As Charity walked away, she almost wanted to laugh at her boldness in suggesting that she and Mr. Harding might take the opportunity to share their stories in the future.

She had never said anything like that to a man before, not least because no man had ever interested her the way that Mr. Harding had before.

And then, there was the strangeness of that setting in the grove. There, it seemed as though all the usual expectations and conventions dissolved away, and they could speak to one another on equal terms, rather than doing the strange verbal dance that would usually be expected between a man and a woman of such drastically different rank.

As she walked away, she dared a glance over her shoulder and saw Mr. Harding still standing on the ridge, looking after her. At the sight of his face she could not resist breaking into a smile and not the polite smiles that she administered at the direction of her father, but her sincere smile, the smile that she so rarely had cause to use in her dull life at the vicarage.

She could not say what it was about Mr. Harding that compelled her so much. He had always been handsome, even as a young boy. But now he was tall, broad, with fine posture and lively features; his looks had grown into maturity and might well be characterized as manliness.

And then, there were the little touches of foreignness that she assumed he must have picked up during his time abroad. The color of his complexion which seemed to suggest a great deal of time spent under a glowing sun. The cut of his waistcoat and boots was unlike any she had ever seen before, even on fashionable people who were attired by London tailors.

It was not the material appeal of his Florentine leather boots or Parisian waistcoat that drew Charity in, so much as what they represented. A young man who had seen something of the world and yet still seemed intrigued by what she, Charity, had to say.

And the way that she spoke to him felt so natural, despite the fact that her demeanor when talking to him was undoubtedly influenced by the rapid beating of her heart. There was a wonderful openness to Adam Harding’s face, as though she could say anything to him and trust that it had been understood exactly as she had intended it.

It was liberty of speech that Charity had never known before. For as long as she could remember, she had always had to check herself, to set the ‘correct’ example as the daughter of a clergyman and his firstborn at that. In this strait life, there seemed to Charity to be very little room to explore what she really thought, much less to voice those opinions aloud.

As she strolled back down the lane toward home, she found herself imagining speaking to Adam Harding about venturing her ideas and thoughts about the world, about the things that she had read and what she still hoped to read.

In these pleasant fantasies, Mr. Harding asked lively and intelligent questions, his responses in perfect balance between agreeing with Charity and challenging her perceptions.

And, of course, in these daydreams Charity dwelled for a long time — far longer than she would have dared to linger — on his fine brown eyes if she had been looking at him in real life.

You really must try not to get too carried away by all these foolish thoughts, she scolded herself, as she did so habitually. The only reason that a man like Mr. Harding would ever show any interest in a young woman like you is because he is in disgrace. Once his reputation is restored, you will be far beneath his concern.

Charity was in the habit of rebuking herself strongly; it was a habit that was naturally cultivated by the fact that she was continually being rebuked aloud by her father.

But on this matter, she decided, she would not allow herself to be silenced. The stakes were far too high and she knew, although there was evidently no hope of anything more than a friendship between herself and Mr. Harding, she was still prepared to risk her father’s displeasure, if it would help.

“Come in, my child,” the Reverend Miller said when she knocked on the door to his study.

Such words, Charity thought, might be spoken by other fathers with a great deal of warmth and affection. Although he greets me as ‘my child’, not a single ounce of tenderness is betrayed by the way in which he speaks and looks.

As far as Charity could perceive, the Reverend Miller had always regretted that Charity had not been a son. Although Mrs. Miller had born him other sons subsequently, before going to her grave, he never seemed to have quite recovered from the disappointment of his firstborn.

Perhaps that was why he was fond of Mr. Harding as a boy, Charity wondered to herself. Perhaps he was able to pretend that this clever, quick-witted young lad was his own son.

Charity was independent, curious and quick - traits that he would have valued in a boy, but saw as encumbrances in a girl. She always had a faint sense that she was displeasing her father whenever she was in his presence, and so she avoided being in his presence too extensively.

But now she had a matter on which she needed to petition him, and she was determined that no sense of discomfort or shame around her father would put her off her task.

Charity sat down on one of the small couches near her father’s desk. She had always found all the furniture in her father’s study remarkably uncomfortable and wondered whether her father had deliberately chosen it that way so that he would not be bothered by parishioners overstaying their welcome.

She was not quite sure how she might best broach the subject, but decided that the only possible course of action was to tackle the matter head-on, or at least, as head-on as she was able.

“Father,” she said steadily, keeping her eyes lowered to the ground so that she would not have to meet her father’s impassive gaze, “I hope that I am not a burden upon you and do my best to do my duty by you in every way that I possibly can.”

The Reverend Miller took in a great breath, as if he wished to say something, but paused, apparently unsure of how to say it.

“I cannot fault your sense of duty, my child,” he said at last. “Sometimes I might wish that you would discharge your duties more humbly and willingly. Your attitude could certainly be improved upon, but I can find no fault in your actions.”

The words stung. So, although I have done nothing wrong, you find fault with the fact that I do not embrace my duller duties more willingly, that I do not smile at the idea of a life lived without purpose or passion?

But she did not express any of these feelings aloud. Instead, she bit her tongue and continued with careful tact.

“I am sorry for my faults, and I work always to improve upon them. However, what I have come to ask you is a request that I make because I believe that I am a dutiful daughter and that as a dutiful daughter I do not entreat you for favors on my own behalf. It is for someone else that I seek your help."

