Chapter 34

The following was inspired by the 2007 BBC series 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.

And as Siggy well knows, every so often my characters go all Ashes to Ashes on me -- in the most genteel fashion, of course.

Many thanks to everyone who is faithfully and patiently following this story, especially those who are posting reviews and offering encouragement. Hearing from you makes my heart soar!

Chapter 34: On Earth and in Heaven

Was the dream to pursue her throughout her life?

She had hoped that with their marriage it should never return. But one night in June she fell asleep to have the familiar nightmare, and awoke to feel her heart beating rapidly, as though she had once again been running down the street towards Dr. Harrison's surgery.

In waking, she startled Edward out of his own sleep. Now that brought her a measure of guilt -- he got little enough rest as it was -- yet she did not truly regret waking him. Indeed she could have wept with relief at finding him beside her at all, let alone hearing his voice in the darkness and feeling his arms enfold her.

But she dared not tell him that, and said only that she'd had a troubling dream, that she was sorry to have to woken him.

Edward for his part neither grumbled nor sighed, as a man who had been roused from a sound sleep might be expected to do. In fact he was in no particular haste to fall asleep again, and if he said very little to her, his tenderness was eloquence enough, and deeply comforting.

When at last he returned to his own dreams, he had dispelled every unsettling image of her nightmare. Even so, Laurie left her hand resting upon Edward's chest, just above his good, sound heart, as she followed him into sleep.

He'd been dreaming of Christmas again, of riding to Cranford to visit Frank in that dreary little house he'd taken, only this time Jack's mother and sisters had come from Ireland to be with them, that they all might make merry with the ladies and Captain Brown on Christmas Eve.

They'd gathered in a cheerful parlor, all of them -- Miss Matty, of course, and Miss Pole, and Miss Tomkinson and her sister, just as he remembered them, and Miss Jessie at the pianoforte.

And there was his Mary, her eyes shining in the candlelight, her fair skin aglow, and he wanted nothing so much as to go to her then and there, to claim the seat beside her and put his arm about her waist, even if he shocked Miss Matty and all the company. But there were a great many people in the room, jostling and laughing, so many that he could barely see Mary, never mind touch her, and he woke up before he'd got to the other side of the parlor.

It took him some time before he remembered he was in not Cranford at all, or even -- God help him! -- Manchester. No, he was in Glasgow, and there was many a mile between him and Mary.

And it wasn't even Christmas.

"There has been no word as yet from Miss Smith?"

"No," said Miss Matty quietly. "Indeed there has not." She wished to add, "And I am greatly worried," but perhaps there was no need to speak the words. Miss Pole herself might have taken their young friend's silence for an ominous sign, and as for Jessie, her expression bespoke worries enough.

"I have noted some laxity in the penny post of late," remarked Miss Pole, frowning as she examined her needlework. "I dare say some coach or other has miscarried the letter intended for your doorstep." She turned pink, perhaps recognizing too late an unfortunate turn of phrase, and added, "Before the week is out we shall surely hear report from Miss Smith."

"I am certain you are right, Miss Pole," said Mrs. Gordon, with determined cheerfulness. "But we must not grow too impatient. Mary has so many little brothers and sisters, and there is a great deal to engage her from morning until night. It may be several days more before she has leisure enough to write."

"She has always sent such delightful letters," observed Miss Matty, smiling in her turn. "Dear Deborah and I used to read them aloud to each other, before Mary came to stay with us."

"I own it is only with difficulty I can accustom myself to her absence," said Mrs. Gordon, rising suddenly from her seat. "Indeed she has been our neighbor and friend since Father and I first came to Cranford -- as have you, Miss Matty."

Miss Matty smiled again, though at Jessie's observation she was seized with an unavoidable melancholy. There had been a good deal of sorrow in both their houses since first they had become neighbors.

