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remember the jugged hare, sir.’
    â€˜Ah. The jugged hare. Yes. Excellent. But I do not speak of a village child, Mrs Hawkins. I seek someone of, er, someone who will be by way of a challenge to Harry and Eliza; put them on their mettle, so to speak.’
    â€˜Sir, this child is special. She’s but four years old, yet she can read and cipher better than anyone I know. She sits at her books in the kitchen all the livelong day. And talk! She talks like the folks in the books she reads. But perhaps you should ask Mr Harcourt what he thinks of her, sir.’ De Havilland knew that the judgement of James Harcourt, his children’s tutor, was apt to be lacking in matters of this kind.
    â€˜Thank you, Mrs Hawkins. Harcourt’s impressions are not, I think, appropriate in this situation. But I suppose he could consider her worth as a pacing horse for my children in their scholarly pursuits. Mmm.’ The viscount looked up at his housekeeper as she stood resolute, hands clasped in front of her.
    â€˜Sir. This child is special. She has fine golden hair and a face like an angel. Folks in the village say she is indeed an angel, sir. She even walks like an angel. I can’t but think that there was something special about her bloodlines. Though her parents, God rest their souls — they’re both dead, were — ’
    â€˜How can I see this child?’ Exactly as Mrs Hawkins had planned, the mention of bloodlines captured Sir John’s interest. She reached for the kitchen bellpull and tugged it. Cook appeared moments later, wiping her big red hands on her dress, panting from her swift ascent of the stairs, brushing a corner of her apron over her sweating forehead.
    â€˜Cook, one of the servants has a child who stays in the kitchen and reads books, I am informed,’ the viscount said.
    â€˜Oh, yes, sir. Hannah’s little orphan niece, Hannah, as makes the jugged hare, sir. You asked me for to get Hannah back to the kitchen, sir, if you remember.’ Cook dared a glance at her employer’s puzzled face. ‘The little mite don’t do no harm, sir. She’s — ’
    â€˜Quite. Bring the child to me, Cook.’
    â€˜Oh, sir. I — ’ Cook tried to hide her dismay.
    â€˜Go on,’ De Havilland said. ‘It may be to her advantage. Quickly now!’ Cook disappeared. Mrs Hawkins stood silent, hands still clasped.
    In moments, Cook reappeared, holding Eliza’s hand.
    â€˜Good morning, little maid.’ The viscount forced a smile and bent towards the child. Eliza looked up at the tall windows with their long drapes, the chandeliers, the shelves of books, and finally at the old man who sat in his chair studying her. ‘I hear you’re a clever one,’ he said as she turned to him.
    â€˜Thank you, sir. I like to read a lot.’ She studied his face. He smiled, but kept his silence. ‘I liked your book on the heavens,’ she ventured. ‘Did you know that the planets all lie in the same plane, at least within four degrees of arc?’ Mrs Hawkins winced. She had smuggled thebook from the library when Eliza had asked her about the stars during one of their walks round the gardens.
    â€˜Why, no.’ He paused in amazement. ‘How many planets do you know, child?’ The viscount’s father had nursed an interest in the heavens, and coached his son in the subject until it was obvious that his own passion had not passed into the De Havilland bloodline. However, the son had made the effort to memorise the names of some of the planets just to please his father. Indeed, the book lent to Eliza had been his father’s. Later, he would discuss with Mrs Hawkins the route by which that book had travelled from his library to the kitchen.
    â€˜Well, I’ll begin with Jupiter, sir, that being the largest,’ Eliza said. ‘And the moons of Jupiter are Io and Calista and Europa and — oh, sir. I forget the other