AN: This has been one of my very favourite chapters to write, and I hope you enjoy it just as much. This may or may not be the last update before Christmas, but stay tuned...

Finally, there had been a break in the weather; after four days of solid rain, the clouds had parted and rays of sunshine had glittered down over the north of England. It was bitterly cold, heralding the inevitable approach of winter, but Ruth, having spent almost a week confined to Kieley's draughty rooms, with only the exercise of the Long Gallery, was too eager for this opportunity for fresh air to care. A walk from Kieley, down the woodland path, through the village to pay a call on Mrs Wynn-Jones, and to return a book her son had been kind enough to lend her, would vastly improve her mood. She dressed sensibly - an walking dress so old that its once bright blue had faded to an indeterminate grey, with a jacket her mother would have fainted upon seeing and a pair of sturdy leather boots that had seen her through many days of unpleasant weather. A straw bonnet, tied firmly beneath her chin, and a pair of gloves, completed her outfit.

Kieley was surrounded by miles of rolling countryside, and now the October sunlight had once more appeared, it provided beautiful views as Miss Evershed began her walk. Most women of her class would not, perhaps, have attempted such a long walk after such frightful weather, but mud and puddles of rainwater did not deter Ruth, and soon she had reached the estate gates. She paused as she pushed one of them open, to glance over at the Dower House, set back from the drive in a pretty garden. By rights, she and Lady Radford should be living there, but with 'young' Lord Radford away in the Peninsular, it had been declared foolish for the big house to be left uninhabited. Ruth smiled softly. 'Young' Lord Radford (as he was always known among those who had been acquainted with his late father) was far too kind and gentlemanlike a man to turn his own mother out of the house she had run for forty-five years.

Past the gates, the road continued to twist downhill, towards the main road, in the woods. Turning right, one would find oneself on the road to the village, and the rectory; left, and one would eventually come to the gates of Middlethorpe Priory. Ruth's smile faded. Sir Henry had still not returned to his estates, and with such weather, it seemed unlikely that he would have undertaken a journey within the past few days. But she did not remain downhearted for long. The splash her booted feet made in the puddles along the road, and the gentle dappled light created by the softly dripping trees overhead calmed and delighted her by turns, and the icy air in her lungs made her feel more alive than she had done in days.

Her good mood lasted until she was but a quarter of a mile from the rectory. At this point, she was confronted by a racing curricle and pair, positioned across the road so as to make it almost impossible for any other traveller to pass. The only solution would be to climb up onto one of the muddy banks of the road, and walk along there until she had passed the curricle, holding onto the overhanging branches there for balance. This she did, slowly and carefully, wondering at the selfishness of persons who abandoned their vehicles in the middle of roads. There was nothing visibly wrong with either horses or vehicle, so she could only assume that the person responsible had acted so in jest or malice.

However, her opinion of the matter changed when she at last judged herself to be sufficiently past the curricle to climb down from the bank. Having done so, she glanced about, looking for a suitable patch of grass upon which to clean her horribly muddied footwear, and caught sight of Sir Henry Pearce, seated upon a turnstile on the opposite side of the lane, clutching a bloodied handkerchief to his left arm.

She halted, stunned. The mystery of the curricle and pair was solved, it seemed. "Sir Henry!" she exclaimed and hurried across. Upon closer inspection, she could tell that the wound in his arm was bleeding quite freely. The gentleman gave a start, and then winced as he jolted his injured limb. But he barely had time to attempt to stand and bow, his voice breathing her name, before she had added, rather unnecessarily, "Sir, you are wounded!"

He lifted the handkerchief and inspected the patch of blood. "A scratch, no more," he reassured her. "Be easy, Miss Evershed."

She frowned. "Sir, you forget that I am a physician's daughter - I know a gunshot wound when I see one!" His mouth tightened, but carried away in the pleasure and anxiety of seeing him again, she did not notice. "You must allow me to fetch some help."

He shook his head insistently, and turned to walk to his curricle. Ruth followed him. "No, truly. No fuss."

"Mr Wynn-Jones' house is but a moment away, if you will not let me fetch a doctor to you," she persisted. "Please, at least - "

He turned to her, face reddening with pain and anger. "Miss Evershed, this is not your affair!" he snapped, voice tight with pain.

They stood looking at each other for a moment, the gentleman looking down almost bashfully as his fury was replaced by an awful consciousness of his own rudeness, the lady, a little shorter, face white and expression affronted. At last, in perfectly normal accents, the lady informed him, "It is very much my affair, Sir Henry. You have interrupted my walk and the least you can do in recompense is to allow me to accompany you to Mr Wynn-Jones' house for treatment."

