This was a matter of the future of a child, she told herself sternly. If Jonathan-if Lord Portbury ever returned to Fratcombe, she would ask him to take an interest in Peter. She was quite sure he would not begrudge his help to a bright lad who had grown up on his own estate.

They had reached the school. Peter, mindful of the manners Beth had taught him, bowed neatly to her before racing away to show off his scars and his new hoop. The other children gathered round him, exclaiming excitedly in piping voices. There were only ten of them, six boys and four girls, but Beth was proud of what she had achieved with them in just a few short months. The village, and the rectory, had given her shelter. It was right that she should repay them with her labour, the only thing she had to offer. Besides, doing good for others helped to lessen her ever-present guilt at what might be hidden in her missing past.

She checked her watch. It was almost the hour. She laid aside her bonnet and gloves and lifted the handbell to call the children into class.

It took no time at all to select a ribbon from Mr Green’s vast range, even though Mrs Aubrey’s silk was such an unusual shade. Beth stowed the tiny parcel in her basket and stepped out into the afternoon heat, grateful for her parasol and straw bonnet. Mrs Aubrey would not be expecting her for at least another half hour. She had some time for herself.

She looked around a little apprehensively, wondering whether anyone from the gentry families might appear. They often drove by in the afternoons. Such an encounter would quickly spoil her sunny mood.

In spite of the care the Aubreys had taken, it had been impossible to prevent some gossip. The wealthy ladies of the district had descended on the rectory to inspect the new arrival as soon as she left her bed. Unfortunately, Beth’s vague answers to questions about her background and family aroused suspicion among these eagle-eyed mamas, who lost no time in issuing instructions to their offspring. Their sons might ogle pretty Beth Aubrey from a distance, but they would never ask to be introduced. Just one young man had approached Beth-Sir Bertram Fitzherbert’s eldest son-but his only interest was in a quick grope behind a hedge. He had not succeeded, and his fumbling attack had taught her to be extremely wary of all the young sprigs of fashion. None of them had Jonathan’s honour and integrity where an unprotected female was concerned. He was a shining knight; they were arrogant young puppies. Or worse.

Not surprisingly, most of the society invitations arriving at the rectory were pointedly addressed to the rector and Mrs Aubrey alone. Mrs Aubrey had been minded, at first, to confront such appalling rudeness. But the mere suggestion had reawakened all Beth’s guilty fears. She knew the rector could not afford to offend the great families, especially when Jonathan was not in England to take his part. Her nightmares had returned, and the sick headache that often followed. She had pleaded desperately for the insult to be ignored, and dear Mrs Aubrey, much affected by Beth’s distress, had finally agreed.

Not all the families shunned her, however. In two of the grand houses-houses with no unmarried sons-Beth had actually become quite well acquainted with the younger daughters. Beth’s eye for fashion was particularly valued; the girls often sought her views on the trimming of a bonnet or the important business of changing a hairstyle. Beth enjoyed it all, although she had no place at the side of young heiresses, for she knew she was nothing of the sort. Nor had she ever been one. No heiress would have owned the dowdy clothes that Beth had been found in. They were fit only for a gypsy, or a tramp.

Beth glanced up and down the village street one last time. It was safely deserted. There was no one to see which way she went.

Instead of turning right, in the direction of the church and the lodge gates, she turned left. If anyone should question her, she would say she was going to call on old Mrs Jenkinson, who lived in the last house at the far end of the village, just before the sharp bend in the road. From there, it was but a step to Beth’s goal.

Walking at a very brisk pace, she soon reached the woods, though she was uncomfortably hot by then. The turn in the road now concealed her from the village itself. And since it was highly unlikely that anyone would pass this way, she was at liberty to indulge herself. Just a little.

She put her basket and parasol on the ground behind a fence-post and leaned on the rail, gazing round at the clearing. This was where it had all begun. This was where Jonathan had found her.

There was nothing in the least unusual about it. It was simply a clearing at the edge of a wood, surrounded by thick evergreens and with a single, venerable oak where the clearing joined the main path. She smiled up at the branches of the tree, now green and youthful where, before, they had been black and bare. On an impulse, she ducked under the rail and started across the grass. In spite of the hot weather, it was still quite spongy underfoot. There was a stream close by, which never dried out. No wonder everywhere had been so muddy that night.

