“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather stop at the widow’s cottage?” Mr. Cavell’s face wrinkled with concern as he guided his two cart horses down the narrow lane.

Wild hedges and trees grew so close to the road that twice now Grace had had to hold out an arm to brush a whip-like branch away from her face. As they bumped along the road, she wondered more than once if she were doing the right thing. The impulse to see Mr. Blyth again was slowly turning into something akin to dread, or the fear that when he saw her, his eyes might be filled with annoyance instead of love.

Even nature seemed to be warning her away as the overgrown bushes and low tree branches sought to snag her and send her back to London. But it was too late, now, to change her mind. They had passed the outskirts of Kendle and were already on the lane leading to Widow Willow’s small cottage. Grace’s hand clutched the side of the wagon, dreading Martha’s surprise when she appeared without any warning. And then there was Mr. Blyth…

Expelling a long breath, Grace peered ahead into the late afternoon gloom.

It was already Friday, and the sense of being unwanted and far too late to change Mr. Blyth’s plans gripped her. She had wanted to arrive in Kendle yesterday, but Mr. Cavell had decided to spend the night with his brother and sister-in-law.

That meant another long night at the Polkinghorne townhouse, unable to sleep and restlessly pacing the floor, thinking about Mr. Blyth. She had no real reason to be so uneasy, but she couldn’t control the feeling of urgency that surged up whenever she recalled the soft features of his face.

She couldn’t be that late, though. Martha hadn’t said anything about an imminent marriage between Mr. Blyth and Lady Lenora. She’d just said that they had announced that they were to be married. The banns had yet to be read. There was still plenty of time.

Her fingernails dug into the smooth wood of the wagon. Her imagination was galloping as uncontrollably as an unbroken horse. Pressing her lips together, she sat up straighter next to the farmer. Then she ducked, holding her arm over her head. She’d almost lost an eye to the overhanging branch of an elderly oak tree when the wagon lurched forward over the rutted road.

Plucking a leaf out from under the brim of her bonnet, she said, “I am grateful to you for your consideration, Mr. Cavell, but I don’t want to stop too long at Mrs. Willow’s cottage. Perhaps we might simply leave my portmanteau? I was hoping that you would allow me to continue with you as far as St. Mary’s Church. You pass by it on your way home, do you not?”

“Yes, but I’ve no reason to return to the widow’s this evening, and Rose and Daisy have done enough today,” he protested, his brows bristling. “You’d be stuck at the church, good and proper, though it won’t be dark for a few hours, yet. Leastways, not this time of year.”

“The walk back to Mrs. Willow’s cottage is not far, and, as you say, it will be light well past nine,” Grace said bracingly. She smoothed her skirts over her lap with nervous hands.

Noting that they were fast approaching the willow that grew at the fork in the road, she threw up an arm in time to avoid another faceful of leaves.

For better or worse—and Grace was inclined to feel relieved—both the widow and Martha were out when they arrived at the neat little cottage. Grace shoved her portmanteau under a gaily painted bench that stood to the right of the front door and hurried back to the wagon. If she lingered too long, Mr. Cavell might decide to leave her there for her own good. Although it was not far, she had no desire to walk to the church in the clouds of dust created by the wagon’s wheels.

She’d barely regained her seat when Mr. Cavell clicked his tongue and the horses jolted forward again. They rattled down another lane that looped back to the main road and within ten minutes, the stout, square bell tower of St. Mary’s Church rose into view. Grace’s throat tightened, and she clutched the wooden armrest next to her.

Glancing around nervously, she blurted out the first thing that rose to mind, “Have you ever met Lady Lenora?”

“Lady Lenora and her brother, Lord Glanville, both.” Mr. Cavell nodded for emphasis.

“What are they like?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Fine figure of a man, if you don’t mind his face. Like a bag full of rocks, it is. His lordship.” He shrugged. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said as much, but I figure he’s as aware of it as anyone. Can’t hardly help it if he’s ever caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror. But he’s not a man you’d want to get on the wrong side of, if you ask me. Could knock you down as easy as most brush off a fly.”

