Chapter 5

5

MUSICAL CHAIRS AT HASTERLEIGH

Leonora hung up the silver gauze evening dress and contemplated it, wondering if it had some kind of talismanic power. She was twenty-seven and had been happy with the limitations of her existence in Hasterleigh, but this dress sparkled in the morning light, and it whispered that there was another world she could inhabit, if only for a time.

She descended the stairs to breakfast with an excitement of spirit. She was going to grasp whatever chances came her way. Leonora took a piece of writing paper from the desk in the library, dipped her quill in the inkwell and wrote in her fluent hand:

Dear Lord Rokeby,

Charlotte Blythe and I returned yesterday from a successful visit to your mother's modiste, Mrs Marmery of Windsor. I have been wondering how Achille has been. Did he pass a good night?

With greetings from your neighbour,

Leonora Appleby

She folded it and sealed it with a blob of warm wax impressed with her father's seal and carried it through to the kitchen where Jack Clegg was eating toast with Cook. ‘Good morning to you both.' Turning to Jack, she said, ‘When you've finished, would you deliver this to the Abbey?' He stood up, wiping his hands on his breeches, his mouth full, and with a twinkle in his eyes could only nod.

Mrs Priddy was drinking her coffee when Leonora walked into the breakfast room. Her old nanny's blue eyes missed little as she glanced sideways. ‘Nora my dear, how are you after yesterday's excursion?'

‘I feel quite restored,' she said as she took a newly baked roll from the basket on the table. ‘Is this your bramble jam?' Leonora asked as she slathered a teaspoon of the glistening jelly onto the fresh bread.

‘It is indeed. You and Charlotte picked me that trug-full from the hedgerow.' She was not going to be deflected and continued, ‘You're up to something. Have you heard from Mr Lockwood since he's been gone to Oxfordshire?'

Leonora had barely thought of George Lockwood since he had left and looked surprised. ‘No. But he has said he'll come for the musical evening I'm planning. I've also asked Lord Dearlove and his friend Captain Ormonde.'

‘I liked his lordship when he visited your dear William. He was very attentive after Captain Worth died.'

‘He was very kind to me, 'tis true. Pity he's also with his sister who believes any act of unkindness, however small, is never wasted.'

‘Really, Nora my dear, it's not like you to be so sharp. Remember that young woman does not have your advantages of beauty and talent.'

Leonora snorted with laughter. ‘Nanny P, you are irrepressible! You'd excuse the Devil himself by pointing out he was in need of food or a good sleep. Lady Livia has every advantage. She's an heiress, she's elegant, she's high-born. She just relishes being unkind to others less elevated than herself!'

Mrs Priddy tutted and changed the subject. ‘Do you think that Lord Rokeby will grace us with his presence at your party?'

Leonora still felt like teasing her old nanny and nudged her arm. ‘He was another of your bad boys who just needed understanding and love to be turned to the good.' But the humour left her face as she added, ‘I think the war and loss of his brother has erased for ever the mischievous young man you used to know.' As she spoke, Jack Clegg knocked on the door.

He entered and handed over a piece of paper scrawled in black with her name. ‘His lordship asked me to deliver a response.'

‘Thank you.' Leonora opened the roughly folded scrap of paper torn from the bottom of her letter. She read out loud. ‘ Miss Appleby, Achille had a rough night and so did his master. I'd be grateful if you could come today at three with Mrs Priddy. Her wisdom in these matters might be useful. Then he's signed it with a scrawled R .' Leonora looked up and met Nanny P's eyes. ‘That sounds like an order.'

‘Prevaricating charm was never his strong suit.'

‘I hope you're happy to accompany me?'

So it was that at a quarter to three, Leonora and Mrs Priddy set off in the gig. Clover was getting used to this short journey to Rokeby Abbey and would have found her way there unbidden. To her shame, Leonora changed into her finest afternoon gown, more formal than she had worn before on her working visits, but it was particularly flattering to her figure and colouring. Charlotte had joked that it made her look like a piece of Mr Wedgewood's blue jasper-ware figured in white, but she felt confident in the fine blue wool that fitted so well. Mrs Priddy had brought with her a linen bag filled with dried chamomile flowers and lavender, together with fresh comfrey leaves she had picked from the orchard that afternoon. She had also included a jar of Hasterleigh honey.

The great Abbey door was opened by Stowe looking more lugubrious than usual. From the depths of the house they heard the Earl's angry voice curse, ‘Shut that damned door!' Stowe took the women's cloaks and led the way into the drawing room where a banked-up fire crackled in the medieval fireplace. The Earl looked startled to see them. His sleeves rolled up and his face pale and strained, he came towards them, his hand outstretched. ‘Apologies ladies, for my language. I forgot the time. I haven't slept with worry.' He gestured to where his large dog lay on his sheepskin, his eyes half-closed. Achille lifted his head and gave a weak wag of his tail before subsiding again.

Mrs Priddy walked towards the invalid. ‘Is the wound infected?'

Lord Rokeby hung his head. ‘I've seen so many infected wounds in the Peninsula, and it does not end well.' Everyone gazed down at the torn back leg which was swollen right to the pads of the foot. The area around the wound was red, the wound itself weeping.

‘I've brought some herbs to mix with honey as a dressing when we bandage it afresh. But first it must be cleaned.' Mrs Priddy knelt beside Achille while his master strode for the door, his limp pronounced, as he called for Stowe.

