‘Quite a dashing young man, really,’ said Zita as they danced. ‘One would almost think you’d done this before. Do you think Kit’s getting jealous?’ She leaned in, and Tom felt her breath on his neck.

There was a thundering on the stairs, and Jack was there, filling the room with his presence. The music faltered and crackled. Sighing, Zita drew away from Tom. The old man glared. He seemed entirely different from the person that Tom had spoken to earlier in the day. There was something stronger here.

‘Thomas Swinton.’

‘Uncle?’

Jack came to the centre of the room, walking tensely, hands clenched. Then he deflated slightly, sighing, as if weighing up things in his mind, and once more he seemed the old man that Tom recognised. ‘I am sorry. I did not mean to be so harsh. But in the woods today you did something wrong. I felt it. Know that I will feel things.’

‘What did I do?’

‘The hare. You let the hare go.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He must have wanted it for the pot, thought Tom.

‘I’m very partial to a jugged hare. Delicious.’ It was as if Jack had read his mind, and Tom found himself feeling uneasy.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, uncertain whether he’d broken a rule of the household.

‘If it happens again – don’t let it get away. But for now I forgive you.’ He smiled once more. ‘Let us all drink!’ He went to the drinks table and, with a trembling hand, poured out four glasses of the dark port. ‘And let us dance!

The tension left the room, and Zita turned over the record on the player. The music started up again, and soon Tom and Zita were dancing again, round and round the table, whilst Jack tapped his feet and Kit lurked in the corner and glowered.

Chapter 8

21st April, 1846

There was a storm last night. When I looked out, I saw them riding through the dark. And I thought – he chose me. Of all the people in the village, in the county, in the whole of the world, he chose me.

— From the diary of Margaret Ravenswood

An hour or so had passed, with Kit leaning against the wall whittling something with his knife and Jack sitting quietly in the corner in his tattered armchair turning over the pages of a book, until Tom had almost forgotten that he was there.

It was now fully dark outside.

As Tom and Zita were searching for a new record, Jack suddenly said, ‘Kit.’

As if stung by a bee, Kit sprang upright. Tom put the record he was holding onto the player, setting it at a lower volume, and saw that Kit was trembling.

‘Nuncle … what be the matter?’

‘Kit … dost thou disobey me, boy?’

‘Nay, Master …’