A week passed from the day that Mr. Harding and Mr. Edwards had met under such unfortunate circumstances. Charity did not see hide nor hair of Mr. Harding and, indeed, there was no reason why she should.

Mr. Edwards, however, took to calling nearly every day.

He always professed the purpose of the visit to be the discussion of some matter of scripture with her father, but Charity always found herself called in to take tea with the two vicars, or else her father contrived some little excursion that they might all take together.

The Reverend seemed to be doing his best to find some excuse to leave Charity alone with Mr. Edwards, but thus far, she had been successful in thwarting his efforts.

Mr. Edwards, for his part, was always courteous and attentive, and never behaved in a way that gave Charity any cause for serious alarm. She wondered if perhaps he was feeling the pressure from her father just as much as she was.

She knew in the eyes of the village, they were a perfect match. He a vicar, she a vicar’s daughter; they were perfectly suited to one another in terms of status, and to the village, those were the only terms that mattered.

She also was starting to wonder if there might be specific merits to the life that she might have if she were the sort of person to marry a man like Mr. Edwards.

But, alas, she knew full well that she was not that sort of person, and that no amount of self-persuasion could force her to be so.

When her father called her into his study after many days of Mr. Edwards’ visits, she thought that she knew what he was likely to say. Nonetheless, she did not expect the bluntness with which he said it, nor had she anticipated the rigidity with which he clearly approached the situation.

“Let me be quite clear with you, my child,” the Reverend began, speaking in a low, smooth, silky tone, so controlled that one almost could not hear the rumble of anger thundering beneath it. “I know that when Mr. Edwards comes to speak to you today, his intention is to propose marriage to you.”

Charity knew that her face was whitening. It was not that what her father said had caused her to be fearful, after all, she had no reason to feel fearful of Mr. Edwards. One of the things that she liked very well about him was that she suspected when it came to her refusing him, he would understand and take the blow very well.

The same, however, could not be said of her father. There was an expression on the Reverend Miller’s face that she truly found frightening.

“And,” he continued, “I wish you to know that if you do not choose to accept him, then you are no longer any child of mine.”

Charity did not look up at her father for a while. She continued to sit where she was, her breath coming very evenly, her demeanor calm.

Yet, when she did look up, her father gave a double take, seemingly checking himself from stepping back in alarm. She suspected that never before had he seen such a depth of fire in his daughter’s eyes, which had always been cloaked with compliance until now.

“I understand you perfectly, Father,” was all that she said in response.

The Reverend continued to look at her, and if she was not mistaken, she believed that he was even a little frightened by her demeanor, the way that defiance radiated from every line of her body.

“Very good,” he said, at last, swallowing in the hope that it might alleviate the tension that was so evident in his body. “I am very glad to hear that we are in understanding with one another.”

“Of course,” Charity replied. She smiled a smile that seemed sweet yet was somehow without the duty and affection that had always lit her previous smiles. “You have conveyed yourself with admirable clarity, Father.”

“Good.”

That morning seemed to last forever.

Charity thought back to all the times, as a child and young woman, that she had wished away all her little chores and duties. What she would have given for some small task or other to occupy herself with that morning so that she would not be forced to contemplate the prospect that was ahead of her.

But, at length, the appointed hour came, and she was sitting in the drawing room when she heard Mr. Edwards’ voice in the hall. Her father had already made an ostentatious show of retiring to his study, so Charity was alone when Mr. Edwards was shown in. It was all by design, of course, but there was an enormous pressure on Charity to make the whole contrivance seem natural.

Mr. Edwards entered the room. He looked a little pale but quite resolved. Charity wondered whether he was as nervous and uncomfortable as she was, and gave a small smile, intended to reassure him. She regretted it almost immediately afterward, hoping that he did not take it as a sign of encouragement.

“Good day to you, Miss Miller,” Mr. Edwards said. “I hope that you are quite well.”

Charity responded in kind, for what else was there to say? She smiled at the gentleman as warmly as she dared and encouraged him to take a seat before they continued. This was likely to be a wretched experience in every other way; they may as well be physically comfortable, at least.

“Miss Miller, thank you for seeing me,” Mr. Edwards said. “There is a matter of great delicacy upon which I must speak to you.”

Charity took a great breath and drew herself up, folding her hands demurely in her lap, taking her battle stance for the difficult matter that was sure to come.

“I spoke to your father the other day,” Mr. Edwards said, clearly deciding that it was incumbent upon him to speak frankly. “I cannot truthfully say that it was I that instigated the conversation. Your father reproached me for the fact that I remain unmarried, and laid out all the reasons why he believes that you would be a suitable wife to me.”

