The following is based on characters from the 2007 BBC series Cranford, adapted from Cranford, Mr. Harrison's Confessions, and My Lady Ludlow, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. I have taken numerous liberties with the canon and will continue to do so, but would note that this particular chapter includes specific references to My Lady Ludlow.

Many, many thanks to my supportive readers, most particularly those of you who have been posting reviews and providing other feedback. I think you love the characters just as much as I do.

Chapter 36: The Good That We Do

The night before he was to depart Glasgow for London, Jack had the worst of his nightmares.

Of course he'd had dreams fit for a madman since the day he'd left Manchester -- all manner of nonsense, such as going to New York by railway -- by railway! And a queer railway it was, too, burrowing under the ground like an animal. Such a mad idea.

On other nights he'd dream he was riding to Cranford, intent on seeing Mary, only he'd lose his way, and wake up before he reached the gate of the house in Princess Street. The next morning he would be out of humor, and have trouble keeping his mind on his work all the day and evening long.

But worst of all was when he went to bed and dreamed that one of the little Smiths was in danger, and he'd been summoned to help.

On this night he dreamed he'd been called to assist Mrs. Smith during her confinement. Rachel was to be born, only the cord had gone round her neck, and Jack must come at once. Yet he had hurried not to Manchester but to the little church at Cranford, where Mrs. Sheehan met him at the gate. She was weeping and crying out, again and again, "She must be baptized. Is there no water? She must be baptized."

At that Jack woke up and sat upright, with his entire body shuddering, and it was a long moment before he remembered what had happened.

Then he buried his head in his hands. There was nothing he might do for Rachel now, nothing at all.

"Laurie. Laurie. Please, wake up."

"Edward? Edward. Oh --"

"You must have been dreaming."

"Yes. Yes, I was."

"There now, my love, lie down again."

"Edward, might I -- could you --"

"Come here. Mmm. You are trembling, Laurie."

"Am I? I woke with such a start --"

"Shh, shh. Go back to sleep now."

"Mmm. It may be some time before I fall asleep again, Edward."

"Sleep will come. Think only on pleasant things."

"Pleasant things -- "

"Pleasant things, yes."

"I shall try. Edward -- "

"Hmm?"

"I -- nothing. Nothing."

"Rest now, my love."

Bridey had never seen such a sight -- not at home, nor in Liverpool, nor even in Manchester.

She must be a grand lady indeed, to be driven to the rectory in such a coach. The master himself took the girls about in his own little trap, and never had visitors who rode in anything finer than a gig. Nor did his eldest daughter and that husband of hers, Dr. Marshland's friend, have a carriage of their own.

Surely the rector had never welcomed a guest such as this one. The lady wore fine lace, grander than anything Bridey had ever seen, and at her throat there was a brooch with the head of a woman carved out of pure white stone, and black stone beneath that. It was beautiful to see, and so was the lady herself. Oh, she'd a dozen maids to look after all her jewelry and lace and dresses, and to arrange her hair; Bridey was sure of it.

Helen said their visitor was Lady Ludlow of Hanbury Court, a grand place she'd seen for herself. Why, she and Lizzie and Sophy and their papa had been there to walk on the green lawns, and see the fine gardens, and even dance in the great house itself last Twelfth Night.

Walter had been there too, God rest his soul. Helen told Bridey as much.

She did not ask Helen what business such a fine lady had coming to see her papa, but only watched as the master led Lady Ludlow to the finest room of the rectory, and shut the door fast, so that the sound of their voices could not be heard by either of the little girls, even if they put their ears to the keyhole.

"Reverend Hutton, I assure you that I have conducted this same discussion with Mr. Carter many a time."

"Indeed I do not doubt that, my lady," said the rector, with a little smile. "May I not hope that he has nearly convinced you of the benefit of teaching children their letters?"

"I do not quarrel with the notion that they ought to know their prayers," replied her ladyship. "And something of the Holy Scriptures as well. That is only as it should be.

"As for teaching the lower orders to read and write, that I cannot sanction. I have seen great evil come of such things, or rather I have not seen it myself, but heard report, which I had no reason to doubt."

"Evil?" Reverend Hutton frowned, and the lines in his brow deepened. "Of what manner of evil do you speak?"

"Betrayal, sir. Incitement to violence against the wholly innocent. I refer to the last century, Rector, and to the revolution in France. Perhaps you did not know that I had relations and friends in Paris among those who would not -- or could not -- flee, and did not survive."

"I am sorry, my lady."

