Hugh felt a pang at the sight of such distress. He must harden his heart. He gripped the whip more tightly, annoyed to feel his hand shake. Women find it so easy to cry. Beatrice had perfected the art. She had fooled and then betrayed him. He would not be taken in now. No woman would hoodwink him again.

“My name, my lord, is Philomena.” She stood straighter. “I have done nothing wrong except to pretend I was not a female, and that deception was intended only for protection from the dangers of a long journey alone. I meant no harm by it.” The young woman looked Hugh full in the face, every trace of fear gone. “Perhaps you are not aware of the threat to females who travel alone.”

He heard challenge in her voice. What sort of scrape had she fallen into, that had forced her to travel alone and unprotected on the night train? He hesitated. Was he being unfair?

No. He must not bow to sympathy. Not this time. He must rely on good sense. After all, no young person of virtue would parade around the country alone. He shrugged, turned away and spoke over his shoulder. “Thatcham Hall has always opened its doors to those who seek help. We prefer honesty.” He paused, letting the bitter words do the damage. “However, at this time of the year, we turn no one away. You are welcome to remain with the servants. Whether you choose to help or simply benefit from others’ efforts is a matter for your conscience. Come, John.”

John, only slightly subdued, scuttled behind his father. Philomena brushed at her cheek. Her head was high. At least the woman had not wept. Beatrice never showed such self-control.

Hugh marched John directly upstairs to the nursery. He motioned to the boy to sit on a hard wooden chair and frowned. He flicked his whip from one hand to the other. How should he punish yesterday’s escapade?

John’s big blue eyes filled with tears. He has learned his mother’s tricks. “Well,” Hugh said, his voice languid. “We must deal with yesterday’s misdemeanours, must we not? We cannot overlook such behaviour, simply because there was a train accident during the night. Perhaps you would care to explain just what you did to the nursemaid, this time?”

Hugh leaned on the fireplace, suddenly weary. “Please do not waste my time with tears. Weeping is for girls.”

“I am sorry, Papa.” John sniffed and wiped his nose energetically on a sleeve. Hugh handed him a clean kerchief. “I never meant to upset water onto Abigail. I was just sliding down the banister, and I slipped off.”

John stopped a moment, thinking. His face lit up. “Why did she not move out of the way?” He snatched at the possibility of resting the blame elsewhere. “She should not be carrying water on the main staircase, anyway.”

Startled, Hugh recalled an incident from his youth. He had been just such a small boy, trying to explain away some mischief, while his father stood nearby, flicking a whip. The crime had involved frogs and the nursemaid’s clothes. It had not ended well, for his father had made good use of the whip. Surely, John deserved similar treatment. It was the duty of a father to punish a child, as his father had so often done.