There was an oval mirror over the mantel, old and silvered, but good enough to show a face. Philomena grimaced at it. Whatever would poor Samuel say? He was always so pleased with her “ladylike appearance.” She looked quite different from the old Philomena. She was an independent woman, now, and beauty was of no consequence.

Chapter Seven

Philomena slipped down the back stairs to the kitchen, treading self-consciously back into the warm heart of the Hall. The footman burst into uncouth laughter at her appearance. Mrs. Rivers rebuked him. “Be quiet, now, James. What did I tell you? Philomena is one of the household for a while, and you will treat her with respect. Now be off about your business.” James fell silent and stalked from the kitchen. As he passed Philomena, she heard a barely muffled snort.

“Now then,” Mrs. Rivers went on. “You follow me up to the nursery. Bring the tray for Master John’s tea.” The tray weighed heavy, stacked with teapot, plate of thinly sliced bread and butter, scones, jam and a small rice pudding. Philomena concentrated hard. She must not splash milk from the jug. She smiled. This light meal, full of delicate bites, was nothing like the heavy high tea of bread, dripping and oatmeal eaten in the poor streets of London.

The main meal of the day for John was luncheon in the middle of the day, with this insubstantial tea eaten at 6 o’clock. The adults in the family would enjoy a larger, more elaborate dinner of several courses later in the evening. It seemed very strange. No wonder the cook wore an air of permanent exhaustion.

“Excuse me.” Philomena puffed with effort as they ascended the servants’ stairs at the back of the house. “Does Lady Thatcham wish to see me?” Mrs. Rivers stopped in her tracks.

“Bless my soul,” she said. “Don’t you go mentioning Lady Thatcham, now. Dear, oh dear, I suppose no one told you, did they? She died, you know. Just a year ago tomorrow, in fact. So it’s to be a quiet time this Christmas with just Lord Thatcham’s mother, the Dowager, and his sister. There will be no other guests this year.”

The housekeeper folded her arms and leaned on the wall, ready for gossip. “Now, don’t you go upsetting Master John by mentioning his mother, will you? It’s hard enough for the boy, what with Lord Thatcham being so—eh—now, how can I put it? So distracted? Yes, that’s it. He’s been distracted, always working, never has time for the boy any more, though he used to spend more time with John than Lady Thatcham herself did.” She shook her head. “It’s all because of the accident.”

“Accident?”

“Oh, dear me, you really don’t know, do you? It was the horse, you see. Lady Thatcham’s mare took a fall that killed the poor soul. She never was much on a horse, not like his lordship. He gave Lady Beatrice the gentlest of mares to ride, but even so, something must have frightened the horse that day, and her ladyship fell.”