A/N: Please note that our story takes place in 1843 – well after Lord Uxbridge but before the American Civil War, when medicine achieved many advances for men in Mr. Carter's situation. My apologies to historians and medical professionals for anything I get wrong.

Chapter 9: The View from London

My dear Miss Galindo,

Thank you for your prompt report on the business of the estate, especially the account concerning the recent economies introduced by her ladyship. The additional correspondence to secure new situations for staff is a burden I would gladly have spared you, and I thank you for bearing it so willingly.

I share your opinion that the sale of the Shetland pony must have caused Lady Ludlow much distress, but surely that particular blow was softened by your presence, and by the compassion and kindness you have always shown my lady.

Our journey east was itself uneventful. Unfortunately, Mr. Beckett was taken ill several days after we had arrived, and I suspect that London does not suit him. He is such a cheerful, energetic, reliable fellow, and it grieved me to see him suffer so. However, he has since rallied and will no doubt have more pleasant than unpleasant memories of this journey.

Of my reason for visiting London, I will only say that Dr. Harrison and Dr. Marshland were most thorough in their inquiries and arrangements, and I trust my progress as a patient will not disappoint my friends and colleagues at home.

I will not remain away a day longer than is necessary and expect to be back at Hanbury very soon. Extend my greetings to our mutual acquaintance. I am certain you understand my meaning.

Very truly yours,

Edward Carter

Learning to walk again, for all that he was past forty! But that was the task Mr. Carter had set himself, and as he at last faced it in London -- alone, but for Mr. Beckett's company -- he gained determination

He had been very much relieved to learn that Dr. Harrison's optimism had not been unfounded, that the device available to him in London had indeed proved more useful and less primitive than he had imagined. Of course he'd had to bear with the process of adjusting to a jointed manmade limb – the attendant discomforts, the effort required to produce as natural a gait as possible, the simple need to learn again the activities he had once taken for granted – but he'd come to accept it.

And he secretly hoped that once he was home, his neighbors would learn to forget what happened to him, even if he could not. He would not be an object of pity, or even curiosity, if he could help it.

One concern he had previously shared with no one, not even Dr. Harrison, was the curious sensation of feeling pain in the missing part of his leg. Half fearing he was going mad, Carter had mentioned that condition to one of the London physicians, a Dr. March, who had merely remarked, "Men of medicine have been recording that phenomenon for longer than either of us has been on this Earth, Mr. Carter. I assure you that you are by no means the first patient who has reported such a complaint." That had silenced him.

But if he had to resign himself to occasional pain, he was also determined to master his new means of getting about, and so he began to take his walks about London, sometimes in Beckett's company, sometimes not.

Before they'd come away, both men had been sternly instructed by Dr. Harrison not to wander haphazardly about London but to always be aware of their surroundings, lest they become the prey of pickpockets and thieves. With that sobering bit of advice in his memory, Mr. Carter had commenced his excursions into the streets, to begin an education like none he'd received in his years as a clerk in Birmingham.

It was humbling to discover, for instance, that he'd grown so accustomed to a relatively quiet life in Cheshire that the bustle and noise of the city quite overwhelmed him, as did various unpleasant realities its inhabitants faced.

What troubled him most during his journeys through London was the sight of all the children, many younger than Harry, who were obliged to work or otherwise make their way in the world – the young costermongers, the street sweepers, the errand boys, the pickpockets and beggars. He had seen his fill of this sort of misery before, at the mill in Halifax, indeed sometimes in Cranford as well, but never on such a scale.

And there was more. In one of the streets he'd seen one poor fellow, perhaps an old sailor or soldier, with stumps for legs, seated on a crude sort of low cart. Carter had taken what coins he had and poured them into the man's hands before going on his way. You cannot save them all, he had reminded himself. But if he'd ever needed proof of his own privilege, he had gained it in full.

But if Mr. Carter's recovery of the ability to walk demanded increased patience, and the journeys through London increased humility, his sojourn in the city was by no means wholly unpleasant. Indeed, after a time, he decided that though he'd come to the city to see to medical concerns, there was no reason why he should not plan a few diversions.

He had intended, for instance, to bring back a few gifts to friends at Cranford and Hanbury. For Mr. Carter, this meant seeking out the booksellers as soon as he was able to walk on his own.

It hadn't been difficult to find what he wanted, either. There would be something new from Mr. Dickens for Captain Brown, of course, and for Harry, things that would spark his curiosity, perhaps even make him laugh. And so Mr. Carter had found a book of fables, with pictures, and then an interesting little history of Britain, something a young boy wouldn't find too dry or dusty.

Then Mr. Carter had happened upon a most unexpected treasure. At one of the stalls he saw a fine little book, beautifully bound. Within it was a series of color illustrations of various places in Italy, and sonnets printed on the alternating pages. Oh, this was a prize; he had to buy it, even if he didn't know whether he would keep it for himself or no. A few words with the bookseller, an exchange of money, and the little book joined the other gifts in his collection.

