The following is based on characters from 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. I of course have no connection to either the BBC or Mrs. Gaskell, and take many liberties with the canon. Characterizations owe a great deal to the actors' portrayals, as well as to Ms. Thomas's script.

Many, many thanks to my faithful and kind readers for your reviews and encouragement. This chapter was difficult, even painful to write but provides answers to some of the questions you were posing last time out, as well as a few surprises for the particularly observant. You all know who you are...

"A relationship of love is not formed by a momentary act but in the life that surrounds it." Martin C. Helldorfer

Chapter 37: The History of a Love

A child. Laurentia had not expected to open her eyes and see a child, a tiny girl, with dark curls and a broad, rosy face. But a child was standing there, her dimpled chin and plump little hands resting upon the edge of the bed -- for Laurie was lying upon a bed, though she could not recall just where it was, or who had brought her there.

"Mrs. Carter." A soft voice came from somewhere above her, and she looked up to see Caroline Tomkinson -- or rather Caroline Goddard, for she had married the butcher the previous year.

"Do not worry, Mrs. Carter," she said. "My husband has sent for Dr. Harrison."

"Mrs. Goddard." Laurie tried to sit up, wincing as she did so. "I must beg your pardon --"

"Why, my dear Mrs. Carter," began another voice. Laurie's gaze was drawn to the foot of the bed, where Miss Tomkinson stood, in the company of yet another child, a little boy who was fairly peering around her skirts. "You need make no apology. But you must not stir from where you are," she added crisply, if not unkindly.

"Dr. Harrison will be here directly," said her sister. "Augusta and I will attend you in the meantime. Is there anything we might bring you -- some tea, perhaps?"

"That is very kind of you, Mrs. Goddard," said Laurie, astonished to discover that she was exhausted, and that speaking itself required remarkable effort. "I do not think there is -- that is, only my husband -- I should like someone to send word to my husband --"

"We shall do so presently, Mrs. Carter," said Mrs. Goddard. "As soon as Mr. Beckett returns with the doctor."

"The doctor," Laurentia repeated. "I own I do not know what has happened --"

"Why, it would appear you fainted, Mrs. Carter," said Miss Tomkinson. "I dare say my brother-in-law and Mr. Beckett were very worried on your behalf, and brought you here with the greatest haste. But you must rest now, and I shall go see if Dr. Harrison has yet arrived.

"Come away, Beth," she added, leaning down to put a hand on the little girl's shoulder, and doing the same with the boy. "And you as well, Philip."

"Are you certain there is nothing I can bring you, Mrs. Carter?" said Caroline Goddard pleasantly, once her sister had led the twins out of the room.

Laurentia made an effort to smile. "Thank you. I believe I --"

Before she could say anything more, another pain began, and she could manage neither words nor tears, indeed nothing beyond drawing each deep, deliberate breath. But in her pain she felt Caroline Goddard lay a hand upon her shoulder, and heard her speaking in a soft, unmistakably anxious voice.

Dr. Harrison's examination was mercifully discreet, as well as brief.

Of course Caroline remained present, for propriety's sake, and consequently was privy to his questioning of Mrs. Carter, which seemed to last an eternity. Indeed it pained Caroline to hear Dr. Harrison go on, and to see the expression on Mrs. Carter's face as she made her replies. Such an interview should rob a woman of her every secret, however intimate or tender.

And of her every hope.

"You had taken note of the signs, then," said Dr. Harrison at last, in that kind way he had, when the truth of Mrs. Carter's plight was evident.

For a long, wretched moment his patient was unable to answer him, but her reply, when it came, was enough to wring Caroline's heart. "I had believed I might be with child." The last word was spoken so softly! "But then it appeared that I had only misjudged --"

Dr. Harrison nodded sympathetically. "That is common in the first weeks, and of course very little time had passed since conception, though that is perhaps fortunate."

"Fortunate? Fortunate?" Even to her own ears, Caroline's voice sounded sharp, but she could not keep silent at such an observation.

"Forgive me," said Dr. Harrison swiftly, and with evident sincerity. "I only meant, Mrs. Carter, that had your condition been more advanced, there ought to have been greater danger to yourself."