Leonora felt her heart lurch with sympathy for the great hound and for his master who looked haunted with exhaustion and fear. She stroked Achille's back, murmuring to him in encouragement but did not want to be in the way and retired to the window seat.

Kneeling on the floor beside Achille, Peg Priddy mixed her dried herbs and the comfrey in a pestle brought to her by Stowe. She added a dollop of honey as the Earl, on the other side of his dog, cleaned the wound. His face was contorted with memory and words started to tumble from him as if a dam had been breached. Leonora's attention was rapt at the unexpected rawness of emotion. ‘Achille getting wounded thus and the dread night just passed, when I faced his death, transported me back to the desperate clash of men and horses at Corunna.' He shuddered. ‘The horrors of battle.'

Mrs Priddy worked on quietly, making her healing paste, their eyes not meeting. Lord Rokeby's voice was urgent, as if exhaustion had loosed his bonds and at last he could tell of his agony. ‘I couldn't talk to anyone and thought I should push it away and forget. The suffering and blood, voices crying for their mothers or God, the nauseating stench of blood.' With delicacy he was washing the pus from the wound and his dog, seeming to know it was for his good, lay still, barely whimpering. The Earl looked up suddenly and caught Mrs Priddy's eye. ‘When Marshal Soult's cavalry kept on coming, wave on wave, our men and horses were cut down and trampled in the gore; it was as if we'd stumbled into hell.'

He was staring into the fire. ‘The cries of men begging to be killed rather than remain in such agony. The dying horses staggering and snorting.' His hands fleetingly covered his face as if to block out the sight. His voice was cracked as he continued. ‘And I was cradling my brother who had been slashed with a sabre from his collarbone to his stomach. I was trying to hold his chest together, stop his guts from spilling out. He was bleeding to death in my arms.'

Peg Priddy gently extricated the clean linen bandage from his grip and started to bind Achille's injured leg over the sticky unguent of herbs and honey. As if breaking from a dream, Lord Rokeby shook his head and said with an air of embarrassment and apology, ‘It's unconscionable to have burdened you with this, Mrs Priddy, but you're the kindest, wisest person I know.' He bowed over her hand. ‘Thank you.' His hound lifted his head and gazed at his master, full of empathic feeling. ‘Yes, you understand, don't you, Achille,' he murmured with tenderness as he stroked his neck. ‘You'll be all right, my friend. You have to survive for us both.'

Mrs Priddy said in her pragmatic way, ‘Well, my lord, Achille is not going to die. And you too have survived.' Their eyes met and an understanding passed between them. ‘You have work to do and a life to live.' She was a straightforward woman who believed in service to others and that the gift of being on God's earth should not be squandered.

Mrs Priddy had put back in her bag her remaining herbs and honey. Lord Rokeby got to his feet and as he noticed Leonora in the window seat, a look of mortification crossed his face. ‘Miss Appleby, I do apologise for my lack of control. I hope my words didn't shock you. I hadn't slept much and I think for a while was losing my mind.' With a rueful smile he walked towards her. She had sat too long in the draughty window and his anguished description of battle had shocked her to the core, filling her heart with pity for all men at war and for the waste of war.

When he took her hand, his warm touch felt as if he were transferring some of his life force to her. ‘I'm sorry, you seem to have grown cold, sitting too far from the fire.' He squeezed her hand gently then drew it fleetingly to his face. ‘The old country saying round here "Cold hands, warm heart"– I hope it's true for you.' His spirit seemed lighter than she had previously known. He continued with a wry smile, ‘And I hope the converse is not true for me.'

He helped her up before releasing her hand. Leonora remembered her belief in the power of music to heal and feeling shy, turned to face him. ‘My lord, I'm organising a musical party at the Manor on Twelfth Night. I wondered if you would grace us with your presence? I think a friend of yours will be attending, a Captain Ormonde. He's staying with a friend of my family, another soldier, Lord Dearlove.'

‘Pleased as I always am to see you and Miss Blythe, and Mrs Priddy…' He nodded to her as she joined them, then continued, ‘You've been warned by Diggory Shrubb already, I'm a recluse who does not care for company.' He met Mrs Priddy's admonitory gaze and added, ‘Well, perhaps I have been a recluse who does not care for company but now shall have to make more effort. It may be, Miss Appleby, that I will have to practise my social skills after a lifetime as a rough soldier.' He paused and his face darkened. ‘I wouldn't want you to think that Ormonde is a friend. I have met Dearlove, I have no objection to him. Perhaps I'll manage a short visit as part of my rehabilitation. I warn you though, my appearance and forbidding mien cast a pall over most gatherings.'

He sounded amused but Leonora noticed a bleakness in his face. Without thinking, she put out a hand and touched his; for a few seconds their fingers entwined, thrilling her with the unexpected intimacy. She glanced up with a startled expression and met his own watchful eye.

Mrs Priddy noticed this barely perceptible interchange with a knowing expression on her face. Lord Rokeby and Leonora's hands slipped apart as he led the way to the door. ‘My thanks to you both for your help with Achille. I will send a note of his progress.' His voice was formal again. ‘I'll accompany you to pick up your horse and gig.' They walked the long way, through the ruined Abbey, the ancient atmosphere once again settling on Leonora's shoulders like a benign hand. All the agitation of her thoughts and heart seemed to evaporate as she stepped on the springy moss, gazing up at the soaring arches of stone. Then her eyes alighted on Lord Rokeby's figure ahead, still only in his shirt with sleeves rolled up and forearms bare, fatigue making his limp more pronounced, and her heart flipped over.

