The following was inspired by the 2007 BBC series Cranford, based on Cranford, Mr. Harrison's Confessions, and My Lady Ludlow, all by the Victorian novelist Elizabeth Gaskell.

I've borrowed the characters from the series (much less so from the books!) and let my imagination run riot. This is particularly true with my conceptions of Miss Laurentia Galindo and Dr. Jack Marshland.

As always, I'm eager for your reviews and comments. Many thanks to all who are following this story, which is very nearly synchronizing with the actual seasons, and you know what that means: holidays and parties, much in the spirit of chapters 10 and 14.

Chapter 28: Each with His Bonny Lass

"Are you contemplating a trip to Manchester, Laurie, or perhaps one as far as Germany? I cannot imagine any other reason you should carry so many things with you," said Edward, lifting yet another bag onto the trap.

"That is only my sketchbook and some pencils and crayons, Edward," said Laurie.

"Sketchbook and pencils?"

"I mean to do just as you bade me, and enjoy the day, once I have finished my duties with the pageant. It has been a great while since I have had the leisure for drawing, and today affords a most colorful occasion, as well as remarkable subjects, though I dare say portraits ought to present a challenge, as I've not sketched anything, let alone anyone, in a great while."

"You are not going to sketch me." It was unclear whether it was a question, a command, or a statement.

"Only if you wish me to, Edward," she said with the touch of a smile, a lift of her eyebrows. "Though I do not think I could do justice to your eyes," she added affectionately. "With practice, perhaps I should succeed in rendering them as they truly are."

"I wish that someone would draw or paint you as you truly are, especially at this moment."

"When I am in this dress and bonnet, and have had but a few hours' sleep?" she said, with a wry smile.

"Yes, just as you are now, in that dress, in the morning light."

She paused right by the trap and turned to look at him again. "Truly?"

"Oh, yes.

"When we've been apart," he continued, "I've often imagined what you are doing, how you should look, but I'd have liked to have had your image with me as well, especially when I was traveling."

For once he'd said something that had made her entirely speechless, and he was fully convinced she'd have kissed him then and there if they hadn't been in the street.

Well, not speechless for long. "I too like very much to study your face, Edward, and remember it when we are apart. I've often conjured the image of you at your desk, and the expressions you wear at such times," she added, smiling, "and of course the sight of you striding across the lawn at Hanbury. That is how I like to think of you.

"But truly we have seen each other in all weathers, lights, and circumstances, perhaps more often than many a husband and wife!"

"No, not in all circumstances, and not completely as husband and wife, not until I bring you home on our wedding day. And we shall not be parted then," he said softly.

"No, truly not," she said, blushing as he gently took her hand and helped her up onto the trap.

A bit awkwardly he climbed up beside her. "Well, then, let us properly observe May Day," he said, giving her a smile. "The first of many May Days, God willing."

"The first?" She looked back at him with her eyebrows raised once more. "But we stood side by side on this day last year!"

"Did we?"

"Indeed we did. Do you not recall how we watched together -- I a bit anxiously, I confess -- as Harry played his part in the pageant?"

"On that day I was anxious for Harry as well, but for a different reason." He sighed. "Indeed I was anxious about a great many things then."

Laurie laid her hand on his. "And so you are still."

"And you are as well, staying up half the night to prepare May Day finery!" He peered at her from underneath his hat brim and found her smiling, if a little sleepily. "Well, let's be off, then, and see what the day holds."

The blue dress was not new, and neither was the little straw bonnet, and yet Sophy Harrison took as much care with both as if she'd brought them back from a recent shopping trip to Manchester or indeed London.

Frank spied her as she stood before the looking-glass and put the last touches to her toilette. "Sophy, you look adorable!"

"'Adorable'? Oh, Frank, such a word!" said young Mrs. Harrison. "Though I do enjoy it when you give me compliments," she added, with an innocently flirtatious smile. She turned back to the mirror as she set her hat right. "There. I suppose that must do."

"It will do very well indeed, my love. You are quite irresistible," said Frank.

"Another word!" She turned to him, smiling. "And you look very fine yourself.

"Well, shall we go? I should not like to leave my father to contain Lizzie and Helen's excitement by himself."

"I am not certain that is possible, even with our help, but yes, it is time we were on our way."

May Day once more! So much had happened over the past year, and yet the festivities proceeded as they always had, with music and dance and every opportunity to admire neighbors in their holiday finery, and perhaps attract a little attention of one's own. It was the day for it.

There was Mr. Johnson, striding about in his red mayoral robes, and Mrs. Johnson, head held high, in a gown that befitted her dignity.

