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      Anne Gracie was born in Australia, but spent her childhood on the move, living in different parts of Australia, Scotland, Malaysia and Greece. Her days, when not in school, were spent outside with animals and her evenings with her nose in a book – they didn’t have TV. She writes in a small room lined with books surrounded by teetering piles of paper. Her fi rst book, Gallant Waif, was a RITA^® Award finalist for best first book. Anne lives in Melbourne. She has a website, www.annegracie.com, and loves to hear from readers.

      The Virtuous Widow

      by

      Anne Gracie

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Chapter One

       Northumberland, England, December, 1816

      “Is my wishing candle still burning, Mama?”

      Ellie kissed her small daughter tenderly. “Yes, darling. It hasn’t gone out. Now, stop your worrying and go to sleep. The candle is downstairs in the window where you put it.”

      “Shining out into the darkness so Papa will see it and know where we are.”

      Ellie hesitated. Her voice was husky as she replied, “Yes, my darling. Papa will know that we are here, safe and warm.”

      Amy snuggled down under the threadbare blankets and the faded patchwork quilt that covered them. “And in the morning he will be with us for breakfast.”

      A lump caught in Ellie’s throat. “No, darling. Papa will not be there. You know that.”

      Amy frowned. “But tomorrow is my birthday and you said Papa would come.”

      Tears blurred her eyes as Ellie passed a gentle work-worn hand over her daughter’s soft cheek. “No, darling, that was last year. And you know why Papa did not come then.”

      There was a long silence. “Because I didn’t put a candle in the window last year?”

      Ellie was horrified. “Oh, no! No, my darling, it had nothing to do with you, I promise you.” She gathered the little girl into her arms and hugged her for a long moment, stroking the child’s glossy curls, waiting until the lump had gone from her throat and she could speak again. “Darling, your papa died, that’s why he never came home.”

      “Because he couldn’t see the way, because I didn’t put a candle out for him.”

      The misery in her daughter’s voice pierced Ellie’s heart to the core. “No, sweetheart, It wasn’t the candle. Papa’s death was nobody’s fault.” It wasn’t true. Hart’s death had been by his own hand, but gambling and suicide was too ugly a tale for a child.

      “Now stop this at once,” said Ellie as firmly as she could. “Tomorrow is your birthday and you will be a big girl of four. And do you know what? Because you’ve been such a good girl and such a help to Mama, there will be a lovely surprise waiting for you in the morning. But only if you go to sleep immediately.”

      “A surprise? What surprise?” asked the little girl eagerly.

      “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you. Now go to sleep.” She began to hum a lullaby, to soothe the anxieties from her daughter’s mind.

      “I know what the surprise is,” murmured her daughter sleepily. “Papa will be here for breakfast.”

      Ellie sighed. “No, Amy, he won’t. Papa has been dead for more than a year. You know he is, so why do you persist with this?”

      “It’s a special candle, Mama. The lady said so. A wishing candle. It will bring Papa, you’ll see.” She smiled and snuggled down under the bedclothes, curling up like a little cat.

      Ellie frowned. That wretched gypsy woman with her false tales! Unbeknown to her mother, Amy had traded half a dozen eggs and some milk for a thick red candle. A wishing candle, indeed! More like a rather expensive Christmas candle. And a hurtful candle, if the old woman had put the notion in Amy’s head that it could bring her father back.

      Amy’s few memories of her father were idealised fairy tales. The truth was too painful for a little girl. Hart had never been an attentive father or husband. Sir Hartley Carmichael, Baronet, had wanted a son—an heir. A small, spirited girl with tumbled dark curls and bright blue eyes held no interest for him. Was quite useless, in fact, and he’d said so on many occasions—in front of Amy herself.

      Ellie looked at her sleeping daughter and her heart filled. There was nothing more precious in the world than this child of hers. She picked up the candle and went into her own room. Shivering in the bitter December cold, she hurriedly slipped into her thick, flannel nightgown and climbed into bed.

      She was about to blow the candle out when she recalled the one burning in the downstairs window. Candles were expensive. She couldn’t afford to let one burn down to a stub for no purpose. No practical purpose, that is. She recalled her daughter’s face, freshly washed for bed and luminous with hope as she placed the candle in the window. A lump filled Ellie’s throat. She got out of bed, slipped her shoes back on and flung a shawl around her for warmth. She could not afford the happy dreams that came so easily to children.

      She was halfway down the steep, narrow staircase, when suddenly a loud thump rattled the door of her cottage. She froze and waited. Bitter cold crept around her, insidious drafts of freezing air nibbling at her bare legs. She scarcely noticed.

      The thump came again. It sounded like a fist hitting the door. Ellie did not move. She hardly dared to breathe. There was a swirl of air behind her and a small, frightened voice behind her whispered, “Is it the squire?”

      “No, darling, it isn’t. Go back to bed,” said Ellie in a low, calm voice.

      A small warm paw slipped into her hand, gripping it tightly. “Your hand’s cold, Mama.” The thump came again, twice this time. Ellie felt her daughter jump in fright.

      “It is the squire,” Amy whispered.

      “No, it’s not,” Ellie said firmly. “He always shouts when I don’t open the door to him. Doesn’t he?” She felt her daughter’s tight grip on her hand relax slightly as the truth of her words sank in. “Wait here, darling, and I shall see who it is.”

      She crept down another six steps, to where she could see the front door, the sturdy wooden bar she’d put across it looking reassuringly strong. Ellie had soon learned that the cottage keys counted for little against her landlord.

      Light flickered and danced intermittently across the dark room from Amy’s wishing candle.

      Someone banged again, not as loud as before. A deep voice called, “Help!”

      “It must be Papa,” squeaked Amy suddenly, from close behind her. “He’s seen my candle and he’s come at last.” She slipped past Ellie and raced towards the door.

      “No, Amy. Wait!” Ellie followed her, almost falling down the stairs in her rush to prevent her daughter from letting in who-knew-what.

      “But it’s Papa, Mama. It’s Papa,” said Amy, trying to lift the heavy bar.

      “Hush!” Ellie snatched her daughter to her. “It isn’t Papa, Amy. Papa is dead.”

      Their cottage was isolated, situated a little off the main road and hidden behind a birch spinney. But further along the road was the Angel, an isolated inn which attracted the most disreputable customers. Ellie had twice been followed home… With that den of villains down the road, there was no way she would open her door to a stranger at night.

      The deep voice called again, “Help.” It sounded weaker this time. He hit the door a couple of times, almost half-heartedly. Or as if he was running out of strength, Ellie thought suddenly. She bit her lip, holding her daughter against her. It might be a ruse to trick her.

      “Who is it?” she called. There was no reply, just the sound

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