Caroline could see that this news was of no comfort whatever to Mrs. Carter, who, though she forbore to weep, cast her eyes downward, and nodded at Dr. Harrison's words, indeed continued nodding for a moment, as though that were the only response that remained to her.

Please your ladyship, Mrs. Carter has been taken ill, and is calling for her husband, and he's not to be found. Please your ladyship, he must go to Mr. Goddard's directly.

She had ordered the carriage in the same moment that she had sent for Mr. Carter himself. There should be barely time enough to give him reason for her haste, but she would not forgive herself any unnecessary delay, nor, she suspected, might Mr. Carter.

Please your ladyship, Mrs. Carter has been taken ill.

She prayed that her apprehensions were unwarranted, that there should be no cause for worry, but all her experience told her otherwise. From girlhood Laurentia had enjoyed abundant health, and if she had suddenly been taken ill, there were one or two likely reasons for it, though of course Lady Ludlow could not say which of those it might be. Laurentia had by no means revealed such intimate confidences, but she was newly married, and it was by no means unreasonable to expect --

Newly married. Newly married, and to Mr. Carter. God grant that that good man should have no cause for grief!

With that prayer barely past her lips, Lady Ludlow stepped briskly towards the door, and to where the carriage should be waiting, and saw that her steward had answered her summons with alacrity.

"Mr. Carter -- "

"My lady."

She did not merely sweep past as he paid his respects but rather stopped before him and said, gently but clearly, "Laurentia has sent word that she wishes you to come to her at once. I fear she has been taken ill, Mr. Carter."

"Ill?" In times past Lady Ludlow had looked into his eyes and seen anger, sorrow, even fear on one occasion, but there had been nothing to equal the feeling they displayed in this moment. "Ill?" he repeated, almost regaining his composure. "Is she at home?"

"She is in the village, Mr. Carter. At the home of Mr. Goddard."

"Mr. Goddard? With your leave, my lady, I shall go to her at once."

"By all means, Mr. Carter.

"I should like to accompany you," she added softly. "If you have no objection."

"Of course." And without so much as another word between them, she entered the waiting carriage. He followed quickly after, to ride in silence with her, and perhaps his own anxious prayers, as they made their way to Cranford.

Mr. Goddard himself admitted them to the house, which seemed filled with people. There was Augusta Tomkinson, a child on either side of her, standing sentinel as Lady Ludlow and Edward came through the hallway. Miss Tomkinson curtsied as they passed, while the little boy and girl merely stared up at the both of them.

Inside one of the bedchambers Mrs. Goddard and Dr. Harrison were attending Laurie, who, to Edward's great relief, was awake and alert -- pale, but evidently otherwise unaltered. She turned her large, sad eyes to him as he entered the room, and he went to her and took her hand for barely a moment before a flurry of activity commenced, with Mrs. Goddard arranging another chair by the bed, and Dr. Harrison appearing at Edward's shoulder to beg a word in private, and Lady Ludlow saying quietly, "I shall wait with Laurentia, Mr. Carter, while you speak with Dr. Harrison."

Given the presence of relatives and children and all others, it seemed unlikely that Dr. Harrison might find any safe place for a conferral, but Mr. Goddard, who had kept a discreet few steps behind Edward and her ladyship, proved most resourceful, and in a trice installed both physician and estate manager in an otherwise unoccupied room.

When at last the door was shut behind them, Dr. Harrison, after a second's awkwardness, provided an account of Laurie's condition, or rather former condition. In that moment it was difficult to think clearly, even to feel anything, but later Edward should remember the conversation with a degree of respect for this young man, who, for all his rigorous pursuit of medical knowledge and skill, had by no means put off simple decency.

"I am sorry, Mr. Carter. It grieves me to give such news to you, and to your good wife."

"Yes." Edward studied the floor for a moment, and said quietly, "It was only for a brief time, then."

Dr. Harrison appeared to understand what he meant. "Yes. But a few weeks."

"Is it your recommendation that Mrs. Carter take argot?"

"Argot?" repeated Dr. Harrison, at first unable to conceal his astonishment, then recovering. "I see that you are not unfamiliar with the course of treatment following a miscarriage."

"No, I am not. My first wife suffered in the same fashion, and more than once."