But it would be unwise to dwell upon what had befallen them in past years, for they both of them had had cause for joy in recent months, and indeed would soon have more --

"Mrs. Gordon, are you unwell?" Miss Pole's bright little eyes were on Jessie, who had gone to stand by the window and was holding to the sill tightly.

Jessie smiled back at them, though Matty was certain she saw both anxiety and weariness in the young woman's eyes. "It is so very warm, Miss Pole, and I wished to see if there was yet a breeze."

"It is uncommonly hot today," agreed Miss Pole, and turned her gaze back to the needlework in her lap.

"Perhaps we ought to fetch some cool water and make a compress," said Miss Matty, rising from her chair. "Shall I go?"

"Oh, no, Miss Matty. That is very kind of you, but I do not think there is any need." Jessie smiled once more, and with visible effort.

"Upon my word, your face has become quite flushed!" said Miss Pole, looking up again.

"Jessie, dear, whatever is wrong?"

"I am sorry, Miss Matty. I had believed it was too soon."

"Too soon?" prompted Miss Matty, suspecting she knew what Jessie meant but dreading the answer.

"That is, Dr. Harrison said I ought not to expect my confinement for at least another week or two."

At that Miss Pole opened her mouth and forgot to close it.

"He said as well that there might be false pains," continued Jessie, now struggling against tears.

"'False pains'?" said Miss Pole, both incredulous and indignant. "'False pains'? Whatever can he have been talking of?"

"Are you having pains at present?" inquired Miss Matty delicately.

Jessie nodded. "But they were at first not so very bad."

"At first?" echoed Miss Pole, again forgetting to close her mouth.

"Have you been having the pains for a time?" asked Miss Matty solicitously.

"For a time." Jessie still seemed very near to tears yet rallied enough to add, "But I was able to rest for a good deal of the night."

"For a good deal of the night!" Miss Pole and Miss Matty spoke almost as one woman.

Jessie nodded again. "It was by no means difficult. But at present -- oh, Miss Matty, I do not think I can deny that the pains have begun in earnest." The last word was spoken softly, very nearly inaudibly, though neither of her companions mistook it.

Miss Matty felt if she dared expel a breath, she might succumb either to nervous laughter or equally unsuitable tears. Really, what should Deborah do in such a circumstance? Not that Deborah had ever been called upon to assist a woman in her confinement.

She must rally now. She must.

Miss Matty summoned the maid. "Mrs. Gordon's pains have begun," she announced, almost sternly, as soon as the girl had entered the room.

"Oh! Missus!"

"Now I wish for you to fetch a basin of cool water, and a clean cloth, and take them to Mrs. Gordon's room," continued Miss Matty.

"Yes, madam. " The girl curtsied and disappeared, evidently calmer herself, now that she'd been set a task.

"Jessie, dear," said Miss Matty, turning to Mrs. Gordon. "I shall ask my brother to go for Dr. Harrison at once."

"I am grateful, Miss Matty," said Jessie, summoning another smile. "But surely it is by no means so urgent. Dr. Harrison warned me I ought to expect the pains to continue for many hours, perhaps as long as a day, indeed possibly longer."

"Well, there can be no harm in fetching him now," said Matty briskly but not unkindly. "He will wish to see how you are getting on." She turned to Miss Pole. "I shall return directly, as soon as I have spoken to Peter, and of course I shall wish to inform Martha, and perhaps seek her counsel.

"Now, Jessie, perhaps you might wish to go upstairs and rest."

"If you think it best," said Jessie, looking as though she'd not strength enough to rebel.

"Miss Pole," said Miss Matty, sotto voce, "would you be so kind?"

"Oh! Yes. Yes, of course," said that lady, offering Mrs. Gordon her arm.

"Thank you," said Jessie softly, taking Miss Pole's arm but looking towards Miss Matty. She was calmer now, though her eyes were wet with tears. Miss Matty reached out and took her other hand.

"Do not worry, Jessie, dear. All will be well."

