The following was inspired by characters in the 2007 BBC series Cranford, which was adapted from Cranford, Mr. Harrison's Confessions, and My Lady Ludlow, all by the Victorian novelist Elizabeth Gaskell. I have no connection whatsoever to Mrs. Gaskell or the Beeb. The Victorians are another matter.

Purists will note that several of the characters, notably Miss Galindo and Dr. Marshland, owe more to the BBC series and my own imagination than to Mrs. Gaskell, and a few are even outright inventions.

This chapter's title comes from a phrase in chapter 4 of the novel Cranford.

Chapter 29: Submitted to Fate and Love

It was as fine a piece of work as he'd done, thought Jem, and even if no one had told him as much, he'd still have been proud. But his heart was secretly bursting as he saw Mr. Carter run his hands over the polished wood and heard him murmuring his approval.

"This part here will hold your crutches, sir," said Jem helpfully "So you'll always have them to hand. None of this clattering about of a morning, and disturbing Mrs. Carter," he added with a chuckle.

"It is most ingenious, what you've done. I've never seen the like of it," said Mr. Carter. "And it's very finely finished as well."

"Thank you, sir. And I thought to make it fit for a tall fellow -- no close, cramped thing such as might do for someone a head shorter, but a bed long and broad enough for you to be as comfortable as you please."

"No, it will do very well indeed," said Mr. Carter, examining the footboard, "and you've made very quick work of it, for all the care you've taken."

"Sir, I could hardly let you get wed with everything at sixes and sevens, and no proper bed!" And Jem chuckled again.

The laugh died in his throat when he saw Miss Galindo standing in the doorway of the room. "Forgive my intrusion, Mr. Hearne," she said gently. Poor Jem was blushing now at the thought he'd been joking about beds within earshot of a lady, and in the company of the man she was about to wed.

"It seems my old shelves have been placed in the sitting-room, Edward," she said, addressing Mr. Carter, "very nearly alongside the handsome new ones Mr. Hearne has constructed," she added, smiling at Jem. "But did we not think to put the old shelves, and my books with them, in the study?"

"I thought it best to have them placed near your easy chair, and the sitting-room will be a good deal more comfortable. Besides, what is there to occupy you in the study?"

Jem detected the beginning of a squabble, and he didn't have long to wait for proof.

"Why, Edward, I must keep the household accounts," she said mildly, "though perhaps it matters not which room I use for that task. But I had very much thought to peruse your collection of books at will." Her eyes grew mischievous and she added, almost under her breath, "Perhaps there are works you wish to conceal from my sight."

Jem watched with great sympathy as Mr. Carter turned bright red. "Indeed I wish to conceal nothing," he said, rather more strongly than he needed to. "All my worldly goods are at your disposal."

"As mine are at yours," said Miss Galindo, with a nod, and a smile of decided contentment. "Then we are agreed. My books will join yours in the study."

"Laurentia," said Mr. Carter, lowering his voice, "might we not discuss this later?"

"I thought it most practical to see to the arrangements now, when the men are carrying my belongings into the house. We shall not have such assistance later."

"In due course you will have leisure enough to arrange everything to your liking. For now let us simply bring it all inside directly and fret about the order another time."

Jem Hearne knew nothing at all of diplomacy, but even he could recognize an unfortunate choice of words. He was not astonished at the chilly note in Miss Galindo's usually warm, musical voice voice, nor by the rising color in her cheeks as she said, "I do not particularly relish the thought of wasting my leisure with fretting, Edward, nor had I any notion of preventing the orderly transfer of my goods to your house. But I had thought to share in giving directions, if only to save labor."

At that Mr. Carter, looking decidedly uncomfortable, turned to Jem. "Please excuse us for but a moment." He slipped his hand beneath Miss Galindo's elbow and escorted her into the hallway to conduct the rest of their discussion, or argument, as Jem tried not to listen.

Perhaps it was always this way, he thought, when a couple married. After all, he and Martha had had a series of steady rows, beginning with their engagement. And he'd wager Prince Albert himself had squabbled with the queen right from the first.

"So you never thought Mr. Carter's study concealed some dark secret," said Mrs. Morgan at the tea table the following afternoon, after hearing an account of the furniture placement in the Carter home. "Though now Jem Hearne must wonder if it does."

