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Distracted by suffering, it took her a moment to realise her basket was full. The four apple trees that stood in what Ma used to laughingly call the orchard of their small plot had been particularly fruitful that year, and it made Meg’s arm ache to heft the wicker trug onto her hip. They’d have plenty of apples to see them through the winter if nothing else; and of course, they no longer had to worry about losing their land. With Anthony gone, there was no one left to threaten them, although the repercussions of his death had been worse than she could ever have imagined.

Pa might have believed the villagers would trust in her innocence but she’d heard their neighbours whispering when she’d first appeared back in Hayworth, and they stared every time she left Lark Cottage even now; they were never hostile but their burning curiosity was still a different kind of scrutiny to bear. It seemed she was to be an object of fascination no matter where she went, and the prospect of a life spent under a magnifying lens made the prickling behind her eyes even more intense.

With a deep sigh she emerged from the trees. The air was crisp and the sky a brilliant blue, the kind of day she usually loved above all others, but she barely noticed the autumnal glory of the cottage garden as she made for the shed that stood against one wall. It was where they would store all their provisions for the coming colder months, and she tried to get a better grip on the handle of her basket as she slid open the stiff bolt and went inside, even that small act somehow made more difficult by the heaviness planted beneath her ribs.

The temperature in the shed was lower than it had been in the yard. A rich scent filled every inch of it, of soil and the sweet smell of resting fruit, and looking around she saw how busy Peter had been in her absence. An earlier crop of apples stood neatly on the shelves, carefully spaced out so as not to touch each other and allow rot to spread, while two barrels held what she guessed to be carrots and turnips submerged in sand. In earlier years a side of salted pork would have hung from the roof in addition to more stacked vegetables, but food was less plentiful now, the effects of the previous poor weather and Anthony’s enclosure of the estate clear in every bare shelf and empty drying rack. Their neighbours’ larders would be just as scantly stocked, and she found herself wondering how many would resort to supplementing their meagre rations with poached game.

At least they won’t have to fear this viscount’s vengeance. Jacob would be more likely to give his pheasants away for free than hoard them all for himself.

A fresh wave of despair washed over her. Thinking about him made her feel worse, but how could it be helped? He was everywhere: when she brushed her hair, she remembered how he had stroked it; when she dressed, she recalled how he’d once tied the laces of her gown. He was in every waking moment as well as every dream, and she had no idea how she was supposed to live without him now she’d realised what she had to do.

She would allow him to get an annulment.

It wouldn’t be too difficult for him, she thought as she the telltale stinging reached her lower lashes. Their marriage had been so irregular, so rushed and strange, that there must be some legal loophole he could exploit, especially when combined with the power his rank conferred on him. Parting from her would be the only way his family name could continue and the stain of shame she’d laid on it would wear away in time, allowing him and whatever children he had with a far more suitable second wife to live the sort of life they deserved.

Any attempt to hold back her tears was failing fast. They built up hotly and urgently and she was unable to stop them as they began to fall, blinding her as they scattered shards of light in front of her eyes. With one hand still on her basket, she tried to use the other to wipe her face, but the tears came too quickly for her to scrub them away and she felt a sob seize hold of her that was too strong to fight.

Blindly she dropped the basket, unaware that a couple of apples jumped free and rolled away across the floor. All she could focus on was the agony spreading through her, even breathing a challenge as one sob after another gripped her and shook her like a hound would a fox.

‘Meg?’

Her father’s voice just managed to penetrate the fog of her misery. He was calling for her from across the yard—far too close by—and the risk of him catching her weeping was the only thing that helped her to stem the flow.

Hastily she blotted her face with the edge of her apron. Her throat was raw and she hoped the shadows cast by the shed’s low roof would hide the redness around her eyes.

‘I’m in here.’ She called back, trying to disguise her hoarseness, but her father had already reached the shed’s open door.

‘Putting the fruit up, are you?’

‘No flies on you.’ Meg attempted a smile as she bent to retrieve the stray apples that had fallen from her basket, although she imagined it must have looked somewhat strained. ‘You shouldn’t be out here, Pa. You’re supposed to be resting.’

Her father ignored the reprimand. Leaning against the doorframe, he watched her, his faded hazel eyes hooded with thought.

‘You look ill, Meg.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I mean it. You’re pale and those circles under your eyes are as dark as bruises. Are you sickening for something?’

‘No,’ she lied. ‘I’m quite well.’

Her father frowned. His face was already lined and weatherbeaten from a lifetime of working outside but now the valleys across his brow deepened further. ‘You’re missing Fernley.’

It was a statement of fact rather than a question, and Meg was glad that crouching to rescue another apple allowed her to turn her back before answering.

‘A little, perhaps. I’m sure it’ll pass.’

‘It will. You’ll soon see you’re far better off without him.’

She didn’t look round. If she’d turned, Pa would have seen how much she disagreed with his certainty, and if believing he was right helped ease his mind then she was content to let the mistake continue.

‘If you say so. I’m sure you know best.’

Still with her back to him, she began placing the apples on the shelves. Her eyes were so sore from crying that even the dim light coming in through the open door made them ache, but there was nothing wrong with her ears, and after a pause she heard the regret in her father’s voice loud and clear.

‘I shouldn’t have let him take you in the first place. That was my mistake. I’m sorry I didn’t protect you as I ought.’

Meg glanced back over her shoulder. ‘You’ve nothing to reproach yourself for. Marrying Jacob was my choice and one I’d make again if it meant keeping Peter safe.’