Oh, she should very much have liked to have boxed Captain Brown's ears. Leaving his only daughter at such a time! What could he have possibly been thinking?

A little fever of fury and indignation so engaged Miss Pole's mind that she very nearly forgot she was escorting Mrs. Gordon to her chamber, until she became aware that Jessie had placed one trembling hand against the wall, as if to steady herself.

"My dear Mrs. Gordon, is it so very bad?" she said, turning to look at her friend.

"Forgive me, Miss Pole, but I believe I must rest for a moment."

"Of course," said Miss Pole softly, loosening her hold on Jessie's arm, and watching in dismay as the young woman's face contorted with pain, though she made no sound beyond drawing breath, and even that seemed to demand all her strength.

For what seemed a very great while Miss Pole stood helplessly as they both waited for the pain to reach its end. At length Jessie drew a deep breath and assumed an expression of the utmost relief.

"There. It is better. Thank you, Miss Pole. You are very kind."

"Oh, it is nothing. Now, do you feel well enough to take the final steps?" asked Miss Pole, recognizing even as she spoke another unfortunate turn of phrase. Making an apology, though, could only increase the awkwardness of the circumstances, and so she said nothing more but offered her arm to Mrs. Gordon.

"Yes. Yes, of course."

Without further trouble they reached the upstairs and made their way to the room Mrs. Gordon had once shared with her sister. It was strangely quiet, now that Major Gordon had gone to Scotland, and Miss Brown to a better place.

Once at their destination, however, Miss Pole realized that she had no notion of how to proceed, and Mrs. Gordon merely smiled in an embarrassed fashion.

"I am entirely at your beck and call," said Miss Pole, as much to break the silence as anything. "Though I own I have no notion what is to be done."

"Oh, surely there is nothing for you to do," said Mrs. Gordon, with her accustomed modest smile. "At present I can think of no other task but to rest, and await Miss Matty's return."

"And Dr. Harrison's arrival."

"Of course." At that Mrs. Gordon sighed deeply, and might have spoken again, had not the young maid bustled in with a basin of water and a fresh cloth.

"Have we enough clean linen?" asked Mrs. Gordon suddenly.

"The bed's freshly made up, madam," said the girl.

"Yes, of course. It is just that we shall presently need additional sheets, and some towels."

"I reckon we have more than enough. Shall I bring some now?"

"No, not just yet," said Jessie uncertainly.

The girl disappeared again, leaving Miss Pole to ponder the impudence of servants nowadays. She turned back to Mrs. Gordon, fully intending to commiserate, and was disconcerted to find her once again in tears.

She had resolved to be brave, to rise to what was required of her, but if she had reckoned with this pain, she'd had no idea of the loneliness, or of the helplessness. Mary had promised to be with her in this hour, but she had been called to Manchester, to return God knew when. That ought not to have mattered, and yet it did, very much.

And as for the pain, had her poor sister ever suffered so? Jessie could not but excuse her every cross word, if pain equal to this had been the cause. And as another could not take the suffering upon herself, or comprehend it, there was yet greater loneliness in it as well.

"Why, Mrs. Gordon!" Miss Pole's voice was astonishingly gentle, and Jessie, for all her attempts to compose herself, could not but begin to cry in earnest. She felt Miss Pole press a pocket-handkerchief into her hand.

"Thank you," said Jessie, with an embarrassingly childish sniff, as she unfolded it. "Do forgive me."

"Upon my word, Mrs. Gordon, you must make no apology to anyone."

"I had thought I could be brave," continued Jessie. "For my husband's sake, and for Father's."

At that her companion actually snorted. "I should think, Mrs. Gordon, that you have a good deal to concern you without being troubled as to what either of them thinks.

"Now then, shall I fetch you some tea? Or perhaps --"

"I had much rather you stopped here, and talked with me," said Jessie, before Miss Pole could finish. "Indeed I should not like to be alone, not at present. You will not leave me?"

