There was one particular moment which stood out to Mary as the most mortifying she had ever experienced.

She had been fifteen years of age at the time, not long having commenced her service as Margaret's maid. Despite being trained in the art of dressing and styling a lady, Mary was still learning some of the finer points of her role when Margaret embarked on a family drive in the country one summer's day.

Selecting a dress was simple enough; Margaret had ample dresses for this very purpose, and so it was only a matter of choosing one in a hue which Mary thought became her mistress. The styling of the hair did not pose too much of a problem – pinning it seemed the most sensible option, leaving just a few ringlets to frame Margaret's delicate, heart-shaped face.

When it came to the final article of clothing, however, Mary found herself at rather a loss. As someone with a particular dislike towards bonnets, Mary had never bothered with one herself, and had not paid particular attention when being taught the importance of this garment for protecting a lady from the sun and wind whilst riding in an open carriage. Nevertheless, she duly selected the least obtrusive one she could find amongst Margaret's collection, knotting the silk ribbon under Margaret's chin.

Upon glancing at herself in the mirror, however, Margaret immediately expressed her dissatisfaction. The ribbon had to be tied in a bow, she insisted – it was only proper to do so. And so, Mary had gritted her teeth and picked apart the knot, retying the slippery strands of fabric in some semblance of a bow, resting just beneath Margaret's chin. The material did not quite make contact with Margaret's chin, but Mary did not think it mattered – with the corset already restricting Margaret's breathing, there was no need for her to be half-choked by her bonnet as well.

But only an hour later, Mary was to discover what a grievous mistake she had made.

It was with great surprise that she had spied the Thorpe barouche reappearing in the driveway not an hour after it had departed. Peering closely from her attic room window, she attempted to discover what was amiss - clapping her hand to her mouth in horror moments later as she spotted Miss Thorpe's bonnet-less head.

Clattering downstairs as fast as she could, Mary found herself met by a mutinous Mrs Thorpe in the entrance hall – and from the expression on her mistress' face, Mary knew that she was in severe trouble.

The securing of Margaret's bonnet, it transpired, had not been sufficient for such a blustery day – for in one large gust of wind as the barouche swept across the moor, the garment had been ripped clean off her head!

This in itself was bad enough – worse still was that the vicar's son had happened to be out riding that very afternoon, witnessing the entire scene.

"We shall never be welcomed in our own church again!" Mrs Thorpe had wailed. "And it is entirely your fault – wayward, foolish girl!"

Mary had cringed under the weight of the formidable woman's wrath, certain this was to be her final day in employment. Thanks to a heartfelt plea from Margaret, this turned out not to be the case – but the excruciating memory remained raw in Mary's mind to this day, of the time she had let her mistress down. From that day forth, Mary had vowed never to disappoint someone she respected in such a way again.

Yet now she had let another down, in the most excruciating of ways.

Sir Edmund did not speak as he led the way across the perfectly manicured lawn, barely sparing Mary a backwards glance to ensure she was keeping pace. Luckily, Mary was a brisk walker, but even she found herself a little short of breath when Sir Edmund came to a halt beside the magnificent fountain with its Grecian marble statue, a little way off to the side from the main gardens.

Only now did Sir Edmund meet her eyes – and when Mary beheld his expression, she found herself dearly wishing he was still averting his gaze. The hurt and betrayal etched upon his every feature was more than Mary could bare – knowing it was she who was entirely responsible for his hurt, then, was sheer torture.

"Sir Edmund," she began plaintively, at an utter loss as to how best she might proceed.

Mary had hoped Sir Edmund might interject, spewing forth a tirade of furious words about how angry he was. This, Mary would have been able to withstand – his wrath was well-deserved.

But this continued silence – the expectant way in which Sir Edmund looked upon her for an explanation – this Mary could not withstand at all. What on earth could she say; what possible reason could she give for deceiving Sir Edmund as she had for such a length of time?

He had never before served a mistress; never before known how difficult it was to defy a dear friend's wishes. There was not a chance he would accept the truth – not now that he had learned of the soiled reputation of the woman Mary served.

"I offer you my most heartfelt of apologies," whispered Mary lamely, knowing such a statement was hardly sufficient for a situation of this severity.

Still Sir Edmund said nothing, his blue eyes ice cold as he regarded her solemnly.

"Is there any chance of receiving your forgiveness?" implored Mary. "If there is some way I may put right this wrong, or earn you trust once more, then name it, and it shall be done – for I utterly despise myself for having deceived you, and wish for nothing more than to make amends."

"I believed I knew you," said Sir Edmund eventually, his voice cracking. "Making your acquaintance was far the most enjoyable aspect of my trip to Alverton this winter – yet it was not, in fact, your acquaintance I was making, but rather your version of Miss Thorpe."

"No!" cried Mary. "It was my acquaintance you made! I masqueraded as Miss Thorpe in name only; it was impossible for me to act the part of a lady!"

Sir Edmund grimaced, a hollow laugh escaping his lips.

"This you claim; yet you succeeded in hoodwinking me," he replied.

Mary fell silent, an invisible weight crushing the air from her chest. There was no response to this; Mary had deceived Sir Edmund, despite knowing in her heart what a mistake she was making. Telling falsehoods to Lady Helena and her father had been one thing – yet being untruthful to Sir Edmund, who had treated her with nothing but kindness and respect, was quite another. It was he, after all, who had offered friendship to Mary when Lady Helena treated her as an outsider.

