Special Note to Readers: I recently found out that this site removed ALL the asterisks I had used as line breaks in my stories. As a result, many of the breaks/scene changes in my stories haven't been showing up, and I have been going through the work of the past months and years to make the necessary adjustments.

This has fairly reduced me to tears, especially since I've been accused of providing no line breaks at all, and reposting all the chapters is taking up time I wanted to use to write and revise upcoming work.

Many, many thanks to ChocolateIsMyDrug for first pointing out the asterisk-deletion problem on this site.

The following was inspired by the wonderful screenplay and brilliant performances in the 2007 BBC miniseries Cranford, adapted from Cranford, Mr. Harrison's Confessions, and My Lady Ludlow, all by Victorian novelist Elizabeth Gaskell. The title of this chapter is a quotation from Cranford.

This is another of those sections that took a very different turn from what I'd expected. The characters do take on a life of their own.

Please feel free to share your thoughts, and thanks to all who have been following the story faithfully. The next two chapters will be in a very different mood, I assure you!

Chapter 27: The Honest Warmth of a Manly Heart

This would take considerable thought.

Until a few moments ago Edward had believed it all should prove quite simple, that the only obstacles between him and Laurie would be pride and stubbornness -- and her anger, of course -- and that his explanations, followed by some tender words, might put everything right.

At this moment, though, minutes after he'd bade farewell to Miss Matty and Miss Smith, all his former plans seemed wrongheaded, indeed unkind.

He must form a new course of action, but he was not about to attempt that while standing in the street. He must seek a refuge, someplace suitable for peaceful and private reflection.

Strange, wasn't it, that a bridegroom would choose to come here, to linger among the headstones, among the dead, really, to puzzle out a problem with the living!

But it was fitting. Here no one could judge or interrupt him, and if there were reminders all about of lost opportunities, and how quickly the glass of time ran out, there was as well a gentle silence that should allow him to form his thoughts and at length his words.

As for his companions, well, he must not slight them.

There was a newly dug grave, of course; that was something Edward could not forget. The very sight of it touched his heart, and all the more for its being adorned only with a few rapidly withering wildflowers. He paused, respectfully inclined his head, and made a short prayer, more for Harry, his father, and all the little Gregsons than for Bella herself. Surely her soul did not require his prayers, and the gates of heaven had swung wide for her when she'd approached. They'd not shut her out, not there.

Edward wondered what she'd have made of his standing, head bowed, at her grave, barely a few weeks after they'd last discussed Harry's prospects. Surely none of them -- not Bella, not Job, and certainly not Edward -- could have foreseen such a thing.

He walked on, coming to the place where young Walter Hutton lay, and stopped briefly to read the sentimental inscription on the headstone. An angel, they called him. Edward wondered again at how the living stubbornly placed the most ordinary people among the saints and angels, rendering all earthly defects of character inconsequential or indeed endearing in the light of eternity. But of course it was grief that did that, and he didn't doubt that the Huttons would give a great deal to have one more day with Walter, angelic or no.

He continued on, glancing at the tombstones as he passed them.

Margaret Hutton...

Elizabeth Goddard...

Charles Tomkinson...

Amelia Tomkinson...

Deborah Jenkyns...

The Reverend John Jenkyns...

Mary Jenkyns...

Major William Forrester...

He was drawing ever nearer to the place he knew he must go.

Katherine

Beloved wife of Edward Carter

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?"

It was a restful spot, he thought, this little piece of earth beneath the trees. He'd come here often enough that first year he'd been alone, to do little more than think, and occasionally pray, though at times the words would not come, and he'd stood here in silence.

In the years that followed he'd come much less frequently, for there always seemed to be some business or other on the estate to engage him. And in the evenings wakefulness no longer troubled him, and he was able to sleep then, to sleep and forget that he was alone.

Katherine

Beloved wife of Edward Carter

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?"

He still wasn't sure about the verse, but at the time he had very much wanted some suggestion that he was not so irrevocably parted from Katherine, that she remained near. They'd had so few years together, and those had gone by quickly enough.

As for the years since, why, they too had passed in a trice, and he'd grown ever more solitary, and squandered his days. Waste was a sin, he had once told Harry, and yet the temptation to waste his life had been very great indeed. Oh, there had been work enough -- indeed, there was little else, once Katherine had died -- but that was all that consumed him, and that was not enough.

