It was an unseasonably mild autumn day as Anabelle Latimer strolled along the grassy track with her face tilted to catch the rays of the pale yellow sun. Her gloved fingers trailed over the tips of the tall grasses, sending them dancing in her wake as she strode purposefully towards the stile.

She climbed the obstacle and jumped down from the other side, where one of her boots became temporarily trapped in the mud. Her laughter, when she pulled her foot clear, drifted across the field and caught Fielding's ear as he observed from behind a gnarled oak. He waited a moment until she had passed out of sight and then followed, keeping some distance between them.

Two days had passed since he had last spoken to Miss Latimer and her sister in Haltford. The following day Fielding had ventured into Redburn, hoping the selection in their book shop could improve upon Blackwood's inadequate offerings. While perusing the shelves he overheard two matronly females gossiping about the Latimer family, whose home lay half-way between Redburn and Haltford.

He was most interested by the news that none of the daughters were known to be receiving romantic attentions from any gentleman, although there was speculation that Mrs Latimer hoped to see the eldest as the mistress of Blackwood before the year was out. He had no difficulty guessing that it was the same Miss Anabelle Latimer who was helping her father during his convalescence.

This therefore begged the question: if the Latimer sisters had no known admirers, who did Anabelle Latimer meet with, and why should their assignations be made in such a clandestine manner? Had she lost her heart to someone unsuitable for her position, such as a strapping farm labourer or a burly butcher's boy?

He quickened his pace, wondering, not for the first time, why he should put himself to such trouble when her welfare was none of his business. While Woodside was nothing to Meltham, Mr. Latimer was still a gentleman and Anabelle Latimer a gentleman's daughter. Granted, she was disadvantaged by the attorney uncle Mr. Orton, and her aunt's dubious choice of friends, but even if her dowry was small her pleasing countenance and lively manners would have found her a number of eligible suitors in town. If she could not look too high then at least she did not have to settle for a match that fell far short of the quality she was born into.

He glanced around, realising he had lost sight of her bonnet; tied, as it often was, with a wide yellow ribbon. Fielding continued in the direction she had been walking and within five minutes came to the remains of an old stone barn. The side and corner nearest to him had completely fallen down, along with at least two thirds of the roof timbers, and a sapling grew through the open space. The furthest section and outer wall appeared solid enough and he could hear the faint murmur of voices beyond.

At this point he began to question his sanity. He had left his horse at Blackwood and walked out into the countryside, perhaps to protect the reputation of a young woman who was neither related nor connected to him. If Miss Latimer's beau took exception to Fielding's enquiries he might find himself knocked to the ground with a black eye for his impertinence. A wise man would turn around and leave this matter to those who were responsible for her wellbeing.

Fielding paused, debating the wisdom of intruding upon a private conversation, but then he heard a faint, "No, no," from behind the wall and found himself half way towards it before he realised he had moved. Rounding the corner of the broken building he saw nothing but a grassy clearing at first, but then spotted Miss Latimer sitting on a fallen log in the lee of the stone wall with a sandy-haired child of ten or eleven years. She leaned towards the boy as he attempted to form his letters on a slate, and Fielding felt an inexplicable relief that her companion wasn't a decade older. "Miss Latimer?"

Both jumped up at the sound of his voice; the boy's eyes were fearful, while hers held only surprise. That surprise soon softened when she saw who had spoken. She smoothed her skirt. "Mr. Fielding! How did you find us here?"

Should he admit how long he had looked for her? Maybe now was not the right time. "I happened to be passing and I heard voices. Would you introduce me to your friend?"

She motioned to the scrubby boy who studied him with narrowed eyes. "This is Joseph Marsh." Possibly feeling the need to explain their presence in such a remote spot, she added, "He wishes to learn to read and write, in order to obtain alternative employment, but his father would not permit him to go to Sunday school. I offered to teach him, as long as Mr. Marsh does not discover us, and we meet here two or three times a week." She turned to the boy. "Joe, this is Mr. Fielding, from Blackwood Hall."

Fielding bowed his head. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Joe. What occupation do you wish to pursue?"

The boy stood straighter, a defiant look in his eye. "Me dad wants us to work on the farm, like me brothers, but I want to drive a Mail Coach when I'm big."

Miss Latimer smiled. "Joe loves horses. He's very good with them."

Warming to his subject, the boy described the spectacle of a shiny black and red mail coach changing team at St Albans on market day. When they'd picked up the passengers Joe had watched the driver checking names against a paper and writing something down. "So I know I 'ave to learn to read and write or they won't 'ave us."

"You would also benefit from experience with stable work and coach maintenance," Fielding suggested.

Joe's shoulders slumped and he shook his head. "'Dad wouldn't pay for us to be a 'prentice, even if 'e could afford it."

