The following is based on the 2007 BBC miniseries Cranford, in which Heidi Thomas adapted Elizabeth Gaskell's Cranford, Mr. Harrison's Confessions, and My Lady Ludlow for the small screen. It's basically a love letter to an entire community. C of C expands on that, and on love stories that were only hinted at in the BBC series.

Many, many thanks to my faithful and kind readers for your reviews and encouragement. I love hearing from each and every one of you, and do take your comments very much to heart.

I wanted to finish this chapter more than a week ago, but the Halloween goblins performed their mischief on my computer, and only the heroic intervention of a neighbor (Thanks, Dave!) rescued me from what would have surely been several days of being offline and away from my characters and all of you. May it never be!

Chapter 35: Beyond Words

There is more silence than language in love. Martin C. Helldorfer

The baby stirred in his arms, her little mouth working. Major Gordon held his breath for a moment, then released it, as his daughter neither made a sound nor woke up. There should be peace, then, for a time -- though not long, he knew, not long at all -- that Jessie might take what she could of rest.

Of course Flora might protest loudly if she opened her eyes to find only her father there, and then her mother would take her again. But for this moment, at least, awkward though he was, he could hold the child in his arms as she slept.

He'd not be parted from her, nor from his Jessie, ever again. He had resolved as much to himself.

Laurentia ran her hand across the cream-colored linen -- a shirt, freshly washed and pressed and, she remembered, newly mended, though of course no one should see that. Indeed Edward should cut an impressive, perhaps even imposing, figure before bankers, merchants, and anyone else he must see during the next few days.

She had been much engaged in assisting him with preparations for his journey, perhaps to distract herself from the thought that this was to be the first parting in their marriage. Indeed she was startled to remember that she had not spent a night alone since quitting Hanbury Court as a guest.

But while her husband was away she should have a great deal to engage her, and the society of Lady Ludlow, Mrs. Morgan, and even young Harry, who, to Laurentia's amusement, had offered to keep her company one evening, and would come for a lesson, much as he always did.

Meanwhile, Edward should be away from them both, that he might accomplish what he could on behalf of Hanbury.

Laurentia had not a little anxiety about his prospects in that regard. Though Lady Ludlow had shown a touching humility in her embrace of Edward's economies, and had consequently effected some improvement in her circumstances, there remained as yet several concerns, especially with regard to Septimus's expenses. Now Edward was determined to exploit the advent of the railway to her ladyship's best advantage, and seek new arrangements for the sale of Hanbury goods.

He loved the estate as well as if he were to inherit it himself, and would have made almost any sacrifice in its service, indeed already had proven as much. But Edward believed this new effort should in the end secure their hopes, and though it was with reluctance Laurentia sent him away, his cause was her own, and she willingly performed any task he asked, if it might ease the path before him.

So it was that she placed one or two things more into the traveling case, and prayed, with all her heart, that Edward's work should prosper.

Bachelorhood, thought Ferguson, had given him a refined understanding of that curious breed of womankind known as the landlady. More often than not she proved fierce and formidable, as the specimen before him no doubt would, but he'd traveled a good many miles this day and was not about to be put off by a woman whose very countenance might curdle milk.

Besides, his ancestors had faced far worse, and he must prove a credit to them.

"Good day to you, madam," he said, as warmly as he could, to the dour woman standing before him. "Pray forgive the interruption. I've come from Edinburgh, and wished to have the pleasure of calling upon my colleague Dr. Marshland."

At that the fearsome lady actually smiled. "Dr. Ferguson, is it? I was told to expect you. Do come in, and I'll summon Dr. Marshland."

Safely inside, Ferguson was led to the front room and briefly abandoned by his hostess. From somewhere within the house he heard her call primly, "Dr. Marshland, there's a gentleman to see you."

Ferguson was taken aback when his friend stepped through the door. Even with their days at Guy's well behind them, Marshland had kept the lean appearance of a medical student, but now he was a degree thinner than he had been. Either his kind landlady did not set such a generous table, or Jack had been so engaged in his work -- and in missing that lass of his, of course -- that he'd no time for meals. Ferguson suspected he knew which of those it was.

For all that he was approaching gauntness, though, the the Irishman had not entirely lost his ready smile, nor even the gleam in his eyes.