"Forgive me," Sir Henry murmured after a moment. "You shall do as you wish, of course."

Turning the curricle proved to take longer than it ordinarily would have done, due to Sir Henry's injury, but once this had been accomplished, his now throbbing arm and light head made him far more amenable to persuasion from Miss Evershed that she should take the reins. She might not have known a great deal about horses, but driving a pair for a short distance was not beyond her abilities, and they arrived safely at their destination. Luckily, the master of the house himself was at home; Sir Henry remained in the curricle while Miss Evershed briefly explained the situation, and he was pleased to note the easy friendship which had grown between the pair.

Wynn-Jones returned to the curricle while Miss Evershed entered his house, and reached up a hand for his old friend to shake. "Good day, Harry. Come along inside, my dear chap."

"Malcolm." His face was grey, and the bloodstain on his shirt had spread. He only smiled when, upon entering Wynn-Jones' drawing room, they found Miss Evershed arranging cushions and a blanket on the chaise-longue. She looked up at the sound of footsteps and stepped back bashfully. "If you won't let me send for Dr Templeton, sir, will you at least let me try to get the shot out?" she asked quietly, as Sir Henry seated himself against the cushions.

He looked up at her enquiringly, and she lowered her gaze. "I helped my father occasionally. He showed me what to do."

There was silence for a moment, and then Mr Wynn-Jones spoke up, kindly. "I think that would be a marvellous idea. But I shall still send Jim to fetch Dr Templeton." And without waiting for an acquiescence from either guest, he departed, calling for his serving-man.

Silence fell, with only the ticking of the clock to break it. Ruth sat on a footstool next to the chaise-longue, and gently began to roll up Sir Henry's sleeve to inspect the damage. His left arm was peppered with angry red marks where the shot had pierced his flesh. He winced, and her hands paused in their work. "Forgive me," she murmured, and their eyes met briefly.

There was a knock at the door and Sir Henry did not think he mistook the note of irritation in Miss Evershed's voice when she called, "Come in!" Wynn-Jones' maid entered, bearing a basin of water, cloths and a pair of tweezers on a tray. Having inspected her equipment, Ruth once more resumed her seat.

What followed were five minutes of excruciating embarrassment for both parties. Sir Henry was trying desperately to remain still as she gently prodded at the wounds, removing small pieces of metal and setting them aside, while Ruth was trying to ignore the fact that her work necessarily involved touching the bare skin of his arm. At last, when four little slivers of iron rested on the tray between them, and Ruth was preparing herself to search for the fifth, Sir Henry asked, "Are you not curious as to what I may have done to provoke such an attack, Miss Evershed?"

She did not reply for several moments, engaged as she was with the tweezers, but at last, she sat back, and replied, "I do not know, sir. It is not my business to enquire - I am only glad that I passed by when I did."

Sir Henry was much amused. The slight frown between her brows was one he recognised - his fair rescuer was wrestling with the problem in her head, unwilling to share her conclusions with him. He smiled. "As am I. Indeed, I think the circumstances of the past hour are sufficient to entitle you to some explanation of my situation, ma'am."

The fifth piece of shot was out, and Ruth inspected the wound closely. "I believe there is but one more piece left, sir," she announced, seemingly ignoring his words, but the way she bit her lip told him that she had heard him well enough. "Very well," he said. "Miss Evershed, you know that I am engaged in work for the War Office. What do you imagine that that involves?"

The final piece of shot came free, and she dipped a cloth into the basin to begin cleaning the wound. "Oh, troop movements, strategy and tactics, supply…" she replied. He nodded, and then paused. Now would be the difficult part. Men of honour usually considered it beneath them to engage in spying; their battles were fought in the open. He had once thought the same himself, as a young, unworldly army officer in America. The belief was naive - he knew that, had learnt it in blood and the sound of cannon. But Miss Evershed… gently reared, well-versed in academic knowledge, but with no practical experience of any sort - she would believe as he had done, that spying on an enemy, knowing his actions almost before he himself did, was no way to fight a war. But he owed her this confidence.

"In part," he acknowledged. "We also… send men into enemy territory, and… observe the actions of the enemy. What they do, or plan to do. Sometimes, what their officers and men say to each other, in public and in private. We…"

But he had no need to complete his sentence. Miss Evershed looked up at him, with the clear-eyed delight of someone who has just calculated the answer to a very difficult puzzle, and completed calmly, "You spy on the enemy." She smiled. "Of course - I should have guessed."