"It was terribly wicked of me to say it," admitted Miss Galindo, with an unrepentant smile. "I simply cannot resist an opportunity for teasing.

"But if Edward has secrets, that is in itself a secret from me. Indeed I do not think it is in his nature to do anything that will not bear scrutiny. He quite despises subterfuge and trickery."

"But that is all to the good, Laurentia," said Mrs. Morgan. "Lady Ludlow would never have entrusted her estate to his care if he were not an upright man." She added, just touch slyly, "Nor would you be doing the same with your life and happiness."

At that Miss Galindo blushed. "No, that is true. Edward is nothing if not trustworthy. It is only that he at times proves too masterful," she said, "and prefers issuing a command to brooking a discussion."

"But Mr. Carter is accustomed to giving commands, Laurentia," said Mrs. Morgan softly, "on her ladyship's authority and his own."

"Then you think I ought to have kept silent?" asked Miss Galindo, her eyes betraying doubt.

"No," said Mrs. Morgan. "But it is no surprise when a man's profession follows him home."

"And you, of all women, must know that!" replied Miss Galindo. "No, I do not think I might ever forget that Edward is Lady Ludlow's estate manager, any more than you'd forget your husband has been the only physician most of us have known these many years."

"Well, not the only physician," said Mrs. Morgan wistfully. "At least not now."

"Dr. Harrison's presence, Isobel," said Miss Galindo warmly, "diminishes not one whit the respect Dr. Morgan is accorded, or the comfort his patients feel at the sound of his voice, the sight of his kind face."

"He does have such a warm, pleasing voice," said Mrs. Morgan. "It was one of the first things I noted in him.

"But he was meant to be a physician. Laurentia. It's in his very bones."

"Or in his voice," teased Miss Galindo.

"Do you not think sometimes," said Mrs. Morgan, with unexpected gravity, "that a man's profession means a good deal more to him than all else, perhaps even than wife and children?"

"I confess I have never seriously pondered that question," said Miss Galindo. "My father was not required to seek an active profession, though, truth to tell, he took an interest in a good many things.

"But I do not believe," she added quietly, "that anything mattered more to him than did my mother, and brothers and sister, and me." At the thought her eyes filled with tears, but she continued, more briskly, "As for Edward, no one can mistake his devotion to his work, and yet he too is uncommonly interested in the world, in ideas, in the well-being of his fellow man." She gave an ironic smile. "Indeed it is possible that he spares a thought even for me."

"I'm certain his every thought is of you, " said Mrs. Morgan kindly.

"Perhaps it is when we are quarreling."

"However can you make sport of such a thing?" said Mrs. Morgan with gentle indignation. "Surely you do not doubt his regard."

"No," said Miss Galindo, at once quite as serious as her friend. "It is just that of late he is so wholly consumed by preparations -- for the school, the wedding, our own home. I really ought not to expect him to be otherwise, for he does nothing by half-measures, but it is quite exhausting.

"And there is something else, Isobel. I always thought my rooms in town quite austere, and believed I should have been glad to leave them behind. And yet I when I was removing the books from the shelves and placing my belongings into boxes and trunks, I was overcome by a curious sense of melancholy. Yet it is not that I am bereft, or that I doubt my decision to marry Edward."

"It is always so when change comes," said Mrs. Morgan. "It was with many tears that I made my own preparations for the journey to Cranford."

"But you were then a widow," said Miss Galindo, uttering the word hesitantly. "It was a brave thing you did, to come here and begin afresh. Many a woman might not have attempted it."

"Oh, I don't know that I was brave," said Mrs. Morgan in her soft Scottish accent. "And I had my good angels who helped me along the way. But perhaps it was not so very different from what you do now -- beginning anew."

"And perhaps I too have my own good angels," said Miss Galindo. She added, sighing, "I dare say I shall have need enough of them!"

When she had stepped down from the carriage, she curtsied before her ladyship, as she had done so many times before. But on this occasion Lady Ludlow's step was almost sprightly as she came forward to welcome her guest.

"Laurentia," she said, smiling, taking her hand. "I am so glad you are come."

"Lady Ludlow, I cannot begin to thank you for your kindness," said Miss Galindo.

"My dear, you are most welcome," said her ladyship. She added confidentially, as they proceeded into the house, "I should like to think your parents would smile upon this plan, and allow me the privileges that are rightly theirs."