"I am truly sorry, Mr. Carter," said Dr. Harrison. There was another awkward pause before he continued. "I think I might say, however, that Mrs. Carter will make a full recovery. She is strong and healthy --"

"But for this." Edward cursed himself for being unable to hold his tongue, and yet the words had come.

Dr. Harrison again seemed discomfited, but continued, quietly yet firmly. "Any woman, no matter how robust, may suffer a miscarriage, Mr. Carter. Indeed if it happens so soon after conception, as it has in this case, we may know that surely things would not have proceeded as they ought, no matter how much care your wife took. I realize that affords you little comfort, but it is nonetheless true."

Edward again looked at the floor, then raised his eyes to the young physician's face. "Thank you for speaking so plainly."

"I do not believe your wife to be in any danger, Mr. Carter," went on Dr. Harrison. "Though she of course may have some further pain. I can provide her a remedy for that, and something to help her sleep. Of course we shall also have to observe her for any signs of fever or infection."

"Of course," said Edward softly.

"I am sorry, Mr. Carter," said Dr. Harrison again. "Most truly sorry."

Mrs. Goddard, for all that she was in her own home, seemed overtaken by shyness at the presence of Lady Ludlow. As soon as she had placed a chair beside the bed, and seen her ladyship comfortably settled, she excused herself, though not before offering a final word of courtesy and reassurance.

"I shall be outside the door, if there is anything you need." With that Mrs. Goddard made a curtsy, and glided out of the room.

Lady Ludlow nodded as their hostess departed, and then turned to Laurentia. There was no question she dared ask, no word she might offer, and so she simply took the younger woman's hand and clasped it with her own.

At that Laurentia shut her eyes tightly, perhaps against some unacknowledged pain, and pressed her lips together, as though she could not bear to speak.

"My dear." Lady Ludlow summoned as much tenderness, and comfort, as she might in that one utterance, and still Laurentia began to weep, the tears flowing down her lovely oval face as they had years before, as they had each time someone she loved had been taken from her.

It may well have been only a few minutes that they sat thus -- Lady Ludlow could not say with certainty just how long it was -- but ever after she would be haunted by the sad beauty of Laurentia's eyes, and by the first words she uttered when she could speak again.

I have lost Edward's child.

Truly she need not have said anything more, yet Lady Ludlow let her talk. Laurentia had always been forthright, if diplomatic, with her friend and benefactress, but never had she spoken so frankly.

And never had she revealed such secrets. Indeed Lady Ludlow was keenly aware that she was now privy to what Mr. Carter ought rightly to have heard himself, and yet she could fault Laurentia neither for her inexperience nor her modesty. If she had kept silent about her condition, it had been with the expectation of revealing all to her husband, and ensuring his happiness. She could not have known that fate, and her own flesh, would force her hand.

In truth she spoke no more than a moment or two, and yet the very lifetime of a woman was encompassed in her words.

It was always thus, thought Lady Ludlow. There should first be doubt, then the glow of hope, and afterwards despair, and self-reproach. With a few weeks, perhaps months, the body should heal, but a good deal of time, indeed the passage of years, might not prove sufficient to restore a damaged soul.

This Lady Ludlow knew well but dared not mention as she clasped Laurentia's hand, and spoke such words of comfort as were hers to give.

"I see there's been some commotion up at Mr. Goddard's."

"Commotion?" said Miss Matty, pausing as she unfastened her purse.

"Someone's been taken ill," said Mrs. Johnson, looking back across the counter with her accustomed unblinking gaze.

"Taken ill?" said her client, duly shocked by the information and the tone in which Mrs. Johnson had delivered it. "I had not heard that anyone among our neighbors was unwell. I do hope it is nothing serious."

"I couldn't say, Miss Jenkyns, but it must have been all sudden-like. Mr. Goddard sent that Irishman for the doctor."

"Irishman?" echoed Miss Matty, wondering if Dr. Marshland had reappeared without notice, and if so, why he might not have done for any of Mr. Goddard's customers, or for his family.

"Saw him myself as he ran by. Still wearing his apron, he was."

"You mean Mr. Beckett, I suppose," said Miss Matty primly. "The young man Mr. Goddard hired to make deliveries, and cast accounts."

"And to fetch the doctor and all. It was Dr. Harrison this time. I expect he was the nearest."