"I see I've been misled, Alan. There's no gentleman here to see me at all, only you."

"Well, come to see you I have," said Ferguson, with exaggerated gruffness. "For my sins."

"It was good of you to come," replied Jack warmly, and with that they clasped hands.

"Now then, it's been far too long since I've been to Glasgow, and from the look of you, it's been too long since you've been out of doors. Shall we walk?"

"If you like. I've a good deal to tell you, Alan. A good deal."

The first order of business was some vigorous exercise. A man became prematurely aged, Ferguson knew, if he spent too much time indoors and hunched over his medical texts. They should have a walk, he proposed, then order a good dinner. From the look of Jack, he was quite urgently in need of it.

At that suggestion the Irishman smiled again, and nearly laughed, though not quite. "It's good to have you here, Alan. "

"Are things so bad as that? I should have thought you'd find me dull, with the august company you've been keeping."

"They're men, like any others," said Jack, with unexpected seriousness. "And one day's like another here. Mind you, sometimes it rains," he added, displaying some of his old merriment.

Ferguson chuckled. "And even the rain is not a novelty."

"As it wasn't in Manchester," said Marshland shortly.

"No," said Ferguson, forcing another chuckle. They walked on in silence for a moment before he added, "Jack, I should not expect for you to want to make your home here, but it's a fine thing you're doing. A man should sell all he has to have such an opportunity."

"I very nearly have." And with that pronouncement Marshland's voice was uncharacteristically bleak.

"Come now, Jack," said his friend, as lightly as he could. 'It will not be long before you give Miss Smith your name and, I dare say, several wee Marshlands to tug at her skirts besides, and you'll never remember it was any different, once you have a household of your own."

Marshland sighed. "I can't say when that will be, Alan."

"No? I had thought her father had given his consent."

"That he has. But there will be no weddings in the family while they are all deeply in mourning."

"In mourning?"

"For Mary's little half-sister, not a year old."

"Not a year old!" Ferguson paused in mid-stride and turned to look at his friend. "I am sorry, Jack, truly sorry for Miss Smith and all her family."

"And the worst of it, Alan -- no, I should not say the worst, but it all seems a good deal worse for being parted from Mary. I've written my condolences to her mother and father, and a good many more letters to Mary herself -- every night, if I can -- but it's a poor sort of comfort I'm giving when she is in Manchester and I am here.

"But I gave my word, Alan. I pledged myself in two senses, and I'll make a bad job of both, it seems, when my mind is one place, and my body's another."

Ferguson spoke as softly and carefully as he could. "Miss Smith will understand, Jack. I dare say she knows very well what it means to wed a physician." There was a little pause as they began walking again, and then he added, "You've always told me she's as canny as she is bonny."

Jack made no reply at first, but walked on slowly, deliberately. "You've not seen Mary as yet," he said at last, smiling, though he'd turned his gaze towards something in the distance. "Such eyes she has, Alan. I wish I'd a portrait of her with me now."

"I shall see her soon enough. You'll be wed before you know it," said his friend kindly. "Now then," he continued, resuming a brisk tone. "I'd wager we both have appetite enough for a hearty dinner, and I know just the place."

With that Ferguson clapped a hand on Marshland's shoulder, and they set off at a livelier pace.

Dear Jack,

I confess I never thought blotched ink beautiful before now, but I shall think it so from henceforth, for when your letter arrived and I saw the envelope, with its direction in your dear, familiar script, my heart leapt up. As soon as I might, I made my way to my room, to read without interruption. And once I was there, it was very much as though I heard your voice speaking to me, and felt your hand upon mine, and drew comfort and strength from it.

I smiled, for what seemed the first time in a great while, when I read that you would rather have earned your bread by digging ditches, if only we might have wed as soon as the banns were called.

But you must not reproach yourself, Jack, nor wish yourself elsewhere. I understand very well why you had to make your journey. Truly it is a good thing you are doing at present, something which must in time allow you to provide hope where none was before, and moreover it is not every man who could undertake such a task. I do not pretend to understand your work, but as Mr. Carter rightly observed, waste is a sin, and it would be a great pity to squander such talents and abilities as your own.

