All characters depicted here, with one exception, are based on the 2007 BBC series Cranford, adapted from Cranford, Mr. Harrison's Confessions, and My Lady Ludlow by Elizabeth Gaskell.
Miss Pole is quoting the Gospel of Luke, Chapter 12, verse 2; Mr. Carter, the poet Andrew Marvell ("To His Coy Mistress").
And of course I got the chapter title from Yeats.
Chapter 23: Now All the Truth Is Out
"It seems, Mrs. Jamieson, that we have at last learned a great secret," said Miss Pole, dipping her chin with an emphatic nod. "'For there is nothing covered, that shall not be revealed, neither hid, that shall not be known,' as the Holy Scripture has it."
"Apparently so, though I confess I still find the report so incredible as to cause me doubt," replied the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson, with the strained expression of a woman suffering a particularly trying headache.
"Oh, there's no reason to doubt," said Mrs. Forrester. "Have we not heard it spoken aloud in church of a Sunday?"
"Indeed we have," said Mrs. Jamieson, shifting uncomfortably on her chair. At the moment when the banns were read for the first time for Edward Carter and that milliner, she had gasped audibly, drawing the attention of more than a dozen pairs of eyes as one parishioner after another turned to look. She had forced herself to cough and swiftly retrieved a handkerchief, the better to half-conceal her face.
"However, Mrs. Forrester, I am not persuaded that is no impediment to their marriage."
"Mrs. Jamieson! Surely you cannot mean to stand up before the congregation and set yourself against the union," said Miss Pole, her mouth curving downwards in horror.
"I should never do any such thing," sniffed Mrs. Jamieson. "Though it does astonish one to contemplate Mr. Carter's forgiving nature, in light of what transpired."
"And what should he have to forgive Mrs. Jamieson? I was given to understand there was never any attachment between Miss Galindo and Mr. Beckett," said Mrs. Forrester. "She was merely schooling him in how to cast up accounts and suchlike."
"And one knows Mr. Carter for an enthusiastic advocate of education for the lower classes," said Miss Pole. "Perhaps he even sought Miss Galindo's assistance.
"Besides, he has been most solicitous of her honor," she added, conveniently failing to mention that the gentleman had also taken it upon himself to reprove both herself and Mrs. Forrester after the gossip about Miss Galindo had begun circulating.
"That is true, Miss Pole. Mr. Carter will surely prove a most attentive husband," added Mrs. Forrester. "And they'll look so handsome together -- she so graceful, and he such a fine figure of a man. Why, he must stand full six feet."
"I declare I could never abide to wed a tall gentleman," said Miss Pole, suddenly, frowning. "It should be very much as though a great tree were ever looming over me, and my neck should grow stiff from the unaccustomed posture of looking skywards."
"Upon my word, Miss Pole, you are not likely to have much choice in what sort of gentleman you wed, given that there are so few about, tall or otherwise," cackled Mrs. Forrester.
Miss Pole looked at her friend in dismay. "Did you not say, Mrs. Forrester, that a lady ought not to abandon hope?"
"Indeed I did, and perhaps Miss Galindo is the proof of that. Surely we never thought to see her led to the altar, for all that she is a baronet's daughter."
"Baronet's daughter!" snorted Mrs. Jamieson. "You make entirely too much of that, Mrs. Forrester. If anything, Miss Galindo has sorely needed a lesson in humility. It doesn't do to give oneself airs while trying to sell bonnets of exorbitantly priced Italian straw."
"Mrs. Jamieson, that is really too unkind," said Mrs. Forrester. "Miss Galindo has only done what any of us would do, if made to earn our bread, and she's always been so pleasant about it as well. Surely you don't begrudge her a measure of happiness as she leaves her little shop behind."
"Indeed that is a most intriguing thought, Mrs. Forrester," said Miss Pole. "Miss Galindo has ever been accustomed to being among bonnets and caps, and among ladies as well, and here is an end to that. Now Mr. Carter will carry her off to his own home, and she must bend her will to his." She gave deep sigh.
"There is no need to put on tragic airs, Miss Pole," said Mrs. Jamieson. "I am quite certain Miss Galindo is conscious of her good fortune in ensnaring Mr. Carter."
At that Mrs. Forrester chuckled. "If that's how you would phrase it, Mrs. Jamieson, then you must own that Mr. Carter wanted to be caught."
"Indeed he has a tremendous will, like many of his sex," observed Miss Pole. "I do not think any woman, save perhaps Lady Ludlow, could make him do what he would not.
