I believe it was in Episode 1 of the BBC's Cranford that Jem Hearne observed you could get something "done quick or get it done proper." He would know.

But I leave you to judge whether I've gotten this chapter done proper, because it certainly wasn't done quick. And Chapter 23 is right behind it.

Chapter 22: Confessions

"I believe, Edward, that this is as much seclusion as we have ever enjoyed."

"Strange, is it not, when we have so often been alone together! But you speak truth; we have been always where someone might at once approach us with one demand or another. Even the other day on the bridge we might have been interrupted, though thankfully we were not." He added softly, "Do you think it wrong that we are alone now?"

She smiled up at him. "I could begin a discussion of propriety, or what was done in my parents' day, or Lady Ludlow's," said Miss Galindo. "But none of that is necessary. Edward, I -- may I make a confession?"

"Of course."

"I feel remarkably safe and uncommonly contented just now, standing here with you." She again pressed her head into his shoulder and wrapped her arms about him. "And it is not only that I know you care for my reputation," she added, with a little laugh.

"Hm. I have gone to a great deal of trouble about your reputation!"

"Yes, you have, and so has Lady Ludlow. I have been most incautious, and you assumed responsibility." She looked up at him again, then suddenly rose up on tiptoe to kiss his chin. "And I remain quite reckless, as you see, boldly kissing Lady Ludlow's estate manager, and in his office!"

"And on his chin, which strikes him as a little odd," said Mr. Carter.

"Not odd at all, when I am so fond of your chin," she said, stroking the cleft in it with her forefinger. "It has always proved such a distracting feature, as have your eyes -- indeed I must not slight your eyes; I am even fonder of them -- whenever you were holding forth on one subject or another, and I was forced to remain composed, silent, and distant."

"Silent? Not always," he murmured, with an amused smile.

"Fair enough."

"Composed? Usually," he said, stroking her face, then tilting her chin upwards.

"And distant?"

"No longer."

"It is so wonderfully peaceful here, with no sound but the rain beating against the windows, and the last crackling of the fire, and of course your voice, Edward."

"And yours."

"And mine. I hope you do not object to my speaking so much."

"Laurie, we have had precious little time to speak to each other, and I have no intention --"

"What did you just call me?"

"'Laurie,'" he said shyly. "I'd imagined calling you so --"

"You cannot have known that was my sister's name for me."

"Why, no."

"And even my parents used it sometimes. As for my brothers," she added with a smile, "it was one of the least objectionable things they called me. You are fortunate, Edward, to have a good, plain name, one that does not lend itself to odd variations."

"It is a plain sort of name. " He paused, then added quietly, "And I will not call you 'Laurie' if it has sad associations."

"You may call me whatever you desire, even 'Miss Galindo,' for it sounds more musical from your lips."

"I had much rather call you 'Mrs. Carter.'"

"That too is formal, but I -- oh, Edward, do you --"

"I am sorry. I wanted to say that more tenderly, to ask you directly."

She studied the buttons on his greatcoat. "Does that mean the name is not mine to keep?" she said, smiling to herself.

"You have my word it is yours, on one condition."

"And that is?"

"That we have the banns read immediately, that we make no delay. I should like things settled. Dear God, I am beginning to sound like Captain Brown! What I mean is that I should like us to marry soon. But perhaps it is wrong for me to seek to extract such a promise from you."

"Edward, today, and at this moment, you might extract as many promises from me as you like."

"I am serious. Laurie, I would like for us to marry this spring."

"You mean that we ought to make good use of our time, as you said the other day."

"Yes."

"And of course we may meet without drawing comment," she added, again studying the buttons on his coat.

"Of course we may, but that is not why I wish for us to marry so soon. And I will wait, if you wish."

"It is not my wish that you wait," she said firmly, looking up at him with a touch of a smile.

"Then you agree to have the banns published immediately?"

"Yes, Edward, and to become your wife in the spring. Shall we shake hands on it?" she said, offering her hand and cocking her head to one side.

"I much prefer another custom."

"You do? Then that shall be as you wish as well."

"As I wish?"

"Yes. I promise."

"You promise, even though you do not know what I am asking?"

"I can guess it well enough. Besides, at this moment I feel equal to any demands you might make of me."

"'Demands'? Am I really so severe?"

She smiled. "Not in this moment."

"Not in this moment. Hm. Then I promise I won't be severe with you, even if I do prove demanding."

