Ashley tried to close her eyes and allow the gentle sway of the train to lull her to sleep. If she fell asleep, perhaps she could miss the stop and then she wouldn't have to see Tom or the manor again. Not that she didn't want to see Tom, but the memories hurt so much. And going back to Heyton Manor just made their barbs even sharper. The first time she had traveled there nothing had seemed as important as excavating the gardens at the manor. It was their big break, a chance to prove archaeological theories they had cultivated together all through college.

She could ring him, send her apologies and promise to reschedule—a promise she knew she would never keep—if she could only come up with a reasonable excuse. Nothing saw fit to spring to mind. She sighed and took the photo out of her bag again.

She couldn't recall the words Tom had used in the letter, though she had wept over it, first in relief that he still loved her, then in the agony of remembrance. In the end she burned it, and added another entry to the list of things for which she could not forgive herself. But she hadn't been able to part with the photo of herself and Tom, arm in arm, beaming. It taunted her. Six months ago—which translated to a lifetime in her reality—Tom's hand rested on the swell of her belly, claiming the child within. Ashley closed her eyes again and tried not to remember.

"Daisy." Tom laughed. "We'll call her Daisy."

On her knees, in the trench, the trowel poised over the earth, Ashley shook her head. "No way. Do you want her teased at school?"

He sat cross-legged on the grass above her. "Poppy then?"

Ashley sighed without looking up. "My argument still stands."

"Well, what other seeds have you found down there?"

"Tom, you know as well as I do they're all in the lab results. Besides, naming our daughter from finds in a medieval garden dig is ridiculous."

She eased back the earth around an interesting looking bump with the narrow trowel.

"You've lost all sense of romance, Ash. Maybe it's morning sickness." He went back to studying the results. "Lavender? Camomile? Broom?"

"You're not calling our daughter Broom!" she exclaimed.

He shook the papers at her. "It's right here. In your precious results."

Ashley turned to reply and her hand snagged on something in the ground. Pain spiked into her palm and she yelped in surprise. Tom was at her side in an instant, his jokes forgotten in his concern, but she waved him off. A small pearl of blood welled up in the dirt on her palm.

"You'd better add thorn to the list," she told him. They knelt down and inspected the gnarled and blackened stump she had unearthed.

"Rose." Tom grinned and kissed the hurt away. "We'll call her Rosie."

Ashley shifted in the narrow seat. The train slowed down. They were almost there. She couldn't believe how quickly the journey had passed. She knew it was a mistake to indulge in daydreams. All her dreams had turned to nightmares when a misplaced step on an ancient flight of stairs had robbed her and Tom of little Rosie.

She gathered her belongings as the train pulled into the station. Tom stood on the platform, waiting, looking older, too thin, with lines of worry etched into his face. When he saw her he smiled, and for a moment she saw the old Tom—the Tom who didn't blame himself.

He embraced her, his body formal with uncertainty, but he softened as Ashley kissed his cheek. A dutiful kiss, she told herself, that was all. A kiss for memories of brighter days and the times when she could allow herself to feel. Nothing more. She could not allow it to be more. That would not be fair. Her lips found stubble and the faint taste of salt. It hadn't been his fault, nor hers. It had been no one's fault. She knew that—or at least the rational part of her did. But in the aftermath of the rush to the hospital and the miscarriage the rational part of either of them had not been much in evidence. Recriminations, the psychologist had called it. But Tom wouldn't give up on her. Hadn't he proved that? And even this summons back to the manor, couched in mystery, was an attempt to win her back from her bleak exile of loss.

They passed empty pleasantries while he led her back to his car. When he eased himself into the driver's seat, she was surprised to see him give a boyish grin. By the time they reached the manor, his mood verged on giddy.

"What is this big secret?" Ashley asked, but he wouldn't answer. He took her hand in his warm, firm grip and led her through the sculpted hedges and past beds of riotous colour, to her dig site.

Where she had excavated the old garden, life had sprung anew: a small rose in flower, the petals white and all in all as perfect as an illustration. An old rose. Ashley sucked in a breath but couldn't find words.

"It's a type of damask rose," Tom said, "but it's been extinct since the 1400s. The people from the Horticultural Society sent the story to the press, and I wanted you to see it first. Apparently, when you disturbed the remains, the root-crown, it started to sprout again. That's what they said. Told the journalists that it was—"

"A miracle," she whispered, her voice harsh in her tight throat. Tom's fingers twined with hers. Life found a way; wasn't that what they said? She squeezed his hand, testing the strength she found there and closed her eyes. It was only a step, one simple motion to bring her to his side, and, drawn by the scent of a rose, Ashley took it.