"No, dear," said Miss Pole, determination evident in the very set of her jaw and brow. "I most certainly shall not."

Harry had always liked the office at Hanbury, but he liked the Carters' sitting-room better, with its candles and flowers and good things to eat, and more books than the three of them might have carried into the office.

That meant more stories and poems for them to read, thought Harry, more than he could even count. They would read them all, he hoped. In fact he was sure Mr. Carter would want them to.

Tonight they'd started another book, and Harry read aloud while Mr. Carter and Mrs. Carter sat listening. Mrs. Carter didn't say much but kept busy with her sewing, though sometimes she looked up and caught Harry's eye, and smiled at him, just as she had done when they had all worked in the office together.

He liked her smile very much, but he liked her voice even better, and wanted to ask her to read to him and Mr. Carter. But he felt too shy to say anything, and it was his lesson, after all.

So Mrs. Carter sat and listened and worked while he read. She was making a cap, Harry saw, and he wondered at that. Mr. Carter had told him she was to sew no more caps and bonnets for the ladies, and that someone else had taken her little shop.

Then Harry saw it was a very small cap indeed. A baby's cap.

Was there to be a baby? Harry wanted to ask but thought Mr. Carter might be cross if he did. Any road, Mum had never told him whenever there was to be a baby; she only told Dada, and she always waited until she thought everyone else was asleep.

A baby! Would Mr. Carter like a baby? Would Mrs. Carter like a baby? Harry thought about how Mum had got so sick with her babies, and how she'd cried at night when Dada had gone away to try his luck somewhere else.

But Mr. Carter didn't go away the way Dada had.

Of course Dada didn't go away now either; he was at home with all of them, even if he didn't read books, or teach them their numbers. He wouldn't play them a tune on his flute now, either, or tell them stories. Maybe he couldn't now that he'd never see Mum coming to meet him, coming to kiss him, or see her smiling, or hear her laughing.

Thinking of that made Harry feel very lonely, as though he were not in Mr. Carter's sitting-room at all but in the forest at night, looking for the traps Dada used to set, and feeling the fear right in his belly whenever he heard something stir.

Harry had been making a manful effort at tonight's text, but after he yawned for the third time Laurie put down her sewing. It was well that the boy continued his lessons, but they ought not to keep him from his bed any longer.

Edward looked up when she made her gesture, and in a trice caught her eye. "Perhaps we might continue tomorrow evening, Harry," he said kindly, glancing towards the boy, then back at her again, his eyes lingering on her face.

For his part, Harry made no effort to hide either his relief or his weariness, and firmly shut the book he had been holding.

Laurie stood up. "Should you like some peaches, Harry, to take home with you?" The boy nodded and smiled, and she felt a warm affection towards him. He was growing fast, and had long been doing the work of a man, or nearly so, and yet he was a child still, and needed the tender attentions of a mother -- and, for that matter, a father. God alone knew what might have become of him, had not Edward taken an interest in his welfare. Job Gregson could not have done more, and indeed never would, not as long as the boy did his work and brought home his wage. No wonder Harry seemed so deeply tired.

As Laurie gathered up the fruit she was at once conscious of her own weariness. She must go upstairs to bed herself, once Harry set off for home.

She prayed to God there should be no dreams this night.

It was not that he was ever in great haste to see Harry leave. Indeed it was a fine thing to learn for himself how well the boy got on, despite the interruption to his lessons, and Edward was very pleased to find that the lad's thirst for knowledge continued. That was the mark of an intelligent mind -- a sustained and lively curiosity. God bless Miss Pole for putting Harry in his path, for it should have been unconscionable to waste such talent.

Still, though he enjoyed Harry's society, Edward had not truly regretted sending the boy to his own home -- close by now, and pleasanter than it had been -- that he should have Laurie all to himself. While Harry was reading, Edward had stolen a glance or two at his wife. She had been engaged in making some present or other for Mrs. Gordon, and took no notice while he made a study of her expressive dark eyes, which could be tender, thoughtful, or playful by turn, and of the appealing curves of her face by candlelight.

