Perhaps Adam ought to have discarded any hope that his father would receive him. Perhaps he ought to have realized from that terrible encounter that morning, that unless something changed, there was no question of his father’s forgiveness.

Nonetheless, it struck him like a knife to the heart, a wound that started as pain and quickly turned to anger, when the footman informed him that he was not to be permitted into his father’s bedchamber.

The old man is dying, Adam thought, with a combination of fury and despair. Surely he must know that the time for reconciliation is short?

His father’s refusal to see him was merely the latest and most painful of the myriad rejections he had received that day from the Reverend Miller, from Farmer Roberts, now from his own father, once again. Mrs. Reynolds was doing her best to convey her sympathy, but it had little effect on Adam’s mood.

He had felt alone before, of course. He had been deeply isolated during his time abroad which he had sought to alleviate by entertaining the elegant French and Italian young ladies. These women had been drawn to the son of an English duke like moths to a flame and had not seemed to particularly care that he was disgraced and estranged from his father.

This had provided some distraction, but the long sleepless nights in his rented lodgings had been quiet indeed.

Yet, this isolation was nothing compared to what he felt now. Loneliness experienced under a foreign sky, Adam was now realizing, was nothing compared to rejection under the roof of one’s own father.

And yet, just as the sense of alienation was more intense now that he had returned, so too was the sense of distraction.

Adam could scarcely get Charity Miller’s face out of his mind. He could not have said whether the fascination was simply the result of the heightened atmosphere he was experiencing due to his return home, or whether it was the product of more enduring interest.

The only way he could find out, of course, was to see her again.

He sat up for much of the night, thinking of his father Thinking of Mrs. Warwick and all that she had lost. Thinking, too, of Charity Miller and marveling that her face shone so brightly in his mind, even in the midst of all this terrible darkness.

He rose with the dawn and spent the early hours of daylight wandering Lawley Park in a state of some distraction.

He had to reason with Reverend Miller. Of that, he was quite sure. After all, it was Reverend Miller who had been talking to both Adam and his father that strange, terrible day. Reverend Miller had seen both the woman and her child and must have seen Adam too.

Through all his lonely time of banishment, Adam had marveled at how difficult it was to prove that a thing had not happened. The suspicion that Adam’s father held against him had become clear, and after that, it had been impossible to dissuade him from his conviction.

But the Reverend Miller, he was sure, would be his salvation.

Yet, the man had seemed so unwilling to offer help and so halfhearted in his promises when he had offered it.

Still, Adam was doing his best not to think about that too much, as he wandered the groves between Lawley Hall and the village.

If one had asked Adam what his motives for walking there, he would have said that he had no motive at all, only a great desire to be out in the fresh air.

And perhaps he did not even consciously realize how much he was hoping that he might meet Miss Miller while he was out walking. Perhaps he would have said that it came to him as a complete surprise that she was out there walking too.

Yes, it would be true to say that when he recognized her figure, silhouetted against the airy clouds of the morning sky, his heart leapt, although perhaps that owed more to pleasure and anticipation than to any surprise.

As he approached, some small twig snapped underfoot, and Miss Miller turned. When she saw him, her countenance was difficult to read, but certainly, she did not appear surprised to see him.

Then her face broke into a smile that seemed involuntarily, that seemed to mirror the morning sunlight in the grove and make it stronger.

“It is a lovely morning,” she said, in lieu of any more formal greeting.

Adam walked over to where she was standing on the ridge, which then fell away into a grassy hillside. Below them, the village was nestled in the small valley. Plumes of smoke rose from the chimneys of the cottages, and the church spire reached gracefully into the freshly-blue sky.

“It is a lovely morning indeed,” he agreed.

If he had met any other young lady of his acquaintance in this way, then perhaps they would have hastened — hastened to greet each other and then hastened to leave, knowing that it would not do to linger too long without a chaperone present.

But something about the present situation made Adam feel that they might both linger just a little longer without incurring any censure. And he felt so irresistibly the desire to be close to her, to breathe in a little more of whatever air it was that had so bewitched him the previous day.

“I walk here most mornings,” Miss Miller said. “Or rather, I should say, not just here, but in all these woods surrounding the village.”

“I should not say there were any finer woods in all of England,” Adam observed in response. It was the sort of utterance that he associated with small talk and he rebuked himself for making it. Miss Miller did not seem much concerned.

“I would not know,” she replied, turning her eyes to Adam with a frankness that he found very engaging — a long way from the coyness of the ladies with whom he was used to associating. “I have scarcely left these parts all my life, and I have very little to compare them to.”

“You will have to take my word for it, then,” Adam replied, and the two of them shared a small smile. Seeing Miss Miller’s features rearrange themselves like this immediately caused Adam to recall the times when they had played together as children. Miss Miller’s smile, so playful then, had matured and yet still had the same essence, lighting up her beautiful features with an irresistible animation and life.

He recalled how once when they were very young, they had agreed that they would marry when they were grown and exchanged flowers in one of the groves of his father’s estate.