There was Dr. Morgan, jovial and dapper as ever he'd been, and well contented too, for his bride was by his side, and May Day marked the anniversary of their most unexpected but altogether happy courtship.

Edward Carter and his betrothed, Miss Laurentia Galindo, were no less contented, for all that it was for them very nearly an ordinary working day. Indeed they were the stern, serious Mr. Carter and quiet Miss Galindo still -- he in his accustomed brown coat and hat, walking stick in hand, and she in her modest purple gown. But if they were not as festively turned out as Dr. and Mrs. Morgan, they attracted quite as much attention, or rather more, for they were to be wed shortly, and therefore must prove quite as much a subject of discussion as the warm and dry weather, or the plan for the new school.

It was an especially happy day for Miss Matilda Jenkyns, who appeared in the company not only of Miss Mary Smith but her brother, Peter, and indeed both the Hearnes and their little baby. Miss Matty, always demurely tidy, had taken special care today and put on a new spring gown that flattered her delicate skin and soft blue eyes. She was excited at the prospect of the pageant and other festivities, and Mary was pleased to think that after all the heartaches of the past two years, Miss Matty was truly beginning to enjoy herself.

But Miss Matty was also of course determined to devote herself to Matilda Hearne, however long and lustily that young miss cried, that Martha and Jem too might take pleasure in the day's celebrations. Truth to tell, though, both parents were a good deal too tired to pay any degree of attention to the May Day events, and there had been no question of Jem donning the costume of Jack in the Green and dancing about as he had done the previous year. No, he and Martha might have been content to rest in the grass for the entire morning and part of the afternoon, and leave everyone else to their merriment.

Augusta Tomkinson, slightly more energetic, was evidently of a mind to follow Miss Matty's example and serve as ministering angel to a mother, for she had agreed to supervise the little twins during the May Day celebrations. Dear Caroline was indisposed, Miss Tomkinson explained delicately, but had consented that her sister have charge of the children, at least as long as her nerves should remain steady.

Her brother-in-law, Mr. Goddard, had given his employees a holiday, and so it was that his assistant, Mr. Beckett, spent the morning in the sun, having helped the other men with the merry preparations of the platform and garlands and a Jack in the Green costume fully as impressive as the one of the previous year. He was pleased to play his part in the festivities, and vastly contented that he'd made the village his home, especially on a day such as this, when everyone from the rosy-faced little children to her ladyship found reason enough to gather together and observe the ceremonies as they'd done in times past, as surely they'd always do in Cranford.

Mrs. Clara Smith arrived in due course, making a little stir, and not merely because all six of her own children accompanied her. Of course a half dozen little redheads and their auburn-haired mama must attract attention in Cranford, but Clara, like Miss Matty, had also taken considerable pains with her May Day attire. And it must be noted as well that Mrs. Smith, in her remarkable new gown of green and white, was in that rarest of conditions in her married life: neither shortly to be delivered of a child nor cradling a newborn in her arms. In fact the very cut of the dress suggested that she had become newly reacquainted with her waist, and if she was not as slender as her stepdaughter, she was very much the trim, tidy young Manchester matron.

Which is not to say she was as serene as she was fashionable. No indeed; she scurried about like a particularly nervous mother hen seeing to her chicks.

But surely that was the wrong analogy. The children, Mary decided, actually reminded her of sheep -- too numerous and too stubborn to supervise without practiced skill, and perhaps the assistance of a reliable dog. Isaac, the eldest, was blessed with uncommon energy this morning, and put it to use teasing Abigail, the second-eldest, as prim as her brother was unruly. Little Ralph, so recently displaced as the baby of the family, was running all about on his sturdy little legs -- that is, when he was not tugging at his mama's skirts.

It was only morning and Clara's voice was already waxing shrill, for all that she attempted a veneer of serene festivity.

"Mama, let me take Rachel, that you might rest," said Mary to her stepmother.

"Rest? I am not here to rest," said Clara. "And pray do not call me 'Mama' in company, for it makes me feel so very old," she added in a loud whisper. "But you may take Rachel, for your face looks so much brighter when you are holding a baby next to it."

"Upon my word, Mary," she added, glancing about her, "there do not seem to be many smart young men about. Are there no bachelors in this town?"

"There is Mr. Jenkyns," said Mary helpfully, and wickedly, drawing precisely the response she expected.