“No—I meant Lady Lenora.” Grace didn’t expect to meet Lord Glanville, or get on his wrong side, so the old gentleman’s appearance hardly mattered. And he might even be grateful to her if his sister dropped any notion of marrying a poor curate. Most likely, Lord Glanville wanted a better match for his sister. Grace was honest enough to admit that Mr. Blyth would not qualify as a good match for a member of the nobility.

“Well, now…” Mr. Cavell rubbed his whiskery chin on his shoulder. “Well, she’s a lady.” He shook his head as his face drooped in a sorrowful expression. “Heard they came for a change of scenery after her last beau deserted her. Shouldn’t ought to happen—not to a lady like that. Reckon she’s glad to see a few different faces, though.” After another shake of the head, he smiled with sudden inspiration. “Dresses right nice, too. Or so Widow Willow tells me.”

“I’m glad she found a refuge here, too, then.” A stab of sympathy made Grace nod before she glanced at him when she realized his description must have come from the charming Mrs. Willow. “I thought you’d seen her, though?”

“Widow Willow? ‘Course I’ve seen her.” He flashed a sidelong glance at her, his upper lip stretching down over his teeth to keep from grinning.

“You know perfectly well that I was referring to Lady Lenora. Is she pretty?”

“Well, you know what they say…” He shrugged again.

“No. What do they say?”

“Pretty is as pretty does,” he said in an unbearably sanctimonious way. His lips twitched, however, suggesting that he considered himself clever.

“Does she also have a face like a bag of rocks?”

“No. I wouldn’t say that. No.”

Grace sighed. Clearly, the farmer wasn’t about to give her a reasonable answer on the subject of Lady Lenora. His reluctance made Grace suspect that while her rival might be a wealthy heiress with a wardrobe full of lovely gowns, her features might be lacking in harmony. Terrible though it was, the thought strengthened her flagging spirits.

Her gaze flickered around the shadowy street. The low sun filtered through the trees in golden rays amidst darker shadows, and an air of gentle peace filled the dappled road. Mr. Cavell pulled back on the reins, slowing his team down in front of the old Norman church. The squarish building sat like a set of children’s blocks left under the shade of an old oak tree. She sat up straighter, searching for the slim figure of Mr. Blyth, yet fearing her first sight of him. Despite Mr. Cavell’s reassuring comments about Lady Lenora, Grace’s stomach twisted. Would Mr. Blyth be glad to see her or angry?

What was she going to say? How could she explain her sudden arrival?

She could scarcely announce that she’d come to prevent him from making the mistake of marrying Lady Lenora. Grace would look like a fool. A quick glance at Mr. Cavell was no help. Elbows braced on his knees, he looked ahead with a tired and slightly bored expression as he brought the big dun-colored horses to a halt.

Although Mr. Cavell was always cheerful, the shadows deepened the lines of his face, making him look weary. After their long journey, he still had to unhitch the wagon and take care of Daisy and Rose. No wonder he’d wanted to simply deposit her at Willow’s Shadow and be done with her. He took his responsibility to see her safely delivered to her sister very seriously and must be wishing she would be more reasonable instead of insisting on visiting the church so soon.

He gave her a frowning, sidelong glance. “Here we are, Miss Grace. Are you sure you wouldn’t rather return to the widow’s? I can turn this wagon around neat as you’d like—wouldn’t take no time at all.” Despite his words, he had to shift the reins to his left hand to cover a wide yawn with his fist.

“No,” Grace said, jumping down. “I am quite content and shall not linger very long. I may even meet my sister in the village and walk back with her, since she was not at the cottage when we arrived. You must not worry—I shall be quite safe.”

“Well, good day to you, then, Miss Grace.” He studied her, the lines in his face deepening as his mouth tightened. “Take care walking back to the widow’s. A young woman alone…” He shook his head. “It’ll be dark soon enough, July notwithstanding. Don’t linger.”