"But for all that, Mrs. Jamieson, I do not think Miss Galindo unfortunate. Mr. Carter may be a man, and enamored of some curious notions to the bargain, but his manners are not nearly as rough as many another's. And in time, perhaps she may temper his masculine ways."
Liverpool
My dear Carter,
I confess myself delighted by the news that you imparted in your most recent letter. It pleases me greatly to learn that Miss Galindo has accepted your proposal, and will soon be your partner through life. It is better still that neither of you thought to countenance unwise delays, but asked that the banns be read immediately, that you may marry this spring.
Of course I wish both of you every happiness, and do hope you will be so kind as to impart that message to your intended bride, until such time as we all should meet again.
I expect to be traveling for a few more days, for I have several matters still to resolve, but surely I will return home by early next week.
In the meantime, accept the good wishes of your faithful friend
H. Brown
"Shall we walk, Mary? The roads are not completely dry yet, but I think we may have an easy time of it today."
"I had thought to suggest a walk, but perhaps the exertion would prove too much for you now," said Mary quietly.
Sophy Harrison gave her friend an impish smile. "And why should a walk prove too demanding?"
Mary's only reply was a meaningful look.
At that Sophy laughed. "Do not worry, Mary! I am not with child, at least not yet. Besides, I would not have suggested a walk if I had not energy enough to enjoy it."
"I am sorry, Sophy. I do not know whether I am to guess at your condition or pretend no such questions arise in my mind."
"Mary, you must pretend nothing and apologize for nothing. And I would confide in you, truly I would, if I had any news to report," said Mrs. Harrison, tying on her bonnet.
"I am sorry, Sophy," said Miss Smith again, looking down.
"Mary, there is no need for you to be sorry," said Sophy gently. "Besides, I've not been wed long," she added, smiling.
"Indeed you have not."
"And it is not every woman who holds a baby upon her knee before she's been married a twelvemonth."
"I confess I thought my stepmother, with her quick succession of confinements, was the very model for womankind in that regard!" said Mary, and with that both she and Sophy had to laugh.
"I understand more of such things now that I'm married, and to a physician, at that!" said Sophy, when she could speak again. "Of course, when we were first wed, Frank was too considerate to smile openly about my ignorance of matters of that sort. I confess, though, Mary, that in regard to my understanding of what takes place between husband and wife, I feel quite transformed."
Mary smiled shyly. "And you seem quite contented."
"I am, Mary. I am contented as well."
"Sophy, would you think it strange if I said that I sometimes feel a good deal younger than yourself, for all that I am the elder?"
Mrs. Harrison smiled again. "Of course I would, since you know a great deal more of the world than I do." By now they had stepped outside and were beneath a dull if unthreatening sky.
"More of the world! Frank must take you to Manchester, then, and you shall know quite as much of the world as I do. But I think you understand me. You are a wife, the mistress of a household, and perhaps a mother soon --"
"But not at present," said Sophy, with another smile.
"But not at present," said Mary. "And for all that, Sophy, I admit I feel a certain awkwardness, now that you are wed. I no longer know where confidences end and discretion begins!"
"And when were you anything other than discreet?"
"At home in Manchester, often!" said Mary.
"And is that your own opinion, or another's?" And at that Mary glanced back at Sophy and both of them laughed.
"You can surely guess whose opinion it was, Sophy. There are times when I believe my stepmother is a rather large looking-glass that reflects all my faults back to me."
"Maybe that is the wrong conceit. Perhaps you merely observe her, and she you, rather than her providing a true depiction of your character."
"You mean we make a study of each other, as visitors do the animals in a zoological garden?"
"Yes, but which of you is in a cage?"
At that both women laughed again and yet within a moment Mary was quiet again, and grave.
"Sophy, perhaps you have hit upon the right comparison. For all that Mama lives in a well-appointed if chaotic house with Papa and the little ones, and I live quietly with Miss Matty and Mr. Jenkyns, we are both confined, though of course she in more than one sense." They exchanged another wicked smile, and walked on, Sophy linking her arm in Mary's.
"And is that all you see?"
"What do you mean?"
"That perhaps you do not acknowledge all of your choices."
At that Mary smiled. "I think, Sophy, that since your marriage you have become quite the philosopher. What choices have I but returning to my father's house or remaining where I am?"
"There are others."
Mary made no response, and the two women walked on in silence for a moment.
