Classical music lovers will recognize the source of the title. For everyone else, see the duet between Pamina and Papageno in the first act of The Magic Flute.

Thanks to everyone reading this, and special thanks to those who take the time to review. You do it with such warmth and, more often than not, a decidedly sprightly turn of phrase!

Chapter 21: Bei Männern, welche Liebe fühlen

Chance had played tricks on them before. This time she wasn't leaving anything to chance.

She woke early in the morning, woke from a light sleep, and realized that whatever the day held, she must write a reply to Mr. Carter and deliver it into his hands. They might meet that day at Hanbury, or they might not, but he would at last know something of what was in her heart.

My dear Mr. Carter,

First I must offer my sincere thanks for your kind and most beautiful gift of Wednesday. Indeed I confess myself quite astonished by its arrival – but also delighted, Mr. Carter, utterly delighted.

I must emphasize that joy, Mr. Carter, that you be in no doubt of it, for there was another, equally unexpected delivery on Wednesday, namely the letter you had intended to accompany the flowers. Yes, I must tell you that it was separated from them, though I know not how, and the bouquet arrived in the morning, your message in the evening. But all was put right by the good offices of Mrs. Rhys and her son, who were greatly troubled that such a mishap had occurred, and apologized profusely after delivering the letter by their own hands. Pray do not be cross with them, for I believe that yesterday their custom was such as to challenge the steadiest hand and the clearest mind. But all was put right, Mr. Carter; that I can assure you.

I read your letter at once, and then permitted myself the leisure of reading it again, and yet again, that I might do justice to the frankness, the eloquence of your words.

Oh, Mr. Carter, you speak of my tears, and yet you are the one who has suffered so much. I thank God in His mercy for leaving you among us, for if the memory of your ordeal moves Harry and me to weep, the thought of a greater sorrow is more than our hearts should be able to bear.

But I know -- and certainly Harry does, for all that he is young -- that you live with your eyes fixed on higher purposes, and surely your journey to Manchester reflects that. I do hope your efforts prospered, and that you may see all your plans come to fruition. You shall, perhaps, have a good deal of news to impart, now that you are home once more.

And may I confess that I too was troubled that our conversations on Monday and Tuesday ended so abruptly -- yes, for all that such interruptions were entirely necessary due to my duties, and of course our shared obligations to Lady Ludlow. You say that we must resume our talk, and I too hope that we shall, as soon as your responsibilities allow you the leisure of doing so.

As for the other requests you made, I must tell you, Mr. Carter, that no one who knows you can be in any doubt whatsoever of the kindness of your heart, or of your loyalty and discretion, or of the ideals you seek to put into practice. Truly anyone whom you choose to call your friend must be conscious of the honor, and endeavor most wholeheartedly to deserve it. I confide to you that the former I have already accomplished, and the latter is a task I hope to fulfill. Time will reveal whether I succeed at my effort.

I can see those delicately beautiful violets as I write this letter. They were a most welcome sight this morning, and you deserved an equally friendly greeting upon your return from Manchester. Perhaps, though, you arrived after dusk, when no one is about, and this letter must suffice as a welcome. But be assured, Mr. Carter, that its message is no less than heartfelt, as is my wish to see you.

Yours very sincerely,

Laurentia Galindo

Jack had expected the truly wretched headache that awaited him the next morning, a bit of discomfort that would surely put the final blow to the disgrace that followed his precipitate arrival in the Jenkyns household.

What he had not foreseen was that, far from compounding his humiliation by intentional coolness, nearly everyone would be intent on hospitality. Peter Jenkyns was brisk but not unkind, and saw to it Jack was in a fit state to face the world that morning, and even went so far as to offer a clean shirt.

Words failed Jem when he saw Dr. Marshland appear at the breakfast table – after all, what could he say to a man who rode so far, and in such a state, to see a girl on a Wednesday night? – but he too was sympathetic, offering a friendly nod.

As for Martha, far from being contemptuous of their guest, she actually seemed to have taken his side and was most attentive to him at table. And so, despite the presence of that ferocious headache and a decided lack of appetite, Jack forced himself to eat, if only to avoid wounding Martha's feelings.

