Philomena wracked her brains. There must be something the child would enjoy. What did a wealthy child of four do apart from ask disconcertingly direct questions? On the streets of London, boys of this age helped with the family finances by sorting scraps or selling clothes or spent the twilight hours tracking down a missing father, to bring him home from the public house. They had little time to spare for play.

Thinking like that would not help. It was no use blaming the child for his wealth and comfort. Clearly, John found tabletop work boring. Philomena, determined to behave as a nursemaid should, could not allow him to embark on energetic games. Once over-excited, the child would never sleep. She searched the room for inspiration.

She caught sight of a row of lavishly illustrated books stacked neatly on a shelf nearby. Relieved, she pulled out a book of brightly coloured nursery rhymes. “Do you like stories?”

The child glanced at the books and glowered. “I only like new stories. Abigail told me the same ones over and over, all about mices and flowers and good little children.”

Philomena laughed aloud and put the book back on the shelf.

“Papa sometimes tells stories,” John went on, “about soldiers and knights and battles. I like those stories. But when I’m bad, he won’t tell me any.”

“Are you often bad?”

“Oh yes, very often.”

Philomena repressed a chuckle. She fixed the boy with a stare. “Well, if you wash and put your nightclothes on, I’ll find a new story for you. How would that be?”

“Very well.”

Philomena glanced through a window into the darkness. The wind had gathered strength again during the day and blew fiercely around the Hall. The view from the window was wild, of tree branches tossing in the gale and sheep huddled together in the fields. Tomorrow was Christmas Day. A wealthy child like this should be excited, looking forward to presents and a day of feasting and merriment. However, this was the house where John’s mother, Lord Thatcham’s wife, had died last Christmas. There was little merriment to be found here.

John, lured by the promise of the story, snuggled willingly into bed. Philomena turned out lamps and blew on candles until only one single light remained, flickering in the darkness. The candlelight seemed friendly. She was tempted to gather the little boy in her arms for a hug but decided against it. She would wait until she knew him better. Instead, she started on an old story. “A kind king,” she began, her voice hushed, “lived many years ago, in an old castle in the forest.”

The little boy shivered and snuggled deeper under the bedclothes. “Was it a deep, dark forest?”

“Oh yes, it was very deep indeed and extremely scary. And in the forest lived an old, old man who had no money and no wood to put on the fire to keep him warm.”

John smiled sleepily as the new nurse’s voice grew softer and slower, until his eyes flickered and closed. Finally, he slept.