He looked down at her shrewdly, barely feeling the wet cloth brush against his wound. It still stung, but less so now. "Then… you do not disapprove?"

Wryly, she informed him, "Of course I disapprove. When the children were small, I told them that listening at keyholes was dishonourable and disreputable, and would only lead them into trouble." Her face clouded. "But this is not listening at keyholes, and the punishment for such activities on the battlefield is, I imagine, much higher than no supper. The men you send into the field… they must be very brave, to take such risks." It was a measured reply, the reply of a keen sense of honour, tempered by an intelligent brain and a kind heart.

"Our work is important. Perhaps there is little honour in it, but it is a price I am willing to pay if it means that Bonaparte's pretensions are set down a year, a month, a week sooner."

Miss Evershed merely continued with her work, for once revealing nothing of what she thought or felt. "And your work is the reason why you were shot?"

Grimly, he nodded. "I have reason to believe that the War Office's workers are not all so loyal as I should like. It seems someone is passing information on to an agent in France. I was trailed from London, but my mind was on other things… I did not notice my companion until he judged it the right time to fire his musket."

The wound was as clean as she could manage; Ruth set aside the cloths. "Other things?" She had not missed the slight hesitance in his voice when he had spoken of his distraction, and the query was out of her mouth before she remembered that there were many things in a gentleman's life that he did not share with female acquaintances. But the same remembrance did not seem to have struck Sir Henry. Softly, he replied, "My son is lately married, in unhappy circumstances. The girl's father does not approve, and nor do I. But they would not heed our sanctions… I regret to say that the couple had been lodging together for several weeks before the marriage happened."

He expected shock and disgust; he did not expect the gentle comforting hand that was laid over his own, or the expression of deep sadness and pity that crossed her face. "I am very sorry to hear it, indeed, Sir Henry. But if he… if your son has married the girl, then at least they may retain some respectability." She hesitated, and then added, quietly, "They must be very much in love."

He frowned in irritation. "Perhaps. Miss Evershed, my son has never been much troubled by matters of the heart before, and I am anxious that his actions now are… are not precipitated by selfless motives." He sat in silence for a few moments, and then brightened. "In any case, I can do nothing, and ought not to be burdening you with these matters. But I must beg - "

She raised a reassuring hand. "I shall not speak of either matter to anyone. You have my word, sir."

He sighed, half-relieved and half-amused. "Miss Evershed - "

The door opened, and Mr Wynn-Jones entered, accompanied by Dr Templeton. Miss Evershed rose to greet the doctor, moving away from Sir Henry. He tried to rearrange his features into an expression of grateful welcome, but wasn't entirely sure how successful he had been. In any case, Miss Evershed was explaining to Dr Templeton what she had done, and all attention was on her. Dr Templeton bowed slightly to her. "My thanks, Miss Evershed. It seems that Sir Henry has been in very capable hands."

She smiled. "It was not so very difficult. But I am glad that you were able to get here so quickly, sir."

It seemed to Sir Henry that was something of reserve in Dr Templeton's countenance when he at last replied, "Fortunately, ma'am, I had been at Kieley, attending your godmother, and was just returning along the road when Mr Wynn-Jones' man met me."

Ruth's smile faded. "My godmother? I… I had no notion that she was ill. I would not have left had I been aware…"

Templeton fiddled with his doctor's bag. "Be easy. It is nothing serious - merely a regular visit to ascertain the state of her health. She is not a young woman, Miss Evershed." His tone was one of finality, and Ruth knew that she would have to be satisfied with his reply. Still, it had done nothing to ease her worries over Lady Radford. She turned to Sir Henry and Mr Wynn-Jones. "I shall leave you now that Dr Templeton has arrived. I imagine my godmother will be wondering where I am."

She slipped out of the room.

Her walk back to Kieley was thankfully uneventful - Miss Evershed had far too much to think about. Sir Henry's return to the country was, of course, a wonderful surprise and she was very happy… and what he had told her had instilled with her a pride in his confidence in her. But Dr Templeton's visit to her godmother had tempered any pleasure she felt in his return. Lady Radford was definitely paler and thinner and all together more worn-looking than Ruth had ever before seen her. Should it all be put down to old age? Lady Radford was not, as the good doctor had pointed out, a young woman. She had been eighty at her last birthday, after all. Miss Evershed could only hope that Dr Templeton had been speaking the truth, and that nothing more serious was causing her godmother's illness.

The said lady was sitting by the fire in the drawing room when Ruth returned. She caught sight of her goddaughter's dishevelled hair and the mud-coated hem of her gown with her sharp eyes, but made no mention of them. Instead, she smiled up at Ruth, hovering in the doorway, and asked, "Did you enjoy your walk, my dear?"

