Mrs. Rivers handed her a letter. “For you, my dear.”

Philomena turned the paper over in a trembling hand, wondering what it could contain. There could be no good news. There was sympathy in the housekeeper’s voice. Unwilling to look directly at Mrs. Rivers, Philomena muttered “Thank you,” and closed the door in the housekeeper’s face.

Her fingers fumbled as she opened the letter. Dread filled her heart.

“Dearest Philomena,” it began. Hot blood rose to her cheeks. Her eyes ranged over the letter, too full of tears to read at first. Shaking, she sat on the settle before the fire, composed herself and read.

“Dearest Philomena,

I write in haste. I cannot explain myself. I can only offer my heartfelt apologies for my behaviour yesterday. If I misunderstood your feelings for me, I deeply regret my stupidity. If, as I pray, I did not, then I must find the cause for your rejection. My vanity will not allow me to believe that a simple dislike was at the root of such an action.

I will not burden you longer with my presence. I leave at once for Bristol, where I mean to find the relative who should, I believe, undertake your care. I pray that I may discover the reasons for your refusal of my hand, in learning more of your parentage and upbringing.

Perhaps I intrude where I have no right. Forgive me for this, my dear Philomena. I cannot continue in ignorance, and you tell me nothing. Perhaps with this step I may find a way to overcome the obstacles, unknown to me, that stand between us. Please believe that I will never force myself upon you. I have behaved inexcusably but will not do so again. When I return home in a few short days, I hope to bring with me a greater understanding of the reasons for your distress.

I can bear to waste no more time. I leave at once. Please know that I am now and will always remain,

Your most humble servant,

Hugh, Lord Thatcham.”

Philomena sank onto the chair, the letter clutched in her hands. Should she laugh or cry? One thought only rang through her head. He truly loves me. For a moment, she gave herself up to the joy of that knowledge. Her cheeks burned and tears prickled her eyes.

Slowly but surely, reality intruded to dull the edge of such unexpected joy. Hugh would find nothing in Bristol but more evidence of lies. Philomena had no connection there. Hugh would find that she was not the woman he believed her. Then, what would he imagine? Surely, his love could not survive yet more proof of her depraved character.