Leonora was due the following afternoon for tea at the Vicarage. Before she set out, she had managed to transform her riding habit with some new silver braid for the military-style jacket and to retrim her favourite riding hat with its plume of green feathers. She walked through the Vicarage garden and entered the house to the sound of laughter. Charlotte was twirling in one of her refurbished gowns, an evening dress in shell-pink silk on which she had painstakingly stitched three narrow ribbons of gold gauze in parallel along the hem and then added ruffled ribbon to the neckline and cuffs of the sleeve. She was proud of her handiwork. Mrs Mildmay clapped her hands in pleasure as her beautiful foster daughter spun in the sunshine, her face alight.

Leonora joined in the laughter. ‘Lottie, that looks as lovely as any Parisian gown. You are clever!'

Leonora took Mrs Mildmay's hands in greeting and sat beside her on the sofa. ‘Are you feeling reconciled to Charlotte doing the Season?'

‘I am so gratified that you are happy to accompany her, Miss Leonora. I think she will have a happy and successful time, don't you?' Her soft doughy face had relaxed since the anguish caused just a week ago by the news of Charlotte's parentage.

‘Oh indeed. She will be the toast of the Season!'

At that moment, Reverend Mildmay and his curate came into the room. Richard Fopling took Leonora aside and in a quiet voice told her, ‘I saw Silas Sproat this morning. He's working again and has a new young dog.'

Leonora grasped his arm. ‘I'm so pleased to hear that, Mr Fopling. Is it one of the Vazey puppies?'

‘I think so. A handsome dog, not going to be tall but intelligent. And Silas seems himself again. We watched the creature, full of joy, scampering through the wet grass, his silvery trail the picture of simple happiness in the world.'

Leonora was struck by the image and asked him, ‘Mr Fopling, do you think we too have a duty to make happiness visible?'

He turned his pale eyes towards her and smiled. ‘Not duty, Miss Appleby. Just by being. Consider the mighty sun; nothing is more wonderful than the way each evening it floats towards the horizon, then on the morrow, without pause, rises out of the darkness.' The tea had arrived and Mrs Mildmay poured it while Charlotte emerged from the kitchen with a plate of currant buns she had just baked. The young curate took his leave. ‘Excuse me, I have a couple of parishioners to see who are suffering from the ague. May I take two of your cakes, Miss Blythe? They would tempt the weakest appetites.'

Charlotte nodded. ‘Of course.' She wrapped them in a cloth napkin to give to him as he slipped from the room and out into the lane, barely disturbing the air as he went.

Mrs Mildmay looked across at Leonora and shook her head in sorrow. ‘That young man needs a practical wife to handle the everyday.'

‘He seems very attentive to the villagers, and surely good at his vocation? I find his view of the world refreshing.' Leonora took a bite of Charlotte's currant bun but did not miss the look that passed between Mrs Mildmay and her husband. She laughed. ‘No, you are mistaken, I would not make Mr Fopling a good wife and I don't believe he even requires one like me.'

Reverend Mildmay answered before his wife, ‘There you're wrong. The neighbouring parish he is being offered requires him to take a wife. As Mrs Mildmay knows, a good wife allows a man of God to attend to his ministry while she organises the home and pastoral care of the village.'

Leonora met his glance. ‘Mr Fopling strikes me as particularly well-suited himself to the pastoral care of his parishioners. Of course, he is Sir Roderick's heir and so will in time come into a fortune. Which perhaps gives him some power to resist the bishop.'

A wry smile lifted Mrs Mildmay's expression. ‘He may come into his inheritance sooner than expected. The reckless way that father of his hunts in the field! It won't be long before a terrible accident befalls him.'

‘Well, the village poachers and their dogs will not be sorry to see him go,' Leonora muttered under her breath. She looked across at Charlotte whose golden head was bent over her stitching. ‘Lottie, I wondered if you'd come with me tomorrow to the orchard to collect ivy, laurel and holly berries.'

‘Of course. We can help each other dress the Manor, the church and the Vicarage for Christmas.'

‘And the decorations will last until Twelfth Night for our musical soirée.' Leonora turned to Mrs Mildmay. ‘You and the Reverend will certainly join us for Christmas dinner and for Epiphany, won't you?'

Christmas was like every other Christmas in the village of Hasterleigh, but this year there was added excitement and speculation. The Reverend and the curate, with the help of Mrs Mildmay, were much involved with religious services and ministering to the flock. Lord Rokeby caused a stir on Christmas morning by turning up to matins. The Rokeby pew had not been used for a decade and he sat in brooding solitude, Achille by his side.

Leonora was not there to see him as she had attended the midnight service so she could spend Christmas morning helping Nanny P and Cook prepare the feast for the dinner that evening. They had asked Charlotte and the Mildmays, Mr Fopling and the widow Mrs Chetwode and her daughter, Jane, who had recently moved into the Grove and were not well-acquainted yet with the community.

Richard Fopling also caused a ripple of surprise and some gossip by acquiring a dog himself. Miss Vazey, the daughter of the family whose bitch had whelped, had asked the curate to care for the puppy that no one wanted. Little Grace – for that's what he called her – was the runt of the litter, small and easily bullied by the bigger puppies. Leonora came upon her, trotting faithfully behind Mr Fopling as he went from house to house bearing seasonal victuals to the neediest parishioners. ‘A dog! You too, Mr Fopling?' She waylaid him by the market cross and bent to ruffle the puppy's ears.

