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Sybella’s tiredness finally claimed her. Relinquishing the responsibility for the journey to Mr Brabazon meant she could relax at last. James was free of pain and snoozing peacefully. The comfort of the carriage and the smooth rocking movement lulled her into a blissful, drifting sleep. Every time she awoke, she saw the black glossy flank of Hades with Mr Brabazon upon his back trotting alongside. At some point, that black flank turned to the dappled grey of Poseidon. To have an accompanying outrider was a comforting sight; for it to be the one man considered a nonpareil of horsemen, a Corinthian of the sporting nobility, added to her sense of security. When they stopped at the posting inns to change horses, Mr Brabazon, increasingly dusty from the road, came to the window and asked if there was anything they needed. But that was all she saw of him. A certain distance and froideur was now in place that seemed to separate them by continents, even though he rode within arm’s reach.

Lady Godley had asked her cook to pack a basket of bread and cheese and cold meats and the occupants of the carriage were sustained with this. As the afternoon light turned to dusk, Sybella and James sang the lullabies and country songs he was used to. They sang through the uncontroversial ‘Lavender’s Blue’ and ‘Scarborough Fair’ and then, in a lull, James remembered a song he had heard in the stables at home. ‘Can we sing “Maid of Am’terdam”?’ and he started on the chorus, which was jolly: Sybella knew it well. ‘I’ll go no more a’rovin, a’rovin, a’rovin, I’ll go no more a’rovin with you young maid, since ’rovin’s been my r-u-i-n.’ He was laughing for the first time in a week and although he winced a little, Sybella thought this must mean he was healing faster than she had hoped.

It was night by the time the carriage turned in through the gates of the Manor and Sybella saw her old home for the first time in four months. There were lamps at some of the windows and the house had a welcoming warm glow. She almost sobbed with relief. John looked immensely weary as he stiffly dismounted and opened the carriage door. Mr Brabazon swung out of the saddle to the ground. His face was shadowed by tiredness and dust, and he offered his hand to Sybella, and then Nurse, and reached in to lift the sleeping James. He carried him into the house and, led by Nurse, straight upstairs to his own bed.

Beamish had opened the door to them and his old grey face lit up at the sight of the fatigued party who had returned home at last. The house would come alive again. Mary bustled from the kitchens to enquire about any repast she could provide and George came out of the office to grasp Sybella by the hand. ‘’Tis good to see you, Miss Bella!’ he said gruffly. ‘I hear Master James is mending well. We’ll soon have him back to his whippersnapper ways.’

‘Not so fast, George.’ Sybella smiled wanly. ‘He has to learn to be a little less headlong and reckless.’

‘Of course.’

As George saw Mr Brabazon descend the stairs, he turned to greet him with a hearty handshake. ‘I’m glad you brought them home, sir. When trouble comes a-calling, it’s where we best belong.’ He walked to the front door and looked out on the chaise and four and whistled through his teeth in appreciation. ‘A very smart equipage too. And your horses!’

Mr Brabazon smiled despite his fatigue. ‘Yes. Young James thought you’d like to see ’em. These are not the tip-top bays we started with. Those impressed the young master. But these are still my horses and pretty fine, I admit.’

‘So you stable your own horses at the posting inns?’ George’s eyes appraised him with admiration. This was a luxury few could afford.

‘Excuse me, gentlemen, I must see to James.’ Sybella interrupted this masculine conversation impatiently. She turned to Mr Brabazon, polite and cool. ‘Sir, my thanks for your generosity in conveying us home in such comfort.’ He bowed over her hand, his tired eyes showing little emotion but as she swept up the stairs, George’s gaze met his with a quizzical look.

‘Mrs Lovatt blames me for James’s accident. And I’m afraid she’s right. I was driving too fast. I couldn’t pull them up in time.’

George indicated the door to the library. ‘Would you like a brandy, sir?’

‘I would, but no, thank you. I think I should wait ’til I get to the Hall. My groom is dead on his feet and the horses need feeding and watering.’

‘And Miss Sybella may not be pleased to see you still here?’ George’s knowing grin made Mr Brabazon smile.

‘I fear not. I don’t want to disappoint her further.’

As the men walked to the front door, George asked, ‘How long are ye at the Hall?’

‘Only a day or two. I have business to conduct. The new windmill, you know.’

‘Ah, yes, I was up there yesterday. Work is progressing well. When might you be back?’

Mr Brabazon seemed deep in disconsolate thought and when he looked up, the emotion and tiredness was etched on his ashen face. ‘Perhaps not until the Season is over.’ Then, shrugging on his armour of grim fortitude, he grasped George’s hand in farewell and strode out to his horse and groom, waiting in the dark. The carriage trundled off with Mr Brabazon mounted on Poseidon leading the short ride back to his estate.