"Shall I tell you their names?" she continued, as though the rector had not spoken at all. "Dear Clement," she said, so softly that Reverend Hutton inclined his head towards her to hear what she said. "His beloved Virginie. The Count de Crequy. And there were others, of course," she added, sighing deeply. She allowed for a little pause before continuing, in a stronger, firmer voice, "This is what comes of discontent, and I abhor it."

"My lady," said Reverend Hutton carefully. "You have seen men commit the most grievous sins with what has been entrusted to them, but may I say that the reverse is also true, that one may accomplish great good by employing a talent or a gift rightly. Indeed, are we not obliged to make wise use of whatever God has granted us?"

"I hope I have always done so, Rector."

"'For unto whomsoever much is given, of him shall be much required.' I believe that is precisely Mr. Carter's thinking in founding the school."

"Mr. Carter's character is beyond reproach," said her ladyship. "And his intentions wholly kind."

"Then we are in agreement in that regard, at least. Now as to the school, and as to Harry Gregson --"

"I have accepted the former, and done what I might for the latter."

"Yes, I am aware that the lad remains in your employ."

"That is best, I think," continued Lady Ludlow. "He shall never know want."

"I do not doubt that." Reverend Hutton fell silent for a moment, then added, "My lady, you spoke just now of wrongs done to the innocent. I shudder to think of what you meant, and for all that you have suffered, I am sorry, truly sorry.

"But I must tell you in regard to Harry Gregson that I believe it should be very wrong to waste such abilities, such gifts as he has."

"He is the son of a poacher," said her ladyship simply. "Now reformed, I grant you, but a poacher nonetheless. "

"Yes, and Harry was once a ragged, unlettered boy, and you see what a change has been worked in him, with the promise of a good deal more. It should be very wrong to deny him his chance, and crush his spirit." The rector leaned forward, as though speaking confidentially. "Better to form the lad's character, my lady, with the help of those who have his welfare in mind, than to leave him to his own devices. You know how firm a hand a young boy needs."

The rector spoke the last sentence very softly, and Lady Ludlow could not but think of Urian, and of Walter Hutton. She frowned, and for a moment averted her eyes, then raised them to look into Reverend Hutton's face.

"I will endeavor to do what is right for this boy. But I shall need your assistance, Rector, as well as your counsel."

Reverend Hutton smiled. "You shall have both, my lady. But there is something more."

"Is there?"

"The boy's father, my lady. I have already spoken to him -- perhaps you did not know that -- and he is by no means persuaded that his son will fare better with an education than without."

"That does not astonish me, Rector. But Job Gregson too is in my employ, and perhaps within my influence as well. I will use such means as I have at my disposal."

"I am grateful, my lady, though may I say I hope you will do so with many prayers."

Lady Ludlow at last permitted herself a faint smile. "Of course, Rector. I should not dream of doing otherwise."

Surely it could not be so difficult to understand women.

He had spent a good deal of his life in their company, indeed had been married before. He had served Lady Ludlow a dozen years, and for all that he was candid with her, even blunt, he had also schooled himself to pay careful attention to her every expression and utterance, and knew better than to overlook so much as an arched eyebrow or sigh of displeasure.

His months with Laurie, in the office at Hanbury and, since their marriage, in their own home, had been an education as well, though of a different sort. She was mild and gentle, though of course she had will enough of her own, and a wit that might have silenced the queen's counsel. But Edward had begun to enjoy debating her, and even satisfied himself that he'd gained some skill in doing so. And he had seen her in every possible humor, or thought he had, and believed few surprises remained.

The previous night had been her birthday, and he had brought forth the gifts purchased in his recent travels. He understood very little of what ladies liked, save for flowers and books, but after purchasing a few volumes of prose and verse had wanted to find something for Laurie that she should never think to buy for herself from the household money. She kept very few trinkets -- when he looked down at her hand, he should see nothing but the gold wedding-ring he had placed there -- and cared little for the fussy mode of dress favored by many a lady in Cranford. He too preferred simplicity, but wanted as well to please her with something new, something beautiful. His first thought had been of a shawl, and his second of a delicate summer nightdress made of soft, fine cotton. The former was an ordinary, even dull thing, and the latter such an intimate concern that the very idea of purchasing it caused Edward's face to burn.

In the end he took refuge in a jewelry shop, intending to find his wife some adornment, though surely not of the sort her ladyship favored. The proprietor might well have made a fool of him, and taken a good deal of his money. Instead it seemed he was a married man himself, and a patient and benevolent sort, willing to direct his new client's attention to simple, graceful objects made of gleaming silver and colored stones. After some consideration Edward had chosen what he thought should best please Laurie, and the man had sent him off with many good wishes and reassurances.

