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“As you wish, Mrs. Whitley.”

Adele once again climbed up into the buggy. She took extra care securing her jewelry box beside her and, when she was done, happened to look up at the second story of Mrs. Barnes’s house just as a curtain flickered back into place.

Adele stared a moment, certain that the face in the window had been that of her very good friend.

On her drive back up into the foothills, Adele thought not of her husband but of Mrs. Barnes, chewing her lip until the buggy rattled past the front of Rosewood House and down the side to stop in front of Macalister’s cottage. She spotted him on the porch step with a piece of paper in his hand.

“Hello!” she called out, her spirits immediately lifting at the sight of him.

He raised his head from whatever was on the paper as though only just noticing her. For a moment, she thought he would not rise as was his custom and help her unhitch the horse, but then he stood up and slowly made his way down to her.

“You must have concluded your business faster than I did,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, taking her hand to help her down.

“You were able to collect your post,” she said, nodding to the letter he still held.

His jaw tightened, and she thought for a moment that she saw real pain in his eyes.

“What is the matter?” she asked quickly, placing a light hand on his forearm.

He glanced down at her fingers and then stepped back. Then he held out the paper. She took it, bewildered, as he walked back in the direction of the caretaker’s cottage.

The letter was written on inexpensive paper in brown ink, the handwriting thin and spidery.

My dearest Alex,

You must forgive my trembling hand, but I cannot contain my excitement. The thing I have long prayed for has finally come: I am with child.

Adele dropped her hand, stunned. She knew without having to look at the signature who had written the letter and what it meant.

Annabel Macalister was pregnant.

Before she could even think, Adele was up the stairs of the caretaker’s cottage porch, bursting through the front door. She stopped, staring at the sight of a set of saddlebags packed and ready.

Macalister came through the bedroom door, a sheepskin coat in his hands.

“Your wife…” she began.

“Yes,” he said.

“But you—that is, I thought that you two—”

“With Annabel’s health, we didn’t think it was possible for her to have a child. The doctor told us so, and we had not been husband and wife to each other for a very long time,” he said, his voice like gravel.

“But then how did this happen?” she asked, brandishing the letter in front of her.

Slowly, he crossed the room and took it from her, folding it up and then tucking it into the pocket of his trousers.

“I have been torn up for too long about what is between Annabel and me and…” He cleared his throat. “And the feelings I’ve had for you since the first moment you showed up in mourning dress demanding distraction.”

Adele sucked in a breath.

“Being around you, Adele— I needed to remind myself of the man I am meant to be. Annabel’s husband.”

“And so you visited your wife’s bed,” she said.

“There should be nothing more natural in the world,” he said. “And yet…”