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estate after breakfast, even the Duchess who would usually have kept to her rooms until mid-day. For much of the time, Phoebe was content to maintain a noticeable reserve towards Sir Leo while Elizabeth and Katherine accompanied him and, to her relief, he seemed content to have it so, leaving her to converse with the Duke and Duchess, her ladies, the chaplain and the estate steward. Showing the two young ladies some basic haute ecole moves, Sir Leo made them more in love with him than ever. But Phoebe refused to join in the laughing lessons, penalising herself, wondering whether this self-inflicted emptiness was the reason why hate had found a secure place in her heart. Perhaps, as he’d said, it was time matters were put straight between them, just for the record. The weather-vane veered again. No, she would find an excuse to leave early. She did not want a confrontation that would surely bring back all those grievous memories. She did not want another dose of this man’s scorn, even though he’d said he didn’t dislike her. To dislike, he would have to think deeply about the reasons, and, judging by his laughter with Elizabeth and her sister, she herself was not deeply in his thoughts. She would have to go. To spend more time in his company would be unbearable.
    She watched how he rode his massive dapple-grey Andalusian stallion so effortlessly, straight-backed and graceful, his hands light on the reins, his signals imperceptible. She saw how his hand stroked softly down the curve of the horse’s neck and she turned her head away, her mouth dry, her heart behaving very strangely. Yes, she would have to return home.

    Dinner with the Lauderdales was taken at two o’clock, and although the exercise had given them appetites, Phoebe could eat only sparingly while her emotions were so unsettled. Her forced attempts at lightness were difficult to maintain with Sir Leo sitting opposite. It was a family affair, taken in the new dining room with the Duchess’s sister joining them for once—a dear lady in her forties who was usually unwell and kept to her rooms. Fortunately, due to the gossip that surrounded all the King’s ministers, Phoebe had heard about the Duke’s unorthodox table manners, which, while not disturbing his wife in any way, caused some restrained amusement elsewhere, especially amongst his stepdaughters. The two-pronged fork with the ivory handle, which the Duchess had introduced to Ham House, he used to scratch his head—through his wig—and for picking his teeth rather than for eating. The Duke’s knowledge of etiquette might not be of the best, Phoebe thought, but his devoted manner towards his second wife was something she herself would not have grumbled at from the man she loved. The Duke was also a brilliant scholar, with one of the sharpest minds at Court, fluent in several languages, some of them ancient.
    She was too well bred to exclude Sir Leo entirely from her contributions to the conversation, but the experience still left her feeling hypocritcal and annoyed by her own inability to move on.

    After the meal, she went to her room to rest, but soon exchanged that bolt-hole for a different one in the garden where no one would find her. Passing through a doorway in the mellow brick wall, she came to the vegetable garden, a huge walled place filled with green textures, earthy aromas and the zesty tang of oranges from the open doors of the Orangery behind her. The long room was lit and warmed by a row of windows, the space almost filled by regiments of square boxes from which sprouted the slender stems of orange and lemon trees and not a weed could be seen. A seat had been set at the far end, a perfect place for her to sit and reflect upon her intentions.
    A gardener entered, doffed his hat, and went out again. Every now and then, one of them would pass the windows and disappear, so when another man entered, she kept her eyes closed to breathe in the warm moist perfume and to savour the peace. A