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Mary hovered on the first-floor landing, her fingers on the banister as she watched the hall below.

Laughter rang from the downstairs drawing room, echoing about the marble and plaster sculpting. The house was full. John had sent for her mother and father, which meant her sisters and brothers had come too. Then everyone had come from London today, after Uncle Richard had challenged the Marquis of Kilbride. They thought she and Caroline would welcome their support. They did not realise poor Caroline would be embarrassed. She was mortified to think that London knew so much about her marriage. She had not come out of her room since everyone arrived, and she had also declined Mary’s company.

Mary did not want to go into the drawing room either. Everyone was discussing the part they had played last night, and how exciting it was to see a villain stumbling for words. Everyone believed Andrew innocent, and everyone told her they were happy he had proved them wrong.

But all the well-wishing and self-congratulation was irrelevant. He is not here!

People believed Andrew would be freed today. Yet, there was no surety.

She could not sit among them and listen to chatter and laughter, when inside she was still scared for him.

She stared at the front door, willing Andrew to walk through it.

Another round of laughter echoed from the formal drawing room.

Mary pushed away from the banister and went downstairs. She had to get out of this house.

A footman appeared when she reached the hall. ‘If anyone asks where I am,’ she said, ‘please say I am walking in the park.’

She slipped out the front door, without a bonnet or shawl. The day was warm, and the sun might damage her skin, but she did not care. Outside, her feet led her along the gravel drive. Her arms clutched across her chest.

She walked past the stables.

It was nearly six. Surely if Andrew was coming today, he would be here soon.

Her arms uncrossed and fell to her sides, as her pace quickened, walking along the drive towards the distant gates.

Perhaps he was on his way. Perhaps he was near.

She ran, in an unladylike manner, as quickly as she had done as a girl, with the hem of the skirt of her dress rising above her knees.

If she could grow wings, she would fly to him.

She ran until a stitch in her side stopped her, then she walked, with a hand pressed to her side.

John’s drive went on forever, she could not see the entrance gates yet.

When the stitch eased, she ran again, until the gates and gate house were in sight. She slowed a hundred yards from them. She did not want the gatekeeper to see her this far from the house; she was not dressed for the outdoors.

She clutched her arms across her chest and looked at the gates, waiting.