"That is not what I meant, Mary," said Clara peevishly. "And it would be most improper for you to form an attachment with Miss Matilda's brother! Besides," she added, "Mr. Jenkyns is not of a good age for you. I had rather see you wed to a man of thirty, or perhaps forty, if it comes to that." She spied a figure across the grass. "Who is that gentleman in the brown? The one with the gold-topped walking stick. He looks very distinguished."

"Mama, that is Mr. Carter, Lady Ludlow's estate manager."

"Oh, indeed? Why then have you not --"

"He is a widower but has recently become engaged to be married."

"Oh!" Clara's tone was a mixture of frank astonishment, polite acknowledgment, and ill-concealed dismay.

"Indeed he will be wed before the month is out," continued Mary, with satisfaction as immense as it was perverse.

"Oh, dear. Well, then, you must --"

But all at once Mary was no longer paying any attention to what Clara was saying.

Looking remarkably smart and tidy for a man who'd come on horseback all the way from Manchester, Jack Marshland was striding across the field.

Mary desired nothing so much as that the earth might open up then and there and swallow her entirely before her stepmother could utter another word or cast another glance. But there was no escaping now; Jack was here, and Mama's sharp eyes were surveying him from the toes of his boots to the crown of his hat.

As for Mary's eyes, they were fixed mainly on the ground. She couldn't bring herself to look into Jack's face, to acknowledge what had happened. Surely he would be astride his horse in a trice, and on the road back to Manchester, if he fully grasped the horror of their situation.

Indeed it took considerable effort for Mary to turn to her stepmother and utter the fateful words: "Mama, this is Dr. Jack Marshland of the Manchester Infirmary."

Jack gave Mrs. Smith his pleasantest smile, and a bow as well.

"From Manchester! Why, then we have both gone to a great deal of trouble to make each other's acquaintance, for I have only just arrived from Manchester myself."

"Oh, it was no trouble at all for me; my horse could walk it blindfold," replied Jack, as Mary's heart sank ever lower.

"And I hope it was a pleasant journey for you. Indeed it ought to have been quite a merry one, riding along with six little children, all the image of their mother!" he added, grinning at the row of redheads before him.

"I wish I had a pony," spoke up Isaac.

"Yes, you'd like that, wouldn't you! And then you should travel to Cranford to visit your sister whenever you pleased," said Jack.

"And I should go to London as well!" said the boy.

As Jack and the little ones became engaged in a vigorous discussion of ponies, Clara seized the opportunity, along with her stepdaughter's sleeve. "Mary," she whispered into her ear, rather too loudly, "an Irishman?"

Of course it must come to pass that while they were all standing thus together, the Huttons and Harrisons should arrive to greet everyone warmly, with Frank and Sophy looking quite as handsome as ever a young couple had. It was surely painful to Clara, thought Mary, to think of what might have been, to imagine Mary herself on the young physician's arm, as the object of admiration and envy.

But Mary had greatly underestimated Frank's loyalty to Jack, and had not foreseen that he would quickly assess the situation and engage Mrs. Smith in conversation to a particular purpose.

Indeed it was quite touching to see the pains he took to sway her opinion.

"Dr. Marshland is one of my dearest friends, Mrs. Smith," he said warmly. "You should know that we trained together at Guy's Hospital."

"Indeed? Why, then you must have seen many a ghastly sight!"

Frank was rather flummoxed at that, but recovered quickly. "Oh, that is the lot of the physician, Mrs. Smith, but pray do not distress yourself over it.

"And talking of sight, that is Dr. Marshland's particular interest. He has uncommonly good understanding of the eye, its ailments and defects, and I have more than once referred my own patients to him for concerns of that sort. It is, after all, best that they should consult an expert, and I can warmly recommend Dr. Marshland."

"Can you, Dr. Harrison?" said Clara in reply. "My husband wears spectacles, and of course now dear Mary does as well. But I do not require such devices myself, and surely my own little children will follow my example, and enjoy such exceedingly abundant health as their Mama."

At that Frank seemed quite vanquished, and it was left to Sophy to take up the conversation.

"Indeed your children are very like you. And they are so lively!" said Sophy, gazing over to where Jack was in a merry discussion with Helen and Lizzie and at the same time under siege by a gaggle of red-haired children eager to play. One of the little boys was marching about with the Irishman's hat on his head.

"Daniel!" shrieked Clara. "Give Dr. Marshland his hat!" Turning back to Sophy, she sighed, "Yes, they are lively, and it is a great deal of work. You will not take offense if I speak so frankly."

"Of course I shall not take offense," replied Sophy, "and indeed I understand you very well."

