Hugh looked up, refocusing his eyes. His thoughts had drifted back to the wood, recalling the scent of the old trees and the magic of the fading light. He imagined Philomena was there, enticing him into taking leave of every vestige of good sense.

Called upon by automatic good manners to answer, Hugh nevertheless found himself unable to offer an opinion on the unknown merits of the Christmas celebrations at Windsor.

He said so, causing Selena to sigh and the Dowager to glare. His mother asked, in an icy voice, whether he had taken cold during such a long sojourn outside this afternoon, undertaken for no reason that could be fathomed.

The Dowager talked on. Hardly listening, Hugh let his thoughts stray again, this time to the nursery. He watched the hands click round on the grandfather clock. They edged in interminably small measures towards the hour when Philomena would bring John down to talk to the Christmas visitors. Did he long for or dread the event?

At last, the meal ended. Since Hugh was the only man dining, the ladies retired for only a few moments, to take tea. Hugh, relieved to be alone, tossed back two large glasses of port, feeling the effect as a briefly pleasing shock of warmth. It failed, though, to overcome his angry mood. He drank one more glass. Two bottles of his most prized claret had accompanied the meal, but Hugh had hardly tasted the wine. His legs, though, shook a little as he joined Selena and the Dowager.

John, when Philomena brought him to see his grandmother, seemed subdued. Selena chuckled. “I do believe we tired him out,” she said to Philomena, who smiled through tight lips. Hugh avoided her eye. After a few moments of lack-lustre question and answer, the Dowager gave up the unequal struggle and allowed John to return to the nursery.

Selena seized the opportunity to take Hugh’s arm and walk him around the room. “We had such fun, you know. You need not have been cross, because Philomena mended my dress perfectly, so that no one would ever know it was torn at all. She even curled my hair herself so that Alice, my maid, would not scold.”

Hugh, despite his mood, smiled a little at his sister’s fear of a scolding from her own maid.

“Now, that’s better.” She gave his arm a little squeeze. “You are so bad-tempered these days. I’m sure you were never so before you married Beatrice—” She stopped, face red, but it was too late.

Hugh shook his arm free and glared. Selena’s eyes grew large with horror. Recollecting the need for good manners, Hugh forced himself to smile and pat her hand. How much had she understood of his marriage? Had she seen the depths of unhappiness and discontent at the Hall?