As she lay in bed, she heard the distant clunk of the large clock in the corridor outside the nursery. She found comfort in its regularity. Her taut muscles relaxed, and her heart slowed to beat in time with the clock. She may be safe for a few days. After Christmas, when Lord Thatcham found a new nursemaid, she would run to Bristol.

She turned over again, her feet tangling in the nightdress. It was long and made of heavy cotton. She supposed Abigail left it behind as she shook the dust of Thatcham Hall from her feet.

How many nursemaids had left the Hall? Philomena tried to remember what Mrs. Rivers had said. Surely, that dear little boy could not be the only cause of their departure. Had they left because of Lord Thatcham? All her thoughts led back to him.

As sleep still refused to come, Philomena wondered about the death of his wife. How strange, for a lady of quality to be alone on horseback in the mid-winter cold when there were grooms, coachmen and stable-hands at her disposal: servants to spare in this grand establishment. A shiver ran round the back of Philomena’s neck. Something was wrong at Thatcham Hall.

Think of something else, or sleep will never come.

She pulled out the brooch. The face in the portrait was lovely. Golden curls cascaded in ringlets around a heart-shaped face. A secret smile curved the corners of the lips. Could that beauty really be her mother? Philomena’s own hair was dark, her chin determined and her mouth all too ready to break into a wide grin.

There was something about the eyes, though. Clear, sapphire blue, they were shaped like almonds and rimmed with luxuriant dark lashes. Philomena saw eyes like those every day, in the mirror. They were her only claim to beauty. Perhaps Samuel had told the truth, and the woman in the portrait truly was her mother.

At last, Philomena slept, restless, in a slumber filled with dark, gothic towers, hooded faces and cold, green eyes.

Chapter Ten

Christmas morning broke. It was a full year since Beatrice died. Hugh would never forget that day: John, weeping, kept away from the sickroom by white-faced servants; Beatrice’s mother arriving just too late to bid farewell to her daughter; urgent messages of enquiry and then of condolence from surrounding families.

Hugh threw open the window and gazed out across the estate, hoping the ancient, familiar fields and trees may work their magic. He leaned his forehead on the glass, icy cold soothing hot skin. A watery sun struggled to peep out from the dark clouds of the night. Sure enough, Hugh’s spirits lifted. Something stirred in him, like a spark in darkness.

Today was Christmas Day. It should be a day of new beginnings. This day, a full year since Beatrice’s death, would mark the end of deep mourning. Today, Selena and the Dowager would sit around the table, eating and drinking, putting off their black drab, wearing a lighter style of mourning clothes. Beatrice’s shade might leave him in peace at last.