Charity was not surprised by the content of what he said, but she would have to own that she was a little taken aback by the flatness of his tone. Perhaps she had expected him to speak more animatedly.

The peculiarity of his manner was soon to make perfect sense, however, although what he said next astonished her.

“I come to tell you, Miss Miller, that I cannot in good conscience make the offer to become your husband. The first reason for this is that, despite the degree of duty that is inherent in my vocation, I must profess to having something of a romantic heart.”

Charity said nothing, but she looked up sharply. This was not at all what she had expected to hear, and at present, she had no notion of what she ought to make of it.

Mr. Edwards blushed as he spoke as if admitting to something very shameful. The expression in his face touched Charity, and made her feel very sorry for Mr. Edwards, for apparently, he was every bit as discomfited by their conversation as she was.

“Possessing this trait,” Mr. Edwards continued, “I am bound to admit that I cannot offer marriage to one woman when I love another, nor can I ask for your hand when I know full well that your own heart is elsewhere.”

For a moment Charity felt as though the very breath had been taken away from her. She could feel her cheeks flooding crimson, but thankfully her mind supplied her with sufficient words that she did not make herself foolish.

“I do not know what you can mean, sir,” she said carefully. “If you have heard some idle gossip in the village concerning me, then I pray that you do not take it as a reflection upon my own character. I have done nothing to make the general community believe that I am attached.”

“It is not from the general community that I gained my information,” Mr. Edwards said hastily. “Rather, this knowledge comes from one who knows you very well, and has only your best interests at heart.”

Charity continued to look at him, perplexed, until he clarified at last.

“Your friend Miss Campbell told me of your situation on the very first day we met,” he said. “She told me, if I may put it plainly, that you have a profound and mutual attachment with Mr. Harding, and that I would do both you and myself a great wrong if I were to come between the two of you.”

Charity felt herself coloring with embarrassment, but Mr. Edwards hastened to reassure her.

“I would wish you to know, Miss Miller, that your friend conveyed your situation with the utmost delicacy, and explained to me most tactfully and kindly that I would be unwise to seek happiness with you, despite the fact that your father would be very likely to encourage the match.”

“Esther is very compassionate,” Charity murmured. She was slightly dazed by the memory — that day when she had claimed that her boot needed re-lacing so that she might hide her tears and had been alarmed that she was forcing Esther to entertain a man with whom she did not care to speak.

“Indeed she is,” Mr. Edwards said warmly. At that moment, it became crystal clear to Charity what he had meant when he said that he could not ask for the hand of one woman when he loved another.

It seemed that her own perception of the matter had been entirely at odds with the reality.

She thought back to the way that Esther had behaved when she was in the company of both Charity and Mr. Edwards. Ever quiet, ever watchful, always ready with a reassuring smile. How she must have suffered, Charity realized, seeing the way that the Reverend Miller had attempted to force Charity and Mr. Edwards together.

Well, she thought, if there was some good consequence to come from this strange and desperate tie that seemed to exist between Mr. Harding and herself, then she could think of nothing better than the idea that the circumstances might have brought her own dear friend a measure of happiness.

Mr. Edwards was still standing by the fireplace, regarding her with an expression of uncertainty. After a few moments, he broached the silence.

“So, Miss Miller, I sincerely hope that I have not made you uncomfortable in this interview. Your father was very eager that I have the opportunity to speak with you alone, and I believe that he considers the matter to be entirely settled.

“After I spoke to him yesterday I found myself torn between my own sense of duty and the fact that I knew such a marriage would destroy both your happiness and mine. Therefore my heart was ultimately victorious over my head, and I am very glad of it, although I believe that it will anger your father greatly, and for that, I am most regretful.”

“You have nothing to regret, sir,” Charity said. She allowed her features to break into a smile — the first unreserved smile that she had felt able to bestow on Mr. Edwards. “I am very grateful to you, sir, that you are aware of my unhappy situation and have not tried to turn the matter to your own advantage. I fear that not every man would do the same.”

“My conscience would allow no less,” Mr. Edwards said. He bowed. “I hope that you will forgive me, but I believe that given the nature of this interview it is for the best if we keep our discussion brief. I hope sincerely that we shall remain friends for a very long time indeed.”

Charity smiled back at him. She had felt the need to be reserved around him for so long, perceiving him primarily as a prospective suitor that must be warded off at all costs.

But now, he was something else altogether. He was the prospective lover of her dearest friend, and in that endeavor, she wished him only joy.

He took his leave of her, not just with courtesy, but with a real warmth that assured Charity that, despite what else might happen, they would indeed remain good friends.