Day after day of glorious sun restored James and Sybella to glowing good health. Sybella was delighted with the rate of growth of her crops and the vigour of her bees. She had gathered the comfrey, chopped it fine and made daily hot poultices mixed with her own thick honey, waxy with honeycomb, to apply to James’s side. She was playing her violin daily to the bees and for her own and James’s pleasure, gratified with how much more skilled she had become. But something had changed, and she could not recapture her previous contentment with her simple life.

She had dealt with the searing heart-sorrow of loss by concentrating on her son and the family estate that demanded her care. But now the Season in London had exposed her to her other self. The protective shield that had grown across her heart had been cracked open and her longing for something bigger and more exultant consumed her thoughts in idleness. She filled her days with busyness but in the evening, with James in bed and sleeping, her mind wandered back to the experiences of the last four months; to the libertine Lord Rockliffe, to Mr Brabazon, both of whom reminded her of something she had lost long ago and thought had gone for ever. Valentine Ravenell had said she and Lucie had taught him about love. She feared that she herself had forgotten. It was painful to be reminded of what it was to be desired, to love and risk one’s heart in return: just these stirrings of memory had awoken her to the necessity of what she had too long denied.

One night soon after her return, Sybella withdrew the linen bag of letters she kept under her pillow and began to read them again. Ever since her husband had been recalled to his regiment, she had lived for his letters. They had arrived intermittently, full of the male camaraderie of army life, the heart-stopping fear and thrill of engagement and a passionate longing for her:

I am pierced through with my need of you. My arms ache to enfold you. My lips long to murmur softly lip to lip, as our bodies meet in poignant rapture. Flame on flame, and deep on deep.

Oh! The pain of memory as she read. A dry sob escaped her. She was almost breathless with the cruelty of it all. She did not even know if he had received her last letter telling him she thought they were to have a child.

Sybella carefully folded the letters and put them back in the linen bag she had sewn for them. But she did not replace them under her pillow where they had lain for nearly four years. Instead, she laid them carefully in the bottom drawer of her dressing table. Life had its own inexorable momentum. Like a river, it had to flow ever onwards and love, like life, could not be resisted for long. Eventually it would find its way. As Sybella closed the drawer, she was struck with an overwhelming longing to replace this loss, not with something better but different and nourishing to her body, her heart, her soul. And this longing coalesced around a tall gallant figure on a beautiful black horse whose presence excited and consoled her, but whom she feared her pride had sent away.

In London, Lucie and Freddie Lynwood had been given his guardian’s blessing for their betrothal. Mr Brabazon had also told them he intended to settle a fifth of his fortune on his ward, including his Vernham estate just half an hour’s ride from the Manor. To their amazement, the gift was given without condition. He had added with a wry smile that Lord Lynwood was free to gamble his fortune away, if he so chose. He had noted, however, the steadying effect of Lucie in his ward’s life.

Indeed, the gaming hells already missed the handsome lord with his reckless play, the birds of paradise and opera dancers pouted in vain from the stage and were disappointed not to see him and his friends laughing in the foyer at Covent Garden. Instead, he and Lord Ravenell were more often to be found at home in Green Street with Lucie and Lady Godley, playing cards and singing round the piano-forte or dancing reels while Lady Godley played.

But the roles had been reversed. While his ward lived a life of recent sobriety, Mr Brabazon seemed to have disappeared into his own private hell. Lord Lynwood told his friends he was concerned that his guardian was drinking heavily. He was a man who prided himself on his control and discretion and when Freddie Lynwood visited him one night in his mansion in Grosvenor Square, the young man was shocked to find him more than a little foxed, although no one who did not know Anthony Brabazon well would have recognised the symptoms. The slightly glazed look in his grey eyes, the less than symmetrical cravat, the disordered hair made it clear to Lord Lynwood that his guardian was drinking, and drinking deep.

The three friends had set out together to the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden to see a raucous production of The Woodman and in the interval had been surprised to see Mr Brabazon, his face a mask of indifference, escorting a different lady friend. ‘Freddie, look at that! I thought Ant had given up his Cyprians. I don’t recognise this one. Not his usual style. He doesn’t look like he’s in merry grig. What’s his game?’ Valentine Ravenell had prodded his friend in the side as they scrutinised the surging throng from their theatre box.

‘I never thought I’d say this, but I’m worried about him, Val. He seems so out of heart. Most nights, he’s more than a trifle disguised, though he’s skilled at hiding it. He’ll be in his club, losing money as if he wants to cast his life away. Now, I know he doesn’t gamble unless he can win. He hates to lose anything. He dislikes incontinence of any kind. But he doesn’t seem to care any more.’ Lord Lynwood was leaning against the wall of the box, watching his guardian thread his way through the crowd with this ripe beauty on his arm.