The curate's face registered wry surprise. ‘Indeed, Miss Appleby, she has brought such grace to my life.'

‘I thought you had wanted to be free of worldly preoccupations. What made you change your mind?'

‘Vazey's daughter is a persuasive young woman.' He looked down at the small creature sitting at his feet and smiled. Leonora knew the Vazey family well. They were one of the Manor's best tenant farmers and Ernest Vazey, an intelligent and hard-working man. His daughter, Rose, was a quiet, self-contained girl with a gentle demeanour and vivid amber eyes. ‘As you know, Miss Vazey's our own St Francis of Assisi; wounded animals and birds come to her door and she sends them back to the wild, restored. She told me Little Grace needed me and I needed her. Who was I to disagree?'

Leonora met his eyes and recognised in that moment how right it was when a wounded soul met another and both felt they had come home. ‘Well, she is fortunate to have found you.' She inclined her head. ‘Goodbye, Mr Fopling; goodbye, Little Grace.'

Twelfth Night arrived on the back of a storm. From midnight, the wind roared through the trees outside the Manor and rattled the ancient windows in their casements. The force of the air swirling round the roofs made the chimneys whistle, and the rain sent gobbets of soot splattering into the grates in the fireplaces. Leonora could not sleep. She had organised the party herself and in the depths of the night she ran the details through her mind: the food was cooked, the cellar full, she had bought up every beeswax candle from the local chandler; with Charlotte's help the vases were overflowing with pussy willow and hellebore just coming into flower. Leonora had been particularly pleased to find wintersweet in the woods, its bare branches decorated with yellow waxy flowers, filling the air with its exotic heady scent. The bedrooms had been made ready for George Lockwood, Lord Dearlove, his sister Livia and her maid.

After such a wild night, the morning dawned rosy and clear, the early sun casting a calm pale light over the swirls of leaves and branches strewn across the park. George Lockwood had written that he would arrive early as he wished to catch up with Ned Fleming's activities on the estate. Leonora dressed in her morning gown, newly trimmed with ribbons by Nanny P, and was just brushing out her long tawny hair to twist into a loose chignon when she heard Charlotte's voice in the hall. She too was wearing one of her newly refurbished dresses and looked charming in pale primrose. They embraced. ‘The Manor looks so beautiful with all this greenery, everything sparkling in the sun.'

Leonora grasped a cup of coffee and a bun, and they went through to the drawing room and sat together on the music stool to run through a final practice of the compositions they would play. Deep in the John Field duet, both young women were startled to see the tall figure of George Lockwood looming in the doorway. He laughed at their expressions. ‘Forgive me, but Clegg seems to think the house is mine so he can leave me to come and go at will.'

Charlotte, in some excitement, exclaimed, ‘Mr Lockwood! It is good to see you.'

He strode into the room to take her hand and bow. ‘It is reward for my hellish journey to find you and Miss Appleby with sunlight in your hair, producing such sublime music.'

He reached out for Leonora's hand too and she could not supress a laugh. ‘Mr Lockwood, you can leave your flowery London manners behind when you're with us!'

Charlotte protested. ‘Leonora! I like Mr Lockwood's mannerliness. It makes such a refreshing change from what we are used to.'

George Lockwood was amused himself. ‘If you think I'm overly mannerly, you wait until you meet my stepfather, Beau Beacham! He could charm a fortune from miser Daniel Dancer and a laugh from La Gioconda.' Despite Mr Lockwood's obvious admiration for the Beau, Leonora determined to dislike the man on sight, not least because he imposed his own Town tastes on his country-loving stepson. She looked him up and down and was disappointed that once again his large broad form was tightly buttoned into dandy clothes that made him look so uncomfortable.

‘Well, now my manners are lacking, Mr Lockwood. You must be hungry and tired. Can I offer you some refreshment?' She moved towards the door.

‘No, thank you. I haven't much time before I need to get ready for the evening's jollities. I'll change and grab some bread and cheese from Cook and then find Ned Fleming.'

‘When last here, you committed to sing a ballad for us tonight. I wondered if you have chosen one?'

‘What about ‘The Whitby Lad'? Or I could sing everyone's old favourite, ‘Scarborough Fair'?'

Leonora thought for a moment. ‘The Whitby Lad' had a rumbustious tune but the story of a young man's deportation for theft rather lowered the spirits. ‘I think ‘Scarborough Fair' would be best. It has such charm, and some of your audience might sing along.'

She and Charlotte went in search of the last candelabras and candlesticks to be found in the house, searching the pantry and laundry, and gathered them in the kitchen. After a quick polish they were filled with even more candles; the Manor would glow with myriad lights and look at its very best. Time was fleeing and they dashed their separate ways to dress for the evening's entertainments.

Leonora washed and slipped into the new silver gauze evening dress for the first time since she had brought it home from Windsor. It felt so silky and cool, and it rustled when she walked. She had asked Milly to help and the girl stared at her mistress, her mouth open. ‘You look as beautiful as an angel, Miss Leonora!' she said in her honest country way.

‘That's very kind, Milly, but I think when you see her, you'll find Miss Charlotte looks more the angel.' As Milly plaited and coiled Leonora's glossy chestnut hair, piling it on top of her head in a passable imitation of a classical goddess's coiffure, Leonora looked at her own reflection in the looking glass with some pleasure and amazement.