The single touch of grace within his existence had been devotion to his lady, who, if anything, suffered a more pronounced solitude than his own. He, after all, mourned one woman who would never return, whereas she grieved not only for a husband but six children, and waited in vain for the one child who had remained to her.

Yet he did not come.

A child. Perhaps if he and Katherine had not been disappointed of children, he should have not locked and barred the door of his own heart so decidedly, or proved so solitary.

And yet at last it had been a child -- and women as well! -- who had put an end to his former existence. Everything had been irrevocably altered that summer day in the marketplace at Cranford, and by the good offices of Miss Pole, of all people. Harry Gregson had appeared within the crowd to sell some brown trout, no doubt poached from one of his lady's streams, and Miss Pole had pounced on the boy then and there. She'd dragged Harry before him, as though she were the constable and he, Edward, the magistrate, and denounced the lad as "half gipsy and whole villain."

Miss Pole had been swift in her arrest and merciless in her judgment, and yet this time, at least, her meddling had produced nothing but good. That single moment of humiliation in the marketplace had brought the boy to Edward for the first but not the last time, and at length their fates should become intertwined, and wariness give way to trust, and something like friendship.

He had thought he'd locked and barred the door of his heart to everyone, very nearly even to his lady -- and she of course was safely formal, mercifully distant -- and yet Harry had discovered it unguarded, and with innocence and not a little impertinence had provoked Edward into helping him. Yet which of them had rescued the other? It was no longer clear.

And even then the mischief was not done, not entirely, and for that he must lay the blame at Lady Ludlow's door. She too had intervened in fate, much as Miss Pole had, and perhaps with equally questionable motives. Unable to sanction his decision to teach Harry to read and write, as well as to make the boy his clerk, she'd installed Miss Galindo as his assistant, whether Edward would or no.

He closed his eyes and thought again of the day Lady Ludlow came to his office with Miss Galindo, their perverse cheerfulness infuriating him nearly as much as the intrusion itself. How vexing it was that Lady Ludlow should not only interfere in his plans, but involve Miss Galindo as well -- Miss Galindo, with her cool dignity, provocative opinions, and distracting brown eyes. How was he to accomplish anything with such a person underfoot?

And yet she had remained, like Harry, and was ever after not to be dislodged from his life.

He ought to have known it had been all up with him from the very first. He ought to have known he was no match for any of them.

It was only fitting that one should weep in such a place, surrounded by every reminder of loss and disappointment and despair. And yet Edward stood smiling in the churchyard, thinking of how odd a path his life had taken, how little of it he had understood before now, and how, truth to tell, he regretted none of it. He'd not been able to fend them all off -- not his lady, not Harry, not the people of Cranford, and certainly not Laurie.

He wondered what Katherine should have made of it all, and at once he knew that she should have smiled -- no, laughed, but kindly, affectionately -- to see him in such a state, to see him fretting about what apology he should make to Laurie after his temper, and his damnable impatience, had once more gotten the better of him.

Yes, he could hear Katherine laughing, and if he listened very closely, he could hear her speaking as well...

Go on with you, then, Edward. Go on with you.

The tears had come at last, and yet he was still smiling, smiling as he left the churchyard, and returned to life.

Oh, why had she again consented to fashion the May Day coronets, especially now, when she must also see to wedding preparations? It had been madness.

Still, working with the hands at least gave Laurentia time to think, though perhaps too much time. The mind proved mischievous on such occasions, and she would find herself unable to escape unbidden thoughts, the memory of an unpleasant exchange, and perhaps even a guilty conscience.

Indeed she had been reasoning with herself all morning. It was foolishness, she thought, to indulge these unpleasant twinges of doubt. She had meant well -- no, she had been in the right -- to persuade Edward to speak to the women the other night, despite his reluctance and despite the hardheartedness and hardheadedness of several of the participants.

But it lay on her conscience that she had sent him away in silence, without so much as a reassuring word or touch. It wasn't just that they ordinarily took leave of each other with such tenderness. It was that they had come so near -- very near indeed -- to taking leave of each other forever. Whenever she shut her eyes, she could see him as he was that day in Dr. Harrison's surgery, broken and bleeding and scarred. She felt again his hand beneath hers, and saw his eyes, so filled with longing, turned upon her face.