"My parents, Lady Ludlow, should have been conscious of the honor, and felt nothing but gratitude," said Miss Galindo, giving a smile of her own.

"Only gratitude?" Lady Ludlow said. "Why, Laurentia, I should think your mother would have wished to instruct you in the duties of a wife, and your father to take pains to become acquainted with Mr. Carter's character, and satisfy himself as to your prospects for happiness. But I would assure him that I have already fulfilled the latter two tasks."

"And the first?"

"Oh, Laurentia," said Lady Ludlow. "We cannot not possibly do justice to such a subject during the briefest of walks. But perhaps over tea we might make a beginning."

Yes, he was at his desk, looking as he always did, and when he heard her approach, he rose to his feet. For a heartbeat he seemed very much the Mr. Carter of old, offering a smile that vanished as swiftly as it had come.

But of course he was by no means the Mr. Carter of old.

"You have arrived then, Laurie," he said, and she wondered at how his very voice now caused her to tremble with anticipation.

"I have indeed, and hope I caused Lady Ludlow little more upheaval than I did you the other day."

At that he smiled again and actually rolled his eyes."I fear you will find Hanbury Court a good deal more comfortable than our own home, and prefer to stop with my lady."

He came around the desk and stood very close to her, yet did not take her in his arms but looked intently at her face, particularly her lips. She sensed that had they not been under constant threat of interruption, by staff or even Lady Ludlow herself, he might have greeted her in his usual fashion. Indeed she wished he might attempt it, whatever decorum decreed.

"It is a curious thing, Edward," said Laurie. "Now I am neither at home nor among strangers, neither on a journey nor settled. Indeed it is possible your dear, familiar office is the best place for me at present, and that too is astonishing, as there was a time when I felt did not belong here, and you certainly thought the same."

"I do not think so anymore! But I wish very much that you feel as comfortable in every room of our home as you do in this office."

"Though perhaps not your study, Edward," she said. "The study ought to be left to your exclusive use."

At that his eyes opened wide with astonishment, and he said quickly, "I have thought the better of that, Laurie. You must come and go as you see fit, and I was in earnest when I said all my worldly goods are yours. By the vows I shall make to you, they are, and the study is yours as well."

"I too mean to keep my marriage vows, and I spoke just now in earnest. Edward, it is enough that you had no choice when you admitted me to this very office. At home you ought to have one room wholly at your disposal, perhaps even to enjoy a respite from me and from any children we might have."

At that his expression changed yet again, his brow furrowing, his lips settling into a frown. Before he could speak again, Laurie added quietly, "I know we have spoken very little of children, and yet it is possible that we may --"

"Laurie, let us not begin making plans too hastily. I've found -- well, 'man proposes, God disposes.'" He had turned away from her and was pacing across the room.

"Edward, I am sorry. I did not stop to consider that it might hurt you to think again of --"

"Laurie." He stopped his pacing and came to stand before her. "You must never fear to speak to me of anything," he said gently. "And I hope -- I wish that we -- well, let us discuss it at length later."

"Yes."

"I fear we have other concerns now," said Edward, sighing. "I must fetch Harry and take him to Johnson's."

At that Laurie smiled. "Poor Harry!"

"Hm. Poor Harry indeed!"

"Harry, we must make haste."

Harry had discarded his smock and put on his jacket and cap, and now Mr. Carter, hat on head and walking stick in hand, was conducting an inspection.

"Show me your hands. Fingernails too. Very good."

"I've been doing everything you've taught me, sir," said Harry, almost reproachfully.

"Yes, I see that," said Mr. Carter, stopping to examine Harry's well-worn boots. "Now then, let us be on our way."

When they had entered Johnson's Universal Stores Mr. Carter put a firm hand on Harry's back and steered him in the direction of Mr. Johnson himself. The man was obsequious and overbearing at the same time, and could be trying to one's patience, but now was not the time to approach Mrs. Johnson, especially not after the casual malice she had displayed the previous autumn, when the gossip about Laurie had been at its worst.

"Ah, Mr. Carter, I see you have brought the boy, and just in time, too. Everything was delivered yesterday." Mr. Johnson produced a new coat and shook it out. "Now then, young fellow, take off that thing you're wearing and let's get some proper clothes on your back." Harry shrugged off his jacket and submitted to the shopkeeper's attentions, and spoke not a word, though he cast sullen glances Mr. Carter's way.

