Fanny cut in. ‘I have secured Mary a rather good grey, Ned. And, at my suggestion – I do think it good for our girls – she rides out, with Daniel of course, early most mornings.’ To the table: ‘My brother is quite an exceptional horseman, you know …’

The evening ended early – Sir Edward was tired. And for Mary, the night stretched eternal. The thought of that gentleman under her roof was hardly conducive to rest. Did the Mother say the Green Room? But that was just over the landing! So only two walls between them … She was up and dressed soon after eight.

‘You are better, then,’ Booker approved. ‘Will you look at that bloom?’

And well before nine, she was saddled up and quite ready. But where should she head?

At a loss for any other alternative, Mary innocently trotted towards the place where they had parted, all those long months ago. Coming now to the limits of the property, she slowed down at the hedgerow now heavy with dark fruit: looked over to the yew at the edge of the property.

And saw, from behind its great boughs, the dear person of Lord Byron emerge.

CHAPTER XXV

That autumn of 1825 was especially clement, as if the weather were blessing them, so that each day, before breakfast, Mary was able to ride out of the stables, cross the low fields still shrouded with mist, head for the high ground of the vast Kentish Downs and trust there to find a sharp, blue-golden morning, full sparkling with promise.

In the first week or two, she had taken good care to stick to the paths around the Knatchbull estate – the edge of the woods or the far side of the lake: the places where she might reasonably expect to be found, should someone come looking. But as that someone did come, every day – without failing her once – Mary grew ever more daring. Her routes became random, confusing: a puzzle to solve, the course of a hunt. But, though she might cast herself as the quarry, still – oh! – how she longed every day to be caught.

One Thursday, towards the close of October, Mary was halfway to Brabourne and beginning to worry that, this time, she might have gone just a little too far. But Ned Knight was a true sportsman and Lord Byron a fine hound. They would brook no defeat and suddenly – from a soundless approach – he was right there beside her, tilting his hat while the dog barked out their victory. Though she concealed it, joy flooded her breast; pleasure danced in his eyes, but he made no pretty speech. Instead, as they did every morning, both of them laughed: he at his triumph in finding her, she with the pleasure of being, once again, found.