"Mary, forgive me. I would say nothing if I thought you'd be the happier for it, but of course I do not believe that. You need not say a word, but only know that it grieves me to see you troubled."
"Are you of a decided opinion on what I must do?"
"Oh, Mary, let me not speak of opinions. Let me only say that you may trust me, as a friend, with any confidences, or no confidences at all, if that is what you wish."
"Indeed, I trust you with very nearly all my secrets, Sophy, and do not disdain your opinions. Quite the contrary."
A few moments passed before Mary spoke again.
"Sophy, do you truly think it best that I marry, as you have done, and accept the lot of a physician's wife?"
"You do make it sound such a sacrifice!"
"Forgive me. That must seem ungenerous, in light of your happiness."
"There is a good deal more to marriage, Mary, than happiness. To tell truth, there are times when I think Frank is more a boy than a man, and that I am the more mature. But of course that is not so; indeed he is a few years my senior, has seen more of the world, and of course knows all manner of things I do not. What I mean, though, is that he is prone to his tempers and faults and little demands, like any boy or man, and at times I must be the one to exercise patience, to speak in carefully measured words -- yes, even with Frank, kind though he is."
"And if even Frank proves imperfect, then surely womankind must despair!" said Miss Smith with a smile.
"Mary!" said Mrs. Harrison, in mock reproof. "But I suspect Frank is as good a man as I shall ever know, even if he is such a boy at times."
"And Jack remains very much a boy, and at most times."
"Perhaps that is why he is so fond of children," said Sophy. "He is so kind to Helen and Lizzie, and of course they are quite besotted with him. I think often of how he and Walter would have gotten into all manner of scrapes, had they but known each other."
Mary turned to look at Sophy, who was smiling through tears. "Oh, Sophy --"
"Do not worry, Mary. I can speak of Walter now, and remember the things that brought him delight, and find comfort in that. He would have liked Jack, and they'd have amused each other very much, and that is a happy thought."
"Yes, Jack is every bit as mischievous as Walter was, indeed more so. I confess there are times I do not understand Frank's patience with him."
"Mary, they are both physicians, and for all that they are but two grown boys, they do have a very sincere respect for each other, and the fellow feeling born of their shared training at Guy's. Frank explained it to me, and I suspect is it not unlike the comradeship enjoyed by soldiers. And they are good men of science as well, and possess the curiosity, and even the discipline, for such endeavors."
"I do not doubt that. I confess myself quite inadequate to discuss matters that could engage and amuse Jack by the hour."
"But you have such a fine mind, Mary, and great poise in company, and surely Jack must respect that. Besides, you need not embark on a study of medicine to find subjects enough for conversation. Indeed I think a man requires some respite from his profession."
"I do not think anyone will ever accuse Jack of failing to seek a respite from his work! There is little he enjoys so much as pleasant company, and everyone is quite delighted with him -- Mr. Jenkyns, Miss Matty, Jem and Martha Hearne -- and evidently he with them.
"No, I do not think it is in Jack's nature to grieve for thirty years in solitude, until such time as he might bring me primroses and poetry."
"Mary," said Sophy, with an exasperated laugh, "whatever are you speaking of?" But when she turned to Mary, she found the beginnings of tears in her friend's eyes. "Mary?" she said again, more tenderly.
"Sophy, I do not think he will be content to wait for me."
"Nonsense. I see proof enough that his regard for you is sincere."
"That is indeed more than I can see."
"Mary, he will work to make a home for you. He will strive to deserve you."
"Sophy, no man ought to feel he must 'deserve' me."
"You are too harsh with yourself."
"That I do not believe. But I was harsh with Jack."
"I had thought, Mary, that you had given him proof enough of your regard, and even of your tenderness."
"I think he desired something more," said Mary, very softly.
"You were fair enough, and honest as well. Besides," added Mrs. Harrison, with a smile of satisfaction, "it would do Jack no harm to learn something of patience."
"And what must I learn, Sophy?" asked Miss Smith.
Mrs. Harrison stopped in mid-stride and turned to her friend. "Oh, Mary, I would not think to advise you!"
"Please, Sophy."
"Well, then," she said gently, "perhaps you might endeavor to master your fears, and overcome any obstacle that stands between you and Jack."
Mary smiled grimly. "I am not persuaded that I am equal to either task! You and Frank have been able to forgive much, and endure even more, but perhaps Jack and I have not those abilities."
"You and Jack? Why, Mary, two such strong, stubborn hearts must prove equal to anything!"