Mr. Johnson pulled Harry's shoulders back. "There now. That looks very fine indeed."

"It must do," said Mr. Carter. "Harry, you have grown so much of late, I dare say this will fit you just long enough for you to wear it to church the once."

"And the trousers, Mr. Carter," said Mr. Johnson, displaying the pair that had been delivered the previous day. Harry's face turned pink, and he turned to Mr. Carter in mute supplication, evidently fearing Mr. Johnson would force him to put on the trousers then and there.

"Yes. Well, we shall have the tailor see to those. As I said, Harry's grown so much of late." Mr. Carter offered the boy a smile, which Harry did not return.

"And the boots, Mr. Carter," said Mr. Johnson, producing the new pair with a flourish.

"Oh, very fine indeed."

"Will you needing much else, Mr. Carter?" said Mr. Johnson. "I dare say you'll want a blacking brush and a hairbrush, and some soap as well," he added, studying the back of Harry's neck.

"A blacking brush? Oh, by all means, Mr. Johnson, and some sweets too, I should think," said Mr. Carter, eyeing a display of comfits. "What do you say, Harry? Do you think Malachi would --"

He turned around. Harry had gone.

It fairly made Laurie's heart ache to see the parcels Edward had brought from Johnson's Universal Stores -- parcels that now lay, as though dejected themselves, on her desk in the office.

As for Edward, he had returned looking as though he'd received a particularly stinging rebuke, and it would have been a comfort to hear him bark a command or even chide her for some fault, or provide any hint of his former confidence.

"I cannot account for it," he said now. "I saw that Harry was annoyed -- I don't care to deal with Mr. Johnson a moment longer than necessary myself -- but I did not think he would flee. He is not given to such fits of temper."

"No," said Laurie. "He is uncommonly amiable, and usually takes such pride in pleasing you. And yet --"

"And yet?" prompted Edward.

"We have been so consumed with our own arrangements and plans," she said, "that we have spent but little time on Harry's lessons.

"Quite apart from that, it must prove difficult for him to hear talk of weddings when his own father is bereaved. As for Harry himself," she added quietly, "I do not think either of us can disregard how strongly he feels the loss of his mother."

"I did not intend any coldness," murmured Edward, looking ashamed of himself.

"Indeed not," said Laurie, laying a hand on his arm. "Edward, I know how fond you are of Harry, and it grieves me to see how deeply he has hurt you. But Harry's heart is wounded as well -- forgive me; I know I need not tell you as much -- and I do not think it is in his power to continue as before."

At that Edward sighed deeply. "Harry has seemed very like a son," he said. "It is wrong of me to say that, and Job Gregson should be very displeased to hear it, quite rightly. I have placed such hopes in the boy, but they were not mine to claim."

"Edward, surely you do not reproach yourself for the kindness you have shown Harry."

"Not for anything I have done for Harry, but for my own pride, my selfishness."

"You are a proud man, Edward, but I see no selfishness in you. Indeed you have served the boy more kindly than has his own father --"

"But I am not Harry's father, Laurie," said Edward harshly. "His own father serves him ill, yet it matters not. Harry owes his duty to Job Gregson, not to me.

"But if Gregson resents my influence on Harry, I must confess in return my own bitterness that he has such a son, while I -- while Katherine and I were disappointed of our hopes, not once but many times." The admission seemed to exhaust him, and for a moment he stood silent, head bowed.

He looked up to see tears in her eyes. "Forgive me, Laurie," he said. "I did not mean to make you weep."

"We said we would speak of it," she said. "We must speak of it. But I wish I had not teased you before about using your study as a sanctuary."

"Oh, that was entirely fair on your part," sighed Edward. "You saw how fiercely I guarded it."

"Yes, and I am no stranger to your fierceness," she said, smiling through tears, "and I dare say Harry might say the same. But we both of us know a great deal of your gentleness." And with that she laid her head on his breast and felt his arms wrap about her.

She did not care that they were standing in his office at Hanbury, where they might be interrupted by staff or even Lady Ludlow herself. Indeed she should not have cared if they had at that moment been in the High Street in Cranford, for every passer-by to see.

It seemed an age since Job had played the children a tune after supper, but truth to tell, he hadn't the heart for music these days. It meant the evenings were rather dull, perhaps especially for Sarah, who made her feelings plain about that as she did nearly all else.