Clara smiled indulgently. "My dear, you are not long married, and cannot understand fully, not yet."

"Not fully, Mrs. Smith. But I did take charge of the household, as well as the upbringing of my sisters," said Sophy, nodding in the direction of Helen and Lizzie, "and my younger brother too, after my mother died."

"Oh!" said Clara, not without sympathy.

"But I felt as though my mother had never truly left my side, not completely, in all the years that followed," said Sophy, adding, "though I learned to recognize other ministering angels as time passed." She and Frank exchanged a smile before she turned back to Clara. "And I think there are good angels enough among us today.

"It is nearly time for the dancing to begin," she continued. "Shall we beg Dr. Marshland's assistance in gathering up the children?" Sophy again looked over at Jack, still surrounded by Huttons and various Smiths. "They seem to have quite taken to him."

"So how does Mrs. Sheehan get on? I'd have thought your father would have given her a holiday today, that she might accompany you all."

"Papa gave her leave to come, but she wanted to start her baking, and so remained behind," said Lizzie.

"That's a great pity," said Jack. "But she is a quiet sort of woman, and perhaps felt a bit shy today."

"She is not shy with us, and I like her," said Lizzie. "But Helen thinks she is a witch!"

"I do not!" said Helen. "I like her too. But she sings all these queer songs when she's about her work and then won't sing a word when she goes to church with us."

"No," said Jack sadly. "She wouldn't."

"Miss Smith's young man is handsome, is he not?" said Mrs. Forrester to Miss Pole as they watched Dr. Marshland and Miss Smith accompany the Hutton girls and all the little Smiths across the field.

"I confess there is something in his expression and manner that does not quite suit me. I had rather thought that a physician must cultivate a sober mien, and Dr. Marshland is so relentlessly merry."

"Upon my word, Miss Pole, it is much better that Dr. Marshland endeavor to be pleasant than the reverse, lest his patients lose all hope and turn their faces to the wall before he has a chance to discover what ails them!" said Mrs. Jamieson.

"Indeed he is not an undertaker, Miss Pole," added Mrs. Forrester. "Besides, it is well that a man take pleasure in laughter. Are not Mr. Jenkyns and Captain Brown better men for being so good-humored? We should become very dull indeed without their company."

"That may be taking it a bit too far, Mrs. Forrester," said Mrs. Jamieson, "though I am as fond of a merry tale as anyone.

"But I do agree that Dr. Marshland has a most pleasing countenance, for all that he is an Irishman."

"And he is so kind to the children," said Mrs. Forrester. "Oh! Look at those imps!" said she, chuckling. "But surely there's no harm in high spirits and even a bit of mischief, not in a little lad."

"And yet little lads grow into men, Mrs. Forrester, and get up to infinitely worse mischief," observed Mrs. Pole.

"That is certainly true," said Mrs. Jamieson. "One certainly knows what the men get up to on May Day!"

"Oh, indeed," said Miss Pole. "Especially when there's strong drink about," she added ominously. "Do you not recall how someone once caught a piglet and released it in church during matins?"

"Indeed I do," said Mrs. Jamieson. "And there was that distasteful incident with the goat as well."

"Oh, dear," said Mrs. Forrester. "You do not think those bad boys are teasing my Bessie, even as we speak?"

"Surely not, surely not, Mrs. Forrester," said Mrs. Jamieson, "not when there is so much to engage them here."

"Where's Sarah got to, Harry?"

"I don't know, Dada. I haven't been able to find her."

Job Gregson swore softly under his breath. Since his cousin, a pretty lass of eighteen, had come to join his household and look after his children, she'd found excuses enough to slip away, and always when she was most needed.

No, it was Harry, God bless him, whom Job relied upon most. But Sarah must do; there was nothing else for it, as he couldn't afford a housekeeper.

"I think she's gone to see the dancing, Dada."

"Right. You take James now," said Job, handing the child over to his eldest. "Jemima, Keziah, take David's hands. Malachi, look sharp! Don't dawdle now."

They discovered Sarah, her face pink with the sun, her skirts stained with grass, amidst the crowd by the platform.

Job took her by the arm. "Time to be going," he announced, in a voice that was low but still unmistakable in its fury.

"Oh, not so soon," said Sarah with dismay. "Everyone is so merry, cousin Job. Can we not stay a bit longer?"

"We should not have come at all." Job had thought that the entire morning, for all that he'd yielded to the pleas of Sarah and indeed his own little children. Only Harry had understood -- Harry, whom Bella had watched with such pride the year before, when the boy took his part in the pageant. There was no cause for celebration today, though, Job knew, and so did Harry.

