The following was inspired by the BBC's Cranford, which was adapted from Cranford, Mr. Harrison's Confessions, and My Lady Ludlow, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. I have no connection to either the BBC or Mrs. Gaskell, and have taken all manner of liberties with the canon.

Many thanks to everyone who is faithfully following this story, especially everyone posting reviews and offering encouragement. Hearing from you means a great deal to me.

And special thanks to Siggy for giving me the go-ahead to include a scene astonishingly similar to one in chapter 24 of the Ashes to Ashes fanfic "The Rage of Angels." I swear neither of us knew what the other was writing an ocean away, or how Gene Hunt and Edward Carter are, at times, thinking as one man...

"Every moment of their lives is a life-giving to one another." -- Caryll Houselander, The Reed of God

Chapter 32: This Have I Done for My True Love

"I do believe it rained all throughout the night, Edward," said Laurie, looking out the window.

"It did," said Edward, in the midst of putting away his razor. "I heard rain against the roof and windows well into the night. Did it wake you?"

"Once or twice, but the sound was comforting, and I drifted back to sleep. Indeed it is always so," said Laurie in a low voice. "Especially when I am cozily indoors, and all is well.

"What is it, Edward?"

He was as yet gazing at her, and smiling. "I hope you had pleasant dreams."

"Oddly, I remember no dreams." She turned to look out the window once more. "But the world itself seems a very pleasant place this morning," she said, sighing. "So lush and green."

"You look wonderful yourself," said Edward, almost shyly.

"Though hardly tidy," murmured Laurie, watching her husband as he buttoned his waistcoat.

"It suits you," said Edward, looking back at her.

The night before Laurie had unpinned her hair, then plaited it in a loose braid, and this morning she looked endearingly girlish and decidedly less prim. On rising she'd wrapped herself in a green dressing gown and unobtrusively watched, even assisted as Edward made his preparations for the day. Now she was standing at their bedroom window, where she could look out at the falling rain, and in the soft light she was as lovely as ever he'd seen her.

"It suits you very well indeed," he said softly, as she blushed at his words.

Laurie made no reply but went to pick up his brown coat and then helped him into it, easing it over his shoulders, and when he turned round to face her, she swiftly moved to do up the buttons. As soon as she'd finished he caught her hands in his and raised them to his lips, planting kisses on her fingers.

"I wish I could remain with you today," he said, putting his arms about her as she rested her hands on his chest.

She smiled at that and twined her own arms around his neck, slipping her fingers into his hair as he bent to kiss her.

"That must be the scent of your shaving soap."

"It does not bother you?"

"Not at all, Edward," she said, playfully kissing his chin. "With time it will be comfortingly familiar."

"Well, it is a ritual – shaving, that is -- to be endured each morning."

"Perhaps now there will be another ritual to follow it," she said, advancing from his chin to his lips. After another kiss she rested her head upon his shoulder. "I shall accustom myself to all your daily rituals," she murmured against his throat.

"But I do not expect you to spend your days waiting upon me."

"I understand that, Edward, but I want you to feel ease, indeed comfort, when you are at home."

"And I do. But there are things to engage you beyond stitching buttons on my coat, or making puddings."

She raised her head and looked up into his face. "And yet I am not too proud to call at the butcher's, or black your top boots for you."

"No." It was his turn to give her a teasing kiss. "You are not. But your first task is to make yourself completely at home, as mistress of this house."

"At present I feel I'm more a guest in the house than its mistress. It is as though I were taking a holiday!"

"Perhaps it is better that way. Come, let us breakfast together."

"But I have not dressed, Edward."

He paused to study her from head to foot, as though genuinely astonished to discover she was still in her dressing gown, then smiled. "But you are on holiday, Mrs. Carter. Come."

Largs, Ayrshire

Tuesday

My sweet Jessie,

Your letter arrived this past hour, and I could not rest until I took up my pen to write to you. However many miles lie between the two of us this day, my thoughts are all of you, my brave lass, and of our child.

Things are very nearly in readiness here. The men have at last completed the work on the roof and made many other improvements besides, and I am quite contented with the results, though this is yet a lonely, empty place without you in it. But it will be a snug house, Jessie, and bright and cheerful within, when we are here together, even when the winter winds begin to blow.

