It was dark by the time they walked back. Felton had a couple of small travelling lanterns in his bag and he lit them, a small pool of light illuminating each single step along the path back to the cottage. They didn’t say much. They both knew he had set down his cards and said what he wanted to say. They also both knew that at some point, she must reply. But not tonight. If their destiny was so inevitable, why rush? Her true fate would be revealed soon enough.

They walked in the easy silence that had been paved by their forebears as the great house glowed at their backs. Its golden eyes still gazed onto the grounds as before, but one now blinked as a figure watched in stillness at the two lights bouncing along the path, as though they were fireflies dancing in the night.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

‘There you are.’

She turned to find Billy standing in the doorway, grinning at her.

‘Billy,’ she smiled, pleased to see him. The drudge of long days, spent largely alone, was beginning to wear on her. ‘What brings you this far west?’

‘You’re wanted in the stables.’

‘Me?’ she frowned. ‘Why am I wanted in the stables?’

He shrugged.

‘Well, who wants me?’

He shrugged again. ‘Mr Weir just told me to find you and tell you that you were wanted in the stables.’

Weir. Her blood ran cold at the mention of his name. She replaced the egg she was holding – a pine finch – in its box with a trembling hand. She knew it was the moment she’d been waiting for, the one she had known for weeks was coming, heading for her like a bullet – once fired, unstoppable. The stables would be private and discreet, well away from the main house.

‘He said to be quick about it,’ Billy added as she stared at him in horror.

She felt a cold chill ripple down her arms as she walked from the room and followed him down the stairs while he recounted the gossip in the servants hall following her ‘daring’ rescue of Miss Petunia last night. She didn’t hear a word of it.

‘You know where to go?’ he asked, standing in the passage, ready to head back to the kitchens.

She nodded sombrely, pushing on the door and walking outside. The first tendrils of autumn were reaching through the air now, stray russet leaves scratching along the ground, the breeze tickling with cool fingers. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was pleased to have pulled on a woollen vest over her shirt this morning; she had knitted it for John long ago (without any of Jayne’s proficiency, dropping stitches and falling into purl when she lost focus) but it was particularly soft and he hadn’t minded that the armholes were different sizes.