"Home. Now!"

"To do what? Sit listening as Harry reads from the Bible?" Sarah watched Job's face grow a darker red, and thought for a moment that but for all the people standing round, he'd have given her a good box on the ear. Still, he looked down at his little girls, and at Harry, solemn-faced, and his anger passed as sorrow replaced it.

"Just a bit longer, then," he said grudgingly, as Sarah's face brightened. "But don't you stir from my sight."

Mary had taken a chair and was sitting with Rachel in her lap. She'd no chance at all to move from the spot, as the child had fallen into a deep sleep, and even conversation itself should prove difficult.

Still, Jack came up to her now, and dropped into the seat beside her. "They're dear, funny things, your brothers and sisters," he said, "but they've fairly worn the both of us out."

"She's a little angel, isn't she," he added in a whisper, looking at Rachel's coppery blond hair and delicately curved pink lips.

"When she is peacefully sleeping, yes," said Mary with a wry expression. "When she had the colic, it was another matter entirely."

"I can imagine. But she's such a sweet thing now. And aren't you a sight yourself! It suits you, Mary, to be holding a baby in your arms."

She made no reply to that, but he saw her blush, saw her shift her arms about the little girl. She would not meet his gaze, but he was glad he'd said it, glad he was sitting next to her, even if he couldn't touch her. There was a wonderfully companionable silence between them, and he'd not have wished himself anywhere else. Indeed he might have happily sat there by the hour, watching as Mary held the sleeping baby in her arms.

"You've made Dr. Marshland look quite the Byronic hero," observed Augusta Tomkinson with a chuckle as she sat at the tea table and examined Miss Galindo's sketchbook.

"Did I? said Miss Galindo, smiling. "Well, his hat was off, and so perhaps he looked just a trifle wild and romantic."

"Indeed he is all dark hair and noble brow," said Miss Tomkinson before turning to the next page. "Oh! And I see you have noted the dimple in my chin. You are very observant, Miss Galindo. But upon my word, this sketch of Miss Smith is uncommonly fine."

"It is very kind of you to say so, Miss Tomkinson."

"No, truly, you have rendered the curves of her face very well. She looks quite serene. And the child is beautifully drawn too. Such a little angel."

"Yes, children do make such wonderful subjects."

"Indeed they do," said Miss Tomkinson. "Perhaps you might draw a portrait of my sister with the twins."

"I would be most happy to do so, though I confess my skill might not be equal to the challenge."

"Oh, I do not believe that, Miss Galindo," said her companion. "But there is something lacking here," she said, turning over one page after another. "There is no portrait of your affianced husband."

At that Miss Galindo blushed very deeply. "Mr. Carter expressed a wish that I draw no picture of him today," she said. "And indeed I should not be able to do so, for he has hardly been still since we set out this morning."

"No? I dare say his obligations to her ladyship provide a good deal to engage him, even on May Day."

"'Indeed there is always a good deal to engage him," said Miss Galindo with a wry smile. "Even and perhaps especially on May Day."

"I do hope those boys are not teasing my Bessie."

"Upon my word, Mrs. Forrester, that is perhaps the twentieth time you have expressed such a sentiment," said Miss Pole. "If you are so concerned, why do we not then go to the pasture and look, that you might set your mind at rest?"

"Oh, surely that is unnecessary."

"Indeed it is not, if you are going to spend the afternoon fretting yourself into a state of exhaustion. I propose that we go directly."

"Mama, might I go to see the cow?" asked Abigail Smith, who had overheard the two ladies' conversation.

"Indeed you may not," said Clara Smith. "Firstly I do not wish you to bother Mrs. Forrester, and secondly you'll spoil your dress."

"Oh, there's no bother at all in the child accompanying us, Mrs. Smith, " said Mrs. Forrester kindly. "And my Bessie is so gentle and sweet. Your daughter will come to no harm, and I'll not let her spoil her pretty clothes."

"I am certain you speak truth, but I had rather Abigail remained behind to mind her little brother, " said Clara.

"Oh! Such a pity," said Mrs. Forrester sadly. "Well, then, if you will excuse us, please, we shall return directly." And she set out for the pasture in the company of Miss Pole.

Her ladyship had departed in her carriage, Sir Charles Maulver had done the same, all the Morris dancers had dispersed, and many of the villagers had settled down at the tea tables to take refreshment when a horrific shriek rent the air. Dozens of pairs of eyes turned to behold Mrs. Forrester and Miss Pole, both breathless and greatly agitated, scurrying into the clearing.