Jack, I hope we shall count ourselves all the more richly blessed, once we are together again, for having been parted in such a fashion, that you might secure our fondest hopes. I pray it may be so.

But perhaps it is wrong to speak of future blessings when we each of us have our work, and our faithful friends. I was pleased to hear that your colleague Dr. Ferguson was to visit you, and that you already had acquaintance in Glasgow as well. It is a great comfort to know that you are among such amiable people.

As for myself, I can report that dear Miss Matty has been ever faithful in her correspondence, and Mrs. Harrison too. Even Miss Pole, with an admirable degree of kindness if not tact, has taken it upon herself to provide me a weekly report of all the news from Cranford. So it was that I learned that Captain Brown has a new little granddaughter, Flora, and (for so my informant has it) displays a lamentable want of dignity by making the most absurd noises to amuse and distract the baby; and that Major Gordon has returned from Scotland to be most joyously reunited with his little family; and that Mrs. Gordon is very well, despite living in a very small house with two very tall men, who have no more idea of baby-tending than they do of flying through the air.

I have as well received very kind letters from Mrs. Carter, and the Reverend Hutton, and Helen and Lizzie. They all bade me send you their warmest regards, which I do most wholeheartedly. The rector thought as well to write to me of marriage, and to assure me that along with its responsibilities it affords mutual help, and comfort, and that we should understand that the better for our current trials. He is a man who has known every manner of grief himself, Jack, and I shall take his advice very much to heart.

There are occasions, though, I must confess, when I draw my consolation not from what is to be but what has come before. When I close my eyes on a summer night, I conjure the image of the brook in Cranford, and imagine myself there, seated on the bank, and you approaching on horseback. When I am thus diverted, there are no sorrows, no vexations, and we are together, content to enjoy the leisure of an hour in the cool shade.

But it is not only towards the brook at Cranford that my thoughts wander. I think of our happy Christmas Eve with the Misses Tomkinson, and of May Day, and of our walk upon the grounds of Hanbury, with all the roses in bloom. With every such memory, Jack, it does not feel as though you are quite so far away. You will forgive my indulgence in such whimsies, I know, and perhaps think happily on those days yourself as you go about your work.

I keep very busy here, even if one day is like another, but for Sunday, when Mama has insisted we must continue to attend matins. To be sure the church is grander than the one in Cranford, and the vicar a most learned and eloquent man, and the other parishioners accord Papa the proper respect. But I confess I can think of little else but walking arm in arm to that austere little village church with Miss Matty, and of hearing Captain Brown's strong deep voice during every hymn the congregation attempts. The music is finer in Manchester, though not, I think, as heartfelt.

What was that song you sang at the Tomkinsons' party that Christmas Eve, Jack? I cannot recall the words, yet I thought it both merry and melancholy at once. That seemed strange at the time, but I have learned a great deal since that night, and now see that joy and sorrow are twins. Perhaps you had long ago learned as much yourself.

As I write these lines your letters are resting safely upon the table. They are never far from me, when I am otherwise alone, and I trust it will not be too long before another joins their number, that I might learn how your work prospers, and that you are well and happy.

With all my heart, I remain ever your

Mary

"Are you sad that Mr. Carter has gone away?"

Mrs. Carter looked up from the book and smiled at Harry. "Mr. Carter has duties to perform for Lady Ludlow, and cannot accomplish them all at Hanbury. But he will be home on Friday, Harry, and I am glad of it."

"Mum -- my mother didn't like it when Dada went away -- when my father went away."

"No." Mrs. Carter said the word very softly. She said nothing more, but there was light enough yet here in the garden that Harry could see that her eyes were sad.

"But Dada -- my father," he continued, "always brought something when he came home."

"Did he?" Mrs. Carter's smile returned, and her eyes grew brighter. "What sorts of things did he bring?"

"Bread, cheese, apples. Eggs, sometimes, and buns."

"Did you like that?"

"Oh, yes. But he never brought books, like Mr. Carter does."

"Mr. Carter is uncommonly fond of books," said Mrs. Carter. "Talking of books, shall I read some more, Harry, or should you like a turn?"

"I like to hear you read."

Mrs. Carter smiled at him once more and, opening the covers of The Adventures of Oliver Twist, or the Parish Boy's Progress, found the place where they had left off reading.

