‘I wrote to you,’ Anna said at last. ‘After Edward and I – but I suppose my letters must have missed you.’

‘I was back in England by the summer. I didn’t expect to hear from you, anyway. Not after the last letter you wrote to me.’

Anna felt herself blushing. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I should never have stopped. But I thought it was the right thing to do …’

‘I understand,’ Tom said. ‘I probably should have stopped writing to you, too, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Even if you never replied, I didn’t want to lose touch, just in case.’

‘Just in case what?’ Anna prompted him.

‘In case you ever needed me.’

Dear Tom, she thought. He had known what Edward was like, even if Anna hadn’t. And all those miles away, with his own life in danger, he had still thought of her, sought to protect her.

She held herself rigid to stop herself from reaching for his hand.

‘I didn’t know you’d been writing to me,’ she said. ‘Edward hid your letters.’

She heard Tom’s angry, indrawn breath.

‘I was a fool,’ she said, her words escaping in a rush. ‘I know you tried to warn me about Edward, but I wouldn’t listen.’

‘I didn’t expect you to,’ Tom said. ‘You were in love. People in love don’t always see sense.’

Anna sneaked a sideways look at him, but his expression was impassive.

‘I found out Edward started the fire that nearly killed me and my family,’ she said.

‘Did he tell you that?’

Anna shook her head. ‘Someone else did.’ She looked at him consideringly. ‘You don’t seem very surprised about it? But then, I don’t suppose you would be, would you?’

To his credit, Tom didn’t insult her by denying it.

‘I tried to stop them,’ he said flatly.

‘I know. And you wrote that note warning me.’

‘I wish I could have done more.’

‘I wouldn’t have listened. Anyway, you made up for it by rebuilding our home for us.’

He stopped dead and turned to stare at her. ‘Is that what you think? That I did it to make amends?’

‘What other reason would there be?’

Say it, she pleaded silently. Tom said nothing. But the answer she needed was there, in his yearning eyes. Just as it had been in every line of every letter he had ever written to her.

It was something they both felt, but neither had the courage to express.

Once again, she fought the urge to reach for him, but kept her hands rigidly at her sides, terrified to make the first move.

They carried on walking, neither of them speaking. Then suddenly Tom said,

‘I could rebuild it.’

‘What?’

‘The bakery. I did it before and I could do it again. We could have the place open again by the spring. What do you say?’

For a brief moment she was tempted to say yes. To go back, to open up the bakery, to paint the name Beck’s above the door, to put it all back together the way it once had been.