“Come, let's go through to the parlour,” said Hetty. “Fortunately there is a good fire burning there. We will soon be comfortable again.”

The table was soon re-set and before long they had all settled down to their meal once more. This time there were no unfortunate disturbances, and they could enjoy their mulligatawny soup in peace.

But Rebecca's calm was short-lived. Because once they had finished their main course of ham in Madeira sauce and were about to embark on dessert, Charles said jocularly, “You don't have any enemies, do you, Josh?”

“Enemies?” asked Joshua.

Superficially the word came out light-heartedly, but Rebecca detected a note of tension in Joshua's voice. A moment later she asked herself how it was that she was able to catch the subtle nuances in his voice. Usually it was something she could only do with people she knew well, but she seemed to be able to do it with Joshua, despite their short acquaintance.

“No, of course not,” Joshua finished.

Again, the words came out lightly, but again there was an underlying tension to them. For some reason, although Charles had enquired about enemies jovially, Rebecca had the feeling that Joshua's thoughts had been running in the same direction.

“Well, of course Joshua doesn't have any enemies,” said Hetty, looking reprovingly at her husband. “Really, Charles! What a thing to say.”

“Well, it's just that first of all you were almost knocked down by a horse, then you were almost attacked by the rider,” said Charles. He was making an effort to be light-hearted in an effort to dispel the uncomfortable atmosphere that had settled over them after the stone had been thrown through the window, but he was unfortunately not sensitive enough to realize that he was making matters worse. “And then, when you came to us for dinner, a stone flew threw the window, missing your head by inches and landing in your soup!”

“Don't be so ridiculous, Charles,” said Hetty sharply.

Joshua smiled, but Rebecca could see that the smile was strained. He was trying to make light of Charles's remarks, but Rebecca had the disturbing feeling that there may be something in them; that Joshua may be in some kind of danger after all; and her thoughts went to the horse that had nearly ridden him down. Had that been an accident, as she had supposed? Or had there been something more sinister behind it?

She did not know. All the same, she could not help feeling anxious.

“No.” Joshua answered Charles in a bantering style. “I don't have any enemies. But you have no need to worry about your windows. I'll be leaving for Manchester before long and you won't have to worry about any more disturbances with your soup!”

“Well, really,” said Hetty crossly. “Now, Charles, see what you have done. You have made Joshua feel he is not welcome here. You will always be welcome here, Joshua,” she said, turning towards him. “You know that. You must come to dinner whenever you want.”

“Of course I know it,” said Joshua kindly. “Charles was just trying to lighten the situation. And that's the best thing to do with a situation like this; make light of it.” He raised his glass. “Here's to unbreakable windows!” he said.

Charles, too, raised his glass.

Hetty turned to Rebecca despairingly. “I do declare, Rebecca, men are just like children. They never take anything seriously.”

Rebecca attempted to smile, but she was ill at ease. She was convinced that Joshua did, in fact, take the matter seriously. Did he have any enemies? she wondered. The idea seemed ridiculous. And yet... and yet there had been a couple of incidents. Could they really be nothing more than coincidence?

“And now, if you have finished your fruit, we will retire to the drawing-room and leave the gentlemen to their port,” said Hetty to Rebecca. She turned to her husband. “But don't be too long. It seems to me you have taken wine enough already.”

And with this unusually caustic remark she led Rebecca out of the room.

The two ladies retired to the drawing-room, where they discussed the latest novels. They had just agreed that Mrs Radcliffe was their favourite writer, and The Italian — the book that Rebecca was engaged in reading — was one of her best books, when Canning brought a message to Hetty to say that one of the parlour maids was hysterical.

“It's the stone,” explained Canning apologetically. “It's frightened her. Cook's tried to quiet her, and Mrs Yeats, the housekeeper, has had a word with her as well, but after what happened this evening she is convinced the French have finally landed and mean to put an end to us.”

