Hugh’s smile died. The responsibility for John’s bad behaviour lay at his father’s feet. Beatrice had spoiled the boy, of course, meeting for an hour every day to feed him sweetmeats until his childish chatter bored her, leaving all childcare to the succession of nursemaids who appeared and disappeared with troublesome frequency.

Since Beatrice’s death, John’s behaviour had hardly improved. Hugh should have spent more time overseeing the child. It was obvious that a boy without a mother needed help. Last night was a surprise. John sat peacefully with Philomena, washed and ready for bed, with a stunning lack of kicking, screaming, or nightgown refusal.

Hugh’s encounters with the boy were limited to occasional visits to the nursery and rare rides together, while John trotted next to an impatient Thunder on the trusty pony called Bear. There was always something on the estate to keep Hugh from his son. John, like his mother, knew exactly how to infuriate. Hugh could tolerate drawing on walls, tearing picture books, or shrieking loudly along the corridors of the Hall but would not endure lies. Unfortunately, John happily indulged in the most improbable falsehoods, if they might help avoid punishment.

“I did not break the statue, Papa,” he insisted, when Hugh found a piece of Meissen shattered in the drawing room. “It must have been the maid.” Hugh was furious. It was bad enough that John would tell such an obvious lie, but accusing one of the servants at the Hall was unforgiveable.

He had less awareness of how to raise a child than he had of dealing with his horses and dogs, that was the problem. Was lying normal for a four-year-old? Was John’s behaviour just due to high spirits, or, worse, did he have bad blood?

Hugh envied the new young woman’s skills with John. She had brought calm and happiness to the boy within a few hours of her arrival at the Hall. How did she do it? What made John so obedient when she spoke so quietly and gently to him?

He paced round the room. Yesterday’s determination to channel his energies into duty had not supplied the hoped for peace of mind. That woman had held up a mirror to Hugh’s behaviour, and he was ashamed.

Restless, he paced faster. He would think about John another time. Perhaps the young woman would keep him out of mischief for a while, at least until resuming the journey to Bristol.

Strange female. Why would she not account for herself? She was fearless at the site of the accident, tireless in her efforts to release the passengers from the overturned wagon before trudging without complaint back to the Hall. She must have felt sick with weariness. That blow to the head must have ached, but she had not whimpered. Not once had she relied on the feminine weakness that Beatrice so often employed.

Hugh admired her bravery. Why, then, did she offer such unlikely reasons for travelling to Bristol? And why was a young woman wearing men’s clothes? All Hugh had asked for was honesty.