It was all he could do to draw his thoughts away from her, and back to Harry's text.

Before the wedding he had worried that that Laurie and he might with time find each other's company vexing or dull, but he need never have worried. Her quiet ways suited him very well indeed, and her lively wit and fine mind made her as pleasing a companion as he could have wished.

For his part, he guessed he'd proven considerate enough a husband that Laurie's new duties and obligations had thus far not proven too severe a trial to her nerves. Indeed he suspected they afforded her a measure of comfort, and not only because she need no longer earn her bread as a milliner, and be subject to the whims of the ladies of Cranford.

"My hearth, my refuge," she had called him before they had married, and it had seemed excessive praise, though secretly he had been pleased. But now he knew there had been a measure of truth in her words, for only a night or two earlier that she had awakened from a troubling dream, and in the darkness she had sought him, she had put her arms about him. He'd stroked her hair, and spoken as gently as he knew how, but words had at length proven lacking, and it had been in near silence that he had given her comfort.

In fact he had lost every thought of sleep just then, and when he did sleep again, Laurie was nestled up against him still, her hand resting upon his chest, on his very heart. He'd thought of that a good deal since that night, even when he and Laurie were miles apart, perhaps especially when they were miles apart --

"I confess, Edward, that I am a little tired this evening," she said suddenly, and he looked up at her in surprise. She really was quite slender, his Laurie, and in this moment she seemed delicate and vulnerable, though he had he so often seen her striding briskly, almost defiantly independent, through the village and across the grounds at Hanbury. And yet she had trembled the other night, and sought refuge in his arms.

Another whim had captured her just now, though, and he saw mischief in her eyes as she added lightly, "Perhaps we should retire at once, lest I fall asleep as I stand here, and you have to catch me as I tumble over."

He felt himself smiling. "That would never do! Upstairs with you then, Mrs. Carter. Come."

It was an uncommonly beautiful morning, and he told Laurie as much while she was still drowsy and holding the bedclothes about her, as though she had made herself a nest and could not be disturbed. He almost laughed to see her so sleepy, indeed almost cross at his brisk energy this morning. But it was a fine morning, and he was well pleased with it, well pleased with her and with his life.

He was moreover full of plans, and wanted to make a start before the day grew any older. Yet he looked back at Laurie, still curled up in the bed, and half-wished today were a holiday for them both.

Well, then, if it was not a holiday, at least it was a day full of promise, and he must be on his way. But before he went, he leaned over and put a kiss upon his drowsy wife, and felt her smile before he drew back.

Heavens, she was uncommonly tired this morning. Miss Pole wagered that want of sleep might leave her yawning the entire day. But if she was weary, she was by no means cross, for it was such a lovely day, lovelier than it had been in a great while, and her heart and mind were very much at peace.

For that she must grudgingly acknowledge a debt to Dr. Harrison, who had the previous evening assured them that all had gone just as it ought; indeed he had been well pleased in everything. But of course it was a small thing for a man to make such a pronouncement; the pain had not been his to endure.

And it had not been his task to spend much of the night in wakefulness, as she and Miss Matty and Martha had done. Indeed Miss Pole smiled at the thought that this morning Jem Hearne would have to shift for himself, and Mr. Jenkyns too, for the womenfolk had all had a great deal to do the previous evening, and were as yet too weary to attend overmuch to household duties.

Martha had returned home at last to see to her own baby, then take her rest, while Miss Matty and Miss Pole managed as well as they could during the long evening and in the night that had followed, though neither of them had cared to discuss the impropriety of employing the late Miss Brown's bed and, more shockingly still, the captain's own for stolen naps. Then again, perhaps one need not concern oneself overly with propriety when a neighbor was in need.

