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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.’