There is no need to talk of winter now, though, not in summer, when we have such plans. I shall come to you soon, and well before your time arrives, only you must look after yourself in these last weeks, and not spend a moment worrying. Dr. Harrison is a clever man, and a kind one, and will attend to you properly, and I dare say you may apply to our good neighbors as well for further advice and help. Indeed it comforts me to know that Miss Matty and Miss Smith watch over you quite as much as does your own father. Give them, and of course Mr. Jenkyns, my kindest regards.

Before you know it I shall return to Cheshire, and then I shall look after you, and you must have your turn to bid your father and me do this and go there, and see to everything for you and the child. We are rough soldiers both, and yet I hope we prove gentle enough with the wee stranger, once he -- or she, of course – has come to us.

God keep you, my dear.

Your loving husband,

Robert

Laurie was alone once more in what was now their room. Set on the table before her was the bouquet Edward had placed there the previous morning. It had greeted her when first she entered the bedchamber, and again when she opened her eyes in the morning.

She leaned towards the flowers and breathed in their scent. Lady Ludlow had of course arranged something far grander in those Hanbury roses arrayed throughout all the rooms, their soft colors and heady fragrance pervading the house. It was delightful, indeed dreamlike, and yet Laurie was pleased as well by the simple eloquence of Edward's bouquet.

But then theirs had always been a friendship nurtured by wordless messages. She thought again of the fleeting smiles he'd given her during their first acquaintance, the gem-like gleam of his blue eyes. He had then seemed so stern and, she had to confess, powerfully, intimidatingly masculine.

Yet she had from the first neither feared nor disliked him, indeed had always sensed his decency, even before the day she was brought into his office and truly into his life. All that came afterwards, and most especially everything he did for Lady Ludlow and for Harry, served only to strengthen her impression. Edward concealed it very well beneath his reserve, but Laurie was not deceived; his was a warm heart, sound and true, and tenderer than anyone in Cranford or even at Hanbury might have known.

She'd seen that again when he'd approached her at her old rooms, bringing what should prove the first of his bouquets. Under any other circumstance she ought to have found his strength, his very presence disconcerting, and yet his unspoken shame and desire to make amends had moved her heart. Up till then she had already enjoyed teasing him, indeed taken wicked pleasure in his discomfiture, but on that occasion she put her wits to kinder use, playfully warning him that the flowers might stain his cuffs, thus saving his pride as he handed over the bouquet, and sealed their reconciliation and their friendship.

Oh, Edward. Laurie felt tears stinging her eyes, for all that she was smiling now, and she reached out a hand to touch the delicate, fragrant petals of the flowers before her. She had not expected this latest gesture from him, nor could she have envisioned Lady Ludlow's more extravagant gift. If her offering made Edward's modest by comparison, it mattered not, for each was informed by love.

These were only the first days of their marriage, and in time such festive scenes must be displaced by other, more ordinary rituals, though perhaps no less tender and a good deal more meaningful. There should be frosts and winter winds, yet also the warmth of the hearthside and the sound of Edward's voice. And whatever her husband's current protestations, she would look after him, make a home for him, as he had already done for her.

She turned away from the bouquet and her eyes fell on a little parcel resting on her pillow. She had not noticed anything there before; Edward must have slipped it into place while they had been standing together, and had not so much as drawn her suspicion. In that it was a double surprise.

She picked up the parcel and smiled, realizing at once what it must be, and removed the paper to find a small book with a blue cover, and a note from Edward.

Dear Laurie,

I am certain you must recall that evening last autumn when we were the guests of Captain Brown, and of Major and Mrs. Gordon...

Yes, she did remember that evening, and the songs and stories and talk, and even the moments when she -- and indeed poor Miss Matty -- had been moved to tears.

I should like to remember that evening always, Laurie, for it was then that we began to know each other a good deal better than we might have done...

On that occasion she and Edward had had those few minute of private conversation, and then taken turns reading aloud to the company...

Do you remember how we read aloud to the company, and how Major Gordon sang while Mrs. Gordon played? I saw that you enjoyed the verse, and surely the music as well.

And so when a brief visit to the bookseller's yielded this little volume, it seemed fully intended for you. I do not know whether you have any particular fondness for Burns, and yet now when anyone speaks of him I shall always recall that night. Perhaps it will be so for you.

Of course his is at times a wicked wit, Laurie, but I dare say that may please you very well indeed! I cannot fault him, though, for the sentiments expressed in the songs Major Gordon sang. Just now I can neither recall their names nor quote them from memory, but each spoke of love and faithfulness, did they not...