Miss Matty and Miss Smith were in a subdued state, though polite enough, and when everyone had finished breakfast, and Jem had gone off to work -- but not before bidding farewell to Dr. Marshland with a handshake and a sad smile -- both women excused themselves to accompany Mr. Jenkyns to the sitting room, where he shut the door behind them. Evidently a lively discussion ensued, though Jack and Martha could hear none of it, and at length the Jenkynses and Miss Smith reemerged, with expressions that betrayed nothing.

Jack rose to his feet as Miss Matty approached the table.

"Dr. Marshland," she said, "I understand that time is short, and surely you have duties that await you at the infirmary. But I must beg a private word with you, if you are agreeable."

Agreeable! For all that Miss Matty was nothing if not unassuming -- and evidently she liked Jack; he'd always sensed she did -- he felt a most unaccustomed sense of fear at the thought of hearing what she had to say. It didn't help matters much that she had apparently stood up to her brother to bring about this interview. He'd be a fool to underestimate her; that much was clear.

But Jack craved her good opinion, and his heart must not fail him now.

"Of course, Miss Matty," he said, nodding humbly. He followed her to the sitting room, where she closed the door behind them.

"Dr. Marshland, I believe you are an intelligent, most respectable young man. But I would be speaking an untruth if I said last night's events did not shock me. I trust you understand that they must not be repeated."

"Miss Matilda, they never will. I am truly sorry, and I meant no offense, neither to you nor your brother nor Miss Smith."

"I see that, Dr. Marshland." She paused for a moment. "We shall not speak of it again."

But he knew she wasn't finished with him yet, not by any means, and he could well guess what was coming next.

"Now as to another matter, Dr. Marshland, I must tell you that Mary is very dear to me –"

"As she is to me, Miss Matty. I'd never do anything to –"

"Pray let me finish."

"Forgive me, Miss Matty." No more of that now, Jack. Shut your gob for once.

"Dr. Marshland, I have known Mary all her life. She is the very soul of good sense. And yet she was quite young when her mother died, and I do not think she has ever truly recovered from that loss. If you had known her mother, you might understand why, but perhaps it is enough to say that Mary is very like her.

"I am not Mary's mother, only her friend, and as I said, she is nothing if not a wise young woman. But she is also a guest in my home, and my brother and I would never permit anything or anyone to wound her or compromise her in any fashion. I need not say more."

"No, Miss Matty. I am so very sorry."

"Yes, I see that. Now, if I may speak frankly, I shall tell you that Peter and I give our consent to allow you to speak to Mary privately, or rather we acknowledge that Mary is free to choose to receive you."

Choose. His heart almost stopped.

"And she has given me her assurances that she will."

To his surprise, Mary evidently spared little thought for his highly improper visit the previous night. The previous night! Had he really seen her standing before him in her nightgown? No more of that, now. Think of spectacles. Think of gouty patients. Think of –

"I have had several days to consider what you said to me on Saturday," she began, in a soft if neutral tone. "Indeed I find I can think of little else."

"Mary, that's what I've come about. I want to tell you how sorry I am –"

"Jack, you were right." Mary looked down at her hands. "My independence is but a sham. I rely upon my father's generosity, on an allowance, very much as I did when I was a little girl."

"Mary, it was cruel of me to say it. It was unfair. You --"

"It was neither cruel nor unfair. It was true," she said softly. "And of course I was angrier for your having spoken the truth of my faults."

"Ah, Mary, what faults would those be?" he said softly. "You've no faults that I can see. And you could do anything. The equal of a man, Frank calls you."

"Indeed I have a great many faults. And I do not aspire to be 'the equal of a man,'" said Mary passionately.

"No." Jack smiled at last. "You're far better than that."

Mary couldn't suppress her own smile. "I never thought to hear you echo the words of Miss Deborah Jenkyns."

"The influence of Cranford is felt everywhere, Miss Smith."

Her smile vanished. "Please, Jack, don't tease. I have been very happy here."