The Mildmays were the first to arrive, exclaiming at the beauty of the house and its decorations. The fires were blazing and the hundreds of lit candles cast their soft light over faces and flowers, and added a flickering lustre to the piano-forte sitting in its central place in the drawing room. Mrs Mildmay hurried to the kitchen, keen to help Cook and Nanny P put the food ready for a buffet in the dining room. The Reverend manned the champagne until Jack Clegg could take over, once his duty at the front door was done.

Charlotte did indeed look like an angel in a finely stitched white gown overlaid with shell-pink gauze, her fair hair curled and soft round her face with tendrils falling to her shoulders and a twisted knot on her head, interlaced with ribbons. ‘You look lovely, Lottie.' Leonora took her arm and led her through to where their new neighbours, Mrs Chetwode and her daughter were standing slightly apart by the window. Charlotte collected a glass of champagne for Mrs Chetwode and Mrs Priddy's lemon and elderflower cordial for Miss Chetwode and herself.

George Lockwood, immaculate in dark evening coat and pale satin breeches, strolled over to talk to the women. His bluff kindness penetrated Miss Chetwode's shyness and she smiled, a blush stealing up her pale cheeks. He then excused himself to offer his services to Leonora as a joint host.

There was a sudden stir as three glittering personages entered the hall, the men stripping off their gloves, top hats and travelling cloaks to hand them to Jack Clegg, who looked suitably impressed. With them was an imperious young woman, tall and stately and dressed in a striking apple-green evening dress, with a daring, low-cut neckline, the bodice scintillating with matching bugle beads. A green plume of feathers nodded from the complex construction of her glossy dark hair. Leonora came towards them, her hand out in greeting. ‘Lady Livia, how good of you to come.'

Her hand was taken in the lightest of grips and Livia Dearlove looked around the drawing room then down at Leonora from her greater height and murmured, ‘How charming,' in a voice that did not sound charmed in the least. Just as Leonora was feeling the froideur seep up from her fingers, a young man with unruly brown hair and a sparkling expression pushed forward to grasp both her hands. ‘Miss Appleby! It is a treat to see you after so long.' His genuine ebullience and pleasure at meeting her again made Leonora wonder if he was about to forget etiquette entirely and embrace her.

Lord Dearlove had always been an optimistic, enthusiastic energy who lifted her heart and made her laugh. She felt herself colour with delight at seeing him again and being reminded of happy times with her beloved. Rufus Dearlove turned to introduce Leonora to a lean-faced man, distinguished in his regimentals. ‘Captain Ormonde, may I introduce you to Miss Appleby. Miss Appleby, Guy Ormonde is a captain in the Light Dragoons.' The stranger bowed deeply over her hand and as his narrow cynical eyes flickered over her face and down her person, his face broke into one of the most charming smiles she had ever seen. Leonora found it disconcerting to have such chilliness and warmth present in the same face.

All eyes were drawn to his braided red jacket and military swagger, and she was glad he had come to add extra distinction to the evening. In the country, entertainments were home-made and a musical soirée like hers was bound to strike sophisticated Town bloods as amateurish and tame. Lord Dearlove seemed free of such reservations and bounded into the room full of eager friendliness. He immediately engaged Charlotte and Jane Chetwode in light conversation and both shy young women began to feel charming themselves in the warmth of his flirtatious attention.

His sister declined any refreshment and chose the best chair by the fire to await the musical performance. She surveyed the room with a faintly disdainful air, then her eyes alighted on George Lockwood for a few seconds before returning to her haughty regard of the company.

The last to arrive were Sir Roderick and Richard Fopling, the father red in the face from too much wassail and his son so pale and refined in comparison, it seemed impossible to think they were of the same genealogical tree. In an idle moment, Leonora had hoped that the long-deceased Lady Fopling had found solace and some respite from her husband in the arms of a sensitive lover. Seeing father and son together emphasised this polar difference of looks and character.

The chairs were arranged in a semi-circle facing the piano-forte. Once everyone had a glass in their hands, they took their seats and Charlotte sat down to play and sing the first piece, ‘The Ballad of Barbara Allen'. Everyone knew this song well and they swayed to the melody before most of the guests joined in with the final verse.

Charlotte's performance was clapped with enthusiasm. Her lovely face registered delight and surprise; speaking in a quiet voice, she introduced next the slow movement of Pleyel's Sonata in the key of B major. As she began to play, people relaxed, accepting more champagne or burgundy from Jack Clegg and Mrs Priddy. Leonora was standing by the door, watchful and waiting. She wondered at her agitation then realised she was hoping Lord Rokeby would come, if just for a while. After all, it would be an opportunity to support his newly acquired niece and see her shine. She was shocked how deflated she felt at his absence even as the evening appeared to be such a success.

Aware of a tingling sense of danger, Leonora turned her head to find herself staring into the narrowed eyes of Captain Ormonde. He was standing behind her, slightly too close. ‘Captain! You startled me,' she said under her breath, not wishing to distract from the music.

‘My apologies, Miss Appleby. It is a most enjoyable evening. Lord Dearlove tells me your betrothed was a hero who died at Fuengirola.' His smile did not reach his eyes as he continued in an insinuating voice, ‘More of a hero than your neighbour, the rakehell Rokeby, methinks.'