"If you would prefer, Laurentia, you might stay at Hanbury Court while your husband is away," said Lady Ludlow, almost lightly, as she bent to inspect the full white blooms on one of her rose bushes.

"You are very kind, Lady Ludlow, but I should not like to put you to any trouble."

Lady Ludlow straightened up and faced her companion. "You know you are most welcome, Laurentia. I should enjoy the company, and do not care to see Mr. Carter leaving his bride bereft."

Such a sweet smile had Laurentia! Lady Ludlow had often seen it, but had not thought until now how endearingly girlish it remained.

"You need have no worries in that regard, Lady Ludlow," said Laurentia, still smiling. "Mr. Carter has left me a protector."

"Or protectors, rather, I should expect," said Lady Ludlow, moving towards the next rose bush. "Mrs. Greenfield is most capable and reliable, and has brought up her son very well, and you may trust them both implicitly."

"I do, Lady Ludlow, but I was speaking of Harry Gregson."

"Harry Gregson?"

"Yes, my lady. He was very worried that I should be lonely and, with my husband's leave, has more than once come to sit with me in the evening. But then he often does so, and reads aloud to us. I dare say Edward intends that it should be a proper lesson, but surely it is no secret that it also amuses Harry as well. Children love stories, as you know."

"Yes." Lady Ludlow uttered the word more abruptly than she meant to, and Laurentia blushed lightly, evidently disconcerted.

When next she spoke, it was slowly, deliberately, as though choosing her words with care. "My lady, Mr. Carter has taught Harry to love the written word, or I dare say he merely watered the seed that was already planted, for Harry has a natural curiosity."

"Indeed." Lady Ludlow allowed a little silence to settle between them before saying, in as dispassionate a tone as she could produce, "And you see no danger in that, Laurentia?"

"Lady Ludlow," said her friend, in a soft yet firm voice, "Harry is a clever boy, and a very gentle one. I find that he is a good deal wiser than many are at that age, and has evident talents and abilities --"

"Oh, Laurentia," sighed Lady Ludlow, more in sorrow than reproach.

But her companion had not done yet. "Moreover he has been entrusted with considerable responsibility, young though he is. It would be unkind and indeed unjust to deny him the few pleasures he has.

"And of course Harry has no mother," she added, with a look that fairly pierced Lady Ludlow's heart.

"No," replied her ladyship. "He has no mother." They walked in silence for a moment -- Laurentia's eyes cast downward, Lady Ludlow gravely surveying the lawns before them.

"I understand that the boy's father is much improved, indeed has proven a most faithful and reliable employee," she said, as they advanced forward. "I have not yet seen it for myself, but I have no reason to doubt your husband's word."

"Indeed Mr. Carter has been most agreeably astonished in that regard, but perhaps he ought not to be. I think Mr. Gregson feels the loss of his wife exceedingly, and is ever mindful of the six children who remain under his care."

"Yes. I do not doubt that," replied Lady Ludlow softly. Grief. How strong, how merciless was its grasp on the heart!

"Laurentia." She turned to face the younger woman. "I confess that I feel in need of refreshment just now, and propose that we take tea on the terrace. Will you come with me?"

"Thank you, Lady Ludlow. I should be very happy to."

Mama had astonished her yet again.

At first her grief had taken the usual form -- seclusion, weeping -- to be followed by an untimely and almost frantic summoning of the doctor, that they should have proof that none of the surviving children displayed signs of illness, as indeed they had not. Mary found such behavior unsettling but entirely excusable, especially when Mama's sorrow was so new and her loss so entire.

The resumption of regular attendance at matins had not been expected, however. Clara had long paid a good deal more attention to her toilette than her prayer book, but now the fashionable Mrs. Smith, in newly austere garb, never needed church bells to summon her to worship, and to gather her little flock about her as she did so. Mary's heart fairly ached to see the stoic expression on Mama's face at such times, and the grim set of Papa's jaw. They both seemed at once a good deal older, especially Papa.

Only the restlessness of her young sisters and brothers provided Mary an odd sort of comfort. At least that remained unchanged.