“Oh, dear,” sighed Hetty. “Ah, well, I suppose it's not to be wondered at. There has been so much speculation about a French invasion ever since the war began that one can hardly blame the girl for being frightened. It is that wretched stone! It has unsettled everyone. All right, Canning, I will come at once.”

“Would you like me to come with you?” asked Rebecca.

“No, my dear. She will probably calm down more quickly if I go alone.”

She left the room, and Rebecca turned her attention to a book of engravings. She was not alone for long, however. Before many minutes had passed Joshua entered the room.

To her surprise — and her consternation — Charles was not with him. He was alone.

She felt suddenly awkward. She stood up and walked over to the pianoforte. There, under pretence of looking through some music, she could keep away from Joshua. For if she drew to close to him, she did not know what her feelings might be. Her fear of being alone with him had intensified, but now it was not because she was afraid of him attempting to persuade her to marry him. Now her concerns were more basic. She was afraid that he might touch her, and that if he did so, no matter how innocent the contact might be, she would melt.

Joshua checked on seeing that she was alone.

“Is Hetty not here?” he asked in surprise.

“No.” Rebecca tried not to sound agitated. “She has gone to see to one of the parlour maids, who has become hysterical. And Charles? Is he not coming into the drawing-room for coffee?”

“He is taking a tour of the house. He wants to make sure all the windows and doors are properly locked and bolted. After the disturbance this evening it's as well to be certain everything is secure.”

“Very sensible,” said Rebecca.

There was silence.

Rebecca was aware of Joshua's eyes on her. She wished he would take a seat. Then she too could take a seat — well away from him, at the other side of the room.

As if reading her mind he sat down on one of the gilded sofas. He threw one arm along its back.

Rebecca felt a little more comfortable. Even so, she did not relinquish her place by the piano. Taking any seat would put her too close to him.

He did not speak, and as she continued to occupy herself with the sheets of music she felt his eyes running over her in a way that made her feel hot and flustered. She needed to break the silence, and to voice the questions that were circling in her brain.

“Joshua...”

“Yes?”

His eyes never left hers, and she picked up a sheet of music, holding it in front of her as though it were a shield, and would protect her — although protect her against what, she did not know.

“About the stone,” she said, clutching the music even more tightly.

“What about it?” he asked.

He stood up and went over to her.

She felt the urge to step backwards. There was a look in his eyes that made her feel strangely afraid.

“It's just that...” Her voice tailed away. She was finding it difficult to concentrate with him standing so near.

He looked at her enquiringly; but with an underlying glance that made her feel more vulnerable than ever.

“It's just that several strange things have happened to you recently,” she said.

“The stone was nothing.” His eyes ran over her face and lingered on her lips.

“Perhaps not.” She took a breath to steady herself, and then continued. “But it isn't only the stone. There was the horse.”

“The horse was ridden by a fool.”

“I know. But still... but still.” Her eyes went to his of their own accord. “You will take care, won't you?”

He did not speak at once. Then he said, his voice low and husky, “Why, Rebecca? Does my safety matter to you?” The words hung in the air between them.

“It does matter to you, doesn't it?” he asked, his eyes searching her own. She dropped them. For some reason she could not meet his gaze.

“Of course it does,” she said.

“Why?” he asked again.

“Why?” She swallowed, feeling as though she was in a trap.

“Yes. Why does it matter to you, Becky?”

“My... my grandfather was very fond of you,” she said, her eyes on the floor.

“And you?” he asked.

“I... I would not like anything to happen to you.”

“No?” His voice was huskier than ever.

“No.”

And why did the conversation seem to be so important, when it was about nothing but commonplaces? she asked herself.

“After all, we are partners now,” she said, making an effort to make the conversation seem more normal. But still she did not raise her eyes to his. She was afraid of what she would see there.

“Partners,” he said, his voice low. The word seemed full of hidden meaning. As if sensing it, he added, “In the mill.”

She could feel his eyes on her, but still could not bring herself to look at him.

“But is that all we are?” he asked.

“Yes. Of course.”

“Then why are you backing away from me?” His voice was soft and sultry.