‘Where have you been tonight?’ Tom asked.

‘At dinner. Didn’t you see me?’ she answered.

‘In body, yes. But your mind, well, I suspect that was elsewhere. I lost count of the number of times I tried to catch your attention. Once or twice I could have sworn you avoided looking at me, just as you are now.’

‘I’m not avoiding you,’ she lied.

‘Lou,’ he sighed. ‘I’m a dumb man. If you’re playing some sort of game, then I’m afraid you’ll have to let me in on the rules.’ He smiled at her. Waiting.

Lou’s heart leapt into her throat. Why did every encounter with Tom result in a reconfiguration of her insides? ‘I would never play games with you,’ she said. ‘Ever.’

16

22 December 1913

‘Here you are, Miss. Just what you need, a nice boiled egg. It’s the breakfast of kings, or so my mother says.’ Sally placed a tray on the dressing table.

‘Thank you,’ Lou said, although she had no intention of touching the food Sally had insisted on bringing up. Her mind too full to sleep she had left her bed in the wee small hours and had sat in the chair in the window, watching the sunrise, pink on the horizon.

‘Would you like me to help you dress?’ Sally asked, straightening out the bedclothes.

‘Not yet. I’d like to sit here awhile.’

‘Are you feeling poorly, Miss? You’re very pale this morning.’

Lou tightened the knot in the belt of her robe. ‘A little off-colour, perhaps.’

‘No dancing practice today, then?’

‘No.’ Lou forced a smile. ‘No dancing practice today.’

Sally excused herself but returned at regular intervals until Lou relented and allowed herself to be dressed. It was almost midday when Sally left, taking the breakfast tray with her. Knowing that, by now, tea would have been served and cleared away, Lou crept down the stairs and let herself into the morning room.

She stood in the window, watching two groundsmen go about the unrelenting task of clearing the drive. As quickly as they could shovel away the snow, more fat flakes fell from the heavy clouds. A movement off to one side caught Lou’s attention. She pulled back the curtain and saw Elliot emerge from the side of the house, leading Ambrose on a short rein. They came to a stop before the front door where they waited. And waited. Elliot stroked Ambrose’s neck as the horse placidly chewed at his bit, steam rising from his warm body.

Eventually, a man dressed in a black jacket and jodhpurs emerged from beneath the portico. Lou couldn’t help curling her lip as, ignoring Elliot, George Caxton placed his foot into the stirrup dangling at Ambrose’s flank. When he failed to mount from a standing start, he snapped his fingers. Dutifully, Elliot took up position beside the horse, knitting his fingers together to create a cup for George’s boot. The groom bore the weight of the much heavier man with no outward sign of strain, but as George swung his leg over the horse’s back, Ambrose shifted, causing him to fall backwards. Somehow, George managed to land with both feet on the ground but clearly furious, waved his whip and barked a few words at Elliot who knitted his fingers together for a second time.