But once the long night was past, one did need to think of brewing tea, and so Miss Pole quietly made her way downstairs, intent on that object, even if the maid had fallen asleep and she must boil the water herself.

What she had not expected, though, was that the front door should in that moment open to admit the master of the house, dusty top boots and all.

Whistling. He'd come home whistling.

That was by no means his usual habit, but it was such a beautiful day, and his heart was a good deal lighter, now that the ordeal was behind him.

He need not have worried, of course; Sir Charles had kept his word and proven a most steadfast advocate, and the other directors had evidently found the both of them persuasive. His position was secure, at least at present; that much he knew.

But perhaps best of all, he'd not kept away a day longer than necessary. Indeed he had set out for home as soon as it might be attempted, meaning to set Jessie's mind at rest, and surprise her with one or two little things he'd bought for her and the child.

But even the village itself was a fine sight on this uncommonly beautiful day, and he felt great contentment at being home once more, as well as relief at the prospect of comforting his Jessie.

With vigor of a much younger man he proceeded down the street and opened the door of his house and, on stepping inside, very nearly knocked Miss Pole to the floor. She was the last person he had expected to see, and he stood for a moment open-mouthed, taking in her presence but hardly noticing that she was was wearing her cap, as though quite at home, and looking at him with an expression of undisguised disapproval.

Barely able to form a thought, he began to speak.

"Miss Pole! Upon my word! Do forgive me; I must have given you a fright. But I had not thought to see -- that is, I did not believe -- no, surely it cannot be that --"

"Captain Brown, pray moderate your voice!" Miss Pole whispered. "You are not shouting commands to workmen or soldiers now.

"And do not clomp about like a great dray horse! Now, if you please --"

And with that Miss Pole demurely drew up the hem of her gown and mounted the stairs. Captain Brown, treading as lightly as a very tall fellow might in top boots, followed behind her, watching her skirts switch from side to side as she proceeded.

When they reached the top of the stairs, Miss Pole paused outside a bedchamber and, turning to face him, held a finger to her lips in silent admonition. Then she gently opened the door.

The captain looked inside and saw Jessie curled up in what had been her bridal bed. She had not stirred at their approach, and it was evident she was yet in a very deep sleep. Surely she was well, though; there were no signs of restlessness or distress. But then it must also be true that she --

All at once the captain's attention was drawn to a figure in the chair next to the bed: Miss Matty, who held in her arms something wrapped in a shawl or blanket. With a smile but not a word she rose and softly walked towards him.

"Captain," she whispered huskily, looking down at the little bundle, "this is Flora."

Had she not wished to avoid disturbing Mrs. Gordon in her rest, Miss Pole ought to have strenuously objected when Miss Matty placed little Flora in Captain Brown's arms and left him seated comfortably by the bedside. Still, at least the old warrior was not marching about the house, now that a baby was present, and the child's mother still abed.

And so it was that Miss Matty, wearing a smile that should not have been out of place in a painting of the Angel Gabriel himself, left Captain Brown behind and accompanied Miss Pole downstairs, where they both might take tea and discuss the previous night's events.

"Upon my word, Miss Matty," said Miss Pole in a loud whisper as soon as they had reached the sitting room. "I should not have taken the captain for a suitable nurse. It quite makes me tremble to think of that infant left in his care. She shall put up a protest in due course; mark my words."

"But Captain Brown is so fond of children," said Miss Matty, who was smiling yet. "And I dare say he traveled all night to reach home. I should not have liked to have disappointed him."

"Hm." It was all the reply Miss Pole might venture.

"Besides, Mrs. Gordon will presently be awake. We must take her some refreshment, and her father as well."

"I should think Mrs. Gordon needs her rest more," opined Miss Pole. "She can hardly have slept the previous night."

"I should think not," said her companion primly.

"Still, Dr. Harrison said the medicine should permit her to sleep. She deserves no less, after the pain she endured."