Of course the family could enjoy no amusement while they were in mourning, and saw few people apart from their relations and the vicar. It was therefore astonishing when, having observed the regular delivery of letters from young Mrs. Harrison, Mama proposed that Mary invite her dear friend to spend a few days with them in Manchester -- that is, provided her husband could spare her. Frank had, of course, made no objection to the plan, and in due course Sophy had arrived to see them.

Mary never knew whether it was kindness, gratitude, or desperation that had inspired Mama to extend the invitation, but she immediately saw the wisdom of it. Few guests could be as tactful, and as undemanding, as young Mrs. Harrison. Moreover she was fond of children, and eager to be of use to her hostess, and so unobtrusively assisted with the care and amusement of all the little Smiths, who found her quite as likable as they had the "Marsh-man" in happier days.

Mary herself was grateful for the society of a woman of her own age, and the prospect of once again exchanging confidences. Neither she nor Sophy was particularly given to subterfuge, and yet they had felt it necessary to conceal certain matters from Clara, for fear of worsening her already considerable grief.

So it was that breakfast time, at least on the first morning of the visit, had proven awkward when Sophy had declined richer fare in favor of tea and toast. Mary had stolen a glance at her stepmother and detected a hard, decidedly suspicious expression in those ever-watchful eyes. But in a trice the severe look was gone, and Clara gave way, and thereafter offered only tea and toast to Mrs. Harrison in the mornings, along with a polite inquiry after her health.

There was, moreover, another great secret.

Not long after Sophy's arrival, she and her friend had repaired to Mary's room, that she might fulfill a commission from Miss Matilda Jenkyns.

"I own I do not know what it is in it myself," said Sophy, presenting a parcel to Mary. "But Miss Matty was most insistent than I bring it. There is a note as well."

My dear Mary,

I was seeing to one or two matters in your room during your absence and discovered the enclosed treasures, and so have asked Mrs. Harrison to take them to you. It was not without some hesitation that I did so, for what I have sent might well inspire memories that at present may prove too painful to bear. But it troubled me very much to think they should go unseen, and you know best whether to keep them to hand, or to put them away until your grief is no longer new.

My dear Mary, I shall write to you very soon, and provide what news I might, though I dare say Miss Pole already performs that service in superior fashion. But I know there can be no surfeit of correspondence from friends, and so will take up my pen anew.

My brother sends his warmest regards, as do Martha and Jem. Martha always asks for any news of you and your family, and of course keeps your room well aired and well dusted, and ever in readiness.

The white roses are in bloom, Mary, and I often think of placing one of them in the vase in your bedchamber. But it should go unseen there, and so I leave all flowers at peace in the garden, where all may see and enjoy them, and where they await your return.

I shall as well keep you and your dear family always in my prayers.

Your friend

Matilda Jenkyns

********************

"Oh --"

Mary fell silent as she drew the wrapping away from Miss Matty's treasures: the sketch of Jack, looking somewhat untidy but handsome, and characteristically merry, and the portrait of Mary herself, with little Rachel resting in her arms.

"Oh, Sophy." Mary looked first at one, then the other, as her eyes filled with tears. "Miss Galindo -- that is, Mrs. Carter -- made these on May Day, when we were all so happy."

Sophy put her arm about her friend as they studied the pictures in silence. "They are very good likenesses," she said at last. "Mrs. Carter must be very talented."

Mary briefly raised her eyes from the portraits and turned to Sophy. "Yes," she said, smiling, despite her tears. "Yes, she must."

Edward had seen miniatures in her ladyship's possession, and even had heard something of this new means of creating likenesses -- the photograph, he thought it was called -- and fervently wished he had such things at his disposal, now that he must be parted from his wife. A portrait capturing Laurie's fine dark eyes and provoking little chin ought to have provided him happy memories of home, and of her, as he went about his duties.

Indeed he was astonished to realize that he found it unsettling to be among strangers, and away from Laurie's help and influence. When evening came, he should have liked to have given her report of how he had spent the day, what he had accomplished, and see in her eyes, if not hear from her lips, what she thought of the entire proceeding.

But he should be home on Friday, of course, and by then have a better idea of how his efforts had fared. Till then he must content himself with civil greetings from stranger and acquaintance alike, and with such comforts as inns provided. That was hardest. During the day there were distractions enough, but at night he longed to hear Laurie's voice, and to enjoy her company.