"Perhaps he was the nearest, Mrs. Johnson," replied Miss Matty. "Though surely that is no slight upon his abilities. Dr. Harrison has always proven most reliable, young though he is. My sister formed a most favorable opinion of him."

"He must have been called to attend someone important," continued Mrs. Johnson, as though Miss Matty had said nothing at all. "I saw her ladyship's carriage going the same way not long after, and return again. It must have been fetching an invalid back; the coachman kept the horses well in check.

"That'll be four and three, Miss Jenkyns, unless there's something else you need."

"Why, no," said Miss Matty. "No, thank you. I have quite done here."

Edward looked at the clock above the bedroom fireplace. Half past nine.

It had been some hours since they had brought Laurie home, and helped her to bed. It had fairly pierced his soul to see her made to lay off the dress she wore to pay calls, and put on her nightgown. She looked slight and vulnerable, and so grieved, that Edward wished he might be left alone with her for a moment, and gather her in his arms, that she might weep whatever tears yet remained.

But there had been a good deal to do, and nearly as many people present as in the Goddard household. Of course her ladyship withdrew, once she had satisfied herself that Laurentia was in capable hands. But then must the housekeeper go upstairs and down, fetching this and that for her mistress, and the doctor must explain the proper use of the medicine, and his intention to return early the next morning to see how his patient fared.

At last they had seen Laurie safely to bed, where she'd fallen into a deep sleep. It was then that there had been silence within the household, not the rich contentment of previous evenings, but a hollow, fearful stillness in which Edward must watch and wait. After some persuading he'd taken supper, a very lonely one, but he was soon upstairs again. If he might not speak to Laurie, he ought at least to be in the same room as she was, and watch over her as she slept.

She had not stirred since closing her eyes, but perhaps she would wake up in the night, and need him. He could not therefore think of extinguishing the candle, or even of preparing for bed himself. There was nothing left for him to do but to remain awake, and watch, and do battle with whatever dark thoughts preyed upon him.

She had not told him.

His sweet wife had not thought to confide in him, had not said a word about her condition. He ought not to have held that against her, yet it unsettled him to think the whole of the village might know what had happened almost before he did, and know what he had lost -- what they had lost.

Why had she not spoken to him?

He might have taken a perverse comfort had he believed she did not known the signs, but he'd be a fool to think any such thing. They were newly married, it was true, but Laurie's curiosity and lively mind ought to have drawn her to learn what she might expect, and to apply to Mrs. Morgan, the physician's wife, for information and advice.

Perhaps she had been afraid to tell him, then, and if so, why? All at once he had an uncomfortable recollection of their discussions in his office after she had come to Hanbury to stay as the guest of her ladyship, and he cursed himself for hinting at past disappointments, and nearly discouraging talk of children altogether.

And there was other damning evidence; he had best bring it forward at once and have done with it.

Well, then. In recent months he'd been almost wholly consumed with the estate, and with the school, and of course with his efforts for Harry, who had seemed so much a son to him that it had scarcely occurred to Edward to think of any other. Laurie had been his helpmate in all things, of course, but had he even spared a thought for her?

No, that was unfair, deeply unfair. He had not taken Laurie away on a honeymoon trip, it was true, but neither had he forgotten Lady Ludlow's counsel before the wedding, and his own vows.

My lady, I promise you that in everything I will be as mindful of her happiness as her welfare.

And could anyone see Laurie and doubt her happiness? If she had felt herself ill-used or cast aside, she'd certainly given no sign of it. If anything, she had seemed to be flourishing -- confident among the other ladies, patient and motherly with Harry, gracious to friend and acquaintance, and above all warm and tender towards Edward himself.

No, he and Laurie had been very nearly of one mind and heart. They trusted each other, and had done so ever since she had offered to assist with Harry's education.

But surely that was wrong; he must date their bond from the moment she had come back to him at the surgery, and stood by his side, faithfully recording his last will and testament, and gently curling her hand about his own --

No, that too was wrong. Their friendship had begun the day her ladyship had discovered Harry working alongside them in the office, and been deeply angry. Laurie had tried to intervene, when she might have remained silent, and ought to have been mindful of the debt she owed Lady Ludlow.