What was it that the major had sung? She too could recall neither the tunes nor the words, and yet she had no doubt of the themes...

Laurie, I can make for you neither verses nor song, and yet I will offer my heart always into your safekeeping, and would take yours into mine.

Edward

She gently opened the little book to the page which held the portrait of Robert Burns, and smiled at the image before turning over a few more leaves to read the titles of poems and songs, and smile again, this time at the truth of Edward's observation about the poet's sense of humor.

The title "To a Kiss" sparked her interest, and she turned to the appropriate page and read what was there, her expression changing all the while, ending at last with a knowing smile, as though Edward and she were at that moment sharing a very private secret.

He had a kind word for everyone that day, even caught himself whistling, and when Hopkins came to impart news of some minor disaster, Edward received it calmly and indeed assured the poor rattled fellow that all would be well.

In truth Edward had never felt more alive, more himself than this morning. It was not that he had slept particularly soundly -- indeed he had awakened in the night, perhaps from the sound of rain against the windows, perhaps from a dream he could no longer remember, or perhaps when Laurie stirred in her sleep -- and yet he had felt nothing but contentment. The rain had been falling against the house, and at the same time he could hear Laurie beside him, drawing every breath softly and evenly, and he had known all was well. All was truly well.

A wedding was a rare enough event in the village, and yet even such a momentous occurrence as the union of the manager of the Hanbury estate with the village milliner could not leave the ladies of Cranford so flustered that they shirked their old customs and habits. Indeed it was an occasion to rally, and to gird one's loins.

It was an occasion to pay calls.

Among the first of the new Mrs. Carter's visitors were Miss Matty and Mary Smith, and she received both with warmth and grace, and a degree of pride detectable only to a very practiced eye. Later Miss Matty was heard to remark that the bride was fairly glowing with good spirits, and no doubt contentment in her modest but charmingly appointed home.

The ladies spent a few minutes on pleasantries, and sincere admiration of Mrs. Carter's sitting-room, as yet decorated with vases of the most exquisite roses, before talk turned to other matters.

"I am so pleased that you have come today," said Mrs. Carter. "We had but a moment or two to speak on my wedding day."

"But there were many guests then, Mrs. Carter," said Miss Matty, her blue eyes twinkling. "And you were so attentive to us all. Indeed it was a lovely day, and a most beautiful celebration."

"Thank you, Miss Matty."

"I am certain I shall never forget it," said Miss Smith warmly.

"Nor, I dare say, shall I, Miss Smith! But you may be astonished to hear me say that perhaps it is well that my husband and I did not leave on a honeymoon trip following the wedding. Indeed it is curiously comforting that life continues here just as it did before."

Miss Matty chuckled. "It is all go in Cranford."

"One may rely upon that! Still, if we must see to our duties, at least we are among friends."

At that Miss Smith smiled, and her two companions noted well the gleam in her eyes as she asked, "Would you say then, Mrs. Carter, that friendships are a source of strength to a married couple, rather than a distraction?

"It is too early, Miss Smith, for me to make any such pronouncement," said Mrs. Carter. "But I suspect that is true. Our friends have already shared greatly in our joys and sorrows."

"It is always so with true friends," said Miss Smith.

At that Miss Matty could remain silent no longer. "Mary, dear," she prompted gently. "Perhaps you should like to convey your own news."

"News? That is most intriguing." Mrs. Carter turned expectantly to Miss Smith.

Miss Smith smiled and demurely lowered her gaze for an instant, not coyly but as though happy to surrender a secret at Miss Matty's bidding. "Mrs. Carter, I must tell you that Dr. Marshland and I are engaged to be married."

"Oh, Miss Smith," said Mrs. Carter with warmth. "I do wish you both every happiness."

"Thank you," said Miss Smith, adding, "You do not seem in the least astonished."

"I confess I am not, though I am delighted."

"So are we all," said Miss Matty, with an endearing chuckle.

"I suppose I cannot expect that the engagement will take all our acquaintance by surprise," said Miss Smith.

"Surely not, Mary, dear," said Miss Matty kindly. "One ought not to expect that."

Liverpool

Monday Evening

Dear Jack,

It's a fine thing indeed to make a man of medicine doubt his own eyes, and even his good sound mind. But what else could I do when I read that Jack Marshland has found a girl who will accept him? Such talk there will be at Guy's when the report makes its way to London!

