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‘Well, I can assure you I will not be that wife Mr Fopling intends.’

In a rush Charlotte continued, ‘You’ve been everything that a sister could be and I don’t want to lose you.’ Her words ended with a sharp intake of breath.

Leonora stopped playing and placed her hand on Charlotte’s, clasped tightly in her lap. ‘And you have been everything that a sister could be to me too. Nothing will alter that.’

Both young women sat together, their heads bowed, shoulders touching, Leonora’s loose bun of glossy chestnut brown contrasting with Charlotte’s fine fair hair, naturally straight and teased rather inexpertly into curls. They began to play, with hesitation at first and then more fluently, the balm of music calming their feelings. Soon they were swaying together, laughing at their mistakes.

Aware of a change in the atmosphere, they both looked up to see George Lockwood’s large frame leaning against the door jamb. He was watching them, a smile on his face. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt you.’ His light brown hair was in natural disarray, so different from the pomaded dishevelment of dandy fashion, and it suited him greatly, as did the informality of his loosely tied neckcloth. ‘I think I’ll go back to the field where I hope to plant the trees. Have to check the lie of the land. I’ll be back for dinner.’

Leonora awoke the next morning to the sound of rain. It was soft and light but enough to make the climbing rose round her bedroom window rustle and sigh. She lay in her bed listening to the sounds of birdsong in the garden beyond. The creaking wings of the pair of swans added their own rhythm when they took off from the river and flew overhead. The rain made her feel cosy, enveloped as she was in a feather bed and a mound of bedclothes. This had been her room since childhood and Leonora loved the sprigged wallpaper of buff and pink flowers, unchanged in all these years.

She rose, washed, and dressed for the chilly day, pulling on for extra warmth a fur-trimmed woollen spencer over her morning dress. She was aware that Mr Fopling was due in the afternoon and felt shamefaced at knowing little about him, despite his being the curate in the village for three years. His manner was so quiet and unassuming that he was easily effaced by the crass bonhomie of his father, Sir Roderick, or the more obvious charm of virtually everyone else in the room. But on the few occasions when Richard Fopling had spoken, Leonora was surprised by how beguiling his meditative view of the world was.

She hurried through breakfast. Mr Lockwood was already out, making the most of his last full day before returning to Oxfordshire, and Mrs Priddy was busy with Cook planning the week’s menus, so Leonora settled down with her old friend, the piano-forte. Exploring the repertoire for her musical evening was a welcome distraction that even reading her current novel could not supply.

Realising how quickly time had flown and that the hour of three approached, Leonora ran upstairs to put on her afternoon dress of pale primrose cambric with long tucked sleeves. She flung her best India shawl over her shoulders, slipped her feet into pale pumps and paused for a moment to gaze at her reflection in the looking glass. She had always liked her face, not pretty like Charlotte’s but handsome with an elegant nose, and distinguished by large intelligent eyes and a wide mouth expressive of her wit and warmth. Her hair was her best feature, waving round her face and luxurious enough to fashion into a number of flattering styles without much effort or expertise from her or her maid. She had not the time now to brush it out and redo it but replaced her combs in an attempt to look passably tidy.

Glancing out the window at the rain that had begun to fall again, Leonora was surprised to see Richard Fopling standing under the maple tree, listening to the resident blackbird’s mellifluous song. Even without an umbrella, he seemed oblivious to the weather. She called to Nanny P to chaperone her as she descended the stairs and hurried to the front door to open it herself. Mr Fopling turned from his rapt attention and, seeing her, tipped his hat. ‘Miss Appleby, each little bird sings in its own Latin.’

‘That is a nice conceit, sir.’

‘It is indeed, but not mine, I confess. I have been reading the great poetry of William of Aquitaine.’ He stood on the doorstep, in no hurry to come in from the wet. ‘What a blessing, this rain.’ He looked up, even as it fell on his face. ‘You can almost hear the earth cleave as the tree roots stretch ever outwards.’

‘Mr Fopling, your hat and coat are drenched!’ Mrs Priddy took his redingote and hat to hang by the range in the kitchen while Leonora led him through to the drawing room.

‘Can I offer you any refreshment?’ she asked as she gestured to the chair by the fire. He shook his head as he sat down, crossing his legs. Leonora perched on the edge of the seat opposite just as Mrs Priddy entered the room to take the window seat, her book in her hand.

Richard Fopling met Leonora’s eyes, his face made lively with the cold and the rain still on his cheek. ‘Miss Appleby, I have admired you ever since I first met you. Your kindness to the Reverend and his family flows as a constant spring which far surpasses the measured offerings of others.’

This disarmed Leonora. He had obviously paid more attention to her than she had to him, and it touched her heart. ‘I thank you. It is no hardship to care about them, as you can imagine.’

‘I watched the pair of swans fly over the Manor this morning. High, just below the clouds, they seemed like two angels streaming across the sky, their wings outstretched, in perfect synchrony.’

The curate looked towards the window and Leonora saw Nanny P glance at her, a puzzled expression on her face. Leonora thought it fell to her to respond. ‘I heard them pass over the roofs this morning. I wondered if it was the young ones forced to leave and claim their own piece of river.’

Richard Fopling’s grave regard alighted on her face once more. ‘I have been offered the parish at Wetherleigh. The vicarage is prodigious fine with many rooms. The parish too has souls hungry for the kindest touch…’ His voice trailed off.

Leonora came to his aid and said, ‘Wetherleigh village is upstream from here, is it not? I wonder if the swans were headed there.’

‘You are perceptive, Miss Appleby. I did identify with them, ’tis true.’ He took a breath and continued in a voice quiet with emotion, ‘But they were a pair. I have known loneliness. I have known disregard, but with God as my guide and a wife beside me I believe I can make a difference in this world.’ His refined symmetrical face softened with a tentative smile as he leant forward to take her hand. ‘There are angels who visit us, if we have an open heart to receive them.’ His fingers held hers with a lightness of touch that tingled.

Leonora’s heart was beating faster; how to turn him down without hurting his fragile sense of self? She was touched by his poetic sensibility and did not wish to trample on his feelings. Luckily, a more robust individual was about to intervene. The door swung open with a crash and both looked up, startled to see George Lockwood, his hair wet and wild from the blustery rain, still wearing his muddy boots, a thunderous expression on his face. ‘That damned dog!’

Both Leonora and Richard Fopling disentangled their hands as they sprang to their feet. ‘Which dog?’ Leonora came towards him with concern.

‘The damned Earl’s great hairy hound!’

The curate gasped in disapproval at his swearing and Mr Lockwood coloured.

‘My apologies, ladies, Curate Fopling, for my intemperate language, but that dog is a menace.’

‘What happened?’ Leonora took his arm, her voice urgent.

‘Our herd of red deer was grazing peaceably under the copse of oak when suddenly that infernal cur burst out of the woodland that separates our land from the Abbey’s!’

‘None were mauled?’ Leonora’s face was drawn as she wondered whether she should get the gun used to despatch any grievously wounded animal.

‘No. They scattered in fright and that galumphing hound appeared to want to chase rather than kill. But fright can kill a deer.’