Laurie had received each of the gifts exactly as Edward had hoped, turning her artist's eye upon a handsomely bound volume here, a delicate brooch there, and revealing her pleasure in her expression, and in the thanks she gave her husband.

They passed their time at supper and afterwards very happily. He remembered teasing her, and laughing with her, and telling her how pretty she looked. He was not given to compliments, and she'd blushed at his words -- he could see it even by candlelight -- but then she'd smiled at him, and teased him in return.

"Should you not have liked a birthday dinner?"

"We have had supper and now presents, Edward. I should have thought that the very definition of a birthday dinner."

"I meant with guests."'

"Apart from you?"

"Yes, apart from me."

"Such celebrations can be very merry, but I think just now it is better that we two have dined alone. In fact I prefer it so."

"Do you?"

"Oh, yes. Do not you?"

"Mmm. I believe I do."

But what was he to make of this evening?

When he asked what was amiss, she would only admit to being weary. Indeed she was in great haste to retire, and was curled up and very nearly asleep before he even came to bed. He thought he knew her well enough to recognize when she was avoiding him, and tonight she had kept her distance. It wounded his feelings, and more so because he could think of no quarrel between them, and seen no passionate anger on her part. She had been kind to him, even deferential, and had seemed rather melancholy, but that had been all.

There was no accounting for it, especially given her behavior of the previous night. He could still feel her hand brushing against his brow, see her large dark eyes looking up at him, hear her murmuring in his ear. He so loved to hear her voice. He had always loved her voice.

Now she was silent, and a short but very decided distance from him.

"Are you awake, Laurie?" he asked softly, and received no response.

Well, perhaps her mood would be altered on the morrow, after a good night's sleep. Now he too must rest, for there should be a great deal to do the following day.

To his left he heard Laurie sniff, as though she had caught cold. He waited a moment and, on hearing no further sound, thought he must surely have imagined it.

She had imagined it. She had imagined it all. How could she have been so mistaken?

She made her discovery the morning after her birthday and, in a terrible instant of loneliness and shock, felt as though her heart had ceased to beat. Then the cold, relentless truth had come upon her: She had misread the signs.

She had believed herself to be carrying Edward's child, and had come dangerously near to revealing as much to him, indeed had almost done so the previous night, when they had been so happy.

There had been a moment when she had reached up and brushed a lock of hair from his brow, and he'd suddenly seemed shy and boyish, just as he had done the very first time he'd visited her. Then all at once he was confident again, indeed masterful, and made her blush, made her laugh, made her sigh, until sighs and blushes and laughter all melded together, and she could hear him murmuring in her ear in a voice that was rough and tender at once. In his arms she had grown comfortably drowsy at the last, and during a final few minutes of wakefulness she had begun to wonder if their child might have eyes exactly like his own.

But during the night the terrifying dream had come to her again, and she slept too long in the morning, and awoke, still unsettled, to see that Edward had already left their bed. There had been no opportunity to speak to him, not just then.

After that had come despair.

Perhaps it was God's mercy that she had not told him, for now she would have had to break his heart, and the very thought brought tears to her eyes. He had borne a great many disappointments, and perhaps she had spared him one more.

Yet there was no one at present to whom she might reveal her own sorrow. Weariness and low spirits kept her from walking to the village, where she might have at least seen Isobel Morgan, who alone had known her secret.

At least she believed only Isobel had known. If Mrs. Greenfield noticed or suspected anything, she had said not a word about it. Even so, Laurie did not wish to risk revealing what was amiss, and consequently kept mainly to the solitude of the garden, or of the bedroom, where she might have the luxury of weeping.

By the day's end the tears had begun to do their work, and she was able to master her spirits, and to some degree her grief, though evidently not enough to avoid some necessary awkwardness with Edward, who as the evening went on frowned to himself, as though persuaded something was wrong. She thought to offer him some tender reassurance but for once could summon no words.

So she had instead employed the ready excuse of weariness, and retired early, willing herself into drowsiness. Still he had murmured something as he came to bed, though she had made no reply, and feigned sleep. It felt very wrong, but she could think of no other way to spare Edward what would of necessity be a painful discussion.

The following day she awoke without memory of dreams, and with fresh resolve to conquer her despair. Though she still felt a touch unwell, she decided to walk to the village, and to call first upon Mrs. Morgan, then Miss Matty. Isobel should be all sympathy, and Miss Matty all kindness, and she might confide in the one, and receive news of Miss Smith from the other.

Afterwards she would stop at the butcher's shop, where kindly Mr. Goddard always made pleasant conversation, and Mr. Beckett seemed to enjoy being of service, and indeed had accustomed himself to her ritual of ordering her husband's dinner.

