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‘I’m not sure he was telling the truth about the Earl’s return. I’d heard from Reverend Mildmay that the younger Rokeby brother had been killed too, or at least so badly wounded he could not survive. Nobody in Hasterleigh knew anything about this Rokeby heir, or even whether he lived.’

‘Well, it seems he’s back.’

* * *

In the next few days, the weather turned wet and stormy, and Leonora started to pack her books and treasures into a collection of old trunks which had been brought down from the attics.

In his letter, Mr Lockwood had suggested that she could live in the Lodge, a smaller house on what was now his land, until she married and set up her own establishment.

She began to wrap the portrait of her mother, who had died at the age of twenty-seven – Leonora’s age now – and gazed into the blue eyes, large and full of sparkling life.

It saddened her to think how little she knew of her, how little she remembered.

There were other people’s words: Oh, what a beauty Mrs Appleby was!

and then often in an aside, how her young daughter looked more like her father, with her hazel eyes and russet-coloured hair.

Leonora was denied even the feeling of connection in knowing she shared her mother’s character and looks.

Instead, her mother remained this angelic blue-eyed figure in memory, unknowable, unreachable.

A pang clutched at Leonora’s heart. How altered her world would have been if her mother had lived, and how livelier the Manor with perhaps a brother or sister too to rattle around its empty rooms, playing hide-and-seek.

She sat on her bed, pensive as she finished wrapping the portrait; if her own Captain Worth had not been killed two years before at Fuengirola then she would be married by now, perhaps with her own family, and the loss of this house would matter less.

There was a knock at the door and Charlotte appeared. ‘Can I come in?’ Her bright eyes alighted on the half-wrapped painting. ‘I love that portrait of your mother. You are lucky to understand just where you’ve come from.’ She sat heavily on the bed beside Leonora.

‘I wish she were still alive. She died before I really knew her. When she was still just Mama.’

‘But at least you have a memory of family, and knowledge of where you belong on your ancestral tree. I feel like a piece of thistledown blown by the wind, with no sense of what I am or from where I’ve come.’

Leonora stood up. ‘Enough gloomy talk. We are both young.’ When Charlotte laughed, she continued: ‘Well, you at least are young; I am a spinster of this parish at twenty-seven, but I have my music, I have you, and Nanny P, and the rest of the village to care about.’

‘Oh, Leonora. What a difference it would have made if you had a brother to inherit, then you could have stayed and life would have continued in contentment.’

Leonora caught sight of herself in the looking glass and was shocked at how doleful she appeared.

Her hands flew to her cheeks. She was not conventionally beautiful despite the attractive symmetry of her features.

She had fine skin and waves of auburn hair that had made Captain Worth call her his wild Irish beauty, but now he was gone and her radiance with him, would she only ever be the unremarkable daughter of a tragic and beautiful mother?

Charlotte reached out to touch her arm. ‘Is anything the matter?’

Leonora straightened her back and forced a smile.

This was not how she liked to think of herself at all.

She was proud of her brave approach to life and optimistic turn of mind.

‘We have our health, good looks and warm hearts, there is no reason for either of us to be downcast.’ But she still felt in the shadow of a dream she’d had the previous night when she had heard her Captain’s voice calling Leonora!

Leonora! She had woken suddenly, with a sob, knowing she would never see William Worth’s smiling eyes again, or hear that soft Irish brogue call her name.

Charlotte returned to the Vicarage through the garden and Leonora went in search of her old nursemaid, Peg Priddy, whose calm, philosophic approach to life was soothing to every soul she encountered.

She found her in the kitchen, a floury apron round her ample waist, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, kneading pastry in a large earthenware bowl.

‘Nanny P! I thought you’d be quilting in the morning room, but here you are taking over Cook’s work. ’ She laughed.

At the sound of Leonora’s voice, Mrs Priddy turned her rosy face to her.

She was in her fifties, with a comfortable bosom that was too exuberant for unstructured modern fashions, so she favoured the more upholstered style of her youth.

‘Oh, Nora my love, I’m making an apple pie.

Cook’s run off her trotters preparing dishes for Mr Lockwood tomorrow. ’

Leonora hugged her.

