She stood up and paced around the room, hot with embarrassment. She must not think about the master of the Hall. She would think of other things. There were hints of secrets here at the Hall. Why had Lord Thatcham forbidden her from visiting the East Wing? Was something hidden there? Something wicked?

It was possible. The Hall was a place of contrasts. Elegant luxury enveloped the occupants in its silken embrace, but there were undercurrents Philomena did not understand. Sorrow affected everyone in the house. The servants grew quiet and watchful when their master was with them. John seemed over-full of mischief, as though fighting for attention. She wondered why Lord Thatcham was so stern.

Despite her intentions, Philomena’s thoughts slid back to the owner of the Hall. She could not block the man out. She felt his presence everywhere, and he scared her. The expression in his eyes changed so fast. One moment warm with sardonic amusement, the next, cold as ice, they sent shivers through her body. Such a man, powerful and arrogant, full of the knowledge of his importance, could be capable of wickedness. What was it that the housekeeper had said? Don’t cross him. Philomena shuddered.

Yet, the Lord Thatcham at the scene of the accident was a very different matter. Muddy and scratched, he had dispelled Philomena’s fear and filled her with confidence. Their eyes had met, and a brief spark had flashed from one to the other. Raw with horror, in the midst of chaos, two souls had reached out to each other. Philomena had not imagined it. Whatever had happened at the Hall, whatever secrets its master hid behind his cold exterior, she could not ignore the feelings he aroused. She wanted to know more about him.

Philomena sighed. Since the night of the accident, Lord Thatcham had gone out of his way to sneer at her. He clearly regretted that moment of shared feeling. There was nothing here for Philomena. She must leave, soon, and forget Thatcham Hall and everyone within. Her plan for independence was delayed, not destroyed. She had not even travelled half way to Bristol.

She shuddered as a new fear struck. She was only forty miles or so from London. Could Joseph even now be on her trail? Could he arrive at the Hall while everyone slept? No. This was nonsense. Joseph had no idea of her whereabouts and no way of following her.

Philomena could not rest. Stomach churning, she moved from window to bed and back. If Joseph arrived, any dream of an independent life would be over. She would be trapped.

It was not only the thought of Joseph’s person that terrified her. He was a link to the dreadful secret. She did not know how much he knew about the secret marriage: there was no sign of his presence at the Church and he never spoke of it, but surely, he knew the secret. Otherwise, why had the man not attacked as soon as Samuel died?