She could never think of that moment without tears, now as cleansing as they were painful.

And the thought had brought her to a resolution: This time she should be the one to offer peace. If they might not escape quarrels, at least she should be strong enough to master her temper, and grateful enough to embrace her stubborn, infuriating, endlessly precious Edward.

She thought again of Isobel Morgan's counsel that a wife must practice patience and humility, and seek to see things through her husband's eyes.

Seeing things through Edward's perspective was not at this moment a particularly appealing prospect; indeed she wished very much to declare herself in the right, him in the wrong, and hear him most humbly beg pardon!

Yet she must attempt the experiment. She'd always thought herself equal to challenges of the will, intellect, and imagination -- writing poetry, for example, or drawing a picture, or perhaps creating a bonnet for a client. Indeed there was no time she so needed to draw upon patience and sheer will as when a lady sat before the looking glass, fretting and fidgeting and dithering over bonnets and caps. Edward might not be flattered to be compared to the some of the clients who visited her shop, and yet he should require quite as much patience.

Perhaps more.

What had he thought and dreamed in those years before she had known him? She'd never really thought to ask him, and now she might dare to -- that is, if he was even speaking to her now. She must try.

And she did know one of the dreams, at least -- this school that was gradually taking form. How difficult it must have been to lay that cherished plan first before the men, then the ladies -- a terrifying prospect, when she stopped to consider it. Indeed it at times required effort enough for him to give ear to her own opinions and wishes, quite apart from any demands placed on him by his mistress, and at least both she and Lady Ludlow held him in high regard, however often they tried his patience.

Perhaps it had been too much, then, to expect Edward to face a small army of ladies with equanimity. Poor man!

And so he might require comforting, when next she saw him, and not a lecture. She did not expect open penitence, even if he believed himself in the wrong. Apologies did not come easily to Edward, and perhaps only a look, a touch, a handful of flowers must suffice when he did come seeking a truce.

Indeed she smiled at the memory of the first time he'd come to see her. He'd arrived looking slightly ashamed, and clutching a bouquet as a peace offering, and yet she had been the one to speak first, to explain her own misguided actions, and he'd responded with warmth, and they'd been friends again.

Then she remembered with shock that there had been a time when she had heard Edward utter words of apology -- but to Lady Ludlow, who had come offering assistance when he was taken to Dr. Harrison's surgery. On that occasion it had been his lady who had made the first gesture of good will. Laurie could still hear the reply Edward had given: "We spoke in anger to each other. I am sorry."

The tears had come once again to her eyes. If Lady Ludlow had succeeded in tempering her own pride and offering the olive branch, then on this occasion Laurie must do the same. After all, what did any quarrel matter, when they were together and would soon --

The door to her shop was opening, as if by itself. She knew at once that it would be Edward, and there he was, peace offering in hand, and not the least sign of anger in his eyes. Indeed he looked like a boy who had been caught out. He was so -- he was so --

She rose up from her chair.

It was much as it had been before. She was in a dress of a sober brown -- perhaps even the same dress she'd worn the previous spring when he'd come to see her -- and had on one of those white aprons evidently necessary whenever she was going about her work.

He stood before her with his bouquet of red tulips, feeling no less awkward than he had done that other time. By now he had meant to have something fine and eloquent to say to her, and yet as he stood there, all the thoughts and words he'd carefully collected departed from his mind.

She had risen from her chair and was looking up at him now with her sad brown eyes, eyes with no anger in them at all, and she was saying, "Oh, Edward, I have all this day been thinking of you!"

And with that she came swiftly to him.

"Laurie, I am sorry."

"Please, Edward. You need not say anything more."

"Evidently you are determined that I shall not!"

"That was not what I meant, Edward."

"No?"

"I was just so pleased to see you."

"I see."

"It was dreadfully bold of me."

"It was bold, but by no means dreadful."

"I hope I did not shock you."

"I confess I was startled, but also pleased, especially since I did not think you would so much as open the door to me."

"Speaking of which, did you lock the door, Edward?"

"Oh, yes."

"I know we are to be married soon, and that there's no shame in sitting here with you. Yet there are some things I wish to keep from prying eyes."

"Such as the blush in your cheeks at this moment."

"Am I blushing?"

"Oh, yes, and it suits you, Laurie."