"Mr. Carter," said Harry Gregson, looking up from his writing lesson.
"Yes, Harry?" said Mr. Carter, pausing in his own work.
"Miss Galindo must like you very well now."
"Like me! I suppose she must, if she's going to wed me. Why ever did you think of that?"
Harry grinned. "I remember how cross you were with her."
"Yes. Well, I'm not cross with her at present, nor, I dare say, is she cross with me," he said with a little smile.
"She was cross with you once. But I don't believe she was ever frightened of you, sir," added Harry solemnly.
Mr. Carter gave him a look somewhere between exasperation and indulgent good humor. "No, she is not frightened of me, and that's as it should be. Wives ought to respect their husbands, Harry, not fear them."
The boy took that in, then made another observation. "I don't believe she knew how kind you were."
At that Mr. Carter actually chuckled. "She finds me kind enough now, Harry. It would be a bad thing indeed if she did not!
"Now mind you wish her joy, next time you see her, for that's what you say to a lady who is going to be married."
"Yes, sir. I'm very glad Miss Galindo said she is going to wed you."
"Not half so glad as I am, Harry, but thank you."
"Sir, I wanted to ask you --"
"Yes, Harry?"
"Will Miss Galindo still give me lessons now?"
"Before the wedding? Why, yes, as she is able. But afterward, we shall have to see. We should have a proper school soon in Cranford, if all goes to plan, and you must have your lessons there."
"But Dada doesn't want me to go to school, or to give up my place at Hanbury."
"Well, Harry, those are another two matters we must resolve. But know this: You will always have Miss Galindo -- or Mrs. Carter, once we're wed -- and myself as your friends, whatever becomes of you.
"And we will see to it that all goes well for you, Harry, as much as it is in our power to do so. I promise you that."
"Edward, I must speak to you about a rather important matter, and yet I almost fear to begin."
"My love, you need have no fear," said Mr. Carter, smiling at Miss Galindo from his place at the other side of the fireplace. "And of course you may tell me anything."
"It is only that I should not like to begin our engagement with any unnecessary secrets between us, and quite possibly I have already blundered in that regard."
At that Mr. Carter's expression turned to the one he'd so often worn at Hanbury -- his face solemn but composed, his eyes icy blue and inscrutable -- though this time the exchange was taking place in Miss Galindo's sitting room.
But when he spoke again, his voice was gentle. "Go on."
"You know I was most insistent that I alone must reveal the news of our engagement to Lady Ludlow, given our long acquaintance, and you objected, saying you ought to go to her first, or perhaps appear in my company. At the time I thought myself in the right by making the suggestion, but what happened as a result of that interview has made me reconsider what I did.
"Oh, Edward, for all that Lady Ludlow expressed approval, and indeed pleasure, at our announcement, we could not avoid reference to certain unpleasant, even deeply distressing subjects, which we both would fain have avoided."
"And what subjects were those?" he said in measured tones.
Miss Galindo rose from her chair opposite him and bent to tend the fire. With her eyes on the flames, she began again.
"What I have never told you is that many years ago Lady Ludlow briefly entertained the notion of my marrying Septimus. Oh, do not worry, Edward; nothing would ever have come of such a plan. In the first place, Septimus had no wish to marry me, or indeed anyone else, and there was never any engagement.
"And it must be said that I was never an ideal bride, either in terms of rank or wealth. I believe it was only Lady Ludlow's regard for my parents, and consideration of my mother's and my reduced circumstances, that allowed her even to contemplate such a scheme.
"But I am sorry I did not tell you the whole of our history, that you might better understand any awkwardness, or perhaps even concealed resentment."
"And what were your own feelings on the matter?"
"Oh, Edward, that you can even ask that!" she said, turning to look into his eyes and finding a troubled expression there.
"I am sorry; that was quite wrong of me," he began.
"No, you were not wrong to ask. I spoke hastily. Of course you must be curious as to what I made of such a plan."
She drew a chair up next to Mr. Carter's and seated herself by his side. "Edward, I had known Septimus since childhood, indeed knew him nearly as well as my own brothers, and of course was acquainted with his temperament and tastes. We played happily enough together as children, but as we grew older I did not come to admire him or even become particularly fond of him. I regret having to speak so frankly."
"Forgive me. I did not mean to demand reassurances," said Mr. Carter, looking deeply ashamed. Miss Galindo, at his side, reached for his hand and clasped it before she began to speak again.