He had to smile when he remembered how she had once been to him, how she had vexed and provoked him at at every turn. "Mr. Carter," she'd say archly, the pitch of her voice a touch higher, just before she made some observation or posed some question certain to discomfit him.

He could not have known then that with time her voice would have a very different effect, and her silences yet another, and he liked both very well indeed. Now when she called him, it was by his Christian name, and her voice was invariably soft and tender -- that is, unless she'd found some reason to be vexed with him!

And when she was silent, it was often enough his doing, he thought, smiling. Indeed he never felt so well contented as he did in those moments when, almost without speaking, they might take comfort, and pleasure, in once more being alone together.

"Miss Pole has proposed that I exult in the natural freedom of the spinster, and have things just as I please, while Edward is away."

"And will you do so, Laurentia?" said Mrs. Morgan, smiling.

"I own that I can think of nothing in particular that should please me and displease Edward, save taking the sort of supper I prefer," she said, pouring a cup of tea. "Then I need not go to Mr. Goddard's. But I take pleasure in walking to the village, and even in ordering a fillet or some such thing for Edward's supper, and so it seems not much of a holiday to have my husband away. Indeed I will confess to you that the house appears dreadfully empty late at night, and I have been overly liberal with my candles."

At such a bleak prospect, Mrs. Morgan could not find it in her heart to reproach her friend. "You have had no troubling dreams?" she inquired delicately.

"Plentiful, sometimes odd, but by no means troubling," said Mrs. Carter, with a wry smile. "I dreamed the other night that Harry Gregson, dressed as a young gentleman, was to accompany Edward to Manchester, where they were to see to a business matter of some consequence."

Mrs. Morgan laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks.

"They were both very much in earnest! And the night before it was all of Miss Matty and the most charming little girl -- neither Matilda nor Flora, but another child, a child I did not know. Indeed I have often dreamed of children in these last days," added Mrs. Carter. A little pause ensued, and Mrs. Morgan could hear the very ticking of the clock as they each were alone with their thoughts.

"Will you not speak to Edward, Laurentia?" said Mrs. Morgan at last. "Will you not at least reveal your suspicions?"

"If I am mistaken, Isobel, it should prove a terrible disappointment to him."

"But he is your husband," said Mrs. Morgan delicately. "Surely you can entrust this secret to him."

"If my suspicions are correct, it shall not remain a secret!" said Mrs. Carter. "But Edward has so many responsibilities just now, Isobel. I should not like to give him additional cause for worry."

"But it is surely cause for joy as well," said Mrs. Morgan simply.

"I pray it may be. But I have not yet found the words to speak to Edward of such a thing. Is that not strange?"

Mrs. Morgan thought back over her two years in Cranford, and dozens of misbegotten exchanges with young Dr. Harrison, and even with her husband of less than a year, Dr. Morgan.

"Perhaps not, Laurentia," she said kindly. "Perhaps not."

Mary felt newly bereft after Sophy had set off again for Cranford. Somehow relations and friends in Manchester could not supplant the acquaintance she had formed in Cranford, and she knew she would await arrival of the post as anxiously as heretofore.

The leave-taking itself had been most awkward, with Mama outwardly gracious yet also noticeably relieved at Mrs. Harrision's departure. Perhaps any guest, no matter how quiet and tactful, should have proven too much for Clara this early in their bereavement, or perhaps she was discomfited by the presence of the watchful Sophy herself, or for another reason. Mary could not tell, and she dared not speak of it to Mama.

But at least Sophy's visit should provide more news for Jack, and when a few hours had passed since the departure, and the household was quiet, Mary stole away to her room to write the letter she had been composing to herself all the day.

On opening the door, she was startled to see a figure seated upon her own bed.

"Mama?"

For a moment Clara neither moved nor made a sound but kept her eyes upon the drawing of Mary and Rachel.

"Mama --"

Clara lifted her head to look at her stepdaughter, and Mary saw in her expression both pain and wonder.

"Why did you not tell me?"

"Mama, I did not wish to grieve you," said Mary softly.

"Grieve me? How can it grieve me?" said Clara, glancing from Mary to the picture. Then, in a very low voice, she asked, "Did Mrs. Harrison draw this?"