"And why shouldn't you have been? There's not a sweeter soul than Miss Matty."

"No, truly there is not." There were the beginnings of tears in Mary's eyes.

Oh, no, not this. "But Miss Matty's well again now, and hasn't her brother come safely home? She'll not stand in your way if you wish to return to Manchester."

"Oh, Jack, I thought you understood why I must stop in Cranford."

"If you came back to Manchester, Mary, we'd never be parted," he said, stepping closer to her.

"If I returned to Manchester, I would have to endure my stepmother's endless fault-finding and heavy-handed attempts at matchmaking, and you would likely face far worse. I can't bear the thought of her subjecting you to her impertinent questions, her tactless manipulations, her excruciating smiles."

Such a creature that stepmother of hers must be! The mere mention of the woman destroyed Mary's even temper so thoroughly that if he'd dared to touch her, she might have come at him with the fireplace poker.

Still, he had to know if there was more she wasn't telling him. "Are you ashamed of me?"

The softness returned to Mary's face, and the warmth. "No, Jack, of course not. But I do not want a Mrs. Clara Smith causing you misery, whether by abuse or flattery, or forever putting you out of humor."

"She'd not do that. I'd not let her."

"Jack, we're already quarreling, and my stepmother isn't even in the room. I have not so much as packed to depart for Manchester, and yet we do not speak as we were used to doing," she said, with her earlier passion. "I shouldn't know a 'Dr. John Marshland' who sent me his 'compliments.'"

His wounded feelings must have been evident on his face, for Mary seemed to regret the words as soon as she uttered them. "But 'Jack Marshland,' who has such a turn of phrase to make me laugh, and the skill to provide me with the right pair of spectacles – I should know him at once," she said gently. "Might we not continue as we have begun?"

"You mean all the letters between here and Manchester, and that I visit you in Cranford of a Sunday?"

"Yes."

For a moment he kept silence. He must choose his next words very carefully.

"Are you saying, Mary, that I've no hope of winning you?"

It was strangely quiet in the house, thought Martha, despite all the commotion of last night and the addition of a guest this morning. She'd not minded the extra place at breakfast, not at all, and hoped Dr. Marshland had been pleased with her cooking. He'd needed a good meal before setting out for Manchester once more, and it couldn't help matters much that Miss Smith was being so cruel to him.

But he'd not gone yet, and it was so quiet in the house. No, perhaps not that quiet after all; she could hear Miss Matty murmuring something, and a man's voice making reply -- Dr. Marshland's. Oh, he was in for it this morning, though Martha must count him lucky for not having to deal with Miss Jenkyns, God rest her soul.

The sound of Miss Matty's voice was clearer now.

"I wish you a safe journey, Dr. Marshland, and that we may see you return soon."

"Thank you, Miss Matty, for – well, for all your kindness. And please give my apologies to your brother and to Mr. and Mrs. Hearne."

"I will do that, Dr. Marshland. Godspeed."

"Goodbye, Miss Matty."

Martha could hear a door close, and peeped out into the hallway. There was Dr. Marshland, looking nowhere near as lively as he was wont to do, making his way towards the front door. Poor fellow!

Martha had not noticed Miss Smith standing sentry at the end of the hallway, near the front door. As Dr. Marshland approached, she gave him a sad smile and silently extended her hand. Hard-hearted girl! thought Martha.

He took her right hand, as though for a formal handshake, and yet Miss Smith suddenly raised her left to touch his face with light fingers.

"Jack, I promise you -- "

At that Dr. Marshland spoke to her, spoke so softly that Martha could not make out the words. Whatever he'd said, Miss Smith was making an effort not to cry, and then he whispered to her again, this time tracing the line of her cheek with his own fingers, lifting her chin delicately. She nodded at him, then kissed him -- once, twice -- as they stood there clasping hands, and he whispered in her ear.

When he next spoke, though, Martha was able to hear his words quite clearly.

"I must go now."

And she watched as Miss Smith, her head bowed, quietly shut the door behind him.

