“Oh,” the woman squeaked. Trembling, she stooped to fumble with the largest of the books. “I hope it is not damaged. No, look, I am sure it is not.” She held out the book. Her hands trembled.

Hugh grasped the volume and watched, eyes narrowed, as Philomena edged away, further and further, until her back rested against the wall. She raised her eyes. Enormous as dark pebbles, they glowed in the ghostly pallor of her face.

Angry words faded from Hugh’s tongue, and his fury shrivelled at the child’s look of fear. “You are afraid of me?”

She shook her head but the blue eyes widened further and her lip trembled. She caught it between white teeth.

Hugh’s anger ebbed away. This child really was the most ridiculous person he had ever met. “Now, I wonder why you are so scared.” He made an effort to speak quietly. “Perhaps you are frightened because I warned you not to come here?” He took a step forward. Her hands flew into the air, poised to fight. Hugh stopped. Her terror was real.

“I-I am not at all afraid,” she stammered.

“Well, you should be. Did I not tell you to stay away from the East Wing?”

She nodded.

“Then, why did you disobey me?” How reasonable he sounded. “This is my house, is it not? I explained that there are rules you must obey while you are here.” Still, she said nothing. He lost patience. “Well, it seems you have discovered my secret.”

Her eyes flickered and with a start, Hugh understood.

“I do believe you have been listening to the talk in the village.” He closed his eyes. Would his reputation never recover? Muldrow’s cunning lies had spread like poison through the village, but Hugh could not explain the truth of Beatrice’s deception. Only he knew of her desertion. She had run to Muldrow, in spite of her marriage vows.

She had been kind enough to leave a letter for Hugh. Her words haunted him. “I will show you that someone appreciates me, even though you do not.” He’d torn the letter into a dozen pieces and threw them on the fire, but the words burned themselves forever into his brain. He had not harmed Beatrice, but his failure as a husband had driven her into the arms of a scoundrel. Her flight had ended in tragedy.

Hugh took Philomena’s arm. She flinched and he dropped his hand. Regret weighed heavy on him. “I see you have heard that Lady Beatrice died at my hands.” His voice was flat.

He waited for the child to cry or run or perhaps to plead. To his surprise, she did none of those things. She shook her head, once. She still trembled.