I can only imagine that you made an offer to every woman whose spectacles you prescribed, and it fell upon Miss Smith to take pity on you. But it's a great service she's done us all, Jack, putting an end to your complaints and sacrificing herself for the greater good. She must be an uncommonly patient girl if she is prepared to take you for her husband. I mean to see it for myself when she does, and as well hold your firstborn on my knee. With any luck he'll be fully as handsome as his mammy.

But no more of that now. Convey my best wishes, and condolences, to Miss Smith on the occasion of your engagement, and may we all meet soon.

Your bachelor comrade

Martin McDevitt

Edinburgh

Friday Evening

My dear Jack:

So you have at last met with success, and I congratulate you most heartily. I can only hope that you will endeavor to deserve Miss Smith, and that the good Lord grants her a generous measure of patience for the task she has set herself.

I promise I shall move heaven and earth to come to your wedding and therefore rejoice that it is not taking place at once, lest present duties keep me from attending.

Did I say duties? No, not duties alone; I have of late met with a Miss Patterson, a bonny young woman, and a clever one, and hope to tell you more of our acquaintance in due course.

But no more of that; it's on account of your own good fortune that I write, and ask you to accept the heartfelt wishes of your most faithful friend

Alan Ferguson

Laurie was seated at her little writing desk, occupied with correspondence to various wedding guests, and looked very much as she did, Edward thought, when they worked together in his office. Even now he loved stealing glances at her whenever she was absorbed in a task and unaware he was watching. Her profile was all womanly sweetness, from the graceful curves of her face to her gleaming hair, drawn smoothly back and prettily arranged above the nape of her neck.

But then, she'd always been a distraction quite as much as a helpmeet, and it was a miracle he managed to do any work at all.

"You were not caught in the rain when you were out and about today?" he said now.

She paused in her writing to look across at him. "Only briefly, Edward, and still I was able to accomplish all I set out to do. I even took the opportunity to examine those buildings of which you spoke."

"And what did you think?"

"I have not seen them inside as well as out, of course, but I am hopeful that one should prove suitable for the school, and they are both in such an agreeable location."

"Yes, I thought as much -- not too far to walk for the little ones. But you must have done a great deal of walking yourself today, my love, and it has been so wet of late and, I dare say, muddy."

"But it is so pleasantly cool and green out of doors, Edward," said Laurie. "And you know how fond I am of walking."

He smiled. "Indeed I do. Did you go through the woods?"

"I did, and through town as well, where I was startled to be addressed as 'Mrs. Carter.' I must accustom myself to the new name."

"Then it is best to begin practice immediately."

"I thought so." She bent her head over her desk once more, writing slowly and deliberately, before she spoke again.

"It has as well been a revelation to see the respect I am accorded as Mrs. Carter," she said, not raising her eyes. "Mrs. Jamieson was being conveyed past me in her chair, and she bade the men stop, whereupon she nodded and smiled, and very politely inquired after your health."

At that Edward felt his jaw clenching and his brow tightening, but he kept silent and let Laurie continue.

"And Mrs. Johnson greeted me very civilly, and was all solicitude when I made a few purchases. Indeed she sought my opinion as to what might be lacking at the store, and as well offered to send word when the new fabrics arrive from Manchester.

"Then she held forth at length on how the railway should prove a godsend to her and her husband, and their custom."

At that he could hold his tongue no longer. "Mrs. Johnson, Laurie, is very like the toothache -- to be endured patiently but only as long as necessary. As for Mrs. Jamieson, she would do well to treat her fellow man with one fraction of the care she expends on that spoilt dog of hers."

Laurie smiled at that, for all that there were tears welling in her eyes.

"You must not mind what they say," he said softly.

"But Mrs. Forrester is as friendly as ever she was," continued Laurie, sniffing slightly. "Indeed she very kindly invited me to take tea with her and some of the other ladies. I suppose we shall practice elegant economy -- bread and butter and perhaps cake must serve our needs -- but I dare say it will be pleasant to sit with Mrs. Gordon and Miss Pole and --"

"And gossip," added Edward. The opportunity to tease her had simply been too tempting.

"I expect so, Edward! Still, I am persuaded that the invitation was issued in part because Mrs. Forrester is uncommonly curious as to how I shall get on as Mrs. Carter. I dare say she would have gladly accepted your proposal, had I proven unkind --"

Edward snorted at that, but he would feel a smile slowly working its way across his face.