This would surely be, thought Miss Galindo, the sort of day on which Mr. Carter would be called to every corner of the Hanbury estate to see to one matter or another. The trip to Manchester had taken but little time, and yet staff would, predictably, be approaching him from all sides on his return.

That at least was something she had to consider, given the untidy events of the week, and Mr. Carter's general devotion to duty. And so she made her way to Hanbury that morning with the letter tucked safely in her bag, willing to let it serve as greeting and response if his path and hers did not cross that day.

She had taken great care with her words, and yet felt a lingering desire to rewrite everything she had struggled to express. Her hope was that she'd conveyed enough warmth, enough feeling to give Mr. Carter some satisfaction as to how his own message, to say nothing of his gift, had been received.

It only a beginning, though. She hadn't dared to express all she felt, all she wished to say to him.

There were moments when she was convinced that the last of her energy and wit had been expended in that one letter, and she would be struck silent the next time they met. But perhaps that was all to the good, she thought wryly; indeed, up till then, she had often spoken too hastily, too passionately, and even then not always wisely. If the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson found fault with Miss Galindo's lack of appetite for "stimulating" talk, no one would ever accuse her of failure to express an opinion.

And Mr. Carter had heard a good many of her opinions. It was time she listened to a few of his.

Well, then, she had a plan. She would deliver the letter to his office desk, then set to her work and see what happened next. "'And how thou pleasest, God, dispose the day,'" she muttered, echoing King Harry at Agincourt, as she set foot on the grounds of Hanbury Court.

But evidently God had already given particular thought to that day, for when she walked into the office, Mr. Carter was there at his desk.

Oh, there she was. Thank God. He hadn't missed his opportunity.

"Mr. Carter!" she exclaimed, as though he were the last person she expected to see.

He rose to his feet, managed a smile. "Good morning, Miss Galindo," he said warmly, though he felt hollow inside -- he hadn't been able to eat a thing this morning -- and wished he could brace himself against the desk to stop from trembling.

But if he was unsteady on his feet, she was blushing -- oh, Harry was right about that; she did look very pretty -- and somehow at the same time smiling at him. "I trust your journey went well?"

"Oh, tolerably." They were conversing like two merchants on a street corner. What was this?

"I had hoped as much," she said, rather too quickly, and then appeared to wince. Her hands seemed to be fluttering everywhere -- untying her bonnet, undoing the buttons on her coat. But she smiled again at him, showing those dimples. "And things have gone tolerably well here in Cranford. That is, Mr. Carter, I was most pleasantly surprised by what you arranged yesterday. But that too has its own story -- "

She reached into her bag and pulled out a letter of some sort. She held it in her hands and looked down at it, pausing as if overcome with uncertainty.

"Mr. Carter, I wasn't going to trust to fate that I'd meet you today, and so I wrote my thanks, as well as my thoughts, in a letter. See, I did not so much as let the postman have such a message, and perhaps you will understand why when I tell you what happened."

"Something happened, Miss Galindo?"

She was walking towards him, and this time her eyes had that playfulness he'd seen many times, but also a certain shyness.

"Indeed it did, Mr. Carter, but I assure you the story must be very dull indeed, in comparison with your journey to Manchester."

"On the contrary, I should like very much to hear what you have to say. Shall I read this now?"

"If you like." Suddenly she was blushing again. "Or at your leisure. I know you are busy --"

"Not so busy, Miss Galindo, that I would take no interest in your letter." What a horrible way to express that. "I mean I will read every word." Oh, that was no better. "Miss Galindo, thank you."

"Indeed, Mr. Carter, it is you who should be receiving thanks."

"And so I have," he said, patting her letter, and straightaway feeling as though he'd said not one sensible word the entire morning.

"No, truly, sir, you have my thanks," she said softly. "When I awoke yesterday morning I had not the least thought of receiving anything so charming, or anything as beautiful, as the flowers you sent." All at once her face had again turned a deep and lovely shade of red, and her words seemed to be at an end. Another awkward pause was in its infancy, and he'd better produce the right answer, or leave her standing there and blushing until Doomsday, for all that he felt a growing need to question her as to what else she was thinking. He looked at the letter, then immediately felt that was rude, then looked at her and smiled again.