But if Job wasn't much bothered with Sarah's feelings -- she'd been a sullen girl, for the most part, ever since she'd arrived -- he very much dreaded nightfall himself, and had as a consequence taken to asking Harry to read aloud to them each evening, when Malachi, and Jemina and Keziah too, asked him for a story -- perhaps a bit from the Bible, or out of one of those books that came from Carter, or from Miss Galindo.

Miss Galindo. She hadn't been able to hide her feelings, not completely, when Carter had brought her to see them after Bella had died. Her eyes had taken in the state of the house, the children's dirty faces, and Job saw in her face what she dared not speak with her lips.

He ought to have scorned Miss Galindo from the first, ought to have disliked the way she spoke – surely she belonged up at Hanbury Court, having tea with Lady Ludlow, and not in Hareman's Lane – but when he heard her voice, so like a sad tune on the fiddle, and her words so gentle, as gentle to him as they were to his children, he felt wonder instead of rage.

Such a woman was going to wed Carter, and she'd made a friend of Harry as well – no, more than a friend, for it was plain to see the boy thought the world of her.

Indeed Harry had told him much about Miss Galindo, and if he hadn't known his son never lied, he should not have believed a word of it. Miss Galindo was the great friend of Lady Ludlow herself, Harry said, and yet kept no carriage and horses, but made her way on foot from one end of the village to the other, and up to Hanbury whenever she was wanted. She went to Mr. Carter's office three days a week, casting up the accounts and writing the letters, and besides that kept a shop in town, and sewed caps and trimmed bonnets for all the women.

This Miss Galindo, pretty as a little bird – very like his Bella in that way, Job thought – had agreed to marry Carter. Before the month was out she'd stand in the church in Cranford and take his hand and promise to do his bidding, to bear his children, if children there'd be this time.

Job ought to have hated the both of them for it all. Yet when he'd looked into Miss Galindo's sad brown eyes, any anger left within his heart had quietly faded.

And when he thought of Carter, who'd buried one wife and then spent weeks abed himself after that Harrison fellow had cut off his leg, it was just the same. He ought to have borne a grudge, for hadn't Carter nearly stolen his son away? And yet Job found it ever more difficult to dislike him.

Harry had been reading to them from the Bible, this time the bit about God making the heavens and the earth and all the animals. It hadn't been until Harry got to the part about God taking the man's rib and forming a woman out of it that Sarah had left off yawning and complaining, and listened quietly enough.

When Harry had finished his chapters, Job ordered Sarah to put the little ones to bed, and for a moment he was left alone with his eldest boy.

"You read that very well, Harry. I shouldn't wonder if the rector made you his clerk." Harry snorted at that, and Job continued, more kindly, "No, it's true. Any road, what you read us tonight, about the man and his wife -- maybe that'll be the lesson on the day Mr. Carter gets wed."

"I don't know, Dada."

"No? Well, you'll know soon enough. It's next week, isn't it? And hasn't he promised you a new suit of clothes for it, too?"

"Yes, Dada, and boots. He's got them."

"He's got them?"

"I left them with him," said Harry sullenly.

"Why, you must bring them home with you. They're not much use to Carter."

"I don't want to go, Dada."

"Don't want to go? After teasing me to let you, and Mr. Carter asking my leave?"

"I shouldn't go," said Harry stubbornly. "It would be wrong now that Mum is --"

"Don't you talk about your mother!" Job was fairly shaking with anger. He turned away for a moment. It had been painful to think of Harry in his new suit of clothes, walking through the very churchyard where his mother lay buried. And yet when Harry had first come to them with the news of Mr. Carter's wedding, Bella had been very nearly as pleased as the boy, and fairly set her heart on letting him go.

Now Job turned to Harry and spoke in as stern a voice as he could muster. "I won't have you hiding away or moping about on the day Mr. Carter gets wed. You'll do just as I bid you and put on that suit of clothes and go to church."

"Yes, Dada."

"A man's not made to live alone, Harry," Job went on, stabbing a finger at the Bible. "Mind you remember that."

Harry put off his smock and got his jacket and cap from the peg. His shoulders ached, and so did his head. He had lain awake a long time last night, thinking about what Dada had said. Yet Harry still didn't know what he might say to Mr. Carter when he met him. Surely he must still be very angry that --

"Harry."

