Still, Hugh hesitated. The case differed. John had no mother. There was no one to soothe away tears and offer sugarplums after a well-earned chastisement. Hugh wavered, looked at John’s eyes wide with hope, and saw defeat. He sighed. “That is not the point, my boy. Mrs. Rivers spoke to Abigail on the matter. She feels no longer able to remain at the Hall. She believes life would be more restful, as she puts it, ‘scrubbing floors in a—’ he coughed—‘a house of, that is to say, less good standing—’” He floundered, recalling the exact words relayed by the housekeeper.

John’s eyes sparkled. “Has she really gone forever, then?” Hope spread across his face. His tears had dried.

Hugh wracked his brain for a suitable punishment, but could think of nothing. “Early to bed, tonight.” He would be more severe another time.

“Very well, Papa. I’m sorry.”

Hugh ruffled the boy’s hair. “Now, I suppose, I must find someone to keep you from mischief for the rest of the day.” He took a few paces around the room, glancing at well-remembered pictures and books. He ran his finger along John’s battered desk, where he had sat, many years ago. He leaned against the mantelpiece and picked up a familiar, chipped china horse. The animal had suffered many falls, and one of its legs was missing.

Hugh stroked its mane. “Perhaps the kitchen is the best place, after all. Mrs. Bramble will doubtless fill you full of sweet things, so that you will be sick all night, and the maids will neglect their duties in playing childish games, but at least you will be safe. Do not,” he added, remembering a previous occasion, “under any circumstances, attempt to persuade Ince the coachman to take you out in the carriage.”

John looked up, his eyes wide and innocent. “What are circumstances?”

“Ask Mrs. Bramble,” Hugh said, vanquished. “Now go.”

John left him no time to change his mind. He scampered away, high spirits fully restored. Hugh rested an elbow on the mantelpiece and leaned his chin on his hand. A small fire in the grate kept the worst of the winter’s gloom from invading the nursery. The room was pretty and bright. Beatrice had chosen new wall coverings and hangings, full of excitement at the birth of a first child. Little more than a child herself, exasperating with a string of foolish, selfish demands, Hugh’s wife had nevertheless given birth to a precious son.

Her death was sudden. Hugh could never forget it. One year ago, in the early morning, Beatrice had ridden out, alone. Her absence went unnoticed for hours, for she enjoyed early morning rest and habitually refused to allow a maid to bring morning chocolate until late in the day.

At last, a servant raised the alarm. The household spent the day searching, finding Beatrice’s body a few miles from the Hall. She had never been an expert rider, and the horse had thrown her to the ground. A heavy frost the night before had left the earth rock hard: solid enough to crack her skull. Hugh carried her into the Hall, but she never recovered consciousness. She died the next day—Christmas Day.