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A curse escaped his lips as he called for his valet. ‘My riding clothes! I’m going out of Town for a few days.’ He extracted some writing paper from a drawer in the bureau and sat to quickly pen a couple of notes. ‘And could you tell the stables to saddle Hades. I’ll ride him down over two days. Stay at the Bear overnight. They keep me a room there. Before you ask, I don’t need John to accompany me.’ His melancholic languor had been replaced by a brisk determination. Within an hour, he had swung himself into the saddle and started on his journey west.

It was late afternoon and Sybella had just finished encouraging James with his breathing exercises. ‘I think you’re doing so well. Does it still hurt?’

James shook his head. ‘Can I run again?’

‘No running yet, but you can walk quickly. But take care. You don’t want to bang your side, you know.’ He set off walking as fast as his short legs would carry him towards the stables and Sybella caught up with him. ‘Let’s find George first. I don’t want you to get injured again.’

They walked hand in hand towards the office, where George was deep in estate accounts. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you but when you are ready, could you take James to the stables to see Dasher? I don’t want him to risk getting bumped while his rib is still fragile.’

‘Of course, young Jim. Sit at my desk, here’s some paper. You can draw me a horse while I finish my work. Then we’ll go together to see Dasher.’

‘Draw Hades and Scipio,’ he said with conviction, picking up a black pencil.

‘George, I’m off to the orchard. I haven’t seen the bees for a few days and it’s turned thundery. I know they don’t like that.’

‘Are you going to play to them?’

‘I think I might.’ Sybella picked up her violin and stepped into the late afternoon light, treading over the springy grass as she walked towards the skeps. The bees were busy and she stood and watched them flying, agitated in the still and heavy air. She gazed up at the sky. There was a bank of dark cloud approaching and the light had that eerie brilliance before the storm. Lifting her violin, Sybella began to play.

It was late in the afternoon when Mr Brabazon on Hades left the Bath Road just beyond Hungerford and trotted down the lane that led to his estate and the Manor beyond. He looked up at a threatening sky, the cumulus clouds building dark and looming overhead: thunder was in the air and even the birds were silent in the hedgerows, expecting the storm to come. Man and horse were weary, but there was an urgency in the tension of the rider’s body, leaning forward, urging his steed on. They passed the entrance to the Hall and rode on to the stone pillars that marked the drive to the Manor. By now, Mr Brabazon knew this well. He trotted up to the ancient house, dreaming in its surrounding meadow, and rode round to the stables to dismount.

Gem emerged from a stable and, recognising the handsome horse and rider, his face lit up with a smile. ‘I’m glad to see you, sir.’ He tipped his cap and took the reins. ‘Damn-me! You’ve been riding all day. Don’t worry, I’ll rub him down and see him right for you.’

‘Thank you, Gem.’ Mr Brabazon lifted his head and could hear the violin’s notes once more floating in the air. ‘Don’t trouble to announce me. I know where to find Mrs Lovatt.’ He met Gem’s smile with his own as he handed him his hat. Strolling towards the orchard, he was drawn irresistibly by the beauty of the music. ‘Like Odysseus going willingly to his fate,’ he murmured under his breath. He walked on through the apple trees, struck by the murmur of the aphrodisiac air, with butterflies lazily fluttering from foxglove to borage to comfrey. Through it all, the melody wove its sinuous way like a gold thread through tapestry.

Underfoot, the grass was coiled with its own energy, the tiny apples on the trees growing almost visibly in the heat of early summer: the orchard seemed to be pulsating with a life force that quickened every living creature in its compass. Mr Brabazon was not immune. A primal energy rose through his feet and filled his being. The past was cast off like an old skin and the here, the now, the present moment was all there was. Becoming lighter as he penetrated deeper through the trees, he walked on, led by the ribbon of sound to her. There, at last, he found the keeper of his heart.

Sybella’s figure was haloed in the chrome-yellow light of the coming storm. She had her back to him, her arms raised, her lovely face inclined towards her violin, swaying as she played. She seemed utterly unselfconscious, at ease in her faded blue dress, her dark hair loosely piled on her head and tumbling half-undone. He had been here before but no longer was he intruding on something intensely private. This was familiar, this woman was familiar: here, the only place he wanted to be and she, the only person he truly needed for happiness. Sybella stopped playing in mid-song and turned. Their eyes met across the vibrating air.