It had been an innocent, childish game, played long before either of them had understood that marriage was less a matter of love and more a question of money and social alliance. Nonetheless, Adam found himself blushing at the memory and wondered whether she remembered it too.

Of course, we are not strangers, but old acquaintances, Adam thought. I scarcely believe that I did not recognize her when first we met yesterday morning.

“I do take your word,” Miss Miller replied. The way she said it, with a mixture of conviction and sorrow, made Adam realize at once that she was no longer referring to the landscape. “I would have you know that despite what others in these parts may believe of you, Mr. Harding, I do not entertain idle gossip.”

So she knows what they are saying of me. Adam’s initial response was one of wretchedness. Seeing Miss Miller, speaking to her, had been a contrast of sunlight to the dark shadow over his return here. Initially, he felt distressed at the idea that she knew of his disgrace and it would color her perception of him.

“I am very grateful for your confidence in me, though I do not know what I had done to earn it,” he said. “I only wish that those who knew me better shared your belief in my innocence.”

“Do you not know what you have done to earn it?” Miss Miller replied, the sun dappling her face as it filtered through the trees. “Do you not recall how, when we played together as children, you were always honest and kind?”

So she does remember me…

“I do not suppose that one remembers much of oneself when one was a child,” Adam replied, struck into contemplation by her words. “But I am very glad to hear that that was your impression of me when we were younger, and I shall do my best to be equal to it now.”

“I do not know what happened that day, save that two souls were lost before their time,” Miss Miller said soberly. “I was not there and can only believe secondhand accounts of what took place. But I do not believe that you were responsible and nor does Mrs. Warwick. Indeed, I believe that you have been wrongly treated, and the thought hurts my heart.”

At the mention of the old woman’s name, Adam’s heart leapt. He knew that, in the scheme of all the anger and mistrust that circulated this matter both in the village and in his father’s heart, Mrs. Warwick’s opinion would not do much to influence the matter. She was too old, too poor, too strange in her bearing, to be taken seriously by most of the people in their community.

However, if what Miss Miller was saying was true — if the old woman did not believe Adam to have been responsible for her only relatives deaths — then that was of immense comfort to Adam.

I believe that you have been wrongly treated, and the thought hurts my heart. His own heart leapt at the words. Partly it was from the fierce joy that he felt at being seen for who he truly was, that this young woman judged him as she saw him rather than falling prey to secondhand gossip.

It was partly the look in her dark eyes when she spoke. That bewitching quality that had struck him so forcefully in both of their previous encounters and was working potent magic again on him now.

Miss Miller seemed to have somehow discerned what he was thinking -— or some of it, at least — and gave him a small smile.

“It is a great pity,” she observed, “that those who believe in your innocence — myself and Mrs. Warwick — are not persons of greater consequence. We can do little to influence your… your situation.”

At these words, she seemed to stumble a little, suddenly unsure of herself. Adam was surprised momentarily and then realized how unusual their conversation was.

If life had been playing out the way that it was supposed to, then the son of a Duke would never have any cause to speak to the daughter of a clergyman, much less to discuss his deepest fears and concerns with her. Perhaps Miss Miller had suddenly remembered herself, or remembered Adam’s position — so far above her own -— by invoking the comparison of her own relative lowliness.

“Perhaps not of consequence in terms of social rank,” he said slowly, contemplating how he might best express his appreciation without appearing to pay an empty compliment, “but certainly of consequence in terms of my own appreciation. Your profession of faith in me, Miss Miller, means more to me than I could possibly express.”

At that, Miss Miller smiled.

“How strange it is that now I am Miss Miller and you are Mr. Harding,” she said. “When we were children we were only Charity and Adam.”

Adam could not resist a smile at this. “How much simpler life was then,” he remarked.

“My life is rather simple even now,” Charity replied. “So simple, indeed, that I should better describe it as ‘dull’.”

Adam laughed. “I would exchange a few of my adventures for a little of your ‘dullness’, as you call it, Miss Miller.”

Miss Miller laughed. She looked as if she wished to say something further, but just as her lips parted the church bell chimed, striking the ninth hour.

“It is later than I had thought,” she said. She threw a glance over her shoulder in the general direction of the vicarage. “I must go or I shall be missed at breakfast.”

Adam reached up to touch his hat — the first little concession to social etiquette that he had made over the course of their strange, disarming conversation.

“Perhaps,” Miss Miller continued, dropping into a little curtsey, as if she too had been abruptly reminded of what was expected of her when she met a gentleman, “we shall have opportunity in the future to exchange your adventures for my dullness in the form of stories.”

“I hope so,” Adam agreed.

Miss Miller did not say anymore — not even ‘good day’. Instead, she turned and walked away down the hill toward the village, pausing only to throw a final smile over her shoulder. It was a shy smile, flush-cheeked and sparkling-eyed. It was a smile that seemed to bypass Adam’s eyes and straight into his heart, where it lodged like an arrow that had found its home.