"No, Mama. It was Mrs. Carter," said Mary gently. "On May Day."

"On May Day."

"And she drew Jack's portrait as well."

"Yes," said Clara quietly.

"Miss Matty had kept them for me, Mama," said Mary in haste, as though speaking might spare her stepmother more tears. "She was afraid that it might be too painful to see them, but she would not keep them, Mama, when I was in Manchester. But I shall put them away, if you like --"

"Put them away? No," said Clara softly. "You must not put them away. I did not know," she added, shaking her head. "I did not know."

"What did you not know?" prompted Mary gently.

"That there was a picture," whispered Clara, her voice breaking. "That there was a picture of my little angel."

Laurentia took to envisioning Edward's face when he should return to her that evening. He no doubt would call at the great house first, that he might make his report to Lady Ludlow, and attend a good many matters besides, but she was certain he would return home as early as might be attempted. She wondered if he might prove weary, perhaps even vexed. If the former, it might be an unsuitable time to speak to him; if the latter – well, perhaps that was even worse.

She knew well enough to soothe and distract him at such times, or perhaps on occasion to leave him to his own devices. Unfortunately she could judge nothing until she saw him and determined the nature of his mood.

It should be written on his face, she thought, the instant she saw him. Oh, he would surely smile at her, and there should be tenderness in those eyes -- those eyes that could seem so hard when he was angry -- but she should soon know whether his journey had proved a success or no, and it would grieve her very much if it was the latter.

As to her own mood, she had an unaccountable desire to remain with him in silence for a time – sitting upon his knee, perhaps, or resting against his chest. She so loved those moments in the evenings and the early mornings when he put protective arms around her, and she fairly curled about him. At those times she was wholly at peace, and her very heart seemed shielded from worry and danger.

She had not spoken such thoughts to Edward, not since that day before their wedding. But perhaps he had not forgotten, and perhaps he felt as she did. Indeed in such moments no words seemed necessary to complete their happiness, or give voice to their mutual affection.

So Carter was back. Job hadn't expected to be pleased to see him, but he was, and if they had as little to say to each other as ever, at least there were no harsh words. A nod, a curt, "Very good," and that was all. But his eyes looked out sharply from beneath his hat brim, seeing everything that went on, and if he'd noted something amiss, Job should have heard about it. Carter knew when a man had done a good day's work, and would tell him as much, one way or another.

But he was fair, Carter was, and never asked what he would not do himself. A man could trust him, Job thought. He was beginning to see why Bella had thought well of Carter, and why Harry followed him about like a spaniel. Folk respected him, and only Lady Ludlow herself could bend his will.

It was well that he traveled so little, on estate affairs or otherwise. This afternoon Hopkins had sorely tried his patience with a recitation of all the ills that had befallen the estate over the previous two days. It made Edward grateful for Gregson's taciturn ways -- a few words, and his account of himself was complete.

The conversation with her ladyship had required a different sort of patience, as it was evident she was not entirely convinced of the value of his plan. Moreover she as yet appeared to regard any discussion of money as beneath her, though there had been relief in her eyes when Edward explained that Hanbury goods would fetch a better price in the city, and that he had accordingly made new arrangements with various merchants.

He could sense too that she had subtly begun to defer to him, perhaps seeing that his efforts were beginning to bear fruit. Neither of them need speak of it, of course, but he saw it just the same, and knew what it cost her in pride. He prayed to God that in this case, at least, her trust would not be misplaced.

And he wished very much to be home as quickly as possible, that he might tell Laurie all that had had happened.

She had been watching for him when he had arrived. The set of his jaw and shoulders suggested confidence, the look in his eyes bespoke weariness, but the subtle smile upon his lips gave her to understand that all was well, or as well as could be expected.

Over supper she let him talk, and had only to put a few questions to him to learn everything she wished to know, and a good deal more besides. It was some time before their conversation turned from Edward's journey to other matters, specifically how Laurentia had spent that week, and how Harry had got on during his lessons.

"Very well for the most part, Edward, though I confess that one evening I read to him, and not the reverse. Indeed I had not the heart to refuse, as he said he liked to hear my voice. Is that not curious?"