As he went away, Charity watched him go. Perhaps, she thought, she ought to have been filled with despair. After all, if her father were to make good on his promise, then she would very soon find herself cast out without a friend in the world.

But she could not help but find her heart warmed by the knowledge that Esther, her dearest friend, had done everything in her power to ensure that Charity was not forced to acquiesce to the proposals of one man when she loved another.

She was blessed, Charity knew, to have one such friend in all the word. And she was delighted by the thought that that very friend had received her just deserts from Providence, and earned the evident devotion of a man as upright and decent as Mr. Edwards.

She knew that the two of them would be very happy together, and could not hold herself back from smiling.

She realized, gradually, that she would be forced to take heart from Mr. Edwards’ example. If he was able to discard the pragmatic questions of life, and put love first, then she was realizing that she owed it to herself to do just the same.

“Have you lost your mind, daughter?”

The Reverend Miller seemed as though he was fit to explode with fury. When most men of his age became angry, they reddened, as if having partaken of too much port. The Reverend Miller was not of the same constitution as most men of his age, however, and his sallow face had grown quite grey, as though the life had been extracted from it. “What can you possibly mean, when you say that you are not going to marry Mr. Edwards?”

“Precisely what I say, Father,” Charity replied coolly. For once, when talking to her father, she did not feel as though she was required to defend herself, and that liberation was clearly demonstrated in the posture of her body. Her shoulders were flung back, and her chin raised in defiance. Her eyes were quite clear, and it was evident that the Reverend Miller was quite alarmed by the sight of her. He was not used to his daughter appearing so manifestly unafraid.

“How could you possibly have refused such a man?” the Reverend spluttered, his hands striking at the arms of his chair as if to provide some relief for his vexation. “What pride is this? What insolence?”

“I did not refuse him, Father,” Charity replied calmly. “How could I have done when he never asked me?”

“You lie!” her father thundered, his voice cracking upon the accusation. “I spoke to the man only yesterday, and it was quite evident that his mind was made up. Everything was settled. Either you are being untruthful, or there was something in your behavior that dissuaded him from his original intention. Tell the truth, girl!”

Charity had a moment of realization that this must be how Mr. Harding felt, to be accused of falsehood by one’s own father. It was a cruel feeling, an enraging feeling. She felt her hands curl involuntarily into fists as they hung at her sides.

“I do not lie, Father,” she said, endeavoring against the odds to keep her voice steady, to keep the rage from inflecting in it and preventing her from speaking with full force. “You did not raise me to lie, and I would never do so, particularly to my own father. It is the truth that Mr. Edwards expressed no wish to marry me, which was fortunate, because if he had asked me, then I should certainly have refused.”

“Insolent strumpet!” her father exclaimed, arising from his chair in a movement that was at one with the level of his voice, and then falling back into it, as if the breath had been knocked out of him. “After all that I have done for you, all that I have sacrificed and endeavored, you choose to behave in this ungrateful fashion? It is quite beyond belief, my girl. I am at a loss to explain it.”

“It is not so difficult to explain,” Charity said. She wanted to shout out in anger at his words — after everything that he had sacrificed for her? He had never sacrificed anything for her, never considered that she might wish for some other future than the one that he planned for her with such clinical plotting. She could not believe that he was behaving as though she had acted in an effort to personally wound him.

“It is not difficult to explain at all, Father. You have always wished me to pursue a path in life that I had no desire to go down, and so I have exercised my independence of mind and chosen not to allow an attachment to develop on the part of a man whom I know I could never love.”

For a moment a wave of compassion overwhelmed her anger, and she went to stand closer to her father’s chair, bending down so that they might look one another in the eye.

“Can you not comprehend that? Did you not love my own mother very dearly? So dearly, in fact, that you have never recovered from her untimely death? Do you not wish for me to find the same profound attachment in marriage, the same felicity?”

“Do not use your mother against me, girl,” the Reverend replied gruffly, refusing to meet his daughter’s steady gaze. “Your mother was a sober and dutiful woman, and she knew how to do right by her husband and her family. You seem not to have inherited her sense of honor.”

“I believe I have inherited her sense of honor, indeed, Father,” Charity said. “For it is my own honor that prevents me from entering into a marriage with a man for whom I feel only friendly fellow-feeling. I do not believe that I could make Mr. Edwards happy, and so my feelings forbid me from behaving falsely, from giving him hope where there is none. There are not many opportunities for a woman to prove that she has a sense of honor, Father, but there was one here, and I have certainly acted in accordance with my conscience.”

“Honor, eh?” her father said, his voice barely above a whisper. He gazed past Charity and into the fire, his lips twisting and distorting with the force of his fury. “Well, may your sense of honor do you much good, for you shall have little else in the world.”

