****

Hugh spurred Thunder to a gallop. Blood pumped fast through his veins. Last night’s emergency in the cutting had chased away the fatigue of the evening before, leaving him alert.

Such action was rare within the confines and estates of Thatcham Hall. Frustrated by the sterile decorum of such a Great House, Hugh could sometimes almost envy the farm hands as they toiled in the fields, hands black with the fertile soil. He’d far rather spend an hour chopping wood alongside the forester than engage in the gentleman’s pastimes of hunting, boxing, and fencing.

Thunder showed no sign of fatigue. Hugh felt the power of the horse’s muscles as the creature galloped ever faster across the fields, leaping fords and brooks. A boundary hedge rose steeply in view, bushy and tall, challenging to any animal.

“Thunder,” Hugh called, as the hedge towered before them. “Let’s see what we can do.”

He urged the horse forward and felt the animal gather its hind legs in preparation for the jump. A gust of wind rocked the hedge towards horse and rider and the branches loomed as high as Hugh’s shoulders. Laughing into the wind, he leaned his weight forward until he touched the horse’s neck. Thunder responded with a leap that cleared the hedge by almost a foot, landing smoothly on the grass at the other side as though the huge obstacle was no more than a chicken coop.

Exhilarated by the ride and panting from the exertion, Hugh allowed the horse to slow to a canter. “Well done,” he gasped, breathless, his spirits high.

He tried to close his ears to the voice in his head. Beatrice died from a fall. What would become of John if he should lose his father as well? Hugh sighed. Must guilt contaminate even the pleasure of the gallop?

It was time to return to the Hall and shoulder once more the mantle of responsibilities for the estate and all who lived there. Hugh wheeled Thunder round and turned for home. He had no choice in the matter. He must remain reliable, trustworthy, and dependable at all times, for the sake of his son’s inheritance.

As his pulse slowed, his thoughts turned to the boy from the train. The lad intrigued him. He’d been brave, last night. There was a streak of maturity and fortitude that belied the light voice and slight build. For a working lad of no more than fourteen or fifteen, the boy was sure of himself. His speech was clear and he seemed educated.

Hugh sensed a mystery. It piqued his interest. He would enjoy unravelling it. It might offer some respite from the ennui of the next few days. He groaned at the thought of the imminent Christmas visit by his mother, the Dowager Lady Thatcham, and his sister, newly out of the schoolroom. There was little enough amusement at the Hall.

He had only himself to blame, of course. As a young man, well aware of his position in life as the head of Thatcham Hall and keen to fulfil his duty, he had set out with enthusiasm to find an appropriate, well-born, well-brought-up lady to be a wife and the mother of many children.