At last, even Thunder began to tire. He slowed to a trot. Hugh reined him in and let him rest. The air smelled clean and fresh now, cleansed by the bluster of the storm that had driven Hugh and Philomena to the summerhouse. The fields sparkled, grass green from that winter’s rain. Wintry tree skeletons kept watch, bare branches triumphant, as pale rays of sunlight stole through the cloud. Hugh’s heart rate slowed and the heat of his fury cooled. As resentment evaporated, it abandoned him, unprotected, to the painful creep of self-reproach.

Philomena’s response to his kiss had been honest. Her lips had trembled, finally giving way. Hugh had not mistaken the soft smile in her eyes. He knew she cared for him. For a moment, the sweetness of that remembered kiss overwhelmed Hugh. Philomena, the woman he had believed he would never find, was real and honest. Whatever her reason for rejecting him, it was no scandal of her choosing.

The ache in Hugh’s chest eased. Here was a chance to act. He would not let Philomena slip out of his life without a fight.

For a year, he had borne bitter frustration. He had stayed silent on the manner of Beatrice’s death, allowing rumours to spread unchecked. Muldrow lived unpunished, poisoning the countryside with lies. Hugh yearned to fight back, to restore his reputation, but could not, for the sake of John and of his dead wife.

Here, though, was a battle he could join with honour. Philomena had suffered some unknown catastrophe. Hugh did not doubt that, now that the first fury had faded. She would not or could not explain her misfortunes, so Hugh must discover the truth for himself. He would not abandon her. He would overcome his damaged pride, unravel the secrets of her past and destroy the unseen obstacles that kept them apart.

Hugh frowned as he stroked Thunder, the horse’s neck damp with sweat and rain. He tried to piece together the small clues Philomena had dropped about herself. She spoke well and could read and write. She had claimed an uncle in Bristol. Hugh found it hard to believe in such a person, who if he were as respectable as Philomena claimed, would never have allowed his niece to travel, unprotected and dressed in man’s clothes, across England. Nevertheless, it was a starting point. Hugh would begin his search in Bristol. He would set off that very evening.

All anger forgotten, filled with relief at the prospect of real action, Hugh returned to the Hall to throw together a bare minimum of possessions. To keep the destination private, for he would encourage no further gossip, he refused all Martin’s requests to accompany him and told no one of his plans.