Miss Pole glanced wildly among the crowd, searching for someone, anyone, who might assist them, and at once her eyes trained on Mr. Carter. She hurried up to him, outrunning her friend, but it was Mrs. Forrester, right on her heels, who managed to speak first.

"There is a corpse lying in the pasture!"

Someone had fetched chairs and made the two ladies sit down, and someone had thought as well to fetch Mr. Graves, the constable. Dr. Morgan had forced his way through the crowd, with Dr. Harrison and Dr. Marshland close behind him and, almost as an afterthought, Mr. Johnson behind them.

"But what did you see, Mrs. Forrester?" said Mr. Carter, training his eyes on the poor woman and causing her heart to flutter even more than it had been doing.

"Now then, Mr. Carter, I know my office," said Mr. Graves forcefully. "I'll put the questions to the ladies." Turning to Mrs. Forrester, he demanded, "Now then, just what did you see?"

"She saw a body lying in the pasture!" shrieked Miss Pole. "What more is there to say?"

"There is a great deal more to say," began Mr. Carter.

"Thank you, Mr. Carter," said Mr. Graves. He turned back to Mrs. Forrester. "What was in the pasture?"

"Just my cow, Bessie, and -- and a body," said Mrs. Forrester.

"But did you go up to the body, examine it?" asked Mr. Carter.

"No, of course not!" shrieked Miss Pole, as her friend was overcome with tears.

"Then how do you know someone had not been injured, and perhaps at this moment still requires our help?" asked Mr. Carter. A murmur went through the crowd.

"Aye, that's certainly possible," said Mr. Graves. "Maybe the cow kicked him in the head." A few onlookers dared to laugh but stopped when Mrs. Forrester declared indignantly, "My Bessie wouldn't harm a soul."

"That is very true, but there's someone abroad who would," said Miss Pole darkly.

"We shall all be murdered in our beds!" wailed Mrs. Forrester, overcome once more.

"Someone fetch a glass of water from the refreshment tent," bellowed Dr. Morgan, but everyone remained rooted to the spot.

"Calm yourself, Mrs. Forrester," said Mr. Carter. "There is no need to talk so wildly."

"My butler has a musket," said the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson, who had pushed through the crowd and was standing at Mr. Carter's elbow. "Perhaps that might afford us some protection."

"There's no need to talk of firearms, either," said Mr. Carter.

"If you please, Mr. Carter," said Mr. Graves icily. He turned to the Honorable Mrs. Jamieson. "We've no need of weaponry just yet, Mrs. Jamieson.

"But I shall need you to come with me, madam," he said, looking at Mrs. Forrester, "and you as well, Miss Pole. And I shall want Dr. Harrison to examine the body," he added, nodding towards the physician.

"Of course," said Dr. Harrison.

"Shall you not require my services, Mr. Graves?" asked Dr. Morgan plaintively.

"Begging your pardon, Dr. Morgan," said Mr. Graves, "we don't know who's about in the woods around here, and I'd like a strong young fellow by my side."

"Then perhaps I could assist," spoke up Dr. Marshland. "I too am a physician."

"As you wish," said Mr. Graves. "Now, where is Jem Hearne?"

"What do you want with Jem?" said Martha nervously as her husband stepped forward.

"Why, he must fetch the corpse back, and make its coffin," intoned Miss Pole.

"Right," said Mr. Graves. "Get us a cart, and we'll be off."

"I am not fond of hoaxes, Mrs. Forrester," said Mr. Graves as the six of them stood at the fence and gazed across the pasture.

"I'm sure I don't know what has happened, Mr. Graves," said poor Mrs. Forrester, blushing. "There's my Bessie, just as right as rain, and yet there is no body at all. I cannot account for it."

"Perhaps the murderer has carried off his victim, to thwart the law in yet another fashion," said Miss Pole, her eyes surveying the scene. "Oh! Look there! Stop! Stop!"

A figure was running into the woods, and for a moment everyone merely stood watching, unable to speak or to move. Then, as if by agreement, Jack and Frank sprang over the fence and made after the fugitive. Jem Hearne, a good deal too tired to engage in the pursuit of runaway corpses, remained standing at the fence with the ladies and the constable.

It was, Jack thought later, a wise decision on Jem's part. For all that it had been dry of late, he and Frank found crossing the pasture none too easy, and their boots were in a deplorable state by the time they caught up with their quarry. But of course Frank must outrun him, then seize the fugitive and wrestle him to the ground.