And with that Lady Ludlow's estate manager collected another kiss.

"I once thought to remind Harry that this was my office, not my home," said Mr. Carter, looking into the last embers of the fire.

"I can well imagine both your tone and expression in that moment," said Miss Galindo, watching his face, his eyes in the firelight.

"Indeed you can. I suspect I succeeded in frightening the boy, though that was not my intent."

"And Harry has since become quite at home here, as have I, and you should not succeed in frightening either of us away."

"Nor would I ever seek to." He turned to her and smiled. "But this is still a rather austere place for us to meet, and it is my office, after all."

"There is nowhere more fitting, given the course of our acquaintance. It is a pity, though, that we lack a few of the comforts of a sitting room."

"I still have one good knee, Laurie, if you'd care to join me in this chair."

"I do not think that chair was constructed to hold two people," she said with a little smile. But she took his hand and for a moment they sat side by side, clasping hands and gazing into the fire.

Then he turned to look at her. "Do you mind that I am maimed, I am scarred?" he said quietly.

"Edward." She rose from her chair and knelt before him. "Edward, I will always be grieved at what happened."

"Not always grieved. Please say you will not always be grieved."

"But I must love you the more for it." She took his hands in hers and kissed them. "When I know that I almost lost you. Even now, sometimes I --"

"Sometimes you -- ?"

"Edward, I cannot tell you."

He leaned forward and whispered, "You may tell me anything."

"Sometimes I dream that you did not survive." She laid her head on his knee, and for a moment they both kept silent, as he stroked her hair.

"I dream too, Laurie. I dream of walking great distances, and sometimes I dream that you and I are together."

"Do you?" She raised her head to look at him.

"And when I was away -- in London, in Manchester -- I dreamed of you. Once I even dreamed that you were at the National Gallery with your sketchbook in hand."

"That is intriguing. Was I at least kind to you in your dream?" she said, rising to her feet and drawing her chair closer to his.

"You were too intent on your work to be kind! But it was as though you were with me then, at least for a time."

"My thoughts followed you to London, if not my self."

"I remember your eyes, and the touch of your hand, on on the morning we bade goodbye to each other." He took her hand once again. "It was very much as though several pairs of eyes were following my progress on the journey -- yours, Harry's, Lady Ludlow's.

"And for all that there was to engage me in London, I thought constantly of everyone I'd left behind. But I had little notion of what I'd say to you all when I came home again."

"You needn't have worried on that count. Since your return, you have had a good deal to say to all of us."

"Humph. And sometimes it was awkward or even unpleasant, particularly for you, as I am sure you will never fail to remind me."

"That too is something you must no longer worry about, Edward. In the last months I have often heard you speak with feeling, with warmth, even at times with humor, but always justly, and especially when the subject was awkward or unpleasant."

"Thank you, but I do not think anyone will ever mistake me for a great orator, or a diplomat."

"That I cannot tell you, but I have of late reached the conclusion that your lips are most persuasive, even when you do not use them to speak. Perhaps especially then."

She was putting on her coat once more when she noticed his expression.

"What are you smiling at, Edward?"

"Your hair is coming undone," he said.

"That is entirely your doing! Still, since you have no looking-glass within this office, I must content myself with being disheveled until tomorrow morning."

"I've never seen much use for a looking-glass here, and besides, no one need comment on your appearance."

"But for you."

"But for me, and it pleases me to see you as you are now."

"You prefer me disheveled?"

"I prefer you, and it pleases me to think of how you became disheveled."

"Yes, that is a pleasant thought." She picked up her bonnet from his desk and paused. "Edward --"

"Yes?"

"Before we return to town, might we not take a suitable leave of each other? After all, once we are on my doorstep, we cannot do so properly."

"Or improperly, for that matter," he said, slipping his hands about her waist.

"You must be my looking-glass now, Edward. Do I look presentable?" In bonnet and coat she stood before him.

"You look very well indeed."

"And my appearance will excite no comment?"

"No, not even from the most incorrigible of gossips."

"Thank you. It must do for this evening. Still, tomorrow I shall take even greater care, for then I must speak to Lady Ludlow."

"And why must you speak to Lady Ludlow?" he said, astonishment in his eyes.

"Edward, I think it best that I inform her of our engagement straightaway, even before we publish the banns."

"I thought we would speak to her together, or perhaps I would first."

"Edward, with your leave, I'd like very much to tell her our news. She has known me all my life, and I feel it only right that I go to her beforehand."