How foolish Sir Edmund must feel now, knowing just how much of an outsider Mary truly was.

"Masquerading as Margaret was the only hope of keeping her whereabouts concealed from Mr Roach," said Mary desperately, keen to have her pitiful explanation done with. "He is a truly dreadful man, seeking only her fortune and fertility – and though I am most ashamed at having deceived you so thoroughly, I do not regret coming to my dear friend's aid."

Sir Edmund's brow furrowed.

"Would that I were able to believe your assessment of Mr Roach's character," he sighed painfully. "I want with all my heart to believe this tale of escaping a villainous man – yet how am I able to, knowing you to have deceived me once before? How am I to believe that what you speak is the truth?"

To her horror, Mary felt her eyes brimming with tears as the full force of Sir Edmund's words hit her like a blow to the stomach. He was right, of course. Mary had single-handedly destroyed all trust which had existed between Sir Edmund and herself by concealing her true identity from him.

Now that the trust had broken down, how was she ever to hope that their relationship might return to what it previously was?

There is no hope, she realised miserably, tears beginning to slide down her cheeks as the gaping chasm of despair opened within her.

"I know you must find it impossible to have faith in me," pressed Mary, "yet for all our sakes, I must implore you to believe me when I say that Mr Roach is a terrible gentleman indeed! He has caused Margaret such harm that I am quite wild with impatience to see him removed from Alverton before he is granted the opportunity to inflict further pain upon her."

Sir Edmund gave Mary a look full of doubt, causing her heart to sink further.

"Margaret cannot have found him so very repulsive," commented Sir Edmund, "for did he not father her infant?"

"Oh!" gasped Mary in outrage, all thoughts of seeking forgiveness vanishing as she bristled at Sir Edmund's ignorant words. "How you can be so naïve, sir, is quite beyond me! Then again, you are a gentleman – what can you possibly imagine of being persuaded into actions beyond one's will?"

The look on Sir Edmund's face caused Mary's heart to come to a stop momentarily. Used to seeing open kindness etched upon his features, to witness the way his eyes now widened in disbelief, before narrowing in anger, was simply unbearable.

"This is no way for a lady to speak," was his cold reply.

Mary's insides squirmed, failing to miss the true meaning of his words.

Since she had first met Sir Edmund, he had treated her as an equal; as if she truly were someone deserving of his acquaintance. This, however, was the cruel confirmation of the fact that he no longer viewed her as such. Sir Edmund wished to put her in her place - and he had most thoroughly succeeded in his aim.

"I have been so foolish!" cried Mary, sobbing freely now.

A brisk wind whipped up around them, causing the branches overhead to whisper amongst themselves, and Mary felt the dampness of a few flecks of water from the fountain on her sleeve. The sun had disappeared behind a cloud, causing a chill in the air – yet Mary was too worked up to take note of the cold.

"I truly deceived myself into believing..." choked Mary, yet she could not form the words.

"For a brief moment, you made me feel as though my life need not be defined by my social status. You offered me the briefest glimmer of hope that you saw beyond the confines of social class. Yet you have made it quite clear what you think of me now that you know me not to be Miss Margaret Thorpe, but simply Mary Preston."

Sir Edmund's face moved through a series of painful expressions in rapid succession.

"Is that what you truly believe to be the issue at hand?" he exclaimed furiously. "Is that what you truly think of me?"

The sky was darkening quicker than ever; clouds scudding across the sky until the last trace of blue had vanished. Branches whipped around them, as Mary's thick curls swept repeatedly across her face despite her repeated attempts to keep them at bay.

"I know not what else I am supposed to think, for I believe you have made your meaning clear enough," said Mary defiantly, raising her chin to look directly into his pale blue eyes as the first splatters of rain landed atop her head.

Sir Edmund uttered a cry of outrage, grasping at his tousled mop of golden hair.

"I refuse to stand here a moment longer and be spoken to in such a way!" he declared. "I shall not listen to these vicious attacks on my character, when it is in fact I who has been wronged by you. I am vexed beyond words, Mary Preston, and I believe it best if I take my leave now."

"Very well!" cried Mary into the wind, fists balled in rage as she watched Sir Edmund storm across the gardens in the direction of the stables, head bowed against the increasingly heavy downpour.

Watching him go, Mary knew that her rage would subside into heartbreak later. In fact, she was acutely aware that she would almost certainly come to regret the way she had lost her temper in such an uncouth manner. For the moment, however, she wrapped her anger about her like a blanket; shielding herself from her true emotions as she made her way dejectedly back towards the great house which contained all the painful memories of Sir Edmund.

I have lost him, she thought numbly, vaguely aware of the thundering of hooves in the distance as she squelched across the damp lawn.

But even that was not true; not really. She had not lost him – for he had never been hers to lose.

And that was the most painful realisation of all.

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A/N: Well - I guess that conversation was never going to go very smoothly, was it?

Do you think Sir Edmund was unreasonable and harsh with the comments he made, or was he justified in losing his temper? Did Mary handle the situation well, or should she have kept calm instead of becoming defensive and defiant? I'd love to hear your thoughts!

In other news, nominations for @thefictionawards opened last week, and A Lady's Fate has received a nomination for Best Historical Fiction! The 15 stories with the most nominations in each category by the 11th June qualify for the awards - so if you've been loving reading about Helena and Mary, it would mean the world to me if you headed over to their "The Fiction Awards 2017" book and nominated it!