Miss Galindo, her ladyship's milliner, allying herself with Harry Gregson, the poacher's son! In that moment Edward had been forced to acknowledge that her worth consisted neither of caps nor bonnets, nor even of a dimpled smile and a ready wit.

Eleven o'clock.

Edward closed the cover of the novel he had been attempting to read for the last hour. His mind would not attend to it, nor would his eyes note what was written upon the page. Weariness, and the hour of the night, had done him no small degree of mischief.

Perhaps too his choice of reading had been in error. After supper he had seen to it that the bedchamber was well supplied with volumes of prose and verse, to please and amuse Laurie during her days of convalescence. Out of loneliness, curiosity, and a simple desire to keep himself awake, he'd taken up one of the novels he'd bought her in Manchester.

It was a work by Miss Austen, for whose wit Laurie had nothing but the highest praise.

Edward had made his best effort, truly he had, but was forced to acknowledge himself not in the least diverted by Miss Austen's novel. In fact he was greatly dispirited after reading several pages, and contemplating the unlucky, indeed tragic history of a family, and the consequences of vanity, profligacy, and all manner of imprudent behavior. Perhaps it should improve if Laurie were to read it aloud to him. In any event, he had intended it for her pleasure, and not as his only company as he kept vigil at her bedside.

When the words on the page at length seemed little more than a jumble to him, he closed the book and looked for something, anything, to keep him awake.

He had sat too long in one of his old wooden chairs. It should be better to stand up and move about a bit, then settle into Laurie's easy chair, which had been placed beside the bed.

He picked up the candle, and as he moved across the bedroom floor he caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the mirror. The play of light and shadow seemed to reveal every crease on his brow, every scar remaining after the accident, and a curious expression in his eyes -- cool and steady, yet vaguely displeased, almost accusatory. Dear God, he must have appeared fierce indeed to the young Harry Gregson, and even to a certain Miss Galindo, at one time.

He quietly stepped over to the bureau and set the candle down. There was something lying there, an object gleaming in the light -- a little brooch he had given to Laurie for her birthday. She had worn it this day as she was paying calls, and evidently no one had thought to put it away. Best to do so now; it should be some days before she would wear it again.

Laurie's little trinket box was on the bureau as well, and he opened the lid. To his astonishment there were no signs of jewelry within, only papers with some dried flowers atop them.

Dried flowers?

Violets.

Without thinking he drew the candle closer to the treasure box and gently lifted the pressed flowers out. He took up one of the papers, unfolded it, and saw his own handwriting. It was the note he'd sent to Laurie on their wedding day, and he could almost smile at the memory of Captain Brown warning him against any delay, and Harry loyally offering to serve as messenger.

He refolded the note and took up the next letter, again in his own hand. It had been written in haste before his departure to Manchester, and spent nearly a day lying about the floor of the flower shop before it was rescued and taken to Laurie, and here it was in her treasure box.

There was another note, of course, the one he had sent along with the little book of verse at Christmas. How he had troubled himself over every word within that message! But here it was still, among Laurie's things.

He gently replaced all the letters and left the violets atop them, and closed the cover of the box.

The brooch might remain where it was, until Laurie took it up again. God knew when that might be.

The entire floor seemed to creak unpleasantly beneath his every step, no matter how softly he he trod. It ought surely to have awakened his wife, yet she did not stir.

He paused a moment to look down at her. She did not even look like his Laurie; she was so pale and still, and stretched out on her back, when she usually curled up on her side. Since their marriage he had often taken pleasure in watching her sleep, and but tonight doing so only deepened his loneliness.

Edward lowered himself into the easy chair. Here he might keep watch, and know at once if she needed him.

He longed to touch her, even if only to place a hand upon her forehead and learn if she was feverish, but even then he might disturb her sleep. He knew then that he wanted to wake her, that he should have given anything for her voice to break the silence, for it seemed just then as though that silence, and perhaps the night itself, would never end.

The light in the room was as yet too dim to allow Laurentia to read the face of the clock. All was utterly still, and ordinarily she ought to have curled up and returned to sleep. This morning, however, her usual contented drowsiness had been replaced by the suggestion of weakness, pain, and emptiness, and an unsettling recollection of the previous day. It had been a a dreadful hour or two that she had spent in that sunny room at the Goddards' house in the village.