"-- and I shall do my best to prove myself worthy of you."

She was teasing, of course, but only just barely. Edward put down his newspaper. "On the contrary, Mrs. Forrester surely knows it is my good fortune that you accepted me."

"She is a kind soul, and has always accorded my father's memory a degree of respect."

"Laurie, I did not mean that Mrs. Forrester is mindful that I married a baronet's daughter," said Edward.

"I know you did not," she said in a low voice, never raising her eyes from her correspondence.

"Laurie --"

At last she looked up at him.

"I do consider myself most richly blessed."

"As do I."

He made no reply to that but watched as she signed her name to the letter she had been writing.

"Is that the last for this evening, then?" he said, as casually as he could manage.

At that Laurie looked up again and smiled. "If you'd prefer, Edward," she said, folding the paper. "It can be."

He woke to rain again early the next morning -- he knew not the hour; his watch was out of reach, and the light as yet too dim for him to read the little clock -- but it was very early indeed. He looked over at Laurie, who lay curled beside him, her hands drawn up beneath her chin, her eyes shut, fine lashes dark against delicate skin. Her hair – he'd asked her not to braid it last night -- tumbled over her throat, her shoulders, even over the pillow.

All was still, and he could hear each breath she drew, and he felt peace as never before in his life, and yet at the same time anticipation. He could not decide whether to lie there and watch her sleep or indulge an impulse to touch her, to kiss her, to wake her. Perhaps he might --

"Edward. Edward. My love, do wake up."

He opened his eyes to clear sunshine, and the vision of Laurie leaning towards him, her fine hair spilling over her shoulders.

She was murmuring in her low, rich voice, "I am sorry, Edward. You were sleeping so contentedly, it seemed a pity to wake you. But we have both slept longer than we are wont to do, and the day has begun."

This time he fairly backed into his coat as she held it for him.

"I should make an uncommonly fine valet, Edward," purred Laurie. "Should it ever come to that."

Edward's hands seemed to be flying everywhere as he did up the buttons on his coat and adjusted his cuffs. He leaned towards the mirror and examined his face, frowning as he did so.

"Edward, can you not at least shave? Lady Ludlow will be most displeased if --"

"Lady Ludlow will be infinitely more displeased if I fail to arrive promptly for the meeting with her solicitor. I must make haste." He seized his walking stick and nearly threw himself down the stairs -- an effort that fairly rattled his bones, given that he was neither in his first youth nor possessed of two good legs. And yet he did not break his stride but was swiftly out the door and into the morning air, into sunlight, and about to step onto the moist earth when he froze suddenly, as though he'd suddenly been startled awake.

And with that he turned and went back into the house, and no less swiftly.

She heard his footsteps, of course; in this house, with all its creaking stairs and floors, it should not be possible for him to approach without betraying himself. She was standing by the washbasin and had turned round to look before he'd even entered the room.

"Laurie, forgive me." He thought it best to say it at once.

"Whatever for?" She was still cradling the pitcher in her arms as he stepped towards her.

"For my hasty leave-taking."

"Edward, you said yourself that Lady Ludlow was expecting you."

He wasn't about to quibble with her and waste the few moments they had. "There's little enough time," he said aloud, taking the pitcher from her and setting it on the washstand.

He drew Laurie into his arms, held her tightly against him and felt her head resting against his chin. "There's little enough time," he murmured again. "I'd promised myself I'd not forget that."

Iron, not stone. How he wished it could be stone. If he'd had his will, he'd have carved her name himself, and the years she'd lived, and something fine besides -- a flower, perhaps, or one of Harry's verses. She'd have liked that.

But it had been a job to afford this little cross and have her name and the date he'd lost her painted upon it, and at least it was something. Folk would pass by and see it, and know she had been there, know had borne his name.

It was raining again, a soft and gentle rain, and Job knew that with time the iron would rust and the paint wear away. When that day came, he'd return and paint it himself, if he had to, or raise another marker. Perhaps by then he should be able to afford a stone.

But however often her name wore away, however many times he had to, he'd come back and see it was written again for all to see, until the day when he at last lay beside her.

"You will not change your mind?"

"Augusta, you have had my answer already. Pray do not ask me again."

Miss Tomkinson kept silent for a moment, listening to the rain beating against the windows, before she made another attempt.

"But you have kept so much at home, Caroline. You are in danger of becoming morbid."

