I felt a sharp blow below my breastbone as though all the air had been sucked out of me. I knew exactly what Muriel was intimating. Jealous of her husband’s visits to Robert and Catherine’s home, she was stirring up trouble in the most malicious of ways.

Before she could make her insinuations any clearer, however, William, unexpectedly, came to Catherine’s aid.

“I do not think the Tresham family can lay claim to being the only ones to inherit this particular eye color,” he said blandly. “Rare as it may be, I have heard of other cases.”

“Have you?” Muriel sounded shrewish. “Have you ever seen anyone who has it, other than in my husband’s family? I think not!”

William looked confused at her vehemence. He, unlike me, had not caught the specific nature of her accusation. And then she made it clear:

“Both my husband and my sons have been frequent visitors to this house, have they not?”

Catherine burst into noisy tears. In that moment the door opened and Thomas came in, followed by Robert, looking buoyant and happy, a smile on his lips, bringing with him the scent of cold winter air. The smile died as he took in Catherine’s weeping and his gaze turned to me, as though suspecting me of upsetting her, before he hurried across to her side, knelt down and took her hand in his.

“Sweeting—” He folded her close. “What can have distressed you so?”

Catherine’s reply, smothered by his doublet, was fortunately unintelligible.

“It is a misunderstanding only,” I said swiftly, stepping hard on Muriel’s foot when she opened her mouth to contradict me. “Your aunt spoke out of turn and I counsel her now—” I pressed harder “—to think very carefully before she says another word.”

Robert and Thomas both looked baffled. Muriel glared furiously at me, then, with an angry flounce, thrust the baby at his mother and darted from the room. I followed her. She was positively running now, down the screen passage, her footsteps slapping angrily on the flagstones, and out into the knot garden.

“What the devil do you think you are at?” I cornered her at the end of the terrace, amidst the winter thyme and sorrel, too angry to even think of discretion or notice the sudden cold. “What possible reason could you have for such patently false and hurtful accusations against Catherine?”

“They are not false!” I saw the depths of her misery and hatred reflected in her eyes and it shook me to the core. When she had written of her resentment at Thomas’s visits to Knightstone, I had not suspected how deep it had cut.

“That girl is a hussy,” she said, “a flirt, always smiling on my husband—and my sons for that matter—smiles and more for all the gentlemen!” Her mouth twisted. “Those eyes! Whatever you or William say, I know the babe is a Tresham. He is the image of Thomas.”

“You speak utter nonsense,” I said. “He is the image of Robert! And Catherine smiles because she is happy and kind, or she was until you poured your bile on her. How could you speak in such a way to such a gentle girl?” I was shaking with fury. “How could you accuse her of such a crime, though whether it is sleeping with your husband or your sons—or both—I am not clear, though either way it is madness!” I flung out a hand. “Can you not see that Catherine and Robert are devoted to one another? She has been the saving of him, and if you have ruined that through your spite, very likely I will kill you myself!”