Moreover at this time any task, no matter how ordinary, that she performed out of love for Edward should relieve some of her sorrow, and allow the illusion that everything went on as before.

Martha caught herself almost in time.

"Miss Galindo -- Mrs. Carter," she announced, adding, "Mrs. Carter, madam." But of course Miss Matty would never remind her to say "madam." It had been Miss Deborah Jenkyns who did that, and she'd have been cross at Martha for calling Mrs. Carter by the wrong name too! But Miss Jenkyns had gone to her rest almost two years ago now, and Miss Matty didn't scold unless it was something very bad.

She was smiling now, as though Martha had said everything just right, and Mrs. Carter was smiling too, and showing her dimples. Martha thought she looked just the same as she did when she was making ladies' caps, for all that she had new ribbons on her bonnet and a new brooch pinned right at her collar. It was a lovely brooch, all made of silver, with stones just the color of her dress, and nicer than anything Miss Pole or Miss Tomkinson wore.

Of course even Martha had heard the gossip about Miss Galindo, or Mrs. Carter, as she was now, but she knew it couldn't be true. That Mr. Carter was a good man, and wouldn't wed Miss Galindo if she couldn't make him a proper wife. Besides, Miss Matty wouldn't have her in the sitting-room, would she, if Mrs. Carter wasn't respectable enough to be received.

And Martha liked hearing Mrs. Carter talk. She sounded very clever, but was kind too, and didn't give herself airs. Maybe she was like Dr. Marshland, who always had a funny story to tell or a kind word to say, but had gone away to do something important in Scotland, or some such place.

Any road, it was nice to have callers like Mrs. Carter, now that they didn't have Miss Smith or Dr. Marshland about.

"Will you be wanting more biscuits and tea, Miss Matty?"

To Martha's surprise, her mistress seemed cross at the question. As for Mrs. Carter, she sat very still, and was looking down at the teacup in her hands, as though trying to find something in it.

"Go back to the kitchen, please, Martha," said Miss Matty, with unexpected sternness.

"Yes, madam," answered Martha, confused. As she left the sitting-room and shut the door behind her, she could hear Miss Matty speaking softly to her guest.

"I did not mean to grieve you, Mrs. Carter. My only thought was to tell you what a service you have performed for Mrs. Smith. Indeed it must be a tremendous comfort to her to have a picture of the child she lost."

Mrs. Trafford had not accustomed herself to the transformation in her brother's household, or in his wife.

At this season of the year, Clara ought to have been wearing a gown in a lively shade of green, or perhaps lavender and white, with a great many flounces. Ordinarily Mrs. Trafford found such displays excessive, even vulgar. But the sight of her sister-in-law in chaste, severe black, with no adornment at all to her dress, was enough to make her long for the days of shamelessly elaborate attire, and of a topsy-turvy household -- a household with six little children in it.

Worse still was seeing Mary going about in black as well, at a time when she ought to have been seeing to her trousseau, and wearing the contented if wary expression of a bride-to-be.

Yet mourning had not vanquished Mary entirely; indeed her aunt thought it likely that it had refined her character. For the most part Mary had shown a laudable resistance to peevishness, though surely the constant society of her stepmother must be a trial to her nerves. The girl had also displayed excellent good sense, and no small degree of patience, given the demands of the children. Of course Abigail, who was in a fair way to turn into a little old woman, caused never a moment's trouble, but her little brothers had grown restless, and kept their nurse, Mama, and sister as busy as heretofore.

In fact at times it seemed that Mary should become careworn, and lose her bloom, but for that there was surely a remedy.

"I will not be coy with you, Clara," said Mrs. Trafford, looking across at the young Mrs. Smith. "Pray do not frown in that manner; I am not about to deliver a lecture.

"Now then, you know that it is by no means always true that relations enjoy each other's society. Indeed one has very little choice in the matter. But I will tell you that I am fond of Mary, and have always enjoyed her company.

"I would tell a lie, though, if I said I did not worry about her spirits, at least at present."

"We are all of us downhearted at present," said Clara simply.

"Forgive me. I intended no coldness, nor I am unmindful of what you have endured. But at least you have a husband at your side to comfort you."

"Yes." Clara kept her eyes on her hands, resting primly in her lap, and absently stroked her wedding-ring with her thumb.

"Now I know that Mary's young man has his obligations, and I dare say she knows her duty to you and to her father. But it is a very harsh thing to separate two young people promised to each other. That is not to say it does them any harm to face a little trial," she added, when Clara at last looked up. "Indeed there will no doubt come a time when they will be glad of this lesson in forbearance. But they are young, and only just engaged, and it is a poor idea to keep them apart for very long.

