She had been happy here at the Hall. Hugh had returned some at least of her feelings. They had laughed together and argued as equals. Such memories: she’d tried to hope for nothing, but, oh, the warmth in Hugh’s eyes when he smiled at her. She should never have imagined it could lead to happiness. Why had she galloped so heedlessly to disaster?

At last, exhausted, with no more tears to cry, her heart drained to the dregs, Philomena lay on her bed and fell into a restless, fitful sleep. She dreamed again of the train derailment, of Hugh appearing to rescue her, ending the whirl of fear and confusion. She dreamed that Hugh walked with her, arguing and teasing. She dreamed Hugh’s arms were around her, his lips warm on hers and his body pressed to her breasts.

She woke to a robin singing outside. Sunbeams slipped through the curtains, but no answering joy entered Philomena’s soul. The world was a black hole of hopelessness and desolation. Dully, she rehearsed painful words to say today. She would ask to see Hugh, explain that she could not marry but would be his mistress. What man could refuse such an offer? Philomena cared not a fig for her reputation. It would hurt to leave the Hall, but maybe Hugh would find a cottage somewhere. She could see John from afar, watch the child grow and give Hugh everything he wanted: anything, except marriage.

Philomena would never forget that wonderful offer of marriage, but surely, Hugh would be pleased to avoid a connection that must disgust anyone who had the master’s best interests at heart. Her head ached, but with a plan in mind, Philomena felt strong enough to begin the day’s work.

First, she must see the Dowager, to receive instructions. She never entered that lady’s presence without a shiver of nervousness. The servants all dreaded the Dowager’s sharp tongue. Each had at one time or other received a scathing rebuke. Whether triggered by the sight of a table less than perfectly polished or a meal undercooked, the Dowager’s remarks never failed to hit home. Even John held his tongue in her presence, for anything the Dowager considered idle chatter incurred a tart retort.

“I see you have been spending time in the kitchen,” she commented yesterday, eyebrows raised. “Perhaps a few moments learning your letters would be of more benefit.”

Philomena privately believed that a four-year-old child should spend his time in play and leave reading and writing until later.

As she completed the necessary preparations for the interview, checking for a mark on her apron, a smut on her nose, or the escape of yet another wayward curl, a knock sounded at the door. Philomena turned, betrayed by the heat in her cheeks. Of course, it could not be Hugh. She smoothed the front of her apron and opened the door.