Dawn turned the sky yellow as the small procession finally reached the hall. A tiny figure wearing nightclothes shot out from the door, with the housekeeper, Mrs. Rivers, gasping in hot pursuit. “Now, you come back here, Master John.”

“What are you doing out here in your night clothes?” Hugh was stern.

John stopped in his tracks. Tears filled his eyes. “But Papa, I could not sleep after the men came to get you. They said there was a train. Was there a…” He paused, thinking. “A accident?” He articulated the word with great concentration. “A accident, like before?” His voice tailed off in a sob.

Hugh knelt to gather John close. His coat muffled the boy’s tears. “There was indeed an accident, I am sorry to say, but everyone from the Hall is safe and well. There is no need to be afraid.” Gently, he wiped the boy’s nose with his own handkerchief, until the tears dried. He held John at arm’s length. “Now then, what do you mean by running around in the dark when Mrs. Rivers is calling you? You know you must obey her.”

“Well my lord, I’m sorry he got away from me.” The housekeeper’s face was red with exertion. “But with Abigail gone, it’s hard to keep him from mischief, what with the preparations for Christmas and all.”

“Yes, yes,” said Hugh. “I’m sure you’re doing your best. John, I will take you to bed myself to make sure there will be no more running away.” Surprised by a pang of affection, he cleared his throat. “There is nothing to see here, but we do have an unexpected visitor tonight.”

The distraction worked. John stared with unashamed curiosity and an open mouth at the stranger, who swayed a little on his feet.

“We’d better call the doctor in to have a look at you, I think,” Hugh said.

The lad started. “Oh no.” His voice was light and musical: a young boy’s tones. “Not me, I mean, I’m sure there’s nothing amiss.”

Hugh tired of the argument. “Very well, if you’re sure there’s no damage.” He tossed John onto his shoulders and set off towards the Hall. John clung to his hair. “Just let Mrs. Rivers—or perhaps one of the maids—look at your head.” Mrs. Rivers’ bosom heaved with indignation at the very suggestion. “Yes, that would be best. Ask one of the maids to put something on that cut.” He peered once more at the youth, and his nose wrinkled. “I suggest a bath, as well.” He strode into the house without another word.

Chapter Three

Philomena leaned back on a wooden settle in the vast kitchen of Thatcham Hall. Her bones ached, but her mind raced. A range stretched the length of one wall, its heat reaching into every corner of the room. London had not offered such delightful comfort in summer, never mind in the middle of winter. A muddle of pots towered nearby, scraped clean of their breakfast contents, awaiting attention from the scullery maid. Philomena’s body, confused by lack of sleep and stoked with more food than she normally ate in a week, hovered on the edge of slumber.