One more thread of her needle across the warp of her tapestry and Emma drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and readjusted the woollen rug draped over her knees. Her fingers were cold, as was the tip of her nose. The winter freeze showed no sign of abating and big old Cottenham House had too many crannies allowing in the icy night air. The best place to be on a night like this was down in the kitchen or in bed, but with only a small corner of green to complete the cottage garden, she persevered.
It was when she stabbed the tip of her finger with the end of her shuttle that she paused to look past the loom, her gaze falling briefly on her one masterpiece hanging on the opposite wall, its soft colours highlighted by the lamplight below. She allowed her gaze to lower, to drift to
