CHAPTER FOURA pale sun struggled to shine as Sylvia rode up the avenue that led to Castle Belham. There was barely a sound. Just the drip of rain from wet leaves, or the odd sucking noise as her horse drew a hoof up from the muddy ground.
That morning, after what had seemed like weeks of bad weather, the skies had finally cleared. This had decided Sylvia to accompany her sisters’ coach as far as the gates of the estate. She said good-bye to them there. Now that they had, as they thought, achieved their purpose, now that Sylvia was going to marry ‘that fine looking fellow, the Count,’ Edith and Charlotte were in magnanimous mood. They chatted to her merrily and begged to be matrons of honour.
“You must come up to London to choose your trousseau,” urged Edith.
“And we insist that you are