"Dear Jessie did very well, did she not?" said Miss Matty approvingly. With a husky little chuckle, she added, "I dare say she has some of her father's courage."

Miss Pole snorted. "Surely you intended that as a compliment, Miss Matty," she said, "but there's no man alive who could do what Mrs. Gordon has just accomplished."

That night Mr. Carter told Harry he must take supper with them before his lesson, and so he'd come from the cowshed and scrubbed his hands and even his face, so well that Mr. Carter nodded and smiled at him before they both set off for the house. When they'd got there they had hardly had time to wipe their boots before Mrs. Carter opened the door to them both, smiling at Harry in her old way, as though she had been waiting just for him.

She smiled at Mr. Carter too, and looked glad to see him, even if she didn't let him kiss her the way Dada had always kissed Mum whenever he came home. But then she couldn't, not when Harry was there for his lesson.

"I called on Mrs. Gordon today," she said to her husband as she was taking up his hat to put away. "Captain Brown has come home again." At that she smiled so much that Harry thought it must be very good news. And it was, of course; he liked Captain Brown, who'd been so kind to Mum.

"Has he indeed?" said Mr. Carter, who did not smile but looked just as he did whenever he was cross with Harry, or there was trouble at Hanbury. "I hope Sir Charles did the honorable thing when Captain Brown went before the board."

"Charles? I confess, Edward, that I did not think to ask, though Captain Brown did not seem much worried on that account. Indeed when I saw him he was chiefly concerned with the new acquaintance he had made."

"New acquaintance?"

Mrs. Carter smiled again, and said, "A little girl." She spoke in such a low voice that Harry could hardly hear it.

"A little girl? A little girl? You mean --"

"I do indeed."

Harry wanted to laugh at the way Mr. Carter looked just then, but he didn't dare. But Mrs. Carter was smiling again, as though she had a secret.

Mr. Carter must have known the secret too, for he was smiling now as well. "A little girl. Think of that! That is very fine news indeed, very fine news."

Martha didn't draw pictures the way Mrs. Carter did but even she thought it was a lovely sight whenever Miss Matty sat at the table in the garden, with Mr. Jenkyns across from her, and the baby resting in her basket beside them. Oh, Jem was right; little Matilda was just like a rosebud, so pink and pretty. Even now Martha laughed to see her daughter yawn with that tiny mouth of hers, and to see her kick up her soft little feet.

Miss Matty loved the baby too, and she often kept her company in the garden or in the sitting room, where there was sewing to take up or letters to write. So Martha felt easy in her mind about leaving the little one in the garden with Miss Matty, that she might steal across the street and see how Mrs. Gordon was getting on with her baby.

Miss Jessie had been so afraid, of course, even before the pains had come, but she'd forgotten it all when she could hold Flora in her arms, and when her father came home again. Martha had always liked Captain Brown -- he'd always spoken kindly to her -- and she liked him the better when she saw him with the baby. He was a good deal worse than Jem, and made little noises at Flora, and looked at her as though she were made all of gold. Martha had to wonder at how such great hulking fellows grew so gentle once a baby was in the house.

Martha herself felt wise, now that Miss Jessie wanted to put a great many questions to her, and she answered so many that it was some time before she got back to the garden to see how Miss Matty and the little mite got on. Surely they'd be outdoors still; it was such a pretty day.

Yes, there they all were -- Miss Matty with the baby in her arms, and Mr. Jenkyns seated at the table with them. Martha nearly laughed again at the sight of Baby Matilda, who had found her little fist and was sucking it, as though it were something good to eat.

Miss Matty had not seen Martha coming, but she put a kiss on the baby's head, and then another. Her arms went round the little girl, gently and firmly, as though she feared to lose her.

"Miss Matty?"

Miss Matilda could say nothing, and Martha saw she had been crying. And Mr. Jenkyns, whose eyes had been so merry but an hour before, looked grave and thoughtful.