"They say flowers have a language of their own. I do not know much of that, though surely you would. Indeed you have several languages, and I've only English, though sometimes that fails me as well." She smiled warmly, and he at once felt heartened. "We've spent a good deal of time dealing in letters and ledgers and daily reports, and yet I feel I have barely begun to speak to you, and you to me.

"What I wrote in my letter was said in earnest. We need the leisure of an interrupted hour, or perhaps hours, to speak to each other. And I so feared it might prove difficult for you unless I assured you that --"

At that moment a frantic knocking came on the door. It was Hopkins, out of breath and more rattled than usual.

"Good God, Hopkins, whatever is wrong?"

"I'm sorry, sir. Beg your pardon, Miss. Sir, it's Owen -- again. He's had another of his turns. Stubborn old fool, I told him -- "

"Yes, I know, Hopkins. Have you called Dr. Harrison?"

"Why, no, sir, Owen won't -- "

"Damn what Owen will do or not do." The words were out of his mouth before he remembered Miss Galindo was standing there. "Send for Harrison directly," he continued, in a milder tone. "Where is Owen now?"

"We took him home, sir. You know how he is."

"Yes. Perhaps that's just as well. Then tell Harrison to meet me there."

"Yes, sir." As Hopkins vanished out the door, Mr. Carter turned back to Miss Galindo and was very much surprised by the expression in her eyes. He had expected concern, perhaps confusion, but what he actually saw was something closer to patient acceptance. "Miss Galindo, I am sorry --"

"Mr. Carter, you need say nothing at all. We both know you must attend to the matter at hand."

"Yes, I must go to see how this will be resolved, if it ever will." And then yet another troubling thought crossed his mind. "I do apologize for speaking so coarsely just now."

She astonished him yet again; her eyes showed amusement rather than reproach. It was as though she'd caught Harry in a bit of mischief. "I assure you, Mr. Carter, I could take no offense at such a manly and straightforward expression of feeling."

It was cold in the room, and yet his face felt as though it had just been set on fire. "There are times, Miss Galindo, when a man ought not to speak before taking a few moments for thought." Or a few hours.

"True enough, Mr. Carter, and yet I often find much to admire in frankness." The tilt of her head and the lift of her eyebrows gave him to understand she was teasing again.

"Often, but not always, Miss Galindo," he parried back, smiling, thinking of several uncomfortably frank exchanges they'd shared. He slipped her letter inside his breast pocket and noticed that her eyes followed the very motion of his hand. He picked up his coat and added, "I will speak to you later today."

It was entirely possible, thought Miss Galindo, that the month of February would pass by without the pleasure -- or perhaps the challenge; she was no longer sure -- of an uninterrupted conversation with Mr. Carter. Their every encounter had unfolded in places frequented by those who had every right to demand their immediate attention.

The nearest thing to privacy they enjoyed was the Sunday lesson with Harry, and even then they were not truly alone. But she sensed that she and Mr. Carter had their own means of communication during that time, and it hadn't a thing to do with French or German, or even edifying essays.

Now Mr. Carter had gone off again, and in the midst of a conversation they'd found difficult enough even to begin. And yet she found no reason to be fretful or nervous -- well, not except for the delicious anticipation of seeing him again, and soon.

It was strange, this sense of peace that seemed to burn quietly within her, this sudden understanding that all would be well. She could not decide from whence it came. She and Mr. Carter had been speaking of languages, of messages, and perhaps this conviction was one such language. Perhaps it was divine.

All would be well.

Oh, no, he had missed her again.

All the time he'd been talking to Hopkins and Owen, and thereafter to Harrison and Lady Ludlow, he had not been able to stop thinking of her. In fact while he had waited for Harrison to complete his examination and then give his diagnosis Mr. Carter had at last removed the letter from his breast pocket, had opened it, had read every last line, so absorbed in his thoughts and feelings that when Harrison spoke to him he'd started as though he'd been roused from sleeping.

