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‘Beamish says it’s all over town that some young man called Freddie, although he wasn’t very complimentary in the words he used, is down from London with some wild friends. Who is Freddie? Does his family own the estate?’

‘I don’t know. I thought the house and land belonged to the Brabazon family. Perhaps he’s a son or grandson?’ She picked up her violin and began to walk with Lucie back to the house. ‘Beamish might know more. We haven’t met anyone from the estate since before our father died.’

A thought struck Sybella and she grabbed her sister’s arm. ‘Lucie, promise me you won’t trespass while this Freddie and his friends are here.’ Her voice was urgent. ‘Young men in their cups can be reckless, and rude. And they won’t know you for a gentlewoman, wearing a muddied dress like that and with smudges on your nose.’

‘Oh, Bella, you’re so sensible.’ The sisters had almost reached the kitchen door. ‘I’m longing for adventure.’

‘I know, my dear. But not that sort, I assure you!’ They laughed. ‘Anyway, I’ve written to Lady Godley and asked her to sponsor you this coming Season. As she’s your godmother and was a dear friend to our own mama while she lived, I hope she will be amenable.’

‘But how will we manage my clothes?’ Lucie was anguished.

‘We will do very well. I’ve been saving some money just for this occasion. We can go to that good modiste in Salisbury and get some evening dresses made. And we’re both clever with our fingers; no doubt we can refurbish some of my dresses, even use the fabric from a few of Mama’s, and add ribbons and flowers. Don’t worry about not having the right clothes.’

But Lucie was worried. She knew that their countrified ideas of what were becoming dresses would not be the same as the fashion of the haut ton in London, and she wanted to look truly up to snuff.

Sybella smiled sympathetically and slipped her arm round her sister’s waist. ‘You goose! Something you don’t appreciate, but I do, is that you are so very beautiful you could wear that faded blue muslin you like so much, and you’d still outshine them all.’ They both knew it was not quite simple but Lucy was consoled.

‘Now, I must rescue Nurse from James. I wonder where they are.’

‘Most likely down at the stables with George. You know that scamp can’t keep away.’

‘It’s wonderful he loves horses so much. Just like his father. But his language leaves much to be desired.’ Sybella walked into the sun towards the stable yard behind the house.

‘Mama! Mama!’ A small boy with an angelic face and blonde curls was running unsteadily towards her. ‘George say I can ’ave a pony. Say I’ll be good as Papa. A top—’ His brow wrinkled as he tried to remember the word he wanted. ‘A top-saw!’ he said triumphantly.

She laughed. ‘You mean a top-sawyer. But really that’s not a word for you to use.’

‘Well, George uses it,’ he said as he skipped uncertainly back to the stables.

George came out of the ancient barn, a tall loose-limbed man with a sunburnt face and a shock of red hair. He was wiping his hands on some straw as James cannoned into his legs.

‘What’s the hurry, Master Jim?’ He swung the boy into his arms.

‘I told Mama I’m ’aving a pony.’

‘Aye, ye did?’ George smiled at Sybella and put down her son. ‘He’s so good with the horses I thought it’s time he should learn to ride properly on his own nag.’

She frowned. ‘He’s so fearless – and reckless. I’m afraid of what he’ll do.’

‘I understand, Miss Bella, he’s too like his father. But I won’t give him his head until he has proved himself. I promise.’

‘I know, George. I trust you implicitly.’ Sybella’s face relaxed as she took her son’s grubby hand in hers and led him back to the house. Looking down at the small boy beside her, she noticed how untidy he looked. Only recently breeched, he was proud of his blue pantaloons but that did not mean he was careful not to muddy his knees or snag the cotton on a briar. The fine lawn shirt under his small jacket had a lace collar, now awry and with a sticky handprint on the front frill. She smiled at him, sometimes still disbelieving the good fortune that had given her this child. The late sun haloed her son’s fair hair with light as he chattered about what kind of pony he would like.

‘A bay one or p’rhaps a grey one like Papa’s Cato. Or like Kippio?’ He couldn’t yet say Scipio, the name of her horse, and looked up with an enquiring frown, but was undeterred. Her heart swelled with love for him. It was shadowed, however, by a sadness that she would never share this joy with his father.

Sybella only had two months of married life before her husband was recalled for service with his Hussar Regiment in the Peninsular War against Napoleon. That was the late summer of 1808. By the end of December, Captain Lovatt was wounded in the Battle of Sahagun. Bayonetted through the lung, his favourite horse shot from under him. George had been by the Captain’s side and told his wife of the terrible heroic defence the King’s Hussars had put up against the French cavalry. He accompanied him and the other wounded men on the nightmare journey home and eventually arrived at the Manor with the Captain’s body, his personal belongings and his violin.

That first winter brought days when Sybella was utterly bereft. ‘It is a pain that cannot be overcome,’ she had confided one evening to her sister soon after the burial, ‘the grief that it is George who knew him best. It was George, not me, beside him when he celebrated and when he suffered. It was George who was there as the man I love best in the world breathed his last. I cannot know anything more than the two happy months here with him. I could only know the domestic joys. Not the reality of my husband in his last agonies. That crushes my heart.’ It was the bleakest winter and the sisters were crouched together over the fire in the small sitting room. Stone-flagged floors and leaky windows further chilled their aching hearts.

Sybella knew that Lucie was stunned by her grief and silenced by the realisation there was nothing she could say to comfort her. The only consolation, however, was growing daily; the unborn child within her would embody for ever the brief love she had shared with her Captain. It was a promise their spirit would continue. Luckily, this precious being carrying all their hopes proved to have a tenacious hold on life. Lucie was by Sybella’s side as baby James slipped, red-faced and crying, into the world. She had been the one to put the swaddled child into her arms. A kind of blessing at last had descended on the house.

Sybella looked down at her son, now tugging at her skirt. ‘I want a boy pony ’cos I want a bruvver.’

‘Enough of “I want”, my lad!’ She swung him up onto her hip and carried him into the kitchen for supper.

‘I do. An’ call ’im Dasher.’

A week or so passed with no sign of the new inhabitants of Shotten Hall. The weather had turned wet and, to please her sister, Lucie had given up prowling round the woods. She had hoped the young man known only as Freddie might have come calling on the neighbours. Curious to know who was still in residence, she went in search of Beamish, the fount of all gossip in the neighbourhood, most of it from his friend, Martha, housekeeper for the Brabazon family up at the big house.