Cold drops of rain, heavy now, fell faster. Philomena had misjudged both the distance and the weather. There was precious little hope of arriving back at the Hall without a soaking. She wrapped her shawl tighter around her head, turned off the path and set off up the hill towards the gazebo. Mud clung to her boots as she stumbled upwards through ground that quickly turned slippery. Philomena panted, muttering breathless curses on Ivy’s head for persuading her to set out on such a walk at this uncertain time of the year.

Thunder clapped and she jumped. One foot slipped and Philomena fell, sliding several feet down the hill. Furious, she scrambled up, her clothes heavy with mud from the waist down. Grimly, she struggled upwards, heading for the gazebo until, over the whistle of the wind, she heard a shout. “Can you make it to the summer house?”

Lord Thatcham, astride Thunder, pulled alongside her and bent to inspect the damage.

“No,” Lord Thatcham went on, “I can see you will never get there.” He laughed down from his seat on the black stallion, rain streaming down his face. Jumping to the ground, he held fast to Thunder’s bridle, bent over and cupped a hand for Philomena’s foot.

She drew back. Any horse terrified her, let alone such a thoroughbred as Thunder. “I cannot ride.” Thunder rolled his eyes and snorted, fidgeting from one foot to another. She flinched further away.

“You’ve never ridden?” Lord Thatcham shouted, his voice battling with the noise of the rain and the rising wind, a grin beginning to twist the corners of his mouth.

“No, never.”

He laughed aloud, eyes gleaming. Philomena could not tell which he found more amusing: the storm or the sight of the nursemaid’s discomfiture. “No matter. Thunder will keep you safe.”

Philomena sincerely doubted that. She disliked the way the horse looked at her out of the corner of its eye and snorted.

“Put your foot in my hand,” Lord Thatcham cried again.

“It’s covered in mud.”

He laughed harder, strands of wet hair clinging to his face. “So are you. I can wash mud from my hand more easily than you can clean it from your clothes. Now, stop wasting time or carry on up the hill by yourself and watch me ride away.”

His teasing was infectious. Philomena chuckled, put her foot in his hand, closed her eyes and jumped. Then she was in the saddle, clinging with white knuckles to the ridge at the front. She must be at least a mile in the air. The horse fidgeted restlessly. Surely, he would throw her to the ground. She gripped the saddle, wondering how anyone could wish to ride a horse for pleasure.

Lord Thatcham led Thunder up the hill, head down against the rain. Philomena shivered. The wind was icy and it cut through her clothes.