He stopped, almost tripping over his own boots. Miss Galindo was standing just outside the door of the cowshed.

Harry could feel his face burning. "Hello, Miss." He pulled off his cap again.

"Hello, Harry," said Miss Galindo, giving him her dimpled smile. "Might I walk with you a little?"

"It's out of your way, Miss."

"Not truly, Harry, for I am staying at Hanbury until the wedding."

Harry said nothing at that, but knew that his face had gone red once more.

"Might we walk together, Harry?"

He nodded, ashamed to make any other reply. Mr. Carter must have told Miss Galindo what he had done, but surely she was too kind to scold him for it. The very thought made him feel worse.

"Harry, perhaps you aren't glad to see me just now, and I shouldn't blame you."

Harry turned to Miss Galindo in confusion. "I'm always glad to see you, Miss."

"And I you, Harry," she said gently. "But we have seen very little of each other in the last month, and there have been no lessons, at least not proper ones, for that time. I am sorry, Harry. I did not intend for it to be so."

"You're getting wed to Mr. Carter," said Harry gravely. "Sarah says that's more important than any lessons." Out of the corner of his eye he could see Miss Galindo smiling again.

"Perhaps not, Harry! Indeed Mr. Carter and I very much hope we shall still have all our friends after we are married, given all the trouble they've gone to for our sakes." Lowering her voice, she added, "Mr. Carter seems to be ordering everyone about, but I think Lady Ludlow herself will have to remind him to come to church on his wedding day."

At that Harry smiled, smiled as he hadn't in a long while.

"Go on, Miss! He'll be there at sunrise."

Miss Galindo stopped walking and turned to look at him. "Do you think so, Harry?"

He saw the tears glistening in her eyes and burst out, "Please don't cry, Miss." He never wanted to make her cry again.

"No, Harry, you've made me very happy, so very happy." They walked on, Miss Galindo smiling once more, Harry increasingly puzzled by this turn of events.

"Well, then, Harry," she said at last, "would you come as well, see to it that Mr. Carter does indeed come to church? We can hardly get married if you are not there to hear our vows."

"Of course I'll come, Miss."

"I am truly grateful for that, Harry.

"But I've forgotten something." Miss Galindo reached into her bag and pulled out a small parcel. "Your sweets. Mr. Carter meant to give them to you the other day."

Harry turned pink. "Thank you, Miss."

"Of course you'll want to share them with Malachi, and your sisters too --"

"Don't you like sweets, Miss?" asked Harry, offering her the bag. "Mr. Carter might have given them to you."

Miss Galindo blushed prettily. "I will tell you something in confidence, Harry."

"Confidence?"

"A secret. I'm going to tell you something that I would not tell anyone else.

"When Mr. Carter is very sorry for something he's said or done, he brings me flowers."

"Does he do that often, then?" said Harry.

"Not often, no. But Mr. Carter is an honest man, and he knows there are times when he must confess a mistake."

"And then you're not cross with him anymore?"

"Harry, I will tell you another secret. By the time I see Mr. Carter, I have always stopped being cross."

There was no reason in the world, thought Edward Carter, that a bunch of wildflowers ought to be lying on his desk in the morning, and their appearance should have ever after remained a mystery were it not for the note that accompanied them.

Mr. Carter I am very sorry. Miss Galindo says you are not cross with me but I do beg your pardon sir and hope you will forgive me because I still want to see you get wed if you will let me.

Harry

All that day the Hanbury staff found themselves discomfited by the sight of Mr. Carter smiling and indeed chuckling to himself as he went about his work. No one, however, dared to ask him what was the matter, and most put it down to a state of nervous agitation before his wedding day.

He'd never in his life met Miss Deborah Jenkyns, and yet her presence seemed to follow him that afternoon as he made his way through the streets of Manchester. "Speculation is the enemy of calm," Mary had more than once said to him, quoting Miss Jenkyns, and at that he could fairly imagine that formidable lady drawing herself up to full height and proclaiming those words before her sister and indeed all the ladies of Cranford, who surely were not made of such stern stuff as she.

God knew what Miss Jenkyns would have made of Jack, but in his heart he blessed her for providing a motto that steadied his nerves this afternoon. He didn't know why he'd been summoned to the office, and not to the house itself, to be welcomed as guest, perhaps invited to dine with the family. No, there was something cold and businesslike in this whole proceeding, and he'd been fairly driving himself mad imagining all the reasons he might be subjected to an interview in this fashion.