"Do you feel you must justify accepting me?" There was no smile now, no teasing, and his eyes were grave.

"Oh, Edward." She went to him and placed her hands on his chest. "I have the fondest admiration for you -- never doubt it -- and will be proud when everyone knows of our engagement." She lowered her voice to a murmur. "But I think you must acknowledge that my long acquaintance with Lady Ludlow demands that I speak to her in a more intimate fashion. Think of my duty towards her, and of her feelings, and pray do not take offense, not now, when we have every reason to be happy."

"It is only that I feel as though I were concealing something by not speaking to her at once."

"Edward, you are concealing nothing by allowing me to speak to her first," she said, caressing his face.

"I merely thought that we would approach her together, or even that I would seek her blessing by myself."

"But you will accept my going to her alone?"

"Yes, if you think it best."

"Oh, yes, Edward. I do think it best."

"Oh, my dear. My dear Laurentia." Lady Ludlow smiled. "I do wish you joy."

"Thank you, my lady. I know it will mean a great deal to Edward to have your blessing."

"Of course you both have my blessing. Laurentia, I am so pleased."

"That means a great deal to me as well, for I know that what I have done has not always pleased you."

"In what way, Laurentia?" said Lady Ludlow, with a lift of her brows. "Do you mean the matter regarding Anthony Beckett?"

"By no means, madam. I refer to a much more delicate concern."

"And that is?"

"I feared you might harbor regrets because I resisted your advice once -- indeed, more than once."

"Laurentia," said Lady Ludlow in measured tones, "do you mean concerning marriage?"

"Yes."

"Then pray set your mind at rest. Septimus made you no offer, and I should not have liked to have forced his hand, or yours."

"But I did worry that you might have regarded my resistance as ingratitude."

"Nonsense. Since then I have never had anything but duty and kindness from you. Indeed it is you who have more cause to regret your association with me, and perhaps even with Septimus, than the reverse."

"Lady Ludlow, I owe you my very living. How could I feel anything but the warmest gratitude towards you? And as for Septimus, he was once my playfellow, and to think of him as he was in childhood brings to mind only the happiest of thoughts."

"The happiest of thoughts," repeated Lady Ludlow, her expression at once bleak, troubled. She turned slowly and walked towards the window to gaze out across the lawn.

Miss Galindo followed her. "Forgive me, Lady Ludlow. I did not mean to distress you, now that Septimus is abroad and you --"

"Laurentia, you have said nothing wrong. And it is perhaps best that you confine your memories of Septimus to those of childhood, of happier times."

"My lady, I do think fondly of our shared memories, and yet I do not find my present happiness wanting!"

Lady Ludlow turned to her and smiled. "Of course. You are a bride, and have every reason to be happy."

"And I wish that you might share in our joy."

"I do, Laurentia, most wholeheartedly," she said, nodding her head gravely.

"I am sorry, Lady Ludlow. I had so insisted to Mr. Carter that it was my duty that I speak to you first, and now I fear I have upset you instead. Pray do not be troubled. Surely Septimus's health will improve in time and he --"

"Do not speak to me of Septimus's health," said Lady Ludlow forcefully. She continued, more gently, "Where that is concerned, I have done my best, and must leave the rest to God."

"Forgive me, my lady. I meant no reproach."

"Of course not, Laurentia, and you must not beg my pardon. Indeed it would be more fitting if I begged yours."

"My pardon? I do not understand."

"Laurentia," began Lady Ludlow, "you have achieved your present happiness at a very dear cost, and despite my own folly."

Miss Galindo's lips parted, as if she wished to speak, and her eye were filled with confusion, but she uttered not a word as Lady Ludlow proceeded.

"You know, of course, about the mortgage and the part you were forced to play in raising it. What you perhaps do not know is that Mr. Carter was at the railway site on the day of the explosion to discuss with Captain Brown a means of providing more income for Hanbury Court -- a fruitless exercise for them both, and one for which Mr. Carter paid with months of suffering, and very nearly with his life.

"Laurentia, that was my doing. He'd have had no cause to be there, but for the mortgage, but for my indulgence of Septimus's requests. Oh, my dear, I'd have made you a widow before you were a bride!

"I did not foresee any of this, of course. I thought my duty was to Septimus. But the consequences of what I have done are ever before my eyes. May God forgive me, Laurentia, for I do not think you shall ever have cause to do so."

To be continued...