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hero, we shall be well entertained.”
    Holly smiled and concentrated on her tea. She watched her mother unload three lumps of sugar into her cup, stir it reverently in silence and sip it with her eyes closed. As she opened them again, she looked at her daughter.
    “And Lie-lie my dear,” she said firmly, “Mr Robertson will not have a place for you at his inn. Ever.”
    “Maman, this is no time to be proud. I will do what is needed.”
    “Of course you will,” her mother said and leaned back with a blissful look on her face. “You just will not work for Mr Robertson that is all.”
    “Maman? What is going on?” Holly asked beneath lowered eyebrows. “Why do you have that smug expression on your face?”
    Mrs Tournier opened her eyes and they sparkled. “It’s the sugar,” she said and laughed. “Oh how I do like my sugar!” She patted her daughter’s hand and put away her tea cup. “And tomorrow my dear, we will pray for a fine day so that you can potter about in your garden and I can sit at my desk watching you as I write my letters. I have quite a few I must attend to.”
    Seeing that further questioning would be futile, Holly put her cup away as well and simply sat quietly next to her mother. She was home, Maman was not worried, and even if they must live without sugar, somehow all would be well.
    L ORD B AUGHAM COULD NEVER ABIDE being anything but happy at Clyne. His plans, therefore, simply consisted of staying there for as long as he remained so, and leaving just as soon as it was no longer the case. The very first morning of his stay, he made plans to venture out with poles and tackle and the avowed intention of catching his own dinner, to Mrs McLaughlin’s surprise, but was interrupted in his mission by a majestically proportioned thunderstorm. Needless to say, that most gothic of weathers frightened away the fish more effectively than his oaths or the wet spectacle of himself did, though he did manage to bring down two unsuspecting birds on his way back. His man, Riemann’s, fussing and Mrs McLaughlin’s potions failed to bring him any benefits or enjoyment, but when he was comfortably tucked in front of a warm fire, reflections upon man’s insignificance against natural forces and his folly at thinking himself able to disregard the signs sent to warn him, led him to poetry.
    The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
    The lines from his favourite poem made him smile. But circumstances were not favourable to philosophical thought and poetic ramblings. Instead, he found himself planning the small excursion northwards Mr McLaughlin had seen fit to recommend for tomorrow, probably covering a few days, to inspect the salmon passages before winter set in. This was all he needed and he sank further into his chair. Weeks of the same activities, the same landscape, the same pursuits stretched before him and he smiled. He was home.
    H OLLY HAD GONE TO BED with a vague sense of guilt for the relief she felt when contemplating that she really, truly would never have to return to Hockdown School ever again. It was true that she also possessed a fully developed sense of outrage at the injustice of her dismissal, but she could not look around her small, comfortable, room, warmed and illuminated solely by the frugal fire, without a smile.
    In the morning, she sat up with a start upon first seeing the sun streaming through the window, fearing she had overslept, but it only took remembering where she was, and why, to decide to snuggle back down under the warm blankets and let herself slide back into a decadent, second slumber. By the time she woke again, the sun was much higher and her stomach was grumbling about a missed breakfast.
    A doting Mrs Higgins had saved a plate for her and, while she ate, Mrs Tournier kept her company with a cup of coffee. Afterwards her mother, with that same smug expression she had sported the night before, pleaded letter writing duties and excused