“I won’t,” she assured him, anxious for him to leave.

The stillness of the churchyard pressed around her as she looked up at the farmer. The large spreading oak tree standing near the sheltered porch cast long, deep shadows across the road. The weather had been fine and sunny all day, but a chill brushed Grace’s shoulders as she watched the wispy clouds of dust from the wagon twirl and sparkle through the rays of sunshine before settling onto the road.

Where was everyone? The church seemed oddly deserted, although she supposed that most people in the village were having their suppers or performing their last chores of the day.

A brief flash of anxiety made her raise one hand. She almost clutched the side of the wagon before she stepped back. The cool gloom cast by the massive oak draped over her head and shoulders, the thick leaves catching and keeping all the sun’s light. She shivered again, feeling like a swimmer pulled down into the silent blue depths of the ocean.

“You sure, then?” Mr. Cavell asked one last time, his sharp gaze showing concern. His eyes gleamed in the shadows cast by the wide brim of his hat.

She smiled and waved a casual hand. “Yes, indeed. I am quite safe here, and I promise I will not linger. I have no doubt that my sister and the widow are somewhere about. I will return to Willow’s Shadow Cottage with them. There is no need to worry, I assure you.”

Farmer Cavell flicked the end of his whip well above the twitching ears of his two horses and clicked his tongue. He nodded at her as the wagon rumbled forward, a few empty barrels rattling against each other, despite being lashed together by several stout ropes.

In a few minutes, the rattle of the wagon and rhythmic clippity-clop of the hooves faded, leaving her all the more conscious of the silence surrounding her. Then, in the distance, she heard the crowing of a rooster. Gradually, other mundane sounds broke through the early evening hush. A man called to someone—his voice indistinct. A gate or door creaked. The sounds of a horse cantering away came from behind the church.

Life continued in Kendle, even if the churchyard was deserted.

She straightened her shoulders and glanced around. Her hand rested on the wooden gate leading to the path that wound around the side of the church to the small graveyard on the eastern side. Another chill trickled under the collar of her traveling dress, despite the balmy weather.

For goodness sake, why was she so nervous? She chastised herself and considered where Mr. Blyth might be.

Anywhere, really. He might be at some poor soul’s bedside, offering comfort during her last hours. Grace’s jaw tightened. Or he might be enjoying a fine supper at Lady Lenora’s house, wherever that was.

A wave of fondness washed away the bitter thought. He might be in the graveyard, as was his wont, straightening sagging bouquets of flowers and pulling weeds away from headstones. That was how she’d first met him, first noticed his gentleness and concern, when she discovered him pulling away a small weed from her mother’s headstone.

He’d been so caring and kind. The breath caught in her throat. She coughed into her fist and thrust the gate open. The sunlight faded quickly as she rounded the blocky shape of the bell tower that grew awkwardly out of the side of the Norman church. The tower cast gloomy shadows over the closest of the lovely windows, dimming its colors. Encroaching darkness obscured the entire yard as she rounded the corner to the eastern side. There, the church itself conspired with the tower to block the slanted rays of the low sun, leaving the area gray and chilly, despite the warm breeze.

She walked quickly, only to plunge into even deeper shadows. The gravestones clustered around her, rising from the mossy, gently rolling lawn that descended gradually as it stretched toward the low rock wall surrounding the yard. The sound of footsteps crunching over the stony path broke the silence. She jerked and then smiled at her silly reaction. A late visitor to the graveyard, no doubt. Or perhaps even Mr. Blyth, returning home for the evening.

Nearby, a bird sang a final evening song from the oak at the side of the church. The rustle of footsteps faded quickly. She peered around, but there was no sign of anyone else. Other than the lonely trill, the graveyard was silent.

A wave of relief rolled over her, her shoulders relaxing as she took in a deep breath. Her gloved hand rose to her mouth, though, when she realized the source of her relief. She’d come too late to see Mr. Blyth, after all.

