The evening had already closed in around the great house when Philomena awoke. For a moment, she lay in the darkness, disoriented and confused. Everything was different. She sniffed the air and caught a hint of baking, redolent of cloves and ginger, with no trace of the dank, cabbage smell she was accustomed to in London. She listened to the subdued bustle of the house: the click of housemaids’ shoes on wooden floors and stairs, a quiet, low-key laugh and a murmur of modulated voices. All were new to her senses, and all spoke of change and excitement. Philomena forced herself, with the success borne of long practice, to overcome her fears.

This was the long awaited adventure, after all. The train, the wreck, her short-lived deception and the loss of her hair, all in vain, flashed through her mind in a kaleidoscope. The spinning whirl of images halted abruptly at the memory of Lord Thatcham.

She had met him just three times in the past few hours, but he blazed in her memory. She recalled his face at the site of the accident, his stern profile softened by blond hair tumbling over deep, expressive eyes. Her pulses raced at the recollection and for a moment, despite every attempt to forget the man’s face, her imagination ran wild. She longed to feel his hand on her shoulder, just once more. She wanted to bring that tiny smile to his lips and see the grey of his eyes soften.

What was this she felt? No man before had set her heart beating so fast or stopped the breath so painfully in her throat. Arrogant, stern, and self-righteous the man might be, but a light in his eye, a sudden gleam of amusement, came and went so fast it could have been nothing more than imagination. The sudden smile intrigued and touched her. She must see it again.

Hot tears filled her eyes. She would not be so foolish. She wiped them away, angry at such nonsense. She should be thankful to be safe both from Joseph and from the man with the green eyes, comfortable for a short time in this wonderful old Hall where there was plenty of warmth and good food.

With an effort of will, Philomena wrenched her thoughts away. Why had no mistress been in evidence at the Hall today, and why had Mrs. Rivers referred to “Poor Lady Thatcham?” She must be some sort of an invalid. Lord Thatcham’s wife had not appeared in the kitchen, nor taken charge of John. Philomena sensed a mystery, but she disliked the idea of Lady Thatcham. She would not think about her. She rose, washed, and dressed in the plain costume and apron hanging on the rail at the foot of the bed. Mrs. Rivers must have put them there while she slept.

Fixing the cap took some time. She struggled to force her hair into something that did not resemble a bird’s nest. At last, she had to spit on a finger to tame the curls into acceptable neatness. The locks of hair were far too short to tie back. Bless me, will they never stay in place? She could have saved her hair if she had been more careful. Fastidious pinning would surely have kept it in place. After years of planning, she had rushed into her escape. Philomena sighed. Impatience was often her downfall.