Leonora turned again to meet his eyes, hers wide with astonishment. ‘Sir, I think it dishonourable to besmirch the reputation of another officer, not here to defend himself.'

His face was cold with not a hint of his earlier flashing charm. ‘Why is the Earl not here, pray? Could it be he knew I would be?' Leonora was hesitant for a moment. It was true, she had told Lord Rokeby that a friend of his would be attending and he had pointed out, rather coldly himself, that he did not consider Ormonde a friend.

‘Excuse me, I have to accompany Mr Lockwood.' She bowed her head and walked to the piano-forte where Charlotte was just finishing the last rallentando . The clapping again was appreciative, and Charlotte stood up and bowed as Mrs Mildmay flew to her side to kiss her cheek.

Leonora addressed her guests. ‘Before we pause for food and refreshments, Mr George Lockwood, new heir of the Manor estate, will sing ‘Scarborough Fair' to my accompaniment.' She sat down and started to play the lovely melody everyone had learnt as a child. George Lockwood was unselfconscious, and his warm baritone flowed out of him as naturally as breathing. His height and broad chest gave his voice a richness of sound that caught the heart.

Leonora knew the music so well she could glance round the faces of her guests.

Most striking was the way Lady Livia watched George Lockwood as he sang, her dark eyes wide and unblinking, with an almost-smile on her lips. Charlotte too was attentive, the colour high on her cheeks. This was the first time she had heard the beauty of his voice, and it obviously touched her too. With a slight incline of her head, Leonora invited Charlotte to join in with the refrain. They had sung ‘Scarborough Fair' together many times. Charlotte approached Mr Lockwood tentatively and stood by his side. When he looked down from his great height with an encouraging smile, she joined him with the sinuous refrain.

‘ O, where are you going? ' he sang and she sang in response, ‘ To Scarborough Fair. '

Then together their voices entwined in harmony:

‘Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme,

Remember me to a lass who lives there,

For once she was a true love of mine.'

This was such a favourite that there were calls for them to repeat it, which Mr Lockwood, Leonora and Charlotte duly did, with more gusto, and some of their guests joined in, Rufus Dearlove's tenor being the most noticeable addition.

When it was time to pause for food, George Lockwood was about to escort Charlotte through to the dining room when Livia Dearlove slipped her arm through his and said in her lisping voice, ‘It's a pleasure to be escorted into dinner by such a tall man.' Her soft sibilance meant men leaned closer and inclined their heads to catch her words. The childlike voice made them protective and unwary. Leonora watched this performance with interest and realised that a simple honest man such as Mr Lockwood was as malleable as mastic in Livia Dearlove's hands. She saw him cast Charlotte an apologetic glance as he was borne away.

Mrs Priddy came up to Leonora with a beaming smile. ‘This is splendid, my dear Nora. Everything better than could be hoped.' They walked through to the dining room. Leonora surveyed the table, laden with the best that Cook and Mrs Priddy could manage. At the centre of the feast were a glistening baked ham studded with cloves and a haunch of venison, both being carved with some finesse by Jack Clegg. The potato pie was steaming and the sweet pastries Cook had laboured over for days were quickly disappearing. At one end, a pyramid of candied fruits made up for the lack of any fresh ones beyond their own stored apples and pears.

Richard Fopling glided up to her. ‘What a sublime evening, Miss Appleby. Good music expresses the perfect harmony of things, as our blackbirds and robins know full well already.' He smiled.

Leonora took his arm and laughed. ‘Mr Fopling, I thought the robin and blackbird sang with such ferocious beauty to mark their territory and warn off other birds?'

‘Ah, 'tis true, but their deeper message is joy in the world and their attraction to others. This is why it transmits so clearly to us.'

Leonora looked across at his father, cheeks red and waistcoat straining. ‘I hope Sir Roderick appreciates what a superior being you are.' His pale eyes met hers with wry amusement; no words were necessary. He was a changeling child in a crassly sporting family, yet somehow had survived.

‘And you, my dear Miss Appleby, are a woman of the water. You have the vitality of the tumbling stream.'

Leonora was taken aback. He had reminded her of her love of swimming, and how much she missed it. But also, he made her realise the elemental force of these two men who had stormed into Hasterleigh's measured way of life. George Lockwood was obviously of the earth, and Lord Rokeby most certainly was fire.

‘And you, Mr Fopling, are of the air.' She put her hand on his arm. ‘But even aerial creatures need to eat. Come.'

When everyone was back in the drawing room, seated with glasses topped up, the chatter became noisier and more ebullient. Leonora and Charlotte made their way to the piano-forte. ‘Miss Blythe and I are going to play for you as the finale tonight Mr Field's duet, Nocturne No. 5 in B flat major.' Just as they were about to begin, the hundreds of candles in the candelabras and central chandelier guttered as one. The front door had opened and a gust of wind blew through the house. Leonora looked towards the drawing room door which was pushed ajar by the snout of a huge shaggy hound who padded towards her. She leapt to her feet, her heart suddenly beating with the thrill of a prayer answered.

In the doorway stood the tall figure of the Earl of Rokeby. He looked more commanding and dishevelled than Leonora had ever seen him, as if he had ridden the storm. His scar was livid against his face, made all the paler by his black riding coat that he had not yet removed. His eye patch seemed to add to the air of menace and mystery. In the room, there was a communal intake of breath. Everyone seemed suddenly to have sobered up. All eyes were upon him and his hound when Sir Roderick's stentorian voice boomed out, ‘The dog, sir! To the stables with 'im! Have respect for a lady's drawing room!'