Speculation is the enemy of calm, Dr. Marshland, he could almost hear Miss Jenkyns intone from beyond the grave.

Well, then. Jack found the street and stopped at a door to read the brass nameplate.

David V. Smith, Esq., it read, in a fluid, dashing script.

Jack drew in a breath. Now was the time to be bold, even if he must be deferential – no easy task, that. He pushed open the door.

With as near his accustomed smile as he could manage, he nodded to the clerk within.

"Dr. Marshland to see Mr. Smith."

The man who emerged from the inner office was a fine-looking fellow, perhaps fifty or so years of age, trim and slightly taller than Jack. He had light brown hair threaded with grey, and wore a pair of spectacles fixed on his very straight nose. His face as a consequence had a serious, scholarly aspect, not unpleasing in itself, but still decidedly stern.

He spoke first, of course. "Dr. Marshland, is it?"

"Yes, Mr. Smith."

"Come in, then." And Jack's heart sank at the brusqueness of the reception. Still, he was determined to see this through. "Thank you very much for receiving me, sir."

"Of course." Mr. Smith cleared his throat. "God knows I could hardly do otherwise!" He turned to his clerk. "Mr. Tarbell, pray keep the hordes at bay for the next hour or so, will you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Dr. Marshland and I are not to be disturbed." And with that he led Jack into his office and shut the door behind them.

She was truly grateful Peter had come home again. At morning when she awoke and at night before she fell asleep she fervently thanked God for bringing him safely back to Cranford. Why, if only Deborah had lived to see Peter's return, their happiness ought to have been complete.

He was always kind, and ever in a good humor. Indeed his very presence brightened her spirits. She had known such sorrow, and for so long, and in those times Mary and faithful Martha had been her only solace. Now there was Peter, and there was Jem, and there was even the infant Matilda, and it seemed as though the household was flooded with sunshine and laughter that very nearly displaced what shadows and tears had come before.

And yet there were moments when Miss Matty felt a guilty nostalgia for those evenings when Mary and she had the leisure of sitting up late to exchange confidences, read letters, recount tales of their lives. It was true there had been tears enough in those times too, as she'd unburdened herself of one secret sorrow or another from the past, giving all into Mary's safekeeping. Dear Mary! Matty had very much felt the need of such a faithful friend in those months following Deborah's death, and before Peter's return.

But now it appeared their positions were reversed, and Mary herself perhaps needed the leisure, and the privacy, of an evening spent solely in Miss Matty's company, to confide her own secrets and consider her own dilemmas.

And dilemmas there clearly were, even for steady, sensible Mary, since she and her young man had formed their attachment. Mary of course did not call it by that name, but on May Day there had been no hiding the truth from her stepmother, who had the eyes of a hawk and very decided opinions about matches.

Miss Matty closed her eyes and could see again the events of that day. Though there had been very little said, at least in her hearing, she had seen Mrs. Smith's agitation, Dr. Marshland's determined cheerfulness, and Mary's own struggle to remain calm at their unexpected and decidedly awkward meeting.

It broke Matty's heart to see Mary grieved in any way, and not simply because of their friendship. No, surely her own Mama should have wanted Matty to provide wise guidance in such a circumstance.

But was she equal to it? Mary herself surely did not lack for courage, and Matty had always proven especially timid in matters of the heart. Yet she must not fail her young friend now, not when she so needed the warm encouragement of one who would have done anything to secure her happiness.

Extravagance.

It seemed shameful to expend a candle on reading when she was alone in her bedroom, especially at this season, when the days were longer. Besides, it was their household custom to gather each evening, to read or talk by shared light before they must retire to their several rooms.

But on this evening sleep would not come, and the weather was uncommonly warm, and so she must sit up in her bed, the covers off, and distract herself into state of sleepiness.

Distraction, let alone slumber, steadfastly refused to overtake her. She could not forget the letters, three of them, in three entirely different hands, that had arrived for her and now lay on the bed. She had read each repeatedly, and given much thought to their disparate contents, until a most vexing headache had resulted. She still knew not what to think.

