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‘Perhaps in the New Year before you head back to London for the Season?’

‘That’s a possibility. A little brightness before the dark.’ He grimaced. ‘I could come to your soirée on my way to London, although it’s a bit of a detour. Are you or Miss Blythe going to London for the Season?’

‘Goodness, no! But that does not mean we need to be dull in the country.’ Leonora smiled at him.

‘Not dull at all,’ he said as he turned to continue his way upstairs.

Leonora went back to the demanding arpeggio of a Pleyel sonata.

The following morning, Leonora woke early. She was restless; her usual equanimity of heart had been disturbed for days with thoughts of loss and the instability of change. Overall was the sadness that William Worth lay in a foreign land, his resting place unmarked, never to grow to maturity with her as they had dreamed. Lord Rokeby’s return had reminded her again of the suffering of war. Now the night was passed, she decided to head towards the garden to restore her spirits with the promise of a new day.

She was too early for the pitcher of steaming water brought up each morning by Milly, so instead scrambled unwashed into her morning dress of grey checked cotton and dragged a comb through her thick wavy hair. Barely pausing to glance in the looking glass, Leonora pinned up her chestnut curls and, slipping a shawl over her shoulders, ran down the stairs, through the drawing room and out into the waiting garden. Within moments, the heavy dew drenched her pumps and the hem of her gown, but the sounds and scents drew her on towards the river that meandered through the low mist at the end of the lawn.

The flowers were dressed in nothing but the light, and the scent of late roses was sweet on the air as they pressed through the white Michaelmas daisies and the flowering mint tangled in their beds. There too were her mother’s precious dahlias; they bloomed with all the exuberance of their nature and lifted her spirits as she thought of her gentle mother, never quite robust enough for the world.

As she approached the river, the susurration of the water rippling over stones added to the rich layers that filled her senses; how these interleaving scents and sounds reminded her of music. Leonora felt herself and the morning brimming with life.

As she bent her head to sniff the palest pink damask roses growing in profusion by the riverbank, she heard the creak of the garden gate. Who was up so early? she wondered. Who but the inhabitants of the Vicarage ever used this private access to the Manor?

In the misty sun, the tall, fair-haired figure of Richard Fopling appeared almost ghostly in the milky light. He was wearing his curate’s surplice, ready for the morning service, and this added to his otherworldliness. He started when he saw her. ‘Oh, Miss Appleby, my apologies for intruding. I was just delivering a note to the house before beginning the morning’s devotions.’

In his hand was a folded sheet of white paper sealed with a dab of red wax. She walked towards him smiling and took the note. ‘I was so lost in my thoughts you startled me. I didn’t think anyone else would be abroad so early.’

His pale blue eyes were on her face, then he glanced around the bounty of the late summer garden and said, ‘This is like a prayer.’ Leonora was surprised by his fervour. Mr Fopling continued in his quiet reverential voice, ‘God is made visible in the beauty of His creation, the reaching heavenwards of all living things.’ He paused, then continued, ‘For me, everything is intentional, even that drifting cloud.’ He pointed towards the brightening horizon where a single cloud appeared as ragged as a shred of sheep’s wool suspended in the sky. He bowed his head, preparing to take his leave.

‘Before you go, Mr Fopling, I’m thinking of having a small concert here in the winter months and hope you’d attend?’

‘It will depend on a number of things.’ His eyes searched hers again before he saluted her. ‘Good day, Miss Appleby.’ He turned on his heel to walk back into the Vicarage garden. Puzzled, Leonora opened the note in her hands. There in neat black ink were the words:

Dear Miss Appleby,

Would you be so kind as to grant me an audience at The Manor, tomorrow at three?

Richard Fopling

Leonora suspected this was a portent and her heart sank. She stuffed the note into her pocket and began cutting with increased vigour the dead flowers from the roses, her fragile equilibrium once more unsettled.

After breakfast, she returned to her piano-forte; Charlotte was expected later for her lesson and she wanted to begin practising the melody part of the John Field duet she hoped they could play together.

It was mid-afternoon when the door to the garden was flung open and Charlotte dashed into the Manor, a wild look in her eyes. ‘Come quickly! Mama Mildmay and the Reverend are just back from Rokeby Abbey and they’re in such dismay! Please come and help calm them. They fear they’re going to lose me.’

‘What on earth do you mean, Lottie? How could they ever lose you?’

‘Come. Tell them that. They won’t listen to me.’ The girl grabbed Leonora’s arm and hurried her into the garden and through the gate.

The Vicarage was a serene and symmetrical stone house but, on this afternoon, it housed a maelstrom of emotion. Mrs Mildmay, always the most reasonable of women, greeted Leonora, her eyes streaming with tears and her nose red with blowing. Reverend Mildmay was pacing in the drawing room, attempting to remonstrate with his wife to cease her crying. Leonora ran to her side and put her arms around the distraught woman. ‘Mrs Mildmay, my dear, what can be the matter?’

Between hiccuping sobs, the story tumbled out. ‘It’s Lord Rokeby. He asked us to come and see him. He told us our beautiful child, the baby we found on our doorstep whom we thought had been sent by the Lord for us to care for and love, actually belongs to the Rokeby family.’

Leonora was astounded. She looked from her to Charlotte, who also had tears in her eyes. ‘What can he mean?’

Charlotte then spoke to save her mother further pain. ‘Lord Rokeby told them that his brother, the Earl, charged him in his dying breath to put right a wrong. He had fathered a child with a maid. That baby was me, left on the doorstep of the Vicarage in the hopes that I would be cared for, and the young Earl was immediately sent to war by his father. He had organised financial support and always intended to tell me the truth when I was eighteen. But he never came home again.’

Mrs Mildmay had collapsed onto the sofa and looked up at Leonora with a tragic expression. ‘Of course the Rokeby family will claim Lottie. We have no rights, you see. We always knew she was too good for us. A beautiful spirit come to live with two country clods as we are. Even our own child could never have compared with the angel we had been sent. We always feared this day would come.’

‘No! No, Mama. No one can ever claim my heart when you have given me all the love a mother could.’ Charlotte threw herself onto the sofa beside Mrs Mildmay and buried her head in her bosom.

Reverend Mildmay paused his pacing to add, ‘The new Earl wished that it would be us who broke the news to Charlotte. He wants to see her in two days’ time to explain his brother’s wishes to her directly. Mrs Mildmay is unwilling to go through any more upset and we hoped you would accompany her, Miss Leonora, as her chaperone?’ His anguished eyes were on her face and she could only nod.