Lord Rokeby turned sharply to address him. ‘Who, pray, are you, sir? Are you master of this house?'

‘Sir Roderick Fopling of the neighbouring estate.'

‘Well, my hound goes everywhere with me since he almost died in one of your traps.' He turned back to look at Leonora. ‘Miss Appleby helped in his rescue and I have not been aware of any objections from her.'

Leonora had indeed begun to run towards the Earl before checking herself to transfer her unseemly delight to Achille instead. The dog's head was resting on her hand, his large dark eyes looking deep into hers. The Earl then bowed.

‘My apologies for coming so late to your soirée, Miss Appleby. Don't let me interrupt the entertainment.' His dark gaze fell on the assembled company and when he saw Captain Ormonde, flashy in his gold-braided red coat, a sneer made his face more alarming. He turned back to the hall to divest himself of his coat as Leonora and Charlotte sat again at the piano-forte.

The relaxed bonhomie had become more subdued but with a hidden tremor of excitement, as if they were in the presence of danger. The young women began to play and as the lovely familiar arpeggios enchanted the room, Leonora was aware of Lord Rokeby slipping into the chair next to Nanny P. Achille had returned to Leonora's side and sat with his heavy head on her lap as she concentrated on seamlessly blending her higher register of notes with Charlotte's rippling lower cadences. In all the weeks of practising, Leonora and Charlotte had never played the nocturne better than they did that night. When they came to the end, there was a moment's silence, followed by enthusiastic clapping. Leonora stood up and asked if anyone else wished to contribute a song or piece of music.

Lord Dearlove sprang to his feet and said, ‘Happen, I'll sing "Greensleeves" if someone will accompany me.' Leonora was not certain she was practised enough with the tune and hesitated. Well-lubricated with alcohol, he cast a bold glance at Charlotte, inviting her to step forward. She coloured and dropped her head, then to everyone's surprise, the Earl stood up. ‘I will play for you. "Greensleeves" reminded me of home when I was captured in Spain.' As he walked to the Broadwood, Leonora noticed he was careful to disguise his limp. She realised he was a proud man who did not care for pity.

The two men were both born to land and title and yet their demeanour could not have been more different. Rufus Dearlove's face was open and smiling. He looked like a man blessed by angels at his cradle with every good fortune: wealth, health, and nobility, aligned with a handsomeness of mien and a light-hearted nature that drew friends and hangers-on wherever he went. His voice too was a light and lyrical tenor. It seemed no hardship had shadowed his life.

Lord Rokeby, on the other hand, crouched at the piano-forte as if coiled to pounce. His brow was dark, his face scarred, his expression haunted by memories of hell. He too had been born with every advantage, until war had taken what was most precious. Lord Rokeby played the age-old ballad as an elegy for lost love, and Lord Dearlove was uneasy with the plaintive pace; he tried to speed it up to be closer to the drinking song it had been at Oxford, where his youth had been dissipated in alcohol and pleasure.

Dearlove was as day to Lord Rokeby's night, yet Leonora found she could not take her eyes from the Earl's face as he scowled over the keys. She was aware how most young men had frittered away their youth while Alistair Rokeby accompanied his beloved brother to defend his country in bloody battle. A feeling of shame washed over her; since her Captain's death, she had barely given much thought to the other young military men sacrificing life and limb so the rest could pursue their lives as they pleased. She looked across at Captain Ormonde, engaging Charlotte in flirtatious glances, with renewed respect.

The awkward musical collaboration came to an end, with guests joining in with the song with tipsy good humour, favouring the more upbeat interpretation Lord Dearlove had attempted to impose. There was a rush to refill glasses and seek out packs of cards.

Charlotte too had been arrested by the sight of the two lords at the piano-forte, but it was Rufus Dearlove who drew her eye with his merry countenance and lyrical voice. She had thought no one could sing as beautifully as Mr Lockwood, but here in one night was another. She glanced at the Captain beside her and her heart skipped; how exciting to have three young men in her orbit, appealing in quite different ways. London and the Season seemed suddenly to be filled with unforeseen promise and adventure.

Watching Lord Rokeby too was Captain Ormonde. Leonora was puzzled by the evident animosity between these fellow officers, but her reverie was interrupted by the Mildmays who were leaving. Richard Fopling also bowed over Leonora's hand. ‘Thank you, Miss Appleby, for such a fine evening's entertainment. I don't wish to leave Little Grace for too long. She's still so young, she relies on me.' He smiled and walked out into the moonlight.

Leonora returned from the hall to the drawing room where Lord Rokeby was waiting for her. He drew her into the window recess and they sat together on the small sofa, still part of the party but secluded and intimate. He turned to her and said in a quiet voice, ‘I do commend you for your teaching of Miss Blythe. She is a charming young woman.'

‘Thank you, my lord, but I have only taught her music.'

Mrs Priddy had seen the Earl draw Leonora away and keen to protect her reputation, had approached and sat in an adjacent chair to provide a modicum of chaperonage. Lord Rokeby put his hand fleetingly on Leonora's. ‘I know your friendship has been influential in much more than her music.' Then his manner became more practical. ‘When are you leaving for London and my grandmother's house?'