She made her way across to the overhanging shrubs and lifted the long branches to peer underneath. The heaps of leaves were still there, blown in, year after year, and too dry to rot. She was grateful for that. If she had lain down on wet leaves, soaked as she was, she would probably have died long before Jonathan could find her. His arrival was like a miracle.

She picked her way across to the path by the oak and stroked its wrinkled trunk. She had come here so many times, looking around, walking along the path, trying to retrieve some memory of what had gone before. It had never succeeded, and this time was no different.

Beth sighed. She had been here quite long enough. She must hurry back to the rectory. Mrs Aubrey must not have cause for worry.

It was only when Beth came out from under the shade of the oak tree that she realised how dark it was. In the space of only a few minutes, the sky had become almost black. There was going to be a fearsome storm. And she was here, far from shelter, with no protection at all!

She started to run across the clearing, back to where she had left her basket, but she had forgotten the treacherous ground. Her ankle turned, she lost her balance and fell her length. She swallowed the urge to utter a most unladylike curse and tried to brush the grass from her pale muslin gown. She made to get up, wondering all the while whether Mrs Aubrey’s maid had a remedy for grass stains.

‘Ouch!’ The moment she put her right foot to the ground, a pain shot up her leg. She closed her eyes in frustration. Now what was she to do? She was out of sight of the village, she had sprained her ankle, and a storm was coming on. This time she did curse. Vehemently.

First and foremost, she must get away from these trees. She glanced up at the sky again. Huge black anvil clouds promised thunder and lightning, as well as rain. She must get away from the trees.

She hobbled slowly back to the fence and leant on it to catch her breath. Her parasol would act as a makeshift walking-stick, she decided. Her basket could remain where it was.

But not Mrs Aubrey’s ribbon! That must not be soaked by the storm. Beth tucked the little parcel safely into the bodice of her gown. Then, gritting her teeth against the pain, she ducked under the fence and started back along the lane to Fratcombe.

It had felt like no distance at all on the way here, but now the bend seemed miles away. Beyond it was Widow Jenkinson’s house, where Beth would be able to ask for shelter. She hobbled awkwardly along, leaning heavily on her parasol. It was not strong enough to bear her weight. The handle snapped after just a few yards. Fate was definitely against her.

She stood on her good leg gazing down at the pieces of broken parasol. ‘Oh, fiddlesticks!’ She hurled the useless handle to the ground.

‘May I be of assistance, ma’am?’

Beth whirled round so quickly that she forgot about her injury and put her weight on her sprained ankle. She cried out in pain and almost fell.

‘Good God, ma’am! You are hurt.’

That voice had not changed. It was Jonathan.

She had been so intent on cursing the flimsy parasol that she had not heard the sound of his arrival.

‘Go to their heads.’ This time, he was not alone. A groom jumped down and ran to hold the horses. Jonathan sprang to the ground at the same moment and reached Beth just as she managed to regain her balance.

Her pain was forgotten. It was Jonathan. He had returned. He had returned to save her, all over again.

‘Let me help you into my curricle, ma’am.’ He offered his arm. ‘Lean on me. You should not put any weight on that ankle.’

She accepted gladly. Even with only one good leg, she felt as if she were floating, buoyed up by his touch, but when they reached the carriage step, reality intruded. She stopped, uncertain of whether she could mount.

‘Allow me.’ With a single, swift movement he picked her up in his arms. Her mind was instantly full of the scent of him, long familiar from her dreams, but before she could relax into his embrace, he had deposited her on the soft leather seat and stepped back. She felt bereft. ‘Shall I fetch your parasol for you?’ He pointed back to where it lay on the ground.

‘If you would be so good, sir,’ she said demurely, trying to avoid those penetrating eyes. She needed a few moments to collect her thoughts and regain control of her soaring emotions. This was no time for the stuff of dreams. He was bound to have questions. Her stomach lurched alarmingly. He would want to know what she had discovered about her past. How could she ever explain that there was nothing to tell?