Charity stood upright, discarding her supplicant pose to step backward in shock.

“What can you mean?” she said. For the first time, the tremble infiltrated her voice, and she was powerless to stop it.

“I mean,” her father said, “that since you clearly have no filial piety, no sense of what is owed to your own father, then there is little reason for me to fulfill my duties by you. Pack your bags, madam. Gather your possessions, such as they are, for I want nothing more to do with you.”

For a moment Charity did not speak. The only sound was that of the birds singing, which floated through the open window like a cruel joke.

“You cannot mean what you say, Father,” she said, speaking slowly and carefully. “I believe that you express yourself in anger, and if you were in a more serene state, then you would not say these things to your only child. I know that you are a kind man, and a good one, and would have no wish to turn me out of your home if you were thinking clearly.”

“Do not presume to tell me what I can and cannot do, child!” her father thundered. He rose from his chair so sharply that Charity was forced to take a step back, almost tripping over the hem of her dress in her alarm. “Do you believe that you have authority over me, hmm? Has your pride been so inflated? Do you not understand that I am the master of this house, and may do as I wish?”

Charity did not speak for a few moments. She was trying to stay calm, trying to assess the situation as a rational creature might if they were not so affected by the tide of strong emotions as was rushing through her.

Surely her father could not mean what he said. Although he could be a cold and distant man, she knew in her heart that he was not a cruel one. What he said seemed so gratuitous, so intended to make his daughter suffer, that she found it difficult to believe that he could really mean it.

Moreover, it seemed unbelievable to her that he would really cast his daughter from the house, if only because to do so would be to bring shame upon not only Charity, but himself too. Would he really risk his position in the village, his whole life in the community, for the sake of a fit of anger?

But the fire in his eyes as he stood, glaring at his daughter, told her that he would do precisely that.

Charity looked into his eyes for a few seconds and saw only the rage there, rage and the force of rejection. Taking in a deep breath, she nodded her head slowly.

“I will not stay to cause you offense, sir,” she said quietly. Her heart was racing as fast as a galloping horse, but her movements were languid as she walked from the room. She could feel the fury of her father’s gaze burning behind her, and even when she closed the door, she could still feel its heat, as though she were standing too close to a fire.

She mounted the stairs very slowly, noting each familiar creak in the wood, and made her way to her little room.

She had never been obliged to pack her things before, for she had never been anywhere. However, she knew how it was done, of course.

She stood before her closet, almost laughing with a sort of charged hysteria. What ought she take? There was no use for party gowns and fine satin slippers if she was going to be cast out of society. There was no sense in taking more than she could carry, and perhaps she would need to carry it for a long time before she was to get to wherever she needed to go.

In the end, she only folded a few print dresses into a bag, along with her personal things: her comb, her mirror, a dressing gown. She packed her needlework — not the fancy embroidery that she occupied herself with when visitors were present to demonstrate her gentility — but the things that she might need if she were required to make her living by her needle.

She placed them all into a bag very neatly. Her possessions seemed to take up extraordinarily little space, and she was struck by how small she was in the world and how alone.

She was struck in the same moment with the startling realization that, despite the gravity of her situation, despite the sting of rejection from her father, she was unafraid.

She closed the little bag and picked it up from the bed. It was heavy, even though there was so little in it, and she knew that she would not be able to carry it far through the muddy lanes. Still, she could hardly travel any lighter.

She descended the creaking stairs again, her pace distorted by the weight of the heavy case. She paused for a few moments outside the door of her father’s study, considering whether she ought to go in. Why? To take her leave of him? To beg his pardon? To beseech him not to cast her out of the only world she had ever known?

No indeed. She would not beg.

It was not a question of pride but of what she felt to be right. If she were to go into her father’s study now and beg his forgiveness, behave as a repentant, then all there would be was confirming to her father that he could always achieve his aims by bullying those around him.

No. No more.

She picked up her case and left the house through the front door, closing it behind her with a gentle thud.

All the way down the garden path and into the lane she walked with such purpose that she scarcely noticed the heaviness of her case.

True, she was a creature entirely alone in the world. True, she knew not where she would lay her head that night, or where she might obtain her next meal.

But, for a few moments, all of those sensations were dwarfed by the overwhelming fact that she was free. At perfect liberty to do whatever she wished, for the first time in her life.

Or instead, to do whatever she wished that was within her means, and her means were nonexistent.

Her strange sense of elation came to an abrupt end when her foot struck a puddle in the lane, and mud splashed over her dress and onto her bag.

All at once her peculiar sense of freedom shattered, and she was left only with fear and disorientation. Where could she possibly go? What ought she do?

