look quite dreadful, child. Didn’t anyone cut your hair?”

“Dear Lady Margaret! They almost burned me alive. I didn’t have time for hair!”

“Yes, dear, but we should always try to look our best when we die. First impressions are very important, Campion, and God may look on the inward things, but he’s more of a fool than I think if he doesn’t take a peep at the outer things as well.” She turned to a table and rang a bell. “We shall take some wine, dear, then clean you up before Toby comes back.”

A door opened and Enid, Lady Margaret’s own maid, came in. “Lady Margaret?” She saw Campion, put her hands to her face in surprise and looked as if she would cry.

“Enid!” Lady Margaret frowned, enjoying herself. “Have you seen a mouse?”

“It’s you!” Enid ran into Campion’s embrace.

Campion hugged her. “Enid?” She wanted to cry again because of the welcome, the pleasure, the sense of being home.

Lady Margaret sniffed. “It’s hardly the Holy Ghost, Enid. Say something intelligent to Campion.” She smiled as Campion embraced Enid, waited until they had talked for a moment, and then ordered a bottle of malmsey wine. “And after that, Enid, we’ll have to do something with Campion’s hair.” She frowned at the dress. “It’s nice of you to be in mourning for Sir George, dear, but I think something a little more joyful for Toby.”

Campion thought it best not to mention that the mourning had been for Old Tom. “How is Toby?”

Lady Margaret sat down, back straight and head high. “He swings between extreme misery when he believes you will not get here, and unseemly joy when he decides that you might. I can’t think why. There are some perfectly beautiful and eminently well-born girls in this town, some of them with adequate busts. You’ve lost weight, dear. There’s one girl in particular I tried to introduce, Lady Clarissa Worlake, but Toby’s very stubborn. I can’t think why.”