She was at home now, at least, in her own bed, the bed she shared with Edward, but he was by no means in his accustomed place.

It took her a moment to discover him dozing quietly in the easy chair at her side of the bed. Dear Edward! Every last button on his coat was still fastened, and his neckcloth tied. He'd not so much as removed his top boots. Thus had he spent the night.

He looked somehow troubled as he slept, with that little crease visible between his brows, and his lips set in a pout, yet also curiously endearing.

She might well have reached out to stroke his forehead or clasp his hand, indeed longed to do so. But she must not wake him. If he had been sitting almost bolt upright in that chair throughout the watches of the night, and for her sake, he had more than earned his rest.

And perhaps he would not welcome her touch, not in this moment. First there was a great deal she ought to say to him.

Laurie had an uncomfortable memory of what seemed a great many people about her bed, and the tremendous to-do made on her behalf, and how amid it Edward had been grave and quiet. How strange it was that she had had occasion to speak to Lady Ludlow, and not to Edward. But there had been no opportunity, and perhaps no words.

Her eyes still on Edward, she curled up again, meaning to rest until he at last awoke. Perhaps then she should find the words to speak to him.

The light had changed again in the room.

Edward was no longer in the chair beside the bed, and for a moment she felt confusion, as well as loneliness, until she saw that he had only gone to the mirror across the room and was at that moment tying a fresh neckcloth. If he had been making ready as she slept, he had certainly been very quiet about it.

"Edward."

He turned round. "I am sorry. I did not wish to wake you."

"Indeed you did not," she said, slowly raising herself up from the pillows. "I awoke earlier, when you were still asleep."

He had moved swiftly to the bed and without another word placed his hand on her forehead, virtually covering it, then felt her cheek, chin and throat. His hand was so comforting, so familiar.

"Edward --"

"Hmm. You are a bit warm, but I do not think there is a fever." He grasped her hand in both of his, then felt her wrist.

"Edward --"

"Are you in any pain?" He frowned as he studied her face; indeed he looked very much the Mr. Carter she had known two years before, for all that he was behaving exactly as though he were her physician.

"Edward." She reached for his other hand, and he paused in his examination and glanced down at their joined hands. Somewhat awkwardly he eased himself onto the edge of the bed, and she felt the familiar shifting of the mattress beneath his weight.

"I almost told you."

Edward said nothing, but took hold of both her hands and raised them to his lips.

"I tried to -- more than once." She said it so softly that she was at first unsure whether he heard.

He had heard, though, and still held her hands in his, stroking them gently.

"But then I thought I had been mistaken."

"I know."

At last she looked up at him, but could not see him clearly, not when her eyes were so --

"I had thought to -- I had thought nothing could be more precious than to give you --"

"Shh, shh." He shifted closer, putting his arms around her and drawing her to his chest.

"I am sorry, Edward," she said, her face pressed against his coat. "I am sorry."

"Shh, shh." He had her head against his shoulder and was stroking her hair. "Shh."

When he spoke again, she could feel as well as hear his voice rising from within his body.

"No one could be so dear to me as you. "

The step beneath her foot had not creaked, thank the Lord, nor had she so much as revealed her presence by a cough. It should have been very wrong to do so at such a time, when the mistress was so grieved, and the master taken up with comforting her. No, it was better to steal downstairs again, and find some work for her hands to do for another quarter of an hour, until the mistress's tears had stopped.

For Mrs. Carter's sake she hoped that Dr. Harrison should not return too early. Oh, he'd no doubt have some new tonic or pill to take, but there would be nothing among all his fine medicines to cure grief. A man of his age could not know how sorely a woman's heart ached at such a time.

It would be wiser to leave Mr. Carter to see to his wife. Folk often thought him stern and cold, but a great many folk were such fools, and would not know a fine man when he was before their very eyes. He was as good a master as anyone might wish, as faithful a servant as her ladyship had in her employ, and of course kindness itself to that Gregson boy.

And it was plain he'd made a good husband to Mrs. Carter -- Miss Laurentia Galindo, as was. He'd help her to bear her sorrow, even if he could not heal it. In a few months she'd brighten up again, and perhaps this time next year there should be three to look after, and not just the two, God bless them.

To be continued...