For a wild moment, the idea crossed her mind of going to Lawley Hall. She knew that it was a mad idea, that it would wreck her reputation forever if she was to be seen going there alone, with a case of her things in her hand.

But then again, perhaps her reputation was already quite wrecked. Perhaps the wisest thing she could do would be to go to Mr. Harding and throw herself upon his mercy, to take whatever he might offer her.

She already knew that he had asked her to meet him alone in the grove. Who knew how far his willingness to breach propriety went? Who knew what he might do with a woman who was without friends and under his power?

She thought of Mary Warwick and poor little drowned Freddie.

No. She would not do that.

Not because she feared the censure, not because she cared what anyone might say about her. But because she knew that it was beneath her dignity — beneath her morals as well as her aspirations — to go to any man on bended knee and offer to be his mistress. It mattered not how desperate she was, nor how much her heart longed for Mr. Harding’s comfort.

What was more, once these thoughts had crossed her mind and she had dismissed them, she knew precisely where she was going to go.

She could not go to Esther. If her father had cast her out, then she could not place her friend in an impossible position by asking her to take her in. It would be to drag Esther down with her, and she had no intention of doing that.

Involuntarily, a smile crossed her lips. She wondered whether Mr. Edwards had gone to speak to Esther yet.

The thought that her friend’s happiness and position in life was so close to being secured made the burden of her own situation feel far lighter, and she handled her heavy bag with a little more ease.

She set off to the only place where she could go, just as the rain started to fall and churn up all the mud in the lane.

Mrs. Warwick was standing in her garden when Charity arrived. It seemed that she had not noticed the rain, or at least, that the downpour did not even slightly concern her. She was standing there with a faraway expression in her eyes as though she were sensing something in her bones, as if she were one with the drops falling from the sky and stirring the roots of her precious herbs and flowers.

When she saw Charity, her face went white, as though she had suddenly seen some spirit.

“Mrs. Warwick,” Charity said, in some distress at the sight of the old woman’s countenance, “Mrs. Warwick, are you quite well?”

Mrs. Warwick seemed almost to awaken from her trance, shaking her head as if to discard the last scraps of a dream from her waking eyes. All at once she looked as though the rain had struck her very bones, and she began to shiver.

“Apologies, my dear,” she said. “Do come in. Come in. We will have something warm to drink. Come in.”

Her eyes swept over the bag in Charity’s hand, but her face did not change at all.

“Come in,” she said one final time. Charity followed her into the house, and the door was shut against the violence of the weather.

“Mrs. Warwick, are you ill?” she asked, once they were both inside. “You seemed very distressed a moment ago. I hope that you are not unwell.”

“I am well,” Mrs. Warwick said, managing a small, wrinkled smile as she set about placing the large iron kettle upon the range. “Have no fear for me, child. I am quite well. It is only that when I saw your face, I was convinced, just for a moment, that it was my own Mary come home.”

Charity’s heart ached for the old woman as a tear slid down her face.

“It was the expression in your eyes,” Mrs. Warwick continued, still busying herself with the making of the tea. “I saw that look on my own Mary’s face, you see, all those years ago when she came home to me from the big house. It’s the look of a woman who has decided to make her own way in life. I know it very well.”

Charity did not speak but merely nodded. She was struck by the perception of what Mrs. Warwick said, and a mixture of shock and wry humor that, when all was said and done, there was very little to separate her — or any other woman for that matter — from the situation that poor Mary had found herself in.

She accepted the tea that Mrs. Warwick offered her. It was very hot and tasted of herbs and the honey that Mrs. Warwick harvested from her own bees. It was perhaps the most wonderful thing she had ever tasted.

“Get off your wet things,” Mrs. Warwick said abruptly. “We can dry them in front of the fire. If you’re to stay here then, you’re to be useful, and you cannot be useful if you catch cold.”

Charity was taken aback for a moment, automatically obeying Mrs. Warwick’s command and beginning to strip off her wet stockings.

“How did you know that I needed to stay here?” she asked.

“Same look in your eyes as I saw in Mary’s,” Mrs. Warwick said simply. “When a woman decides that she will make her own way in the world there are not a great many places that she can go. But one of them is here, my child. You can stay here for as long as you should need.”

“Thank you,” Charity replied. Her gratitude was expressed only in those brief syllables, but she said it with such warmth that Mrs. Warwick could not have failed to understand the depth of her sincerity.

“Of course, child,” Mrs. Warwick said, busying herself once again with taking Charity’s wet things and hanging them before the fire.

That night, Charity went to sleep in Mary Warwick’s old bed.