Then Martha saw he was holding a letter, a letter written in a fine and even hand.

My dear, faithful friend,

I shall attempt to express the comfort I felt when I saw your letter awaiting me, but I fear I shall not be equal to the task. Only know, Sophy, that I took it up at once and read it, and it was very nearly as though you were standing beside me, speaking to me as you have done so many times before, and I was greatly consoled.

That I should have such friends as you and good Miss Matty seems a blessing from heaven itself. I know there is no trial I face at present that you both have not suffered in full measure, or indeed to a greater degree, and with a measure of faith and courage I should very much like to achieve.

Perhaps with your father's tutelage I shall make a beginning. I must tell you I was very moved by the gentleness of his expression, but perhaps only a father who has known grief could have written such a letter, or offered such assurances. Little Rachel, he says, is now beyond all suffering and tears, all pain and sin and wrongdoing, and we shall see her again presently, when God takes us to Himself. "Of such is the kingdom of God." Sophy, dare I hope that it may be so?

I confess to you there are times when the emptiness in my heart is not to be fled. I have tried to read, tried to pray, but -- and this must shock you – nothing seems to avail. It as though the very doors of heaven are locked against my entreaties.

Yet I must rally, for my father's sake, and my poor stepmother and the children. The little ones are around me constantly, and I spend much time with Papa, and sit with Mama as often as we both can bear it.

Yet it is a curious thing that a house so filled with people should prove such a lonely place. Mama is so dreadfully silent – just now I would trade all I possess to hear her laughing and gossiping again -- and there is a look in her eyes I have never seen before. Sophy, I do not think I have ever seen such sad eyes.

But the sorrow is not in Mama's eyes alone; indeed it is all about us. Of the children, only the two eldest understand, in their fashion, what has come to pass. But the others know something is amiss, and even little Ralph at times goes here and there about the house, as though searching for something or someone, and asking, "Baby? Baby?" I cannot describe how painful it is for Mama and Papa to hear his plaintive, innocent question. It is all the worse for having no possible reply.

Sophy, I so long to see your dear face, and Miss Matty's, and speak to both of you, and to Jessie. I confess I might even enjoy a lengthy conversation with Martha at this moment, and indeed would give a great deal to walk the streets of Cranford, whether dusty or muddy, and endure Mrs. Johnson's brazen efforts to sell Miss Matty lengths of cloth she does not need, and see Miss Pole, bonnet quivering, bustle down the street in search of a recipient for some choice bit of gossip. But I am here in Manchester, and the days we spent together in Cranford seem very long past.

You will wonder why I have not mentioned Jack. Oh, Sophy, that is worst of all. It took nearly all my strength to write the letter telling him the news, and it breaks my heart to think of him unfolding the paper and learning what has happened.

I had thought it a very prudent decision to send him to Glasgow, where he might avail himself of every connection and opportunity. Yet I have a hundred times repented my words to him at our parting, and wish that I had persuaded him to remain in Manchester. Such a confession must be given to your keeping, for you are too kind to utter a word of my selfishness to anyone.

There is more I must admit, if you will indulge me. At times I imagine myself at the brook at Cranford, or at the Tomkinsons' on Christmas Eve, or in the little house in Princess Street, and Jack is always there. And in the watches of the night, when sleep at last arrives, my dreams are all filled with Rachel and with my mother, and of course with all my friends, but also with Jack as well. Indeed there are nights when I seem to spend all my time traveling to Glasgow or to London to see him, yet I never arrive, or, if I do, I cannot find Jack, and when I awake, it is very much as though I had not slept at all.

Sophy, what should you have done, had you been parted from Frank? I cannot imagine it. You must be content enough for both of us, then, and assure me that there will be a time when we all meet, let alone laugh, again.

Do write again as soon as your duties permit, and give my kindest regards to Frank, and to your good father, and Helen and Lizzie.

Very truly yours,

Mary Smith

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To be continued...