"Would you keep me from my duties, Augusta? I cannot leave the children without supervision, not when they are so young."

"No, of course not," said her sister gently. "I only mean there is no harm in taking an hour or two, with the twins safely in the care of some reliable person, and making a little holiday for yourself.

"Oh, Caroline, do say you'll come to tea at Mrs. Forrester's. Mrs. Carter will be there, and Mrs. Gordon too. They are gentle souls both, and I am sure it would be soothing for you to spend an hour conversing with them."

"I wish Mrs. Carter nothing but the greatest happiness in her marriage, and you have my leave to tell her as much," said Mrs. Goddard, her voice thick with emotion. "But I think you will understand why I cannot bear to see Mrs. Gordon at present. Not now." The last words were uttered in barely a whisper.

"Is Mr. Carter well?" asked Miss Pole solicitously as the sponge-cake and tea went round at Mrs. Forrester's cottage later that week.

"He was quite well this morning, Miss Pole," said Mrs. Carter, smiling and blushing a little.

"Yes. Well, he always was a vigorous man, and is so still, out and about in all weathers, though I dare say this constant rain must be a trial to your patience."

"But we have needed rain, Miss Pole," said Miss Tomkinson. "Indeed my garden was becoming quite parched."

"I do not disregard the blessings of rain, Miss Tomkinson, but only thought what it must be to have one's husband marching about indoors wearing top boots that have trod in mud from Hanbury to Woodley."

"Upon my word, Miss Pole, you speak as though men tramped through the house as freely and as untidily as might the livestock from the fields," said Mrs. Forrester.

"I meant no such slight against the sex." Miss Pole turned to Mrs. Carter. "Though I do suppose it must take effort to accustom oneself to the presence of a man in the house."

"And once that is done," said Mrs. Forrester, before Mrs. Carter could reply, "it seems very much the natural order of things. Indeed I would rather have said it can be inexpressibly comforting to have a man under one's roof. Do not you agree?" she added, appealing to the other ladies.

"I must confess myself very happy to have Peter safe home again," said Miss Matty quietly.

"And my mind is never at rest while my husband is away," said Mrs. Gordon. "Nor, for that matter, when Father is gone on railway business."

"I do not doubt it, Mrs. Gordon. Yet I was speaking not only of security," said Mrs. Forrester, "but society. It can be very dull indeed to be on one's own."

"I find it interesting, Mrs. Forrester, that you appear to prescribe marriage as a remedy for boredom," said Miss Tomkinson tartly.

"Still, I do not doubt there is something in that," said Miss Pole. "I dare say it might prove a novelty to gaze across the table and behold a masculine countenance, and one belonging to neither father nor brother."

"But that does not remain a novelty, Miss Pole," said Mrs. Forrester, chuckling. "And it is not only across the table, of course."

At that Mrs. Carter was blushing again, and smiling, a bit to herself. "It is an entirely new experience to me, Miss Pole, but a pleasant one."

"I dare say the presence of a lady is vastly beneficial for the man as well, that he be schooled in what delicacy truly is," declared Miss Pole, dipping her chin for emphasis. "Even if there are times a wife must resign herself to language unfit for a lady's ears."

"Though the words themselves are sometimes inelegant, I can hardly find fault with the honest expression of manly feeling," said Mrs. Carter, noting well Mrs. Forrester's conspiratorial smile, and Miss Tomkinson's pursed lips. "But let me not be unjust. My own husband's language is on most occasions beyond reproach, and I would not impugn the male sex as a whole."

"Nor would I, Miss Pole," said Mrs. Gordon, with detectable indignation. "I believe a good man will moderate his language in the presence of ladies. My father and husband are soldiers both, and yet I think their manners quite gentle."

"Though of course one does not know how the men speak when left to themselves," said Miss Pole.

"No indeed," said Mrs. Forrester, chuckling. "And we never shall, not unless you propose turning spy."

By now Puss had stolen into the room and begun roaming freely, brushing past skirts and slinking around chair legs until she came to Miss Pole and, evidently lacking inclination or memory enough to hold a grudge, leapt up and settled comfortably on her lap.

"I dare say you find a cat about the house is a good deal less trouble than a man, Mrs. Forrester," said Miss Pole conversationally, stroking Puss's back.

