Philomena lost her grip on the slippery side of the wagon as it pitched and bounced. For a heart-stopping moment of silence, the world held its breath. The front of the wagon tilted, flew into the air, and flipped backwards. She soared high into the dark, as weightless as a bird. I’m going to die. She knew a brief stab of sorrow that the adventure had ended so abruptly. Then the ground rose up to deal a blow that squeezed all the breath from her lungs.

****

Deep sleep enveloped the inhabitants of Thatcham Hall, rewarding the servants for long hours of toil with a brief respite before the first maid rose to set fires. Wind and rain howled through cracks and down chimneys. Only Hugh—Lord Thatcham—was still awake, hunched over the oak desk in the silent library, long legs cramped as the embers of the fire died away and the night chilled his bones.

His gaze sped down a column of figures. He added them once and then again. Finally, satisfied, he scrawled a signature below the total. He drew a deep breath and released it in a sigh, the knot in his stomach easing a little. The Hall, with its debts and its crumbling East Wing, so often swallowed every penny of profit raised, but, slowly, Hugh was turning things around. The improvements planned for the farms would help. Next year, barley yields should be up, thanks to the new thresher. He yawned and stretched, then turned again to the pile of papers.

Hugh pulled the next document near and read it, eyes narrowed, pen poised. Old Walden’s cottage needed work. Could it wait a while? That would save a few pounds. His hesitation lasted only a moment. Old Walden, long-serving butler to both his father and grandfather, deserved some comforts. The roof of the retirement cottage must be a priority.

So many priorities crowded round that sometimes Hugh could hardly breathe.

He strode to the window and squinted into the darkness that shrouded the land. The night stars hid behind scudding clouds, but even in the pitch black, Hugh visualised each cottage, tree, or fence on the estate. This was his land. He knew and loved every stone, leaf, and blade of grass of it. The Dainty family had lived there since Tudor times, through good years and bad, and three hundred years of ancestors weighed heavy on Hugh’s shoulders. If he achieved nothing else, he would make sure the Hall and its estates passed, intact, to his son, John.

If only Beatrice had shared some of Hugh’s love for Thatcham Hall. Maybe, then, they would have managed better together. Restless, he turned from the window. The brief marriage had ended in disaster, leaving a bitter legacy of guilt and remorse. Nevertheless, Hugh would forever be grateful to Beatrice for giving him a son. John, now four years old and the image of his dead mother, enjoyed robust health and vast stores of energy. As mischievous as a puppy, he romped each day through the nursery, leaving torn books, broken ornaments, and a succession of frantic nursemaids in his wake.