It was a young man, a boy, really, perhaps seventeen. He was clearly the worse for drink, and much worse for what had come upon him afterward, and a good deal worse yet for having tumbled face down in Mrs. Forrester's pasture, to lie there for quite some time, with only Bessie for company.

Mr. Graves made a pantomime of bringing charges for trespassing but allowed Mrs. Forrester to humor him into releasing the lad, while Jack and Jem fought manfully against the urge to laugh. Only Frank and Miss Pole remained serious, the one dismayed at the thought of appearing before the village in his current state, the other resolutely determined to remain unamused.

"You will not tell me what happened?" said Mary when Frank and Sophy had departed for home.

"Oh, it was a most miraculous recovery!" said Jack, hoping to draw a smile from her, and failing utterly.

"I see you are determined to tease me."

"Mary, I gave my word to Mr. Graves! He said I was only to say that some poor fellow was injured, but not badly, and was conducted safely home. That's close enough to the truth."

"Though not actually the truth."

"Well, I suppose there's no harm in your knowing more. You won't tell tales."

"Of course not."

"Well, then," said Jack, and he whispered in Mary's ear.

"Is that all? Well, I suppose it's the sort of thing that can happen. But how humiliating!"

"Yes." Jack shifted uneasily from one foot to another. "Mind you, it was all the more humiliating for Frank. I hope Sophy won't be too cross with him."

"No, she can't be angry with him for long. Besides, I think she knew he was miserable enough with Dr. Morgan scolding him, and Helen and Lizzie holding their sides laughing."

"Anyway, everything will be forgotten by tomorrow."

"Indeed it will not, Jack. This is Cranford."

"Mama, I had thought you were to stop at Princess Street and take some refreshment before departing for Manchester. Indeed Miss Matty had her heart set upon it."

"Oh, my dear, you know how difficult the children become when they have been running about all day. Miss Matty will understand when I make my apologies," said Clara Smith. "Now go fetch Abigail to me, and mind you have her properly bid goodbye to the rector and his girls."

Mary, brow furrowed, hurried off to find her little half-sister.

Clara turned to Jack, who was as yet standing by. "There are times, Dr. Marshland, when I think my children run in different directions merely to vex me. Indeed I cannot be easy in my mind until they are all around me."

"My mother is just the same, Mrs. Smith," said Jack kindly. "And surely your husband will be gladdened to see them all coming home to him this evening."

"Oh! He quite dotes on his little brood, though he does worry for them so." Clara hesitated before going on, as if struggling to form the appropriate words. "I must confide in you, Dr. Marshland, that it sometimes troubles me that my children might be left without a home while they are still very young. Of course when I was first wed, I did not concern myself with the difference between my husband's age and mine, but now can think of little else than that he'll be sixty-five when our eldest reaches his majority. Imagine!"

"A man with such a fine family has my respect," said Jack warmly. "And I wish him long life and good health, of course."

"Thank you. And yet I am certain you understand, Dr. Marshland, when I say that wishing won't make it so, and that my worries are not without cause."

"No, of course not."

"It is just that -- and I do not wish to be indelicate, but of course you will understand why I must be so frank -- when it comes time for Mary to wed, there will be very little money to settle upon --"

At that moment Mary returned, leading Abigail by the hand. As she looked from one telltale scarlet face to the other, she wondered who began their conversation, and to what end. But she had no doubt whatever of its subject.

It had been an eventful day, with its share of surprises and disappointments, and yet despite all Miss Matty had retained her good humor, as well as her graciousness. She now approached Jack and Mary to announce that Jem and Martha had already returned home with the baby, but Mr. Carter and Miss Galindo had offered to see the rest of them back.

"Perhaps Dr. Marshland would like to return with us and take some refreshment before he goes back to Manchester."

"I'd like nothing better, Miss Matty, but I'm obliged to call at the rectory, and so I was hoping to escort Miss Smith back by way of the brook, with Helen and Lizzie for company -- that is, if you and Mr. Jenkyns have no objection."

Miss Matty cast a tender glance at Mary and replied, "I've none whatsoever, as long as it is what Mary wishes."

What Mary wished! Jack had no opportunity to discover what Mary wished, of course; there was to be no opportunity for private conversation. Normally he'd not have minded walking back with the little Hutton girls, but this time he sorely needed to talk to Mary, without teasing or banter. That was impossible as long as Helen and Lizzie were brimming with curiosity about what had taken place at the pasture, and Jack felt a perverse satisfaction in denying them the details they craved.

In the end, though, he must take his leave of Mary, and before the eyes of the Huttons. At least he could promise that he should shortly return to Cranford. That much was a certainty.