Truth to tell, he'd wanted to shoo Harrison and Owen and the lot of them away, and be alone with his thoughts, but of course he'd risen to his feet and engaged in a lengthy discussion of what they must do for poor old Owen. And then he had gone to her ladyship and produced a nearly identical discussion.

Now the obligations of his work had robbed him yet again of an opportunity to speak to Miss Galindo. Robbed. Why did he think his situation so dire? Surely there was time enough to intercept her before she left the grounds of Hanbury.

It was remarkably mild for February, and she was determined to enjoy her walk home, and the leisure of thinking and dreaming. And so she decided to take a somewhat different route, by way of the charming little bridge at the edge of the lawn. From her childhood she had always loved that bridge and admired the prospect it created. Why had she never made a sketch or painting of that view? Perhaps in the spring, perhaps on a Sunday afternoon she should return here --

All her dreaming vanished as at once she heard a voice calling to her -- a man's voice, and most definitely not out of her dreams, or even her childhood. He was quite real.

Mr. Carter.

Damn it, why did she have to have such a swift and light step? He was having the devil's own time catching up with her, and the ground was damp. And he felt doubly foolish for having to shout after her -- not the way he meant to begin, not at all.

But she'd turned around at the sound of his voice, and was coming back across the bridge to him. This time he blessed the speed of her progress. And she was smiling, too, as though he were precisely the person she wished to see.

"I think, Miss Galindo, fate has played its last trick on us."

"Indeed, Mr. Carter? That seems a rather bold assertion."

"True. Perhaps I wish it so, rather than believe it so. But nevertheless, I wish to issue it a challenge -- fate, that is."

"How so?"

"By not letting you escape this afternoon."

"I am not trying to escape, Mr. Carter. I remain of my own free will."

"Do you?" There seemed deeper meaning in the question, and in his eyes, than the words would have suggested.

"I have been trying, Miss Galindo, for some time to determine just what is your will. I must confess that your letter astonished me -- no, do not worry. That was not a reproach. It was just that you spoke of attempting to deserve my friendship. Deserve! No one has ever said such a thing to me, and I am not persuaded anyone ever should, particularly you. In fact I can be something of a penance, as I am certain you are aware."

She smiled but said nothing.

"And I notice you do not contradict me, Miss Galindo. Indeed. Well, certainly you have had vexation and trials enough during our acquaintance --"

"Do not be so ungenerous, Mr. Carter," she said with mock indignation. "I am sure I provided equal torment, in my turn." She turned her wide brown eyes to him. "Shall I furnish you with a ledger containing my sins?"

"No such thing is needed; I can easily name them myself: pride, obstinacy, subterfuge --"

"You have been keeping a list."

"Only since last April."

At that she grew quiet, and looked out towards the brook. "A great deal has happened since then, Mr. Carter."

"Yes."

"Much to regret."

"Some things, perhaps."

"Mr. Carter, do you not sometimes think --"

He turned to her, saw the sorrow in her face. "Do I not sometimes think -- ?" he prompted gently.

"Do you wish you might have a precious day, a few precious hours back, and thereby change all that came after?"

It was a moment before he could speak. "I have allowed myself those thoughts, or did for a time. I do not part easily with the past, as I think you know."

"Nor do I, perhaps."

"But I also remember that all those days and hours have slipped from my hands, and I only have the results of that time, not the time to live over again. But I misspoke just now, Miss Galindo; I do not have only what resulted from the past but also the opportunity, and the will, to make the best use of today. Really, we have nothing else."

We.

"Mr. Carter --"

"Yes?"

"I should like very much to ask you what you believe to be the best use of today." Miss Galindo cocked her head to one side. "Have you any opinions in that regard?"

"I had not thought, Miss Galindo, that you were overly eager to seek my opinion, but as it happens, yes, I do have some thoughts."

"Thoughts?" She lowered her eyes. "No wishes to speak of?"

"Wishes? Yes, wishes too."

She again tilted her head and looked up at him. "Any that I might assist you in fulfilling?"

"I believe so."

"Mr. Carter, I am not now speaking of the affairs of Hanbury Court."

"I knew that."