The subtle smile reappeared on Edward's lips, and his eyes gleamed in the light. "No, it is not curious, Mrs. Carter, not in the least."

He really ought not to have thought his study a suitable hiding place.

"Laurentia!"

She started, straightened up, holding one of his shirts in her hands. He had surprised her as she was bending over his traveling case, no doubt to collect one or two things for the washing basket, and very near to discovering the gifts he had concealed within. The surprises for Harry's twelfth birthday should of course pose no problem -- she might see them at once -- but the things he'd purchased for her own birthday were another matter.

He cursed his lack of forethought. Of course she had assisted him in packing his things, and would certainly think nothing of collecting his shirts after the journey. Was he really so damnably unused to having a wife to look after him?

But he truly had not thought Laurie would breach his study, and so create this awkward situation. She stood looking back at him with her large dark eyes, and all words stuck in his throat.

"Laurie," he said at last, in what he hoped was his gentler voice. "You look tired."

"Tired?" she echoed.

"I mean that perhaps you should retire." He smiled awkwardly, then thought the better of his words. "We ought to retire. It has been a busy few days." It was all true enough, and yet he felt he had not improved things much.

"Indeed it has, Edward," said she, raising her eyebrows.

With that she glided out of the room, leaving him ashamed of his tactlessness, and pondering a suitable explanation.

It was likely Edward had not noticed the smile upon her face when she had swept out of the room, just piqued enough to leave him in doubt of her mood.

He'd come very near to scolding her as though she were Harry. She had not expected that, but perhaps he preferred to unpack his own case, or perhaps he was concealing some secret from her. If it was the former, that was not so very astonishing, and if the latter, she knew Edward well enough that his purpose, whatever it might be, should bear scrutiny -- with time. Indeed she suspected she knew it already.

Still, she did not much care to be reproved, and so had indulged a whim to be perversely demure, even distant with Edward until such time as he might turn to her and give every assurance of his regard, though without words. Words should not be necessary -- she did not require or need apology or explanation -- and she suspected that Edward preferred it so, and she very nearly did as well.

After all, words could prove elusive. For all that Edward and she had been parted for several days, she had as yet not found the words to tell him a secret of her own.

It was some time before he came upstairs to the bedroom. She'd laid off her blue gown and put on a soft white nightdress. He saw her perched on the bed, demurely braiding her hair, and he fully expected her to be prim and distant with him, given his abruptness downstairs.

Instead she looked up as he entered the room, and smiled, her dimples evident even by candlelight.

There had been something he was about to do, some task he must see to, but he forgot it, forgot everything, even words, and went to her.

And if she was cross with him, she gave no sign of it, not in the least.

The austere, lonely rooms of his travels were but a vague memory, the anxieties that had attended him had been banished, and it seemed to Edward paradise itself to be home in his own bed -- no, their bed -- with Laurie nestled against him.

Of course he still had a great deal to say to her, as though they had been apart a year rather than a few days, but just now exhaustion was overtaking him, and sleep seemed very tempting. He shifted in bed slightly, keeping his arm about Laurie, and could feel her stroking his hand with hers, and hear her murmuring something as he was growing ever drowsier.

Edward had been away only a few days, but Laurentia doubted very much Odysseus himself had been made so welcome after all his years of wandering. She trusted that her husband understood that she was by no means cross with him, and felt nothing but pleasure at his being home again.

There was no need, moreover, to speak of their mutual affection, at least not just then, but they must speak of other matters, and soon. The very thought banished any creeping drowsiness, and as Laurie lay close to Edward, fairly curled about him, she found her mind too active for sleep.

"Edward, are you yet awake?" she said softly. There was no other reply than his steady, even breathing. She was not about to wake him, though even as he slept she caressed his hand with her thumb, as she'd done for him before. He stirred a little, and murmured something, yet did not wake up to hear what it was she wished to tell him.

Perhaps it was just as well. Between Hanbury Court and the new school, he had a good deal to engage him, and she might wait a few weeks more, until she was confident she had good news to report. She remembered Isobel's counsel and felt a measure of guilt for having told Edward nothing of her suspicions. Yet he needed her affection and support now quite as much as he had ever done, and could live very well without knowing of the existence of yet another responsibility.

And as for herself, she needed time to become accustomed to the idea.

To be continued…