By the time they reached the rectory it was very late in the day, and Mrs. Sheehan was seeing to some vegetables for the rector's supper. Jack knocked on the kitchen door.

"Mrs. Sheehan."

"Dr. Marshland." Bridey inclined her head.

"I meant to see how you get on."

"Oh, I'm grand, sir."

"Are you?"

"Of course I am! The girls are dear little things, and the master only looks stern. No, I think we shall get on very well, so long as they need me."

"I thought it might suit you."

"It does. It's quiet enough -- well, as quiet as it may be with two girls in the house. And the village is a queer little place."

"Without much to do," said Jack meaningfully, "but talk about the neighbors."

"That's true enough," said Bridey, without emotion, "but surely there's no harm in most of it."

"No, not in most of it, but look after yourself."

"I will. Thank you." As Jack made to go out the door, she added, "So she doesn't live at the rectory, then."

He turned back to face her. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Sheehan."

At that Bridey said not another word, though Jack, as he stepped out the door, could have sworn he heard her snort.

If Edward Carter had been a bear, he ought surely to have been growling by evening. It had been a day as unpredictable as it was trying, and had proved anything but a holiday for him. Not that he had expected a holiday himself, mind you, but it was May Day, and he had hoped that some of the festive spirit, some of the fellow feeling might have affected him. Instead he was decidedly cross.

And Laurie, with whom he'd hoped to have at least a few minutes, had not helped matters much by accepting Miss Matty's invitation. They must rest, they must take some refreshment, insisted Miss Matty. Well, he'd no objection to either, but he doubted very much that he had energy and good humor enough to do so in her sitting-room, making polite conversation. He returned the trap and made his way to Princess Street, resolving to extract himself and Laurie from the Jenkyns home as soon as it might be politely attempted.

He rapped on the door and was promptly admitted by Martha Hearne, who looked surprisingly bright-eyed, given the hour of the day and the presence of the baby in the house. She conducted him to the sitting-room and announced, with what seemed suspiciously like a flourish, "Mr. Carter, madam."

There was Miss Matty, seated on the sofa, and beside her was Laurie. In her arms was an infant, and Edward was momentarily speechless.

"Mr. Carter!" said Miss Matty brightly. "Come and meet Matilda."

"Matilda?" he echoed.

"If you please, Mr. Carter," said Martha, "that's my child." She look the baby in her arms with practiced ease, lifting her elbow just slightly so that he might enjoy a better view of Matilda's drowsy face.

"And she's Miss Matty's little goddaughter, Edward," said Laurie.

"You must be very proud," said Edward, to no one in particular, and at that both Martha and Miss Matty chuckled appreciatively.

"Right. I'll put her in her cradle, and see to the tea."

Martha vanished out the door with Matilda, and Miss Matty rose to her feet. "Do sit down, Mr. Carter," she said, gesturing to the sofa. "Peter will be arriving presently. He so wants to speak with you."

When Miss Matty too had disappeared, Edward, in a state of total bewilderment, at last took his place on the sofa.

"I am sorry, Edward," said a soft voice beside him. "It was, perhaps, too much to accept the invitation, after the day you have had. But Miss Matty wanted to acknowledge your kindness -- indeed she has been very kind to me as well -- and so I had not the heart to refuse."

He turned to look at her. "I've not had more than a word or two with you all day," said Edward, putting his arm about her waist. "I've barely seen you."

"You must admit it has been a most eventful day -- cows and corpses and all manner of things." Laurie laughed softly against his shoulder. "And I am exhausted."

"And well you should be, up till all hours of the night. I hope you don't mean to continue this way, or you'll --"

He realized suddenly that she was yet leaning right into his shoulder and had dropped off to sleep while he had been speaking. So much for minding what he had to say! But he had to admit it was pleasant to sit there with her comfortably resting against him. Indeed he might have been content to remain thus for hours.

"Upon my word, Miss Matty," said Miss Pole, frowning. "It may well be May Day, but I had no notion that propriety had been so well and truly defeated, and in your own sitting-room! Miss Smith and I opened the door, and what should we see but Miss Galindo fast asleep, and Mr. Carter next to her, wide awake, with his arm about her waist. What should Deborah say?"

Miss Matty smiled, her eyes misty. "I think that Deborah should say it is the most proper place in the world for his arm to be."

To be continued...

Note: Miss Matty's famous exchange with Deborah on the delicate subject of decorum occurs in "The Captain," chapter 1 of Elizabeth Gaskell's Cranford.