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and tried to remember, but could not.
    Instead, she saw another scene in passing, as though she walked through a theatre and out again mid-performance. . . .
    There she was, sitting awkwardly in the morning room of the Bristol house.
    Sir John stood, arms crossed, looking not at her but out the window. “So, what do you think of the arrangement?” he asked. “Are you willing?”
    “Yes,” she replied, knowing her father would approve.
    He winced and shook his head. “But . . . should I agree to it?”
    “Only if you wish to.”
    “My wishes?” He barked a dry little laugh. “God doesn’t often grant me what I wish for, I find.”
    “Then perhaps you wish for the wrong things.”
    He looked at her then, and his flinty eyes held hers. “You may be right. And what is it
you
wish for?”
    The scene faded. Had it been real or mere fancy? She could not have said how she’d answered his question or even if she had. Nor did she recall the specifics of their arrangement.
    She did remember what a tall, commanding presence he had been. But the figure shrouded in bedclothes before her seemed sadly diminished. She wondered what Sir John had wished for so earnestly. It seemed unlikely that it would be granted now. For certainly no one would have wished for a fate like this.



CHAPTER 4

    T he next day, Dr. Parrish and Mrs. Turrill came into her bedchamber together, bringing unusual tension with them. Something had happened, she thought. Or was about to.
    “What is it?” she asked. “Is it Sir John?”
    “No. His condition has not changed,” the doctor assured her, without his customary smile. He sat at her bedside, asked how she was feeling, and then looked significantly at his cousin.
    Mrs. Turrill turned to her and began, “Edgar has brought up a few more things from the wreckage, and I think we’ve found something of yours, my lady.”
    “Oh?” She looked at the woman with interest. “What is it?”
    She held up an embroidered bag. “He found this among the rocks. It’s a needlework bag, apparently.”
    Mrs. Turrill opened wide the bag’s cinched neck and extracted a ball of wool, and thin wooden needles still attached to a wad of knitting. She pulled it flat. “It’s a baby’s cap, I think,” the housekeeper said. “Did you make it?”
    She accepted the damp, lopsided half circle and studied its loose, uneven stitches. “I don’t . . . think so.” She wondered if it had belonged to the poor woman in the carriage.
    Dr. Parrish glanced at Mrs. Turrill again, then tentatively began, “You see, Sir John mentioned you were with child when he wrote, but—”
    “Did he?” she interrupted in surprise.
    The doctor exchanged an awkward look with his cousin, then continued, “But when I examined you, I . . .” he paused, apparently struggling to find the right words.
    But she wasn’t really listening. She was staring at the small, knitted cap. She didn’t recognize it, and yet—looking at it filled her with a panicky dread.
    Had she been knitting that cap? Was she expecting a child? How could she have forgotten something as life-changing as that? What was wrong with her—was her brain damaged? Instinctively, she laid her hand on her abdomen. So flat. Too flat.
    The doctor cleared his throat and continued, “I’m afraid I discovered you’ve . . . lost the child.”
    She stared at the man. “Lost him?”
    With sad eyes, the doctor nodded and pressed her hand.
    Grief pierced her, a dozen jabs with an icy knife of dread, deflating her heart, sending her soul into a dark well of pain. She forgot to breathe. Then—lungs searing hot—she opened her mouth and sucked in a sob-shaken breath.
    She bit back the cry she longed to exhale, but there was no stopping the tears that spilled forth in its place.
    Mrs. Turrill reached over and brushed a damp strand of hair from her face. “I am so sorry, my lady. It’s a great loss, to be sure. I’ve lost a child of my own, and know the pain you