“Oh, no. Everyone is so kind. It is just that I lost something when the train overturned, that was all. It was a coin. But it doesn’t matter.” She could manage somehow.

“Indeed, it does. Tell me, young man. What did you lose?” Lord Thatcham patted Thunder’s neck as the horse snickered, impatient to be off. His expression softened. “Wait a moment, Thunder.”

“Oh, a sovereign or so.” She waved one hand in the air as though a sovereign was of small account. Lord Thatcham reached into his pocket and brought out her worn velvet purse.

He held it aloft, between finger and thumb. “Would that be the sovereign in this purse?” he asked, one eyebrow raised. “Where did you get it? And where were you going?”

Philomena lifted her chin. She must sound honest. “Indeed, my lord.” She hoped her voice carried the ring of truth. “Truly, I did not steal it. My adopted father died recently and left me this purse and I—well—I needed to make my fortune elsewhere than London. May I ask how…” She hesitated as Lord Thatcham’s eyes flashed.

He laughed, but the sound held little amusement. “Do you imagine I stole your money?” His voice purred, as soft as silk.

Philomena shivered. She would not want to cross this man. She said no more.

Lord Thatcham shook his head, as though tired of the subject. “I hardly recall how I came by it, if the truth be told. I suppose I picked it up by the train, thrust it in my pocket, and thought no more of it until I emptied my pockets to change my clothes.

“I planned to ride into the village this morning to search for the owner. The loss of such a sum is a serious matter for any one of the villagers. However, in the circumstances, I am pleased to return your money to you.” He held out the purse.

She didn’t know what to say. There was too much to explain, and every time her mouth opened, the wrong thing came out. Philomena took the purse and stuffed it in her pocket. “Thank you,” she muttered, at last, knowing she sounded ungracious. She tried again, speaking the truth. “I really am grateful, my lord.”

She fiddled with Joseph’s shirt collar. Several inches too large, it chafed her neck. Lord Thatcham’s eyes burned into her. Embarrassed, she thrust her hands into her pockets. “I do not know what would have become of me if you had not brought me here last night,” she confessed. For the first time, the stern lines of his face relaxed. She smiled in turn.

“I trust you will remain at the Hall, at least until after our festivities. Tomorrow, of course, is Christmas Day, and Mrs. Bramble has been preparing a feast such as, I believe Shakespeare would say, dreams are made on.”

Philomena laughed. “I do not believe Mr. Shakespeare was talking about food.”

Lord Thatcham laughed too. The edges of his eyes crinkled. “So you are a scholar, as well, like your adopted father.”