"And I confess I did not mean Harry's education either."

"Nor did I."

Sunday proved rainy and cold, a thoroughly miserable day, and Mr. Carter felt heartsick when he realized both Harry and Miss Galindo were coming on foot to the day's lesson. He ought to have planned better, ought to have arranged to bring both of them safely to Hanbury.

It was Harry who arrived first, fairly drenched and shivering, for all that he was used to being out in all weathers.

Mr. Carter, who had again brought his own fuel, and even the makings of tea, made Harry take off his wet jacket and sit by the grate. He threw his own greatcoat over the boy until he should have warmed himself enough.

The sight of Miss Galindo, when she arrived, was nearly as heart-tugging. She too was used to long walks in any season, and yet today had proved especially dreary, with the sort of bone-chilling rain that comes in late winter or early spring. Mr. Carter ushered her to a seat beside Harry, but she was soon up and bustling about, preparing the tea, seeing to his comfort and the boy's.

Mr. Carter had a suspicion, though, that it was not merely an effort to keep warm that had set her in motion about the room. Everything had changed now, and if she could not speak of it, every gesture, every step of hers did.

He watched Harry's eyes follow her and knew at once that even the boy had sensed something, and that from here forward things would be different.

To Harry's astonishment, Miss Galindo did not leave early that day, as she was wont to do, but remained for his entire lesson. Harry could sense the light changing outside, and wondered why she didn't hasten to excuse herself and return home. In previous weeks it had been so important, both to Mr. Carter and to Miss Galindo, that she depart early enough to walk safely home, and by herself.

But there were more surprises awaiting him.

"Well, Harry," said Mr. Carter, shutting up a book, "I think it is time I got you home." Harry involuntarily looked to Miss Galindo.

"Harry, don't worry. With all this rain, I'll be sure to see Miss Galindo safely home as well. But you and I will go now, will go first in the gig, and we can talk along the way."

Miss Galindo smiled to herself. At the age of eleven, Harry would already have serious discussions, private discussions, about his future, about his education. Maybe it was just as well he hadn't been sent away to school. In fact, it was better this way. He'd learn to be a man.

And surely a very good man.

"Harry seemed a bit dispirited," said Mr. Carter on returning. Miss Galindo smiled at the matter-of-fact way he was thinking aloud before her. He was already casually broaching subjects for her opinion, as though they had enjoyed such intimacy for a long while.

"Harry, Mr. Carter, is a clever boy. He knows that something has changed, and perhaps that makes him uneasy." She smiled at him. "I think next Sunday you ought to give him his lessons without my assistance."

"But he does so well under your tutelage, and he's fond of you."

"He was fond of you first, Mr. Carter," she said playfully. "And he will be glad of your attention and company."

"And you?"

"I do not need instruction."

He laughed. "I was thinking of attention, actually, and company." He realized suddenly that she had remained in constant motion since he'd returned. Indeed she never sat down for a moment but was bustling about, putting away the tea things, collecting books, even arranging her desk. He could guess what was wrong and decided to provide her a graceful exit.

"I'd best see you home now."

It was raining again – so raw, so cold! It would be difficult even to step outside again. She'd have gladly stopped right where she was, and wanted to tell him as much.

Still, she donned coat, bonnet, and gloves, and picked up her bag. "It is almost painful to leave the fireside," she said, walking up to Mr. Carter's desk, where he stood waiting for her.

"But it is only temporary. You'll be safe and warm, soon enough." He was about to lead her outside, but before either realized what the other was doing he had simply taken her in his arms, and she was pressing closely against him, burying her face in his coat, wrapping her arms about him.

"Edward –"

Was she crying? She was holding tightly to him as though she wanted proof that he was alive, that he was there.

At length she tilted her face upwards, and he untied her bonnet, lifted it off, and laid it gently on the desk, then pulled off his own hat and tossed it beside the bonnet.

She was smiling, amused at the gesture and the irony of what stood in their way. "Hats cause such trouble."

But there was no time to laugh. His right hand slid to the nape of her neck, and his fingers into her hair, as he bent his head down to hers.

To be continued…