"But I'd best stand up now."

"Why? Why must you?"

"This seat, Edward, was intended for a lady to use when she is before the looking-glass. If I remain on your knee and the chair gives way, you will tumble to the floor, and I with you!"

"You say that as though it were a bad thing."

"Oh, Edward, your bouquet," said Laurie tenderly, picking up his tulips. "I really must place these in water, before they come to any more mischief." Her hands full of flowers, she looked up at him. "Will you take some tea? Might you stay that long?"

"Yes, if you wish."

"I do."

This time, he was determined to speak first, if casually.

"I meant to see you earlier, Laurie," he began, "but I was delayed."

"Indeed. There's no trouble, I hope," she said, looking up from the tea service.

"Not at all," he said warmly, smiling. "I chanced to meet Miss Matty and Miss Smith outside Mrs. Rhys's shop, and we had a pleasant discussion -- about the school." He paused, summoning determination. "It seems they are quite intent on assisting me by what means they have."

At that she smiled softly back at him. "Miss Matty is the very soul of kindness, Edward."

"She is indeed, and so is her young companion. I confess myself quite humbled by the generosity of the ladies."

A decidedly sly looked had entered Laurie's eyes, but her voice was gentle enough when next she spoke. "There is no need, Edward," she said, "to talk of humbling."

"No? And yet I own I was hasty in my judgments, and most ungenerous to you. It was only fair that I put the plan before the ladies, and allow them to offer questions and opinions."

"And yet after planning such a project so long, and very nearly in solitude, scrutiny of that sort you faced must seem akin to violence!"

"Perhaps 'violence' is too strong a word, Laurie; there were but few harsh words. I own I did not like some of the questions put to me, though. You know I like to have things my own way."

"We all dearly love to have things our own way, and I say that not only for myself and of course for you, but Lady Ludlow as well. And there you have very little choice. I am mindful of that, and what it costs you in grief and in disappointment.

"But I am also mindful that if you have a duty to my lady, the same cannot be said of the women in town. I know well it required effort for you to give them a respectful hearing." The teasing look again entered her eyes as she added, "And I know the society of ladies, with all their gossip and opinions, can prove most unsettling to you."

"It may also prove uncommonly pleasing -- so pleasing that I have sought the Reverend Hutton's assistance to ensure that I might enjoy the near-constant society of a particular lady."

"And yet I recall a time when my presence did not please you," said Laurie, with sudden seriousness. Then, rising to playfulness once more, she added, "Your expression was remarkably fierce on the day when Lady Ludlow marched me into the very heart of your kingdom."

"And as your countenance was so provokingly cheerful, I know I did not succeed in frightening you."

"No indeed!"

"And I hope," added Edward softly, "that at length you found me a gentle enough master."

"So much so," she said softly, "that shortly I shall vow to serve and obey you."

"And not merely as my clerk," added Edward, with a little smile.

"And not merely as your clerk," she echoed. All at once her seriousness returned, and she added, "Indeed I must promise to serve and obey you, and that I will do, with all my heart. And yet I do not believe obedience requires that I keep silent."

He chuckled. "I would never expect you to keep silent!"

To his surprise, she did not laugh. "I am in earnest, Edward. It is your right to be lord and master in your own home, and I acknowledge that. And yet I do not believe a wife is like a child, to be cosseted and corrected by turns. I am not your daughter, Edward, nor am I a nun taking vows –"

"I think, Laurie, that I might safely promise you that you will never live as a nun --"

"Please, Edward. I am not teasing now."

"No," he said evenly, looking directly into her eyes.

"I should like to think that you might always speak with me as an equal, confiding in me, seeking my opinion in all things."

"Laurie," he said, feeling his patience gradually giving way, "do you not trust me?"

"Of course I trust you," she said simply. "It is only that I fear you face a very real temptation to humor me, rather than give serious thought to my opinions. And note well," she added, "that I say 'give serious thought.' I do not expect to command you!"

"Nor I you," said Edward gravely. "But I had hoped you might place your trust in me, confiding in me quite as much as I do you."

"I will, Edward. I promise you that," she said, her eyes filling with tears. They sat for a moment, neither meeting the other's gaze, both of them awkwardly clinging to their teacups, and then she looked up at him again, the tears shining in her eyes once more.