‘We go in a sennight. The clothes from your mother's modiste are due tomorrow and then we spend the following days packing.' Her smile was rueful. ‘It is a great rigmarole I'm unused to, but I am happy to do what I can to help Charlotte.'

‘May I offer you the Rokeby coach and a team of my horses so you can travel in comfort? I'll stable more horses for you at the posting inns on the road which will speed your journey.'

Leonora turned to look him full in the face. ‘That's very generous, Lord Rokeby.' She had a questioning look in her eyes, not daring to hope that he had spent any time thinking about her and her comfort.

His penetrating gaze held hers for a moment and she felt the same thrill as when she submerged herself in the lake, jolted into intense life. Leonora was disturbed at how often her thoughts turned to him, wishing to be more in his company. And all the while she reminded herself she was deluded in hoping he even noticed her beyond her usefulness. She was a nobody in his world, with not even great beauty to commend her; he, on the other hand, with title and wealth, could have the pick of beauties, heiresses and the well-born, should he so choose.

Lord Rokeby appeared unaware of the turmoil in her heart and when he answered it was not to declare his thoughts for her, but his sense of propriety over Charlotte. ‘Well, Miss Blythe is a member of the family; it seems the right thing to do,' was his reasonable reply.

Leonora's disappointment was fleeting and replaced with amusement at her own presumption. Achille had been lying across their feet and stirred; the Earl laid his hand on his head and sprang up. ‘Forgive me for keeping you from your guests for so long. I should head home. I'll collect Jupiter from your stables. There's just enough of a moon and it's barely a mile.'

He was about to leave when Leonora put out a hand to stay him. ‘Lord Rokeby, what made you decide to come tonight?'

He paused and gave her a surprisingly sweet smile despite the scar that gave it a devilish edge. ‘How could I let you down when I owe you so much?'

‘I am particularly pleased that you overrode your stated desire to eschew all society.' She smiled at him.

‘Miss Appleby, your society is very different from the kind of society represented by men like the Captain over there.'

Leonora looked across to where Guy Ormonde had both Charlotte and Jane Chetwode hanging on his conversation, fragments of which could be heard with talk of cavalry charges and feats of courage and endurance. She laughed and glanced up into his face with some mischief. ‘Oh, so the Captain was right. He suggested you would stay away because of him.'

The sweetness vanished in an instant and the thunderous look returned. ‘That man's a blackguard and you must not believe a word he says!' he muttered in a fierce whisper. ‘Who can trust such a popinjay who flaunts his regimental colours at a country soirée as if it's fancy dress! War is not for men of straw to use as calling cards to bed women…' He broke off and bowed. ‘My apologies, Miss Appleby, I forget myself. As I said, war makes brutes of men.'

‘War also makes heroes,' Leonora said, her hand inadvertently brushing his as they both fondled Achille's ears.

‘Oh! If only that were true. The mere throw of a dice determines whether one is a hero or villain, a braveheart or poltroon.' He clicked his heels together as if transported back to the regiment himself, took Leonora's hand and pressed it fleetingly to his lips. He turned to take Mrs Priddy's hand, then bowed in farewell to Charlotte, George Lockwood, Lord Dearlove and the Honourable Livia Dearlove, and he and Achille headed for the door.

Soon after, Charlotte flung her arms around Leonora to wish her an excited goodnight and left through the garden to return to the Vicarage. It had been the best evening's entertainment of her young life. The remaining guests settled down to some light-hearted card games. Even more alcohol was imbibed, and laughter filled the room. The Dearloves and Mr Lockwood were staying at the Manor and Captain Ormonde residing with a local friend whose house was only a short walk away. Leonora realised it would be a long night. Fatigue threatened to overwhelm her as she forced herself to remain a further hour but increasingly struggled to stay awake. The gossip turned to the dramatic arrival of Lord Rokeby and Lord Dearlove, lubricated by alcohol, was talking loudly. ‘So mortally wounded, it's a miracle he didn't die on the battlefield alongside his brother.'

Captain Ormonde's voice was sober and cold. ‘Saved by a French doxy, it's said. He's either hellishly lucky or has the charm of the Devil.'

Lord Dearlove dealt the cards and laughed. ‘I don't think Rokeby has ever been overendowed with charm!' This conversation jolted Leonora into agitated wakefulness. Alistair Rokeby had been saved from certain death by a woman? Who? Why? As her feelings for him deepened, the mysteries around him seemed to multiply.

The conversation moved on to racing fixtures at Newmarket, and Leonora's fatigue could no longer be resisted. She told Nanny P that she thought they could excuse themselves and leave George Lockwood in charge as the host of the night. She waited until a game of whist had come to an end and drew him to one side. ‘Mr Lockwood, Mrs Priddy and I are going to retire. May I leave you to see our guests out and those who are staying to their rooms?'

‘Of course. I will take care of them all. I'm not as deep in my cups as most.'

Leonora and Nanny P went round the party wishing them a good sleep and set off to their beds. On the chest in the hall, Leonora noticed a letter glowing white upon a silver salver, with a distinguished hand she recognised. Miss LEONORA Appleby was scrawled in black ink with speed blots under the strong curling line. Seeing her given name so distinctive in capitals made her long to hear his voice call her Leonora ; the intimacy of it made her shiver. She opened the note to find just two lines:

My piano-forte will miss you. Please come and tune it one more time before you leave for London.

Leonora folded it carefully along its original creases and carried it upstairs to slip into her dressing table drawer to lie beside her precious only letter from her lost love.