Laughing gently, Emma said, ‘It’s lucky for me that we don’t live in the Dark Ages. If I needed George’s approval to marry, I should die an old maid.’ She looked up at the portrait again. ‘Do you know, I think he’s even more handsome now with all of those freckles? It may not be fashionable to appear as though one has spent time out in the sun, but on him … well, they look just adorable.’

Lou followed Emma back to the other women. As Emma took up a decoration to place on the tree, Lou summoned up Tom’s face, remembering how, at a distance, his freckles mingled to a single tanned mass but up close, they were distinct smudges. At times, she had been so close to Tom that, had she wanted to, she could have counted those freckles. Every single one.

15

Following dinner that evening, and after the other women had retired, Lou sat with Mrs Hart in the drawing room. She held a book but hadn’t managed to read a single word. She had spent all evening searching her brain, looking for any memory of learning about Sir Charles Mandeville’s investments. There was nothing to be found. Her schoolteachers hadn’t gone into that level of detail. It was all in her mind; just one more example of her imagination overlaying another level of complication to this dream.

Mrs Hart yawned and got up from her chair. ‘You look done in,’ she said, touching Lou’s shoulder. ‘You should get some sleep. You’ll need it to brave the whirlwind of parties ahead.’

‘I will,’ Lou promised. ‘Once I’ve finished this page.’

Finally alone, Lou placed the copy of Plato’s Collected Philosophy aside. She gazed into the fire. If this was all a dream, why did it feel so real? Why was she starting to care about these people? Around her, the house made small creaking noises, settling down for the night. She collected her wrap and headed out into the hall.

She paused at the bottom of the stairs. Inside the billiard room, Edward sat beside the fire, staring into the flames. George Caxton had fallen asleep in the chair beside him, snoring, a glass clasped proprietarily to his chest. Beyond them, Sir Charles was seated at a small table, smoking a cigar. Across from him was Tom. Lou studied his face in profile, his nose turning up at the tip. It was a retroussé nose, sweet like a child’s. He placed a cigarette between his lips and drew the smoke into his lungs before throwing back his head, exhaling, laughing at something his father said.

Just looking at him made Lou feel like a traitor. Emma had taken her into her confidence and here she was, sneaking a secret peek at Tom. Emma’s Tom.

Holly berries on the garlands over the mantelshelf crackled in the heat of the fire. A wave of nerves rippled through Lou’s stomach. Turning, she crossed the hall but too late, became aware of rapid footsteps approaching from behind.