But she’d wanted to see him—talk to him—hadn’t she? It was just the thought of having to convince him of their shared affection that stiffened her back with reluctance this evening—that was all. Despite her reasoning, however, she suddenly wished she hadn’t returned to Kendle.

How embarrassing if everyone guessed she’d come to beg Mr. Blyth to reconsider marrying Lady Lenora. At least she had several other excuses, feeble though they may be. She wanted to see Martha, after all. And Grace wanted to give her aunt the gift of time and privacy to come to terms with her grief. Aunt Mary might even grow to hate her a little less for Uncle Cyril’s unfortunate feelings for her sister, Dorothy.

Her uncle’s fascination with her sister had been nothing short of a complete shock to all of them. If Dorothy had known about it, she was sure that Dorothy would have made it perfectly clear that he ought to pay more attention to his wife and no attention at all to her. Both of them might have returned more quickly to Kendle, as well.

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, Grace looked around again. The trip from London had been long and tiring. She really would be relieved to see sensible Martha, get something to eat, and climb into bed.

Tomorrow would be soon enough to approach Mr. Blyth and convince him of his true feelings for her.

She straightened her bonnet, retied the pale pink silk ribbons, and turned to walk back around the church. She took one step when a strange, black shadow caught her attention. Walking forward, she frowned and tilted her head to examine it.

Not one, but two long, straight black things. Legs, ending in scuffed shoes. Her chest tightened, her hope of escape vanishing. Mr. Blyth was obviously kneeling on the other side of the large marble gravestone, pulling up weeds.

Well, that’s why she’d come, wasn’t it? Despite her resolution, her fingers felt icy. Another chill slipped like cold rain under the collar of her dress. She pulled her light shawl more tightly around her shoulders and edged closer.

Twenty yards away, she stopped, increasingly uneasy. “Mr. Blyth?”

No response. His legs didn’t even move.

And she was sure they were his legs and his shoes, since she recognized the awkward repairs done on the heel and sole of his right shoe. He’d certainly complained enough about the fact that the shoemaker had not properly shaved down some of the leather, making one shoe higher than the other. The sole of the right shoe was obviously a lighter, newer tan than that of the left shoe. The difference was clear even in the gloom of the graveyard.

She stared at the soles of the shoes and crossed her arms at her waist. “Mr. Blyth?”

He wasn’t just kneeling, he was lying on the ground next to the tall marker. Sucking in a sharp breath, she ran the rest of the way and knelt down.

Mr. Blyth lay face down on the grave. At his head, a stone read James Tolliver, born 1 Aug 1755, died 9 April 1810. Who was James Tolliver that Mr. Blyth felt so obliged to tend his grave? Her thoughts stuttered. Next to her was an even older marker that leaned drunkenly backward. The stone was cracked, and the left corner was broken off.

Kneeling, she reached over and rolled Mr. Blyth onto his back. Pulling at his shoulders, she attempted to make him sit upright against her. “Mr. Blyth? Did you faint? Oh, Trevor, do wake up!” When she gazed at his ashen gray face, his slack features and half-closed eyes looked strange. She touched his temple, pushing back his thin, sticky hair.

A muffled shriek escaped her. She lost her hold on him. He flopped back awkwardly on his side, one cold arm remaining in her lap.

Blood soaked his hair and streaked over the left side of his forehead. With a gasp, she jerked away. Her gaze fell on a chunk of marble, smeared black with blood. The broken piece of a gravestone rested not two feet from where she knelt.

Pressing her handkerchief over her mouth, she struggled to her feet.

Mr. Blyth had not fainted. He was dead.

“Hey, you! What are you doing there?” a rough voice called.

She glanced up. “I… I…” She struggled for words, her mouth working. Nothing came out except a few strangled sounds.

The dark, tall form of a wide-shouldered man stood on the path, waiting. He studied her, frowned, and looked down.

His frown deepened as he took a step forward. “Who are you?”

Words held hostage by shock, all she could do was stare at him and shake her head.