"I mean to go up to London shortly, and I should like Mary to accompany me. Do not worry about the expense," she added, when Clara opened her mouth to speak. "My cousin will make us both welcome, indeed will be delighted to have Mary as a guest. As for myself, it is a great comfort to have a congenial traveling-companion, and the journey itself ought to prove something of a tonic to Mary. I need not say why. Besides, it is only fitting that she see something of the world before taking on the obligations of a wife."

"I have no doubt that you will look after her well," began young Mrs. Smith.

"Upon my word! Do not tell me you are worried about propriety," said her sister-in-law, with a very decided frown. "There are few things as respectable, or as fearsome, as a dowager aunt."

Clara smiled demurely. "I have no concerns in that regard," she said. "Though it is possible her father will raise objections."

"I shall make short work of those; you may rely upon it -- "

At that moment the door of the sitting-room opened, and Mary appeared. The harsh color of her gown, though unflattering to such a fair woman, could take away nothing of the quiet beauty of her face, or of the rosy blush on her skin. Upon my word, thought her aunt, she looks remarkably like her mother.

Before Mary could offer her aunt any greeting, or the lady herself reveal the new scheme, Clara took matters into her own hands. "Come here, Mary, and sit by me," she said, patting the sofa, and smiling up at her stepdaughter. "We have such things to discuss!"

"Now then, Mrs. Carter, what shall it be this fine day?" asked Mr. Goddard, beaming down at Laurentia. For a moment she stood staring up at his plump, kindly face, and then started, quite as though she had awakened from a dream. Surely she could not be that tired --

"Mrs. Carter, are you well?" She was conscious of Mr. Beckett at her elbow, and heard the concern in his voice.

"I am just a little faint; that is all," answered Laurentia. But it was not all; she was very dizzy indeed, and a moment later felt a pain, a good deal stronger than what had come upon her earlier, after she had left Miss Matty's doorstep.

"I -- Mr. Beckett, I think I -- "

She was aware that her right hand was flailing about helplessly, reaching for a counter, an arm, anything that might support her.

"Oh, dear God, sir," she heard Mr. Beckett say, and then, once again, "Mrs. Carter --"

"Catch her. She's falling," said another voice.

Laurentia felt herself lifted in someone's arms and conveyed through one door, then another. She shuddered as though with cold, for all that it was a warm July day, and felt as though she were spinning round. And indeed she was moving still, or rather being carried, and caught a glimpse of a lady in a cap, and another in Scotch plaid dress, and heard the murmuring of voices as she was taken she knew not where.

"Upon my word, Mrs. Forrester, it is dreadfully warm today," said Miss Pole, holding to the brim of her bonnet, and squinting at the dusty street before her.

"You must keep to the shade, as I do," said her companion. "Draw nearer to the shops, Miss Pole, and you'll not have to struggle to see in this sun."

"Yes. Well, one does not like to seem to be peering into every window one passes. It is most unseemly.

"On a day such as this, Mrs. Forrester, I should very much like to have a parasol. Do you think Mr. Johnson would order such a thing?"

"Oh, it should be a great pity to take the trouble of bringing a parasol all the way from Manchester," said Mrs. Forrester, cackling, "when one has so little need of it. We've more rain than sunshine to think of, I should say.

"Now just round this corner, Miss Pole, and we'll be out of the sun."

But as they rounded that very corner a man appeared, so agitated and so intent on reaching his destination, whatever that might be, that he fairly flew into Miss Pole, and should have knocked her to the ground, had he not taken her by the shoulders and spun her round, that he might pass without doing her any mischief.

"Oh! What do you mean by such a thing! Stop! Stop!" But the young man only shouted his apologies back at the two ladies and continued to run.

"Good heavens! Miss Pole, are you hurt? Oh! He gave me such a fright!" said Mrs. Forrester, taking her friend's arm.

Miss Pole took a moment to catch her breath and compose herself enough to direct a final glare at the retreating figure of the man. "I am quite well, Mrs. Forrester," she said, drawing another deep, angry breath. "No thanks to that young man. I do not think I have ever seen such a thing."

"Oh, I am certain he meant no harm." Mrs. Forrester gave a little chuckle. "He turned you about as though in a dance!"

"I do not find it in the least amusing," said her friend, "that one might be trampled underfoot while walking in the High Street."

"That was that nice Mr. Beckett from Mr. Goddard's shop," said Mrs. Forrester. "I thought I knew him. Oh, he's ever so pleasant when I go in to fetch a bit of mutton, and some scraps for Puss.

"Why was he running, do you think?"

To be continued...