"There are times, Edward, when I wish that we had become acquainted when I was a girl of seventeen. Then you should have known my parents."

"I should have liked that."

"Indeed I suspect you and my father should have been great friends.

"But I also confess, Edward, that when I was seventeen, I should not have understood your worth. Pray do not take offense," she added, smiling. "Indeed there was very little I understood then, for all that I believed myself uncommonly well acquainted with the wider world."

He returned the smile. "I was a rather rough lad at seventeen myself, though by the time I was five and twenty I too thought myself quite a man of the world, all for having served as clerk to an attorney and lived in the great city of Birmingham! It was strange to come home several years later and discover that for once people were interested in my opinions and almost any report I had of what lay beyond Hanbury. Humph! I'd read a few books and could discuss the weather with the attorney's wife and daughter; that was all.

"But I did value gaining Katherine's good opinion -- you do not mind that I talk again of Katherine?"

At that Laurie gave him a smile of tremendous sweetness. "That is another reason why I ought to harbor no regrets about making your acquaintance so lately. You should not have been the man you are today, had you not wed Katherine. Of course I have no objection to your speaking of her."

"I am glad of that. I had feared it would be very wrong of me to do so when our wedding day is so near.

"Well, I returned home, and applied to Mr. Bolton, and of course met his daughter as well, and wanted her good opinion quite as much as his." He gave a little chuckle. "She was rather shy at first, and thought me uncommonly clever, perhaps too clever for her. Can you imagine that? But I was just a lad who'd gone to the city, after all, and at length she saw that -- and married me anyway." He chuckled again.

"Fortunate girl," said Laurie softly.

"Hm. I do not know that she was fortunate, though I was!" He sighed. "And of course I was lost without her -- lost and very alone."

"Edward," said Laurie softly, reaching for his hand, "I hope you may safely say that now you are neither."

"It is well, Mr. Carter, that May will prove quite a festive month," said Lady Ludlow to Mr. Carter as they gazed across the lawn at Hanbury. "With no garden party for yet another year, I should soon stand accused of uncharacteristic austerity, save, of course, for the Twelfth Night observations." She turned to him and smiled. "But surely your wedding will bring joy such as Hanbury has not known for many a year."

"My lady, it is entirely owing to your kindness," began Mr. Carter.

Her ladyship feigned shock. "My kindness?" she said, eyebrows raised. "And to think I believed you might be content to wed Laurentia before as few witnesses as possible, and without greater finery than might be glimpsed on a working day. I had thought there was joy enough in your union without a wedding breakfast at Hanbury Court."

When Mr. Carter, blushing, could make no reply, Lady Ludlow smiled once more and said, "You must forgive me, Mr. Carter, if I respond with levity to any of your attempts to thank me. The prospect of such a celebration has made me quite lighthearted."

"My lady, I am glad of that, and I am as grateful for your hospitality as for your kindness."

"It is the least that I might do, Mr. Carter, as Laurentia is so dear to me," said Lady Ludlow, again looking across the grounds of the estate. "Though I will claim my prerogative as her friend and say again how much I regret that you are not taking her away following the wedding."

"My lady, you will understand that together we have resolved to settle the arrangements for the school, even as we begin our marriage."

Lady Ludlow turned to face Mr. Carter and saw once more that telltale crease in his brow, the near-pout his lips had assumed.

"Pray do not fear to speak of the school in my presence, Mr. Carter," she said coolly. "I take no offense."

"Forgive me, my lady --"

"And I would note," she added, "that I am well aware of how pliant Laurentia can be, how eager to please."

At that he actually smiled. Oh, his lady knew Laurie very well indeed -- in all things, that is, but her tremendous will, her remarkable obstinacy.

"You will note, Mr. Carter, that I did not claim she was docile. Yes, I saw you smile.

"I am only saying that she wishes very much to please you. I dare say Laurentia knows her duty, as well as what she is promising to you. And yet have a care, Mr. Carter. For all that she has agreed to forgo a wedding trip, and is not accustomed to being made much of, she is a bride. Pray do not forget that."

"My lady, I promise you that in everything I will be as mindful of her happiness as her welfare. She will want for nothing. I vow as much to you."

Lady Ludlow smiled wistfully. "Mr. Carter, I know you for an honorable man, a man with the kindest and best intentions, and yet you have not understood me. Every man, no matter how devoted to duty, must have rest from his labors, and a bridegroom especially ought to have leisure to enjoy the society of his bride.