With an afternoon at his disposal, he decided he'd better see something of London's cultural delights and made his way to the National Gallery. He loved the very idea of a place where all were welcome to view works of art, and couldn't help but think how fitting it would have been if he'd had Harry Gregson along with him. Back at Hanbury, of course, the boy would have glimpsed the paintings and sculptures in Lady Ludlow's possession, but could never have the sense that such things belonged to all, or that they were the result of talent, skill, and inspiration. Harry needed a trip to the National Gallery, thought Mr. Carter, and for that matter so did he.

In one of the rooms Mr. Carter happened to walk past a young woman, wearing a frown of concentration, who was trying to sketch an image from a painting on the opposite wall. He thought again of Miss Galindo, who had been known to carry her sketchbook along as she walked through the woods up to Hanbury Court, and suddenly realized he'd never asked to see any of her drawings, or found out what she sketched, aside from the occasional wild bee orchid. Indeed, he'd barely acknowledged Miss Galindo did anything outside his office – except for an occasion when they'd quarreled and he'd pointedly reminded her that she was a milliner. At the time he'd thought the observation fair and frank, but now couldn't escape the sense that it was merely condescending. Well, it had certainly nettled Miss Galindo, who'd informed him that she'd taken up her work out of necessity, not inclination.

Then he remembered something he had said to Harry before leaving Hanbury: that he would go to London when he was a man and could do as he pleased. Had that been the truth, or merely a tale told to reassure a child? Really, how much freedom was afforded to any man, or woman?

A new thought came to him: He'd been a prisoner of sorts himself, for that matter, in those weeks following the surgery, when helplessness and self-loathing had been his daily companions.

But even for all that, for all his doubts and fears, he'd been persuaded to make this trip to London, and it had restored a measure of his freedom, and not only that. If he had learned to stand and walk unaided again, he had also opened his eyes.

The truth was exactly as Dr. Morgan had said: Fate had struck him a blow, but it had also smiled upon him.

He had lived, perhaps as much due to the stubborn devotion of those he'd left back at Hanbury and Cranford. He had lived to walk again, to feel something like happiness stealing over him.

That night he dreamed he was in the National Gallery and seated opposite Miss Galindo, who was sketching his portrait with a pen and ink. He never saw what she had created, only her expression from behind the sketchbook. At length she looked down at her work, frowned, and said, "No, that won't do at all. We must begin again." And she tore off the sheet and started afresh.

There were moments, Anthony Beckett thought, when he believed he'd been a fool ever to worry about Mr. Carter. If there was no making the man what he once was, he'd at least adjusted to that contraption the doctors had fitted him with, and now there was surely no corner of the city safe from Mr. Carter's curiosity, not when he could roam about at will once more. And if he grew tired or uncomfortable, well, what else were the London cabs for?

Mr. Carter had lately gotten it into his head as well that Anthony would benefit from the sight of a few of London's finer buildings – St. Paul's, for example, and Westminster Abbey – and had proposed an excursion or two around the city before they were to depart for Hanbury. For all that Anthony was much more interested in the shops and markets of London, the hum of commerce, the comings and goings of the people, he held his tongue and went along with the plan. Besides, it was entertainment enough to listen to Mr. Carter holding forth on a subject, whether it was the design of a cathedral or the legacy of a poet, every time they drew close to a particularly interesting building or memorial.

Each having seen the other in convalescence, the two men had lost much of their formality, and over the course of the journey had begun to share their histories. Mr. Carter had learned, for instance, that Beckett had trained as a barber but had then gone into service, eventually taking a position in Liverpool, then another in Manchester. He didn't have much family in England; both mother and father had died, and his brothers and sisters had emigrated to America.

"Did you not wish to join them?"

"I was by far the youngest and stayed home. Besides, after Mam died, I had no money for passage."

"And why did you not remain in Manchester? Surely there were many opportunities there."

"I did not like Manchester, Mr. Carter. I should not like to work in London, either," he added. "It's all very well for those who live in fine houses and such, but there's many live in misery."

"Well, there's misery in Cranford, to be sure, though perhaps not on such a scale."

"Yes, sir, but I like Cranford, and the estate. There's good folk there."

"Well, we have our faults as well as our virtues, but no doubt you've noticed that. Still, I expect your brothers and sisters have done well for themselves in America. Where are they now?"

"New Jersey, sir. The cotton mills," he added, without expression, and Mr. Carter had to wonder if the factories in America were much like those he'd seen for himself in England.

"So you'd stop in Cranford, then, but I'll warn you that even Cranford will never remain as it is!"

"No, Mr. Carter, I don't expect that it would. Why, in five years, there will be more people, more shops, maybe another inn!"

"Mm. More custom for Miss Galindo, and perhaps competition."

"Miss Galindo?"

"Miss Galindo has a business of her own – a millinery shop."

"Does she? I should like to have a shop myself one day."

Beckett sounded so much like Harry Gregson -- "I wouldn't mind having an office," Harry had told him at their first meeting – that Mr. Carter had to smile.

The mention of Miss Galindo, though, had brought on the familiar feeling of guilt. She had been left a considerable share of the burden at Hanbury, and at an especially bad time. Her letters had intimated that while Lady Ludlow was making an effort to address her financial woes, at times the remedies appeared worse than the disease.

Well, it would not be so for long, he hoped. He and Beckett were on their way home, and things would change again, this time for the better.

To be continued...