Perhaps relief would come with other thoughts, innocent and diverting thoughts -- of the white rose Miss Matty had placed in the vase on her nightstand, for example, or of the pictures Miss Galindo had drawn on May Day.

Mary left the bed and went to collect the sketches. There was the image of herself with Rachel -- such a tender drawing; she hadn't known Miss Galindo possessed the talent -- and there was Jack, with his accustomed smile, his untidy dark hair and --

There came a tapping from outside her room. "Mary," said a dear, familiar voice. "Are you quite well?"

Mary gently opened the door. "Do not worry, Miss Matty. I am not ill, only wakeful."

"I saw your light and thought you must be yet awake and stirring." Miss Matty too was dressed for bed, and incautiously burning her precious candle away at this hour of the night. The sight tore at Mary's heart, and she opened the door wide to usher Miss Matty inside the room.

"Forgive me, Miss Matty. I did not mean to disturb your rest."

"Oh, no!" said her friend, with a little chuckle. "I am quite as wakeful as you are, it seems." Seeing the candle burning on the nightstand, she delicately extinguished her own light.

"I thought to read until I grew drowsy, but I have read quite enough this day," said Mary.

"Are your eyes troubling you? Oh! I see you have been admiring Miss Galindo's pictures." Matty smiled as she looked down at the portrait of Mary with the child. "Deborah always said that upon retiring one ought to occupy the mind with good thoughts and words, but I think beautiful pictures might serve just as well." She studied the sketch of Mary and Rachel. "How well you look. It causes me to think of --"

"What does it cause you to think of?" prompted Mary gently, when it seemed Miss Matty could not continue.

"There is something holy about it," said Miss Matty at last. As if to escape the subject, she turned quickly to the drawing of Jack Marshland and studied it in its turn. "It is rare," she said at last, "that an artist renders a subject as he truly is."

Mary smiled. "Yes, Miss Galindo must be as observant as she is talented."

"Indeed she must." Miss Matty turned to her and said softly, "Mary, I own that it moves me very much to see Mr. Carter and Miss Galindo together, after the great sorrow each has known."

"Each?"

"Yes. One never utters a word about Mr. Carter without the proper respect, and yet I more than once heard it said that he was a changed man after the death of his wife. There were no children, you see, and he was so utterly alone.

"As for Miss Galindo, she lost all her family, and her circumstances were reduced as well, and the worse for having no offers of marriage -- not until now, of course.

"But it quite lifts my heart to think that two such souls have at last found each other, and the comfort and help that that affords."

"Perhaps suffering serves to unite two loving hearts," said Mary warmly.

Matty smiled, a little sadly. "It may also serve to divide them, my dear. I do not doubt that it took courage for Mr. Carter to resolve to marry again, and for Miss Galindo to accept him. Grief may close the heart quite as easily as it opens it.

"But I ought not to speak to you of grief," said Miss Matty vaguely. "Not now." She looked down again at the sketches. "Mary, dear, it has meant a great deal to me to have you here."

"Meant?"

"Oh, do not mistake my meaning," said Miss Matty warmly. "I should like very much for you to regard this as your home quite as much as it is mine, and that is not intended as a slight to your Papa and stepmother."

"Miss Matty, I can say with all my heart that Cranford is fully as dear to me as any place I have known, perhaps more so, and not only because it was my mother's home," said Mary, with a great deal of emotion. "It could not have been without the friendship and kindness you and your sister and brother have so freely given to me."

At that Matty could not speak for a few moments but put a hand up to her mouth as she endeavored to compose herself.

"Thank you, my dear," she said at last, so softly it cost Mary an effort to hear the words.

"But you are young," continued Miss Matty. "You are young, and I should not like for you to feel restricted in any fashion."

"Restricted?"

"Or constrained, perhaps. That is, I do not wish for you to remain here in Cranford out of a sense of duty.

"Why, Mary! Mary, dear, whatever is wrong?"

To be continued…

Note:

"Beware of bickering about little things. Your husband returns from his labors with his mind absorbed in business. In his dealings with his employees, he is in the habit of giving command and of being obeyed. In his absent-mindedness he does not realize, possibly, the change from business to his home, and the same dictatorial spirit may possess him in the domestic circle."

Advice from Thomas Edie Hill in his Manual of Social and Business Forms, republished in the 20th century under the title Never Give a Lady a Restive Horse. Professor Hill obviously had met his fair share of Mr. Carters.