Her heart had already started on its wild beating. She had felt the charged atmosphere change and had known it would be him. For a while, she had played on, barely breathing, afraid of breaking the transcendence of the moment. She knew his eyes were watching her, his ears attuned as were hers to the sublime harmonies of the day. The thunderous air was bright and electric; she could bear the tension no longer. She turned to see him standing there as she had hoped, so dark and tall and imposing in the midst of such abundant greenness and the force of irresistible life. Sybella paused, breathed deep then saluted him with her bow, and returned to the melody at the point she had left off.

Mr Brabazon walked quietly up behind her and slipped his arms slowly round her waist. She played to the end then dropped her arms and leaned back against him in the intimacy of recognition and acceptance. They stood like that, their hearts beating in unison, their breathing seeming as one, and in that exalted moment, time was suspended.

He gently took the violin and bow out of her hands and placed them on an old tree stump. She turned and gazed up at him, surprised at his travel-worn appearance, his hair wind-blown and unruly, the smooth column of his neck emerging from the loosened folds of his cravat, the colour high on his cheekbones, his eyes brilliant and intense. She said softly, ‘You’re still in your riding clothes. Surely you haven’t come directly here?’

‘I’ve waited too long for you, Mrs Lovatt, to delay another minute.’ His voice cracked as he took her hands and drew her to him. Her face was upturned, her eyes brimming with emotion. He bent his head and kissed her gently on the lips. Sybella reached up on tiptoe and slid her arms round his neck. Pressing her soft body against his chest, she kissed him with an urgency and passion he met with his own pent-up desire. In his arms at last, she felt this was where she now belonged. The warm pressure of his lips, the outdoor smell of him, the sense of his broad shoulders encircling her, the flame of passion that burned between them, the strength of his arms that bound them together: she did not want this ecstasy to end.

‘What took you so long, Mr Brabazon?’ she murmured against his chest.

‘Pride and fear. I did not think I could ever love again.’ His grey eyes had softened to a grey-blue, his travel-weary face had cast off the years of disappointment and loss. He looked down at Sybella, whose beauty was incandescent in the stormy light.

She met his eyes with a touching candour. ‘I settled for a life without the kind of love I had lost. But then I met you.’

He tilted her chin up to meet his lips and kissed her again with fervour. ‘Is this something you should be telling your bees?’ he murmured into her hair.

‘Oh, they already know.’ There was a catch in her voice as happiness welled in her breast. They held each other close, not wishing to break the orchard’s spell.

The sky had turned a dramatic ink-black and a rumble of thunder rent the still air. A few great drops of rain fell randomly, splashing on their shoulders and faces. As they walked hurriedly towards the house, James and George emerged from the stables. Full of excitement, the small tot was walking as fast as he could towards them, carrying his drawing. ‘Mr B, I patted ’ades. I love ’im. But I love Dasher more. My bruvver.’ He grabbed Mr Brabazon’s coat and showed him the scribbled image of a dark horse.

Sybella took James’s hand and shepherded him towards the kitchen door. ‘That’s a good drawing, dearest. It’s started to rain, come quickly into the house.’

George strode forward, smiling broadly, and offered his hand to Mr Brabazon in a strong handshake. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’ He looked from his face to Sybella’s and that told him all he needed to know. He disappeared into his office, chuckling, and James went in search of Nurse and supper.

In the privacy of the kitchen hallway, Mr Brabazon held Sybella back. He slipped an arm around her waist to pull her tight against his hip and whispered in her ear, ‘I don’t think horses make ideal siblings, do you? Perhaps, instead, we should give James a real brother or sister, don’t you agree?’

‘What, now?’ she asked in amused alarm, her cheeks colouring and a shiver of long-forgotten desire pricking her spine.

‘Not exactly here and now. Though I’d be more than willing to oblige.’ He laughed softly. ‘But soon.’ He then turned serious. ‘Mrs Lovatt, will you do me the honour of giving me your hand in marriage? To have and to hold, for better and for worse.’