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must know.”
    “Then perhaps you will take coffee with me a little later on?” said Ottilia, seizing her cue.
    If she’d had qualms, Mrs. Radlett’s effusive acceptance would have reassured her. But Ottilia had taken her measure and was confident of having found one of the more prolific of the village gossips. Any doubts would have concerned Miss Beeleigh. It was plain, however, that she was in the habit of indulging her unlikely friend, even if she did not share a passion for tidbits about others.
    Having made their assignation, the two ladies passed on, and Ottilia guessed they were making for the smithy on their own account. She was drawn back from contemplation by her husband’s dry tone.
    “The Blue Pig?”
    Ottilia stifled a giggle. “Well, we are in the vicinity of Bosworth Field.”
    “This is in compliment to the villainous Richard, then?”
    “An omen, Fan, can you doubt it?”
    “Heaven help me!” He offered his arm, and Ottilia tucked her hand within it and began to walk with him across the bridge. “I trust there will be pork on the menu.”
    Ottilia bubbled over. “A vast platter of ham, I make no doubt.”
    “At this present, however, I have a more than passing interest in a tankard of ale.”
    “It shall be forthcoming,” said Ottilia demurely.
    C assie eyed her visitor with rebellion in her heart. Was it not enough to be riven with remorse and despair on the blacksmith’s account? Must she also be taken at fault for accepting the vicar’s hospitality? She owed much to Lady Ferrensby. Yet it hurt to know she was so little understood.
    “I realise you were a trifle distraught, my dear,” pursued her ladyship in her low-pitched musical voice, “but this should have been thought of.”
    “I was in no condition to be thinking of the proprieties,” Cassie said tightly.
    “That I appreciate.”
    “And Mr. Kinnerton was kindness itself.”
    “His kindness does not excuse your remaining in his house overnight. If you do not care for your own reputation, you might at least think of his.”
    Silenced, Cassie stared at her. Suspicion nagged at the edges of her mind, for she knewLady Ferrensby too well. Yet if she had brought Mr. Kinnerton to Witherley with the object of securing a sacrifice at the altar, however unwilling, she ought rather to have been pleased. Cassie’s eyes ran over her, and immediately she felt, as ever, the stark contrast of condition.
    The great lady of the village was stylishly if simply dressed for the country, in a gown of Canterbury muslin worked in coloured sprigs and a pretty beribboned bonnet with a neat little brim. She wore her years with elegance, the grey wings to her temples adding distinction to a countenance invariably stigmatised, not undeservedly, as handsome.
    Cassie’s old cotton chemise gown, with its pleated skirts buttoned from bosom to hem and its tight long sleeves, was outmoded, a relic of happier years. Not that she cared for fashion, although it was a relief to have been able to put off the disguise of her blacks.
    Lady Ferrensby’s cool gaze was running over her, and Cassie put up her chin as she met it head-on.
    “Tabitha says you are bruised.”
    Cassie shrugged. “Tabby is exaggerating. It’s nothing very much.”
    A kinder note crept into her patroness’s voice. “I gather a number of stones found their mark. I am sorry you suffered that.”
    It was nothing compared to the suffering of her conscience, but Cassie held her tongue. Lady Ferrensby was ever impatient of the distresses that accompanied the curse of Cassie’s visions.
    “Still, you got off lighter than Duggleby,” pronounced her ladyship.
    Cassie’s resolution failed, and she hit out. “You mean I deserve it more.”
    “Don’t be silly.”
    “Silly? To regret having spoken? Having seen?” Cassie shivered at the memories. “I knew what must happen. I warned him. He would not believe me. He became surly with me, as they all do.” In her mind she heard again the