‘Don’t get too close, my dear, I don’t want flour on your pretty gown.’

Subsiding onto a kitchen chair, Leonora asked, ‘So what can I do to help?’

She looked up to see Mrs Priddy’s blue eyes fixed on her face.

Nothing much missed her regard but she did not choose to query Leonora’s subdued demeanour.

‘If you could collect some more windfalls from the orchard, that would save me the trouble. After this bad weather, there’ll be drifts of apples in the grass.

And bring me what blackberries you can find. ’

‘Of course. I’ll be back in a minute for a basket.’ Leonora ran upstairs to collect her walking boots and threw on her workaday pelisse of green linen with a hood, should the heavens decide to open once more. She whisked into the kitchen and collected a basket from the cupboard.

‘Select the blush Bramleys if you can. They’re the best for cooking,’ Nanny Priddy called after Leonora who headed down the flagged kitchen corridor to the back door.

* * *

The Manor orchard was famous in the neighbourhood for the variety of apples, cherries and pears that flourished on its favourable site within old stone walls on the edge of a south-facing escarpment.

It was a long-standing tradition inaugurated by Leonora’s great-grandfather that everyone in the village could help themselves to the windfalls and, for as long as anyone could remember, the farmer at Manor Farm grazed his sheep under the trees to keep the grass cropped close.

The storms had indeed brought down swathes of apples, and Leonora collected all the big Bramleys which had not been half-gnawed by sheep or mice, or hollowed out by slugs.

Just being in the orchard, with the blackbirds singing and the bees busy in the foxgloves and clover, never failed to lift her spirits.

There were fat blackberries too and she made a makeshift container in the basket with dock leaves.

With a lightened heart, Leonora began her short walk home, the basket heavy against her hip.

She was concentrating on avoiding the mud when she heard the rattle of a coach being driven too fast for the rutted road.

She glanced behind her and a smart black carriage pulled by a team of four black horses flashed past, straight through an enormous puddle, splattering sludge up her pelisse.

‘Oh no!’ she cried, watching with dismay the trails of mud dripping down her skirts.

She looked up to see that the chaise had been brought to an abrupt halt, the horses whinnying and stamping, their breaths like puffs of smoke.

Walking alongside the carriage, Leonora saw the blind at the window roll up and found herself staring into the face of an enormous hairy hound.

She stepped back with a gasp. A man’s voice drawled from the dim interior.

‘No need to be frightened, you know, Achille is only of danger if you’re a wolf. ’

Leonora was indignant. ‘I’m not frightened of him. Only surprised!’

The voice continued with an amused languor. ‘Tell me, Miss Green-Coat, do you live in the village?’

Leonora was astonished by the lack of an apology for the muddied state of her clothes.

She gazed past the hound and into the interior where a man slouched in the farther seat, his curly-brimmed hat pulled low on his brow and a black patch over his left eye.

Her chin went up and she answered in a crisp voice, ‘I do. And my name is Leonora Appleby.’

With a supercilious air he replied, ‘Well, Miss Appleby, can you tell me if there is anyone in the vicinity who can tune a piano-forte?’

She was taken aback by the request. Tuning a piano-forte was a complicated procedure, but she had learnt to do it in order to keep her own instrument in the best condition for playing.

‘Yes. I can.’ Her voice was wary.

The passenger was obviously disconcerted by this piece of news as he sat up. ‘You? It’s not a harpsichord I need tuning, it’s a piano-forte.’

Irritated by his superior air, Leonora was gratified to be able to tell him, ‘Yes, I do know the difference. I was taught how to tune my Broadwood by one of the Broadwood sons, when I first bought the instrument.’

‘By Jove, you were, were you? And where is this fancy beast kept?’ He had forgotten some of his languor as he leant forward.

She saw his face for the first time and had to suppress an instinctive recoil.

The black leather patch covered part of a livid scar that ran from his temple to the edge of his lip.

His one visible eye glittered almost black in a haggard handsome face.

Without any change in her manner or voice, Leonora said, ‘I live at the Manor for a few more days and then I move with my piano-forte to Hasterleigh Lodge.’