Ruth smiled in return, but she seemed distracted. "Yes… Ma'am, you would tell me, would you not, if there was anything wrong? I - Dr Templeton has called several times now, I know, and I did wonder - "

Her godmother raised a hand, silencing her. "The winter is approaching, and the autumn has been so damp and cold. It is a chill, no more - when the weather gets warmer, I shall be perfectly well again." Her words closed the subject. Ruth sat down and the footman brought in tea.

"Sir Henry Pearce has returned to Middlethorpe," Ruth ventured at last. It would not do to confess all the circumstances of their meeting, even to Lady Radford, but it would look odd if she failed to mention the fact. "We met in the lane down to the village."

Lady Radford observed her narrowly over her teacup. "How nice. We shall invite him to Kieley for Christmas, as we planned, then."

And sitting in the drawing room with Lady Radford, by a crackling fire, easy conversation flowing between them, Ruth began to calm her nerves, and look back on the events of the morning with wonder and even delight.

Lady Radford adjusted her lace shawl and smiled at how well her goddaughter was looking. Her spirits were greatly improved too, since Sir Henry had reappeared, and her ladyship could only hope that this was a good omen. Ruth could not in any way be thought averse to the gentleman, in any case, and such a circumstance could only be perceived as a promising sign in any courtship. Yes, she would be well-satisfied, to see Ruth so happily settled with such a man. She would have security and prosperity, and best of all, a husband who saw and valued her talents and qualities. Not to mention the relief from anxiety on her goddaughter's part that her ladyship herself would gain…

Anxiously, Ruth smoothed the skirts of her cream muslin gown, and tried to resist the urge to examine her hair in the large mirror before her. There was nothing exceptionable about the evening, and no reason for her to feel nervous. She took a deep breath and felt calmer. The dinner invitation had arrived a week earlier, just two days after Sir Henry's return to the country, delivered by a smartly dressed footman from Middlethorpe. Sir Henry Pearce asked for the honour of Lady Radford and Miss Evershed's company as part of a small party on Wednesday next. Ruth, sitting by the fireside, had read the invitation and felt a warmth spread through her body that had nothing to do with the burning logs in the fireplace.

And now they stood together in Middlethorpe's hall, Lady Radford having made enough of a recovery from her illness to make a public appearance. Ruth tipped her head back slightly to examine the fine carved frieze that ran around the top of the room. It was imposing, certainly, but not unpleasantly so. A slight cough drew her eye from the stone vines she was tracing, until it lit upon their host, walking down the stairs to greet them. He reached their level and bowed, first to Lady Radford and then to Miss Evershed. His smile was infectious - Ruth did not even attempt to hide her own.

Middlethorpe Priory was a house several centuries older than Kieley, with large rooms and pleasant, if old, furnishings. But its slightly worn carpets, and thick velvety window hangings only served to remind Ruth of its lord and master; she could not disapprove of them. "I am very glad to see you," he murmured to Ruth, as he led her into the drawing room, where the other guests awaited the call to dinner. "I fear that I was not as polite as I should have been, upon our last meeting."

She smiled up at him, highly amused. "I think that a bullet wound may excuse any impoliteness, if, indeed, you were impolite. Has your arm recovered?"

Obediently, he lifted the limb and rotated it for her inspection. "Quite well, thank you, as you see. Dr Templeton said that he could not have done a better job himself."

"How kind of him." At that moment, a woman - strangely familiar, and yet utterly unknown to Ruth - appeared in the room and approached them. Anyone could tell that her gown had been made by a modiste at the height of fashion, and although she appeared to be only a few years younger than Sir Henry himself, her smiling countenance and elegantly arranged blonde curls did much to give her the impression of youth.

Sir Henry bestowed one of his amiable smiles on her, and then turned to Ruth. "Miss Evershed, allow me to introduce my sister. Miss Ruth Evershed, Mrs Eliza Darnay."

The ladies curtsied, and then Mrs Darnay held out a hand for Ruth to shake. "Miss Evershed, I am very glad to meet you." She had her brother's easy confidence and kind manners, as well as his brown eyes, glimmering with intelligence. "My brother has told me much about you. He says that his acquaintanceship with you was the only thing that made the London Season bearable this year."

Sir Henry flushed. "Eliza…" he murmured. Ruth looked up at him, surprised, and the corner of her mouth quirked in a bashful smile. To Mrs Darnay, who was watching shrewdly for a reaction, she replied, "Your brother is far too kind, ma'am."