"When I was a young girl, my mother often spoke to me of marriage," she said quietly. "It was evident she foresaw no other fate for me but to wed, once I was of age," she added, with a rueful smile.
"'Laurentia,' she would say, 'when you come to marry, I don't want to hear about his handsome face or what a dashing figure he cuts in such-and-such a uniform. And do not tell me you are so in love you will die. You mind you choose a man you can respect, and love will come afterwards.'
"My mother, Edward, was not a cold-hearted woman, only very practical. She worried what would become of me, and thought that if she could marry me off to a fine, stable, kind-hearted man, then she could keep me out of trouble!" And at that Miss Galindo smiled for the first time, and Mr. Carter had to smile in response.
Her smile faded. "It cut my mother to the heart to see what became of me, indeed what became of our family."
"But you behaved honorably," said Mr. Carter, kissing her hand.
"Oh, I do not know that," said Miss Galindo, making a sound between a sob and a chuckle. "I mean that she wanted me to establish a home, to have a husband and children, and of course none of that came to pass. She was indeed right that one must not marry without respect, though I parted company with her, of course, on the notion that love need not appear until after the wedding itself.
"She had kind intentions, Edward, very kind intentions, and of course was greatly disappointed of all her expectations.
"And I must own that Lady Ludlow was merely trying to help her, to help me, when she gently encouraged a match with Septimus. But of course you know how that ended as well."
For a moment they sat together, looking into the fire, much as they had done at Mr. Carter's office.
Miss Galindo broke the silence. "Edward, there is more I must tell you of my discussion with Lady Ludlow. I cannot recall how it happened, only that our conversation took a melancholy turn, for all that I was imparting news of joy, but my lady felt she must confess to me the reason you were at the railway site on the -- in June, when you were so badly injured."
"Laurentia," began Mr. Carter.
Miss Galindo, startled by the use of her full Christian name, turned her eyes from the fire to him. Softly, sorrowfully, she continued.
"Edward, she blames herself most severely, and even Septimus, to some degree, that you were there, that you were in such terrible danger. I do not believe her conscience has been at rest since that time."
"I have discussed it with my lady," said Mr. Carter quietly.
"Why did you not tell me?" she asked earnestly, caressing his scarred face.
"It would have served no purpose, and moreover I do not believe my lady bears responsibility for my presence at the site that day, or what happened as a result. I might as well blame myself, or Captain Brown."
"Or me."
"No!"
"Edward, it is true. Lady Ludlow could not have raised the mortgage without my assistance."
"You were blameless! What you did you did out of a desire to serve my lady."
"And the same is true of you. Oh, Edward, surely she knows your heart, and therefore her distress must be the greater."
"But her motives, Laurentia, were not to harm me, but to deny her son nothing he desired. In doing the latter she could not have foreseen the consequences. She could not!"
"Yes, that is indeed the heart of the matter," said Miss Galindo softly. "We know not what consequences our actions will bring, and Lady Ludlow must be made to understand how true that is."
"No! She has indeed suffered enough. Laurentia, I will not --"
"Edward, you misunderstand me. I was not speaking of what transpired on that day at the railway site. I was thinking of what happened earlier last spring. I meant the day Lady Ludlow escorted me into your office and made me your clerk, whether you would or no.
"Edward, can you possibly believe that we would have known each other as well if Lady Ludlow had not tried to thwart your plans for Harry? Can you imagine that we'd be sitting here together if she had not brought me into the scheme?"
He smiled. "You mean we should have forever exchanged half-smiles and nods in hallways and courtyards?"
"Perhaps not even that, Edward," said Miss Galindo, with a lift of her eyebrows. "We came treacherously close to avoiding each other altogether."
"Humph. I do not believe the situation to have been quite so grim."
"Oh, but it was quite grim," she said, with mock seriousness. "We were a safe distance from each other, and should have never so much as engaged in a proper quarrel. That is indeed a horrible thought, and one I cannot bear to contemplate."
"I should have missed quarreling with you."
"You should not have know what sort of an opponent I would make, and whether you might defeat me in a battle of wits. Now at least you must own that you have been conquered."
"By no means, madam. There have been skirmishes, true, but the war continues, and I have every intention of winning as much ground as possible, even if it requires the work of a lifetime."
"I think I might promise you the work of a lifetime," she said with a sly smile. "Though I cannot admit discussion of terms of surrender, not at present."
"But you will, in time," he said, rising from his chair.
"It would appear you are confident of that."
