It was the woman’s fault. She had deliberately enticed him to her, only to draw back. Nothing but a street urchin, she had somehow entrapped the master of Thatcham Hall. He would have no more to do with her.

He kicked with passion at the trunk of a tree and slashed at the hedge with a cane. Let the wench spend this day and the next at the Hall, as promised. Then she would be on her way. It mattered not at all, whether this so-called uncle existed. Hugh did not care what became of her. He stalked from the wood. It would be easy to overcome the flood of wasted emotion that had led to his foolish conduct. He would forget Miss Philomena within days. He strode towards the Hall, but with every step, the rage that had engulfed his heart subsided. Before he had covered a hundred paces, his fury had ebbed, leaving nothing but sorrow and loss.

He did not want Philomena to leave. In truth, he longed to see the broad, unselfconscious smile that lit her eyes. He wanted to hear again that clear voice, by turns gentle and fierce, and smell the faint hint of jasmine that hung in the air wherever Philomena had been.

At dinner, the table groaned. Mrs. Bramble had spared no effort to provide an irresistible feast. Three complicated courses followed each other to the table, but Hugh could eat none of them. The soup seemed insipid, the fish dry. Turkey and beef accompanied by lark pudding was enough to make anyone ill. Plum pudding tempted for a moment, rich and crumbling, scented with spice and fruit, but every mouthful tasted of dust.

A fire raged in the grate, burning the massive log that would smoulder throughout the holiday. The Dowager’s conversation centred on the Queen, Prince Albert and the German features her new husband was introducing to his adoring wife. “Why anyone should wish to emulate that nation,” said the Dowager, “I have no idea. Do you know, I heard that Prince Albert insisted on bringing a tree into the house and putting candles all around it? Imagine. How very odd he must be. Our poor Queen surely suffers a great deal from such nonsense.”

“Why, no, Mama. Everyone says the Queen simply adores Prince Albert, and that anything he suggests is immediately to be undertaken.” Selena spoke to Hugh, looking for agreement. Pushing a morsel of fig around an almost-empty plate, he did not reply.

She turned back to her Mama. “I think it must be fun to have a tree for Christmas, much more fun than our boring old Yule log. All that does is burn away and make a great deal of smoke in the process. What do you think, Hugh?” Selena raised her voice.