Mrs Darnay slipped her hand through Ruth's arm. "Indeed he is!" she laughed gently. "Come, Miss Evershed, take a turn about the room with me. I should very much like to know you better." And, so saying, she led Ruth away from her brother. The gentleman stood near the fireplace, half-exasperated, half-amused, and watched his sister interrogate her new acquaintance. Fortunately, Miss Evershed seemed entirely at her ease, and when Mrs Darnay made some smiling comment, both women laughed. It must have been about him, for directly afterwards, Ruth turned her head, just so, and caught his eye. Mr Wynn-Jones had joined them, by this point, and thus it was that, when Hill rang the dinner gong ten minutes later and Eliza's husband came to lead her in, it was Wynn-Jones, and not Sir Henry himself, who claimed Miss Evershed's arm.

Sir Henry approached Lady Radford with good grace, passing Eliza as he did so. She touched his arm briefly and grinned whole-heartedly. "Simply delightful, Harry."

He raised his eyebrows, feigning bemusement. "I've no idea what you're talking about, Eliza." His sister was a dear creature, and he loved her heartily, but there was no escaping the fact that she could be possessed of a loose tongue. He dreaded the thought of her saying anything to Miss Evershed that would make her uncomfortable, even if it was said without a touch of malice in mind.

Fortunately, dinner passed off very well. The assembled company was small, and generally well-acquainted with each other. Eliza, only too delighted to play hostess for her brother when he required it, had contrived to be seated near Miss Evershed, and continued their conversation, while Harry addressed the majority of his conversation to Lady Radford. Her ladyship, while looking in better health than he had expected, was still pale, and her already sharp features had been sharpened still more by the loss of weight she appeared to have recently suffered.

"I am pleased that you have returned to the country, Sir Henry," she commented over the pheasant. "My goddaughter has been suffering from a sad want of society since coming to Kieley." She sighed and shot a look down the table, where Ruth was sipping at a glass of ruby-coloured wine. "I had hoped that a removal from London would be well-received, but I fear she is becoming lonely."

Sir Henry nodded. "A woman such as Miss Evershed ought to have been settled in her own establishment long since, Lady Radford," he replied, too distracted by the movements of a certain set of chestnut curls to consider his words before uttering them. He flushed. "That is to say, ma'am… from my conversations with Miss Evershed, I - "

Lady Radford laughed quietly. Dryly, she reassured him, "I understand your meaning well. Ruth was meant for independence. She even believes, I think, that she is a burden in my household, which of course is not true."

He swallowed, a strange lump in his throat at the thought of her unhappiness. "Lady Radford, I do not believe that Miss Evershed would know how to be a burden."

"I remember coming here with Susannah and Lady Radford when I was a child," Miss Evershed confessed, as the company sat once more in the drawing room after dinner. Someone was playing the piano, but they did not seem to be expecting an audience, since most of the guests were conversing quietly amongst themselves. She was seated comfortably on one of the sofas in the inglenook, Sir Henry placed elegantly opposite her. The gentlemen had not lingered long over their port that evening, and indeed it still lacked a full hour since the ladies had risen to withdraw from the dining table under Eliza's direction.

She added, "Your uncle used to let us run wild in his orchards - but I shall never forget the thrashing he gave Peter when he found him scrumping apples one day." They both laughed, Sir Henry's eloquent expression reassuring her that her brother was not the only mischievous young jackanapes to have been thrashed by Squire Pevensey. He leant forwards.

"You miss your brother." It was not a question. Ruth avoided his eyes. Conversations about Peter were always so difficult, bringing them as they did all the horrid recollections of his death. But with Sir Henry, the feeling of sadness was somehow diminished. Bravely, she settled for the simple truth. "He was an impudent rascal, recklessly brave, dreadful with money… and I adored him."

Her good friend opened and closed his mouth several times, troubled as to how to reply. At last, he murmured, "Then, please, remember him in those terms, ma'am. Only in those terms." Her breath caught. He knows, Ruth realised, with a flood of inexplicable relief. He knows the truth about Peter! I won't have to suffer his sympathy, or bear the way military men usually spend an age talking about the honour of dying in battle. She knew not how he had found out, or who had told him, but the idea did not trouble her. She felt that Sir Henry could be trusted with any confidence, no matter how shocking it might be.

"Thank you, sir," she managed at last. Then, determining to once more more be cheerful, she smiled, "And now that you are back at Middlethorpe, and recovered, perhaps you will accept our invitation to spend Christmas at Kieley."

"My dear Miss Evershed, I should be delighted."