At that Mrs. Forrester chuckled again. "I am not certain that is true, Miss Pole. The one is always going this place and that, looking to be fed, seeking attention, purring when that attention is provided, and then sleeping as though there were no cares in the world -- but so is the other!"

"I do not think my father would much care to be compared to a cat," said Mrs. Gordon, shifting uncomfortably in her chair. "Nor would my husband!"

At that Mrs. Forrester succumbed completely to laughter. "No, my dear," she said at last, wiping her eyes. "I do not suppose they would."

Miss Pole snorted. "If there is any creature on earth your father bears less resemblance to than a cat," she said to Mrs. Gordon, "I cannot name it." Puss purred contentedly, as though wholly in agreement.

An awkward pause in conversation ensued, which Mrs. Forrester brought to an end by turning to Miss Matty and observing,"It is a great pity Miss Smith could not be with us today."

"She was very sorry to disappoint you, Mrs. Forrester," said Miss Matty. "I expect her to return from Manchester in the next week."

"I do hope no one at home is ill," said Miss Tomkinson.

"Oh, it is nothing of that sort," said Miss Matty. "Dr. Marshland is to dine with the family, and be introduced to some of Mary's relations."

"Oh, indeed?" said Miss Tomkinson, with noticeable coolness. "An engagement party, is it?"

"Of a sort," said Miss Matty.

"Are you ready, then?" Clara Smith, earrings dangling, skirts rustling, entered her stepdaughter's room, where she found Abigail perched on the bed, having been given leave to watch her half-sister as she completed her toilette before the dinner party.

Mary turned from the looking-glass. "I am quite ready, Mama."

"Oh, surely you cannot mean to wear that."

Mary's face fell. "Is this gown unsuitable for company?"

"Not at all, dear," said Clara, surveying the dress with a critical eye. "It is fully as chaste and modest as you please."

"Indeed we selected the pattern and the fabric together, Mama," said Mary, trying to conceal her irritation, and failing. "Do you not recall?"

"Of course, Mary. It is only that I thought you might wear something brighter this evening. It would not do for the aunts to outshine the bride now, would it? said Clara with a little chuckle. "Still, I suppose it cannot be helped," she added, sighing.

"Indeed there will not be time enough for me to put on another dress."

"No, I expect not. But you must have a new gown, now that you are betrothed," said Clara. "And shoes and a bonnet as well, I dare say. Shall we seek something suitable on Monday?" she asked, not unkindly.

"If you like, Mama. Only I truly do not --"

"And it is a great pity you do not yet have an engagement ring," added Clara, unconsciously stroking the tasteful necklace at her own throat. "Still, that cannot be helped either."

"Indeed you need not have regrets about that, Mama. A wedding ring will be all that Dr. Marshland and I require, when the time comes. I would not have it otherwise, not while he is establishing a home for us, and of course fulfilling his obligations to his mother and sisters."

At that Clara gave an unexpected and rather endearing smile. "You're quite the physician's wife already, my dear," she said, squeezing Mary's hand. "Well, then," she added, with another little sigh. "We mustn't keep your father waiting."

"At Christmastime?" said Uncle Smith.

"It was on Christmas Eve itself that we met," said Jack with a smile and a nod.

"We had both of us been invited to the Misses Tomkinson's party," added Mary. "And then some time later Dr. -- another physician suggested I consult Dr. Marshland, and so it was that we met again, and he prescribed my spectacles."

"Prescribed your spectacles?" said Aunt Smith. "But you are so young, my dear. What need have you of spectacles?"

"I wear them for reading, Aunt, and they have proven most useful."

"I should not like to wear spectacles myself. They should make me seem uncommonly prim and poky," put in Clara Smith, with a little laugh. "And they look so dreadfully uncomfortable."

"Indeed they are by no means uncomfortable," said Mary, "as long as they are fitted properly." She exchanged a look with Jack, who was seated across the room from her.

A twinkle was entering his eye, and a telltale grin was spreading across his face. "And I think true beauty, Mrs. Smith, would never allow its concealment, by spectacles or anything else."

"Of course a gentleman always looks very distinguished in spectacles," said Clara hastily, with an affectionate glance towards her husband.

At that Aunt Trafford snorted. "Why need one concern oneself with looking distinguished? The entire purpose of spectacles is to enable one to see properly. That is reason enough for their use." She turned to Jack. "Are you fond of reading, Dr. Marshland?"

