Alone with her thoughts, Miranda had mapped out how she would confront Mr Preston in precise detail. Oh it would be high drama, screaming and crying and slammed doors. He would beg for forgiveness, she would deny him, and he would be left filled with regret and memories.

But when she glanced out the window and finally saw Mr Preston's carriage parked outside the cottage, her bravado faded to a whimper. Half of her wanted to run straight to the cottage and demand the truth, the rest of her wondered if it was better not to know.

She had no memory of walking there, but next thing she knew, she was standing before his door. She began knocking, not stopping until she heard the click of the lock.

Mr Preston opened the door, and her breath caught when she saw him. His hair was casually ruffled, his smile wide and eyes bright. He was still as handsome as ever, the bastard. "Miranda! What are you doing here? It's so wonderful to see you."

She tried to keep her expression neutral. "May I come in?"

"Of course," he said, beckoning her inside.

"I trust your trip went well."

She could stop here, she thought. Let everything remain untouched.

"Yes, better than I could've expected. In fact, I-"

She cut him off, unable to pretend any longer. "Who is Rosalind Parker?"

There was a flash of alarm in his eyes, but he remained remarkably calm. He frowned and cocked his head. "She's an old family acquaintance. Why do you ask?"

Maybe she was wrong. It was all a terrible misunderstanding.

"Just an acquaintance? Are you certain of that? That's curious way to refer to your fiancee, is it not?"

He turned white, and she knew. "What are you talking about?"

"Is it true?" she asked, a lump rising in her throat.

There was an agonising silence.

"Not any longer. It's not what you think," he said quietly. Her heart cracked in two. "You weren't to know. Who have you been talking to?"

Her anger rushed to the surface and boiled over. "Weren't to know! Am I not worthy of such information? Mr Detorri thought I ought to know, and I must say I am very grateful to him for bringing it to my attention!"

At the mention of his name he burst into a fit of rage. "Detorri? Oh yes! How kind and noble of him! It's a wonder your mother can't see him for who he is, given her propensity for judging others."

"Don't you bring my mother into this!"

He shrunk at her reprimand. "Miranda, I promise I can explain, in time. I didn't plan for any of this to happen when I moved here. That I would meet you, fall in love…"

"I cannot bear to listen to your lies any more," she yelled, standing up to leave.

"Miranda, wait!" Despite everything, she couldn't stop herself from turning around.

"You have to trust me," he said, trying to reach for her hand. "We can go back to the way it was before... at your word."

He had lost his mind. "I believe I have made an error in my judgement of your character. Do not write to me again," she said coldly, while her vision blurred with tears and her voice cracked.

He held up his hands and stepped back. "Very well," he said, his voice breaking. "I will do as you wish." He picked up his coat and walked out, leaving her alone in his home.

This is ridiculous, she thought. He cannot even let me make a dramatic exit correctly.

It was too quiet all of a sudden. She walked around, taking in the interiors for the first time. She was loath to admit that it was rather nice. It was cozy, the furnishings modest but well made. A bouquet of dried flowers dangled from the ceiling. It smelled of honeysuckle and cedar. An oil painting of fruit hung on the wall. All of it was a glimpse into what their lives could have been together, their future, the one that now would never be.

There was a soft knock on the door. She begrudgingly walked over and opened it, expecting Mr Preston to have come crawling back, and she nearly jumped out of her skin when she found Clive on the doorstep.

"Good gracious Mr Evans, what are you doing here?!"

He stared at her with equal shock and confusion. "I could very well ask you the same! Mr Preston wrote ahead and told me he was returning today, I thought I ought to pop by and update him on The Hamilton…" His expression suddenly changed to delight. "Oh! Am I interrupting? Are you and-"

"No! We very much are not. He had to leave for a moment." Her eyes filled with tears of embarrassment. She couldn't stop the sob that escaped her throat.

Clive's face fell. He tried in vain to comfort her, giving her a feeble pat on the arm. "There, there, I'm sure whatever has happened can be fixed."

"I don't think this can be," she cried. "I really ought to go, will you stay until he returns?"

He nodded, and gave her a quick hug before she left.

"I would appreciate your discretion on this matter, Clive," she said, wiping her eyes.

"Of course, Miss Hartford."

When Mr Preston stumbled back to the cottage after a stiff drink and some solemn rumination, he yelped when he found Clive sitting on his armchair with his feet up and a glass of scotch in his hand.

"Good god Clive, what are you doing here?"

He uncrossed his legs and cocked his head. "I was coming to see you, like you'd asked, only to find a distraught Miss Hartford! What on earth have you done now?"

Mr Preston flopped down on the couch and stretched out his tall frame, before letting crossing his arms over his eyes. "I've ruined everything," he mumbled.

Miranda ran back home and straight to her room, flying past Tilly on the stairs. Tilly's face fell when she saw her tear-streaked face. "Oh, Miranda,"

"I need some time to myself. Please excuse me."

Oh how she hated him for taking her happiness with him. The subsequent days and nights bled into each other, blurred by her grief. She checked the mail each day out of habit, for the letters she knew would not be there.

Tilly and Stevie consoled her, tasking themselves with picking up the pieces and pasting her back together.

"I was fine before I met him," Miranda had bemoaned. "How can I be so weary now? Why does his absence feel so cold?"

Stevie sighed sadly. "Sometimes pain is the price we pay for love."

On one of her visits to Stevie and Norman, she found some solace in playing with their brood of cats. "It's good for the soul," Norman remarked gruffly, insisting that she hold a cuddly ginger tom in her lap. The purring was nice, she had to admit. Her favourite of course remained Heather, who had developed a preference for laying fully outstretched on her back.

"I wish I could be that relaxed," she said with a sigh.

Gary Preston was a liar and traitor. With the realisation that perhaps he was never hers in the first place, she cast him out of her heart and mind. Or so she tried. It was possible for short bursts of time, but the ghost of him always there, lingering.

While Tilly and Charlie continued their birdwatching, having ticked off the majority of Tilly's list, Miranda began taking walks in the garden alone, ostensibly making excuses that she was simply going out to read, then disappearing of her own accord.

This morning was unseasonably cool, with a fresh snap in the air that was rather invigorating, emboldening her to continue beyond the usual boundaries of Woolford into the surrounding woods. They were quite pretty, peaceful and not too quiet. Being in nature, life quietly simmering all around her, the cloud of her despair began to lift.

She was so engrossed in her reverie that she was entirely unaware of the imminent danger that was about to cross her path.

A carriage was approaching at speed, the wheels running smoothly over the favourable ground. Miranda did not hear any of this, and by the time the horse reared and the driver called out, she scarcely had time to turn her head before everything went black.