Mrs. Wheatley led the way back to the kitchen, took up the peel, and shoveled fresh-baked rolls from the bread oven. She passed one to Alinor, who put it in her apron pocket and felt the warmth against her hip.

“Thank you,” Alinor said, grateful for much more than the bread.

Mrs. Wheatley nodded. “I knew you’d pine for him. But he’s doing well enough, as you see, and Master Walter is a friendly boy. There’s no spite in him.”

On impulse, Alinor kissed the older woman’s cheek. “Thank you,” she said again, and took up her basket, unpacked the samphire leaves into the cool larder, and went out of the kitchen door into the kitchen garden. Dawdling down the paths, pretending to look at the growing herbs in the late summer blowsy richness, she arrived at the gate to the sea meadow. Only then, as she put her hand on the latch and turned to see Father James coming out of the house, did she admit to herself that she had been delaying in the hope that he would come after her.

She found she was blushing and hot, and worse, she had nothing to say. She remembered that she should not speak of the first time they had met. That was a secret of grave importance. But if she did not speak of that, how could she say anything to him? She should be greeting him with deference, as a complete stranger, a guest of her lord, a minister of the church. But if they were strangers he would not be striding past the herb beds towards her, his handsome face alight with joy at seeing her. She did not even know what to call him, but he came so quickly towards her and took both her hands in his warm clasp that she could say nothing but: “Oh.” “Oh,” she said.

“I knew that I would see you again,” he said hastily.

“I . . .” She withdrew her hands and at once he released her.

“Sir William has taken me on as his chaplain. I pass as a minister of the reformed religion. Nobody in the household but Mr. Tudeley knows any different. Your boy doesn’t know. He doesn’t attend Mass, nor does Walter. The Mass is completely secret, held only at night when the household is asleep. He is in no danger. He doesn’t know what I am,” he said in a rush.

“He mustn’t know,” was all she could say. “He’s been raised . . . and his uncle served under Cromwell himself. He mustn’t . . .”

“I know. Mr. Tudeley warned us when I said I would like Robert to share Walter’s lessons.”

“You got Rob hired for my sake?”

“I owe you a great debt,” he said. “You took me in and hid me and brought me to safety.”

She nodded at his formal tone. He spoke as if she were one of the faithful—morally bound to assist a priest—as if there had never been a moment in the meadow, as if he had never said: “a woman like you.”