"But I will speak no more of your taking a holiday," she added. "The time will come, at length."

"Thank you, my lady."

Lady Ludlow gazed again across the lawn before her. "It is good that we have the tents we were wont to use for the garden parties," she said, "for there may be rain on your wedding day." She turned again to look at her estate manager. "I am not superstitious, Mr. Carter, merely practical."

"Indeed if there is rain on the day itself, we ought to regard it as a blessing from heaven," said Mr. Carter, frowning, "for we have lacked rain enough for the orchards and fields, first in March and now in April."

"I do hope there's no trouble at home, Mary!"

Miss Smith, spectacles perched on her nose, looked up from the letter she'd been reading. "Pray feel no alarm at my sighing, Miss Matty. Indeed there is nothing wrong. It is just that Mama has announced that if there is again to be no garden party at Hanbury this summer, why, then she must of course attend the May Day festivities in Cranford instead."

"Oh, indeed?" said Miss Matty. "Will your father accompany her?"

"I fear not, Miss Matty," said Mary, looking down again at her letter, "though the children of course will do so."

"Oh, all five will join her in the carriage?" asked Miss Matty brightly.

"Six," said Mary.

"Six?" echoed Miss Matty, an expression of shock on her face, for hadn't there been but five the previous summer?

"Six," repeated Mary. "Rachel was born last October, Miss Matty.

"But I do wish Papa would accompany her," she said. "There are times, Miss Matty, when I do worry very much that the demands of his profession are making him unwell, and that he would be better served by taking some leisure.

"He remains quite vexed by headaches -- though you know that he wears spectacles, as I do now -- and by his various other pains. It worries Mama, and I confess myself troubled by it as well."

"Then perhaps your stepmother will persuade him to take a holiday," said Miss Matty optimistically.

"You will forgive me, Miss Matty, if I do not regard that as very likely! Papa has been known to prove rather stubborn, despite Mama's entreaties and my own. "

"Well, then," said Miss Matty softly, "I expect we shall have better success with Martha. I had thought, Mary, to persuade her to take little Matilda for an airing on May Day. Indeed I may be of assistance there, and leave Martha at leisure to enjoy the pageant."

"I would gladly help there as well, Miss Matty, though I think that Mama will keep me quite occupied with the little ones."

"Oh, indeed, especially when all five -- six of them are coming."

"The post has come, Frank," said Sophy Harrison, stepping into the doorway of her husband's study.

"Thank you, my love," said Dr. Harrison distractedly. "Is there anything of note?" The words were barely out of his mouth when his wife held an envelope before his eyes -- an envelope with a telltale blotchy script upon it.

He looked up at Sophy. "I expected as much." Unsealing the letter, he began to read.

Dear Frank,

We've become very respectable, you and I, exchanging letters of this sort. We always knew the time would come, didn't we?

Well, then, I shall act the part of young Dr. John Marshland and report that Mrs. Sheehan, whom I shall send to you in Cranford this Monday, has done faithful service this last year at the Manchester Infirmary, and that I recommend her most wholeheartedly as a diligent worker, and I say that not only because she is my countrywoman. No, Mrs. Sheehan (whom everyone calls Bridey) has proven uncommonly patient and reliable, as well as kindhearted.

She has no family of her own here in Manchester. Indeed she has recently suffered a great loss in that regard, and so would start afresh in a quiet village such as your own. I do not doubt that she will do very well in the temporary situation your good father-in-law has offered, though in time you will perhaps covet her services yourself, and for an establishment by no means as quiet as the rectory. Mrs. Sheehan performs cleaning and mending but might also be called upon to serve as a nurse, for the sick and perhaps especially for the little ones, for I've found few women so fond of children.

Indeed if you do not neglect the young Mrs. Harrison, perhaps you will soon have need enough of a nursemaid. I ought not to write that, it is most indiscreet, but I would tell a lie if I said the bachelors among us are not watching with interest to see if you serve as a proper example. Do not disappoint us, Frank.

I hope it will not be long before I once again slip the bonds of Manchester and ride the twelve miles to see how you all get on, and to call upon my other acquaintance in town. You know how it is.

As always,

Jack

To be continued…