Miss Latimer's eyes rose to pierce him, the smooth line of her forehead marred by a frown. She then turned to the boy, patting his grubby shoulder as she urged him back to the log. "Learning to read and write is an important first step towards self-improvement. Many more opportunities will be open to you, and you never know where you may go from there." As they settled back into their spot, she spared him another cold glance. "I am sure Mr. Fielding will not mind if we continue our lesson."

He acknowledged her chastisement with a bow, before he crossed the clearing; settling himself on an ancient tree stump that stuck out of the ground at a comfortable height. Folding his leg across his knee, he studied the incongruous pair on the log.

As Anabelle Latimer returned her attention to the young boy, Joe concentrated on his efforts; his tongue protruding as the tip of the pencil formed the shapes on the slate. While Fielding watched them working together he imagined her surrounded by more children, their warm brown hair marking them as her own. That she would cope admirably with motherhood was beyond question, as was her compassion for the young lad's situation. He closed his eyes and shook his head to dispel both the vision and the marked desire that had grown in its wake.

Raised a Fielding, he was acutely aware of his own responsibilities towards those who lived and worked within the sheltering arms of Meltham Park's estate and holdings. However, the time and effort he expended on their welfare had been born from a sense of duty, and the expectations laid upon him as its master, rather than any selfless desire to improve the lives or condition of the families in his care.

Seeing Anabelle Latimer with the boy uncovered long forgotten memories of his mother, and the occasions she had spent visiting the older women of the parish as they carded wool by the light of the hearth, or carrying bread and broth to those struck down with sickness. As a youngster, he had looked upon his mother in the light of an angel, sent to assist those in need, but the passing years had all but erased those remembrances until now.

As though he had called to her, the object of his attention lifted her head, casting a glance across the clearing towards him. Their eyes met and held—he could not have said for how long—and Fielding was conscious of his heart beating in his chest, like the galloping of a horse. As Anabelle returned her focus to Joe's work, he saw a blush rise on her cheek and felt some indistinct pleasure that he had not been the only one affected by their silent communion.

When the lesson was over, he listened to her praising the boy's efforts as she reclaimed the slate and pencil. "Now you best get off home before your father misses you. We will meet here again the day after tomorrow." She watched Joe run off down the hill with a gentle smile upon her lips and he wondered whether she reserved her affections for scrubby boys, or if she might one day smile at another in that way.

"I apologise for disturbing your lesson, Miss Latimer."

She placed the slate in her basket. "We dare not spend longer than twenty minutes working on his letters, so he is not missed. It is frustrating when the boy is so keen to better himself but is held back by his family's selfishness. They see him as another pair of hands in the fields, rather than allowing him to fulfil his potential in a different sphere."

"You seem to have a way with children."

Her eyebrows rose. "And you, sir, seem to comprehend a great deal while sitting on a stump."

"I find that a few minutes observation may reveal as much as an hour of polite conversation, particularly when people tend to offer anything but their honest thoughts."

She looked down and made a show of tidying her basket. "Mr. Fielding, I also have an apology to offer. When we met in Haltford on Monday my sister was quite shocked by my behaviour. She thought my manners were too familiar when I spoke to you. I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable. That was never my intention."

"On the contrary, it is pleasant to find someone who communicates so effectively. Many young ladies are torn from the school-room and thrust into society before they have developed the social skills required to converse in a comfortable fashion. They either stammer and blush, or speak too quietly because they fear attracting attention to themselves. It can make even a simple discussion about the weather very awkward and often tiring. You, on the other hand, are perfect." He bit his lip, hardly able to believe that such a glowing compliment had so easily fallen from his tongue without the intervention of his brain.

She raised her head, revealing a twinkle in her laughing eyes. "Never that, I hope. Where would be the fun in attaining perfection? Certainly I am not without fault; I am often too quick to own my opinions."

"That too had not escaped my notice."

"Does anything?"

"Not when I attend closely." On the contrary, the more he was in her company, the greater difficulty he had focussing upon anything else.

Miss Latimer adjusted the handle of her basket in the crook of her arm. "Mr. Fielding, I wonder whether you would object to calling on my father. He is still recovering from his accident and cannot yet leave his room. When I told him how you had saved Jack from the stream, he expressed a desire to thank you personally. He receives few visitors and would welcome your company."

Fielding was curious to discover what sort of man Miss Latimer's father was. "Would he be receiving guests now?"

"At this moment?"

"Yes, if it is convenient. I assume you are returning directly to Woodside. You have no other errands to run or young boys to teach?"

She smiled then. "No, there is no one but Joe."

"Good, in that case you can have no objection if I escort you home, as I am going there myself."