"Oh, I am --"

"Have you ever read The Vicar of Wakefield?" said Uncle Smith, before Jack could finish. "By that Irish fellow -- what's his name, my dear? Silver something, I think it was"

"You mean Mr. Goldsmith, Uncle," said Mary, attempting to suppress a smile.

"Goldsmith. That's it. Capital stuff."

"Surely Dr. Marshland, as a medical man, has no time for novels and the like," said Aunt Smith. "Is that not so?"

"On the contrary," began Jack.

"But Mary is uncommonly fond of novels," said Clara. "She has always been a great reader. Indeed that is probably why she has need of spectacles!"

"I dare say Mary could write a novel of her own," said Aunt Smith, chuckling. "Her letters are always most diverting."

"I've always found them so," said Jack. "Why, I've not read a novel to equal them."

"You conduct quite a lively correspondence, then, my dear," said Aunt Trafford, glancing from Mary, who could feel herself blushing, to Jack, then back again.

"Indeed we do, Aunt. But you will understand, of course, that Dr. Marshland also must devote considerable time to reading medical texts," said Mary, steering the conversation back to where it had begun.

"And most especially the study of the eye," added her father helpfully.

"The eye!" said Aunt Smith. "Oh, indeed."

"It's a most fascinating subject, Mrs. Smith," said Jack, with another sly smile at Mary, who cast her eyes downwards for but a moment before looking back at him again -- a familiar little motion he so loved. "You'll not believe how much there is to know. Why, there are good men in Glasgow -- and on the continent too, and even in America -- who are engaged in study, and writing notes, probably even as we speak this night."

"America!" exclaimed Aunt Smith.

"Yes, and France too, Mrs. Smith."

"France?" said Uncle Smith. "Humph. They have some confounded strange notions in France, don't they."

"But there are good medical men in many places, Uncle," said Mary. "Though Dr. Marshland of course studied at Guy's Hospital in London."

"London?" said Uncle Smith, not bothering to hide his relief. "London. Well, well. I'll wager a man can learn a lot in London."

Sunday afternoon, and no rain at last! Clara had insisted that the little ones had had quite enough of an outing for the day, and had brought them inside for an early supper and early bedtime. Truth to tell, she was grateful they had spent part of the day out of doors, and would no doubt sleep very well indeed that night.

But Clara would not permit Mary to assist her with the children -- she had done quite enough already, Clara assured her, by conducting, with Dr. Marshland's assistance, a little excursion for them that afternoon. No, Mary must take a turn around the garden with her young man; it should prove most refreshing. By this time, Mary had neither the heart nor the desire to refuse.

And it was all to the good, she thought, that today Papa and Uncle had had no occasion to subject Jack to their dreadful cigars, and she could walk companionably arm in arm with him and not come away smelling of tobacco herself.

"You ought to have seen yourself, Mary," he was saying now.

"When, Jack?"

"When you were walking ahead with your brothers and sisters, for all the world like a duck with her little ones trailing after her." He chuckled.

"With the drake bringing up the rear, I suppose," she said, smiling primly.

"If you like."

"Making certain no one is left behind."

"Of course." He smiled to himself.

"I think Mama was very grateful, Jack, for your assistance with the children."

"Oh, go on, Mary."

"No, it is true."

They walked on in silence for a moment before he asked, "Will I suit, do you suppose?"

She placed her other hand on his arm. "I am certain that you know you will suit very well indeed."

"I had my doubts, Mary, when I saw the look your Aunt Trafford gave me!"

"She always looks like that, Jack, and moreover she will never praise anyone directly. But I know she liked you."

"Do you now?"

"Oh, yes. She engaged you in conversation. If she'd found you less than respectable -- or, worse yet, dull -- she should not have attempted it."

He chuckled at that, though a look of relief, barely detectable, passed over his face.

"But I am sorry you were subjected to so many questions."

"I'd not fault them for that," he said. "Besides, what sort of physician would I be if I'd no ready answers?"

"You did very well, Jack." As soon as she'd spoken the words, she wished she'd held her tongue. "I'm sorry. I did not mean you were being --"

"I know what you meant, Mary," he said mildly. "And I'm grateful you'll still have me after all that." But he was grinning, and she tugged playfully at his arm.

"And I was wondering, Mary –"

"What were you wondering, Jack?"

"Just what does a fellow have to do to get a kiss?"

"Oh, I think you've done quite enough," said Mary briskly, and ambiguously, but she was smiling.

To be continued...