"Did you not tell me I was persuasive?"
"Ah, and so it begins, as you employ my very words as a weapon against me!"
"I have other means," said Mr. Carter, drawing her to her feet.
"Yes, so I have discovered."
"Edward, I have thought much of what you said the other day," said Miss Galindo a short while later, as they sat side by side before the fire.
"And what was that, my love?"
"What you said about making the best use of the present. I have pondered that a great deal over these past days. Edward, given all that has happened, I do not believe that I shall ever see life as anything other than a gift which may be taken away at any time."
"That is true," he said, the familiar grave expression in his eyes.
"But do not misunderstand me. I do not wish to always grieve for what happened, but to claim the joy we have been granted, the pleasure of being together, of having life itself.
"And on each morning I shall thank God that we have been granted another day together, and at evening I shall speak the same prayer."
"And we must make the most of those waking hours in between, Laurie," he said, turning to her.
"Yes."
"'Thus, though we cannot make our Sun stand still, yet we will make him run,' as the poet says."
"I wish to make you very happy, Edward."
"You do make me happy," he said, leaning forward to kiss her forehead.
"That is what I want, truly.
"And there is something else, Edward. I should like others to share in our happiness."
My Lady,
For days I have reflected upon our conversation of a recent Monday morning, and I must confess that your words have lain heavily on my heart. My news, intended to bring you joy, has instead inspired or perhaps renewed your already grievous pain. My lady, that was not my intent, and I beg pardon if I spoke too much in haste. Indeed it might have been better had Mr. Carter sought a private interview with you, as he had planned.
But we none of us ought to expect that we may undo what is done, nor should we fear acknowledging truth whenever it confronts us. With that in mind, I must write to you in the plainest terms, in the hope that they provide a healing balm.
My lady, there should have been no friendship between Mr. Carter and myself had you not asked me to serve him. Perhaps you will smile at that, recalling that your intent was to furnish Mr. Carter with a dedicated clerk, and not a wife, though indeed you employed the term "helpmeet" on the day when you escorted me into the office of my most reluctant master.
But I understand at last that how often it is that our intentions are at variance with the consequences of our deeds, and I confess myself grateful to you for the decision you took. Pray do not allow my boldness to shock you.
As for the intentions of Mr. Carter's heart, I think neither of us can fault them. Any decisions he took sprang from a desire to serve you, to serve others and indeed our Maker, and he looks not to the past but to the present, that he might make the best use of the days.
Within a short time I must vow to serve Mr. Carter in another sense, and that I will do as well, with all my heart, because he has offered his own good heart to me.
They say God is the Maker of all marriages, but surely it is no sacrilege to acknowledge your own part in this union. For that I will always feel heartfelt gratitude. I beseech you never to doubt it is so.
On the day that Mr. Carter and I make our vows, our happiness cannot be complete unless you are there to see us joined, to hear our promises to each other. I humbly ask that you honor us with your presence on that day, and share in our joy.
Most faithfully,
Laurentia
"Mr. Carter," said Anthony Beckett, looking up from the ledger. "Forgive me. I did not see you standing there!"
"I am sorry, Beckett. I'd no intention of startling you. Have you a moment to speak with me?"
"Of course. By all means, sir."
"Beckett, please set your mind at rest. I'm not here to deliver another lecture. In fact I have a very different errand in mind."
Beckett grew visibly calmer, though there remained a rather guarded expression in his eyes.
Mr. Carter went on, "Indeed, I must own that I was a good deal too harsh with you the last time we spoke. We parted on very bad terms, Beckett, and you did not deserve that, not after the service you rendered.
"Mind you, I do not take back the reproof I issued on Miss Galindo's behalf. However, my address to you was much more severe than it needed to be, and for that I beg your pardon."
"Sir, there was nothing you said to me that I didn't deserve to hear, and I am mindful of that always," said Beckett warmly. "You needn't beg my pardon. I was reckless, and it was Miss Galindo who paid the price for it."
"She bears you no ill will."
"I know that," said Beckett, smiling. "And I am grateful -- and to you and all. You've both been very kind to me, even when I didn't deserve it."
"Nonsense. I always thought well of you, and I dare say Miss Galindo did as well."
"Thank you, sir."
"And that is yet another reason for my visit. I did not come merely to apologize, but to convey a message as well."
"Sir?"
"Miss Galindo is making plans to close her shop."
"What?" Beckett's mouth was hanging open.
"Because she has agreed to marry me."
To be continued...