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Trying to remain invisible seemed the best course of action, so she barely moved, sitting against the wall like a terrified, wide-eyed statue. She hadn’t slept a wink all night but she knew that even if the jail hadn’t been so noisy she wouldn’t have been able to rest, her head packed too full of conflicting thoughts to find any peace at all.

Had Peter got home safely? Had her sacrifice been worthwhile? And, most confusingly of all, what had Jacob been doing on the Wellbourne estate in the middle of the night, appearing as if from nowhere when she had never thought to see him again?

The frozen shock on his face must have mirrored that on hers, she thought as she drew her knees closer to her chest. Evidently he hadn’t expected to see her either…and, of course, he had just as much reason to want to avoid her as she did him.

She could still remember every shred of the agony she’d felt the day they’d parted. His father had found out about them somehow, Jacob had told her as he’d stood at the back door of her cottage, out of breath from running all the way from Wellbourne House to Hayworth. A viscount’s son couldn’t possibly wed a village girl, and old Lord Fernley had decreed their secret engagement had to come to an end. Jacob was to leave for university the very next day, his father keen to remove his son from temptation as soon as possible, but of course the son in question had come up with a very different plan.

‘Meet me at midnight in the clearing at the edge of the woods. We’ll travel to Gretna and marry, and then there can be no question of us being torn apart ever again.’

The memory of his bright, eager face bit deep even now. She could recall exactly how elated she’d felt as she’d agreed, sealing her promise to him with a kiss that had made her sway on her feet, but it hadn’t been long before she’d felt the first cold creep of doubt.

He was always such an optimist. He was so sure everything would turn out well for us, whereas I feared otherwise.

An insect scuttled over the muddy hem of her dress but she was too distracted to flick it away. It was difficult to think straight while the past loomed almost as large as the present, one thing bleeding into another until the carousel of her thoughts had sped into a blur.

I was so happy when he asked me to marry him that it was only later that I gave any real thought what becoming his wife would truly mean. I should have done so before I accepted, obviously, but who makes their most sensible choices aged just eighteen?

Certainly Jacob hadn’t, she thought darkly, trying to ignore a loud squabble that had broken out nearby. He had never known anything but comfort and advantage and it had blinded him to the harsher realities of the world that she knew only too well. He’d assumed the difference in their stations could be easily overcome because he’d wanted it to be, but once the immediate excitement of him asking her to run away with him had ebbed she’d had to admit the stark truth: how on earth could she have been a viscount’s daughter-in-law? What had she been thinking, imagining someone of her background could aim so high?

Swapping the life of a farmer’s daughter for that of a fine lady would have been a struggle and there was no guarantee it would ever have eased. The ton would have looked down their aristocratic noses at her and perhaps in time even Jacob would have come to be embarrassed by her low origins—and, of course, she would have had to leave her family behind.

Jacob had been too young to remember the death of his mother when it had happened, but Meg would never forget the passing of her own. Pa had been almost broken by the loss and she’d had to grow up quickly to step into Ma’s shoes, beginning to care for Peter when she was still a child herself. It had been beyond tempting to run from her troubles and sadness towards a happy-ever-after, but that only worked in fairy tales, and although she’d ached to follow her heart she had instead allowed her head to take the lead.

Having to choose between Jacob’s fantasy of our future and reality was like being torn in two. As much as I loved him, how could I go away and leave my family when they needed me most? And how could I trust a boy with no experience of the world outside his own privileged bubble to know what to do if things didn’t work out as smoothly as he’d planned?

They were questions she would have put to him if he’d given her the chance. She’d fully intended to, even as she’d delayed her arrival in the woods by a few minutes to give herself time to gather her nerve, listening anxiously as the distant church bells had struck twelve…but the moment to air her insecurities hadn’t come.

She’d thought he would be waiting for her, and it had come as a dagger blow when instead she’d finally stepped into the clearing to find he was nowhere to be seen.

He must have tarried for hardly any time at all, the speed with which he’d given up revealing he’d had unvoiced doubts of his own. If he had really wanted her to join him, wouldn’t he have given her more than a few minutes’ grace, surely willing to stay among the trees for as long as it took for her to arrive? The only reason she’d known he’d been there at all was because of the boot prints pressed into the dry mud, approaching then retreating again, and although everything in her had screamed for her to follow them back to Wellbourne House she’d supposed she ought to have been grateful he’d helped her—albeit unwittingly—to make up her mind. Clearly he’d been glad of an excuse to forsake their plan and so she had simply crept home again, a near unceasing river of tears rolling down her ashen face as she’d gone and her hopes for the future trailing along behind her like a broken kite.

The verbal disagreement taking place close to her corner had descended into a brawl. Amid the scuffling and screaming, she tried to fade further against the wall, clutching her shawl to her chest as if it could protect her from the carelessly thrown fists of the two women involved. Hair flew and curses that she’d never heard before and hoped never to again were screeched, the noise growing louder as onlookers gathered to cheer the fighters on.

‘Margaret Wheeler?’

Meg barely heard her name called above the commotion. It seemed to come from somewhere near the barred door and she felt a quick dart of fear when it was shouted again, the second time with more annoyance than enquiry.

‘Margaret Wheeler! Come forward!’

With sick apprehension she pushed herself to her feet. Her legs had gone numb from huddling unmoving on the filthy floor and she stumbled, scrabbling against the rough wall for support. Surely it was too soon for her trial, that sham of a thing that would deliver whatever verdict Anthony Fernley demanded? Although it felt as though she’d been in the jail’s disgusting bowels for a long time, it could only really have been one night, feeble daylight trying to filter in through a window half-hidden by a rancid sack.

Her breathing sped up. Had the Viscount already decided her fate, perhaps so insistent on seeing her punished that he’d risen early from his bed to make absolutely sure she never saw her own again?

Shaking in every limb, she crept sideways, keeping her back to the wall as she edged away from her corner. The fight was still going; apparently the presence of a jailer meant little and Meg had to jump quickly out of the way as a poorly aimed kick brushed her skirts. A few prisoners stood aside to let her pass, hardly taking their eyes from the fray, and it was with her heart in her mouth that she hesitantly approached the door.

‘I am Margaret Wheeler, sir. You called for me?’

The man on the other side of the bars nodded. ‘You have a visitor. Come with me.’

He fitted a key into the lock and pulled back the door. The threatening look on his unshaven face suggested none of the other inmates should try to take advantage of the situation, but Meg herself didn’t move.

‘A visitor? Who?’

The man shrugged. ‘Didn’t catch the name. Just someone who paid to see you. This way.’

He rattled the door impatiently but still she didn’t step out. The only people who would pay to visit her were Pa and Peter, and that fact set a new kind of dread rising to wash away any relief that it wasn’t her trial she was being summoned for.

Horrified, she shrank away from the jailer. Why had they taken such a risk in coming there? Peter should be at Lark Cottage, lying low until the danger had passed, and their father was still far too weak to have made the long walk from Hayworth to Marchingham. Knowing him, he might try to argue his way into the jail in a futile attempt to take her place, and his inevitable failure would only increase his sorrow a hundred times over. Their presence would achieve nothing worthwhile and possibly make things worse, and although she longed to see them she knew it would be better if she did not.