“One of my flock, is it?” the Reverend Miller asked. “How peculiar that they should come to you instead of approaching me directly.”

“This person has already come to you for help,” Charity replied. “But I do not think that he secured the assurance that he had hoped for.”

“He, eh?” The Reverend Miller seized on her words in a way that made Charity regret she had not been more ambiguous in her expression. “With whom have you been speaking, daughter?”

Charity hesitated. She knew that she could deny or obfuscate, but in the long-term that would not serve Mr. Harding’s interest.

“I ran into Mr. Harding when he left the vicarage yesterday,” she said plainly. She did not mention either of their accidental meetings in the grove, because there seemed to be no need, and it would only exacerbate her father’s reaction. “I know now why his father sent him away and I understand that you may have a role to play in helping to restore him to his father’s good graces.”

“Mr. Harding?” The Reverend appeared angry, yet unsure of where he might best direct his anger. “What business would you have speaking to Mr. Harding or he to you?”

“What business would I have in ignoring a gentleman who greets me outside my very home?” Charity asked, then regretted the sharp response. She knew she needed to keep her composure as best she could if her father was to be prevailed upon.

To her surprise, however, her father nodded.

“You are right,” he said. He sighed and leaned back in his chair, and in those moments, he seemed to grow a good deal older and more tired. “I cannot scold you for conducting yourself in a mannerly and gracious fashion. I would only wish that your favors were bestowed upon a more deserving subject than Adam Harding.”

At this utterance, Charity frowned. “What can you mean, Father?”

“You know, then, why Adam Harding was sent away by his father,” the Reverend Miller said, leaning back in his armchair, being the only comfortable piece of furniture in the room, Charity thought, and gazing out of the window through narrowed eyes. “That his father believes him to be guilty of a terrible crime.”

“If his father believes this to be true,” Charity said, “then why should he stop at sending his son away? If Mr. Harding is accused of a crime then why should he not be charged and allowed to defend himself?”

“There are two answers to that question, child. The first is that, no matter how angry the Duke is with his son -— and believe me, the Duke is extremely angry — he could never stand to send his only child to the scaffold. The deaths of Mary Warwick and her son Freddie would be a hanging matter, and no father could ever hang his child.”

Charity was a little surprised at these words — surprised, in particular, by the feeling with which they were spoken. It was the closest thing she had ever seen to her father expressing forceful paternal affection.

“The second, more concrete reason is that there is very little evidence in the matter,” the Reverend said, polishing his spectacles with the aid of his handkerchief. “Little evidence to prove Mr. Harding’s guilt, but little to prove his innocence. It could not be resolved in a court of law, not to anyone’s satisfaction. It is therefore not a question of the law, but of reputation.”

“Then why should the Duke be so convinced of Mr. Harding’s guilt?” Charity cried, aghast.

“The Duke has his reasons,” the Reverend replied evasively.

“They must be good reasons, indeed, if they are to cause him to doubt the good character of his own son.”

“There was an eyewitness to the event,” the Reverend said simply. “A servant, I believe, or someone involved in the household. I cannot recall who it was, but I know only that they were somebody the Duke trusted implicitly.”

“Trusted more than his own son?”

“I suppose that must have been the case, yes.”

“But why? Why should Mr. Harding do such a thing?”

Charity’s mind searched for any reason that could possibly excuse the thing for which Mr. Harding was accused and found none. If the man was indeed a killer — of a woman and a child, no less — then he was the most black-hearted man on God’s earth, and banishment and disinheritance were the least that he deserved.

“I can only assume that he was driven by some inexplicable passion,” Reverend Miller said quietly. “But what that passion could have been, I know not.”

Charity thought of Mr. Harding’s elegant brow. She could not imagine it contorted in violence, though it was conceivable to her that Mr. Harding might have a temper. She thought he seemed like the sort of man who might be moved to anger if his sense of justice was being violated.

But she could not, for the life of her, imagine how such rage could be provoked by a woman and child.

It simply made no sense to her. If there had been an eyewitness to the crime whose tale had been convincing enough to persuade the Duke himself, then why was it that Mrs. Warwick had seemed so assured of Mr. Harding’s innocence?

She could only assume that Mrs. Warwick was operating on instinct, just as she was herself, in implicitly believing Mr. Harding’s side of the story. It seemed foolish to value instinct over the evidence of what appeared, on the surface, to be cold hard facts.

Yet still, she did not know the full story.

Charity went away from her father’s study, desperately searching for some sense that might be extracted from the whole matter, and finding none.

There is a piece of the puzzle that I am missing, she thought to herself, going out of the door and crossing the garden to look up at the grove where she had walked that morning.

All her life, Charity had gazed at the big house on the hill where the Duke and his son lived and thought to herself how remarkable it was that such great and fine people lived so very close, yet their lives were so different.

In the little village, there was just no space for secrets. Everybody knew the business of everybody else and there was no space or silence for rage or passionate motives to brew.

Yet, it seemed that in the house on the hill, everything was different. In that strange, great house, there was enough space and enough wealth for all sorts of peculiar anger and cruelty to come to life.

But still, Charity could not reconcile all this with the young man that she had spoken to that very morning, the young man who looked her in the eye and made her feel as though she mattered. The young man whose own eyes seemed like the window into a different world.