Note to readers: Because story and author alerts were down on December 19th, when I posted chapter 37, "The History of a Love," some of my regular readers may have missed the update and the chapter.

The following was inspired by characters in the 2007 BBC miniseries Cranford, an adaptation of Elizabeth Gaskell's Cranford, Mr. Harrison's Confessions, and My Lady Ludlow. It has no connection whatsoever to the BBC's 2009 sequel to Cranford, which has just aired in the United States.

All literary quotations below come from Jane Austen's Persuasion, and there is as well one tiny snippet from Heidi Thomas's Cranford script for episode three.

As always, I am very grateful to my readers, and welcome your comments and reviews. In fact I'm particularly eager to receive them for this chapter, which went through a great many permutations before it was finally posted.

Thanks particularly to smc0235, who has just posted a kind review and asked me to continue the story -- a nice bit of synchronicity, as I was in mid-revision when your messages came through. I live for occasions like that.

Thanks as well to the anonymous reviewer who posted while I was revising this story yet again!

Now let us return to the characters..

…neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed her heart or ruined her spirits. Persuasion, by Jane Austen

Chapter 38: A Disposition to Be Comforted

Even if Harry had said nothing, Job should have heard about it -- in this place, tongues were never idle for long -- and besides, wouldn't he have seen the news for himself in Carter's stony face? Not that Carter wasn't always stern, whatever his fortunes, and not that Job would speak a word more than necessary, of course.

Any road, what could he say to him? I'm sorry to hear Mrs. Carter is poorly, sir. Well, that was true enough; he was sorry. Carter didn't deserve ill luck, nor did that wife of his, not when she'd been so good to Harry.

In the end, though, Job thought he'd best hold his tongue. What business had he to be currying favor with Carter, or fretting about another man's wife? No, he'd leave it all to Harry. Harry should be sorry enough for them both.

Dear Harry,

Mr. Carter has arranged a little desk for me upstairs in the house, and when he brought in the wildflowers you had gathered, I knew at once they could find no other home but upon that selfsame desk. There they remain, looking bright and cheerful, and greatly improving the prospect before my eyes as I write this. It was very kind of you, Harry, to send me such a gift when I am so very much in-doors, and I thank you most warmly.

Moreover your kindness has not gone unnoticed, for when Lady Ludlow came to see how I was faring, she espied your flowers, and wished to know if I had disobeyed my physician's orders by going out into the fields and woods to gather them myself. You may well imagine how touched and moved my lady was to learn that they had come from you, as a token of your concern.

But her ladyship was right to believe I should enjoy being out of doors in this fine summer weather, and I have great hopes that it will not be long before Dr. Harrison deems my health sufficiently improved that I may take exercise.

I have great hopes as well, Harry, that we shall yet celebrate your birthday. I had talked to Mr. Carter of marking the occasion in the garden, with tea and cake, and though your birthday is now past, I am resolved to pursue such a plan, as soon as I am well enough, and your father gives you leave. I am glad to hear that he has taken up his flute again, and plays for all the family, and can easily imagine your little brothers and sisters gathered about him, begging for one merry tune or another.

Mr. Carter tells me that you have as well been reading aloud to the family in the evenings, and I trust that has proven a comfort to your father, and a fine entertainment for Malachi and your sisters.

Mr. Carter and I have undertaken a similar effort while I am so much at home, and together we are reading a novel by Miss Austen. Did you know, Harry, that ladies wrote novels? When you are grown a bit older, perhaps you will read Miss Austen's works for yourself. I admire her very much, both for her wit and her understanding. Whether Mr. Carter admires her or not I cannot tell you; I suspect he has only consented to read the books to please me. But I honor him for his kind intentions, and trust that his present labors can do him no harm.

With kindest regards,

Laurentia Galindo Carter

"Are you certain, Edward? You are not too tired?"

"By no means. I had rather thought you might need your rest, and wish to retire at once."

"Edward, I have been at home all the day long, with very little to do but read, and sew, and write letters," said Laurie, conscious of the touch of impatience that had entered her voice. "And as much as I value Lady Ludlow's society, and Mrs. Morgan's, I desire yours as well," she continued, in a more amiable tone, "and should not like to squander this opportunity -- that is, if you do not find reading Miss Austen a dull occupation after the labors of the day. Indeed I had pondered whether you should not prefer something else -- Dickens, perhaps."

"Not Dickens, not at bedtime," said Edward. "No, I am certain the company of Miss Austen's sailors and their ladies should prove more suitable," he added generously, offering Laurie a little smile.

"Very well, Edward. Let us continue," said Laurie, taking up her book. "Should you like to read, or shall I?"

"I should like to hear you."

"Well, then." She opened the novel to the place she had marked. "Now, they had gone to Bath -- "

"Bath. Yes," said Edward, settling back into his pillows.

"And they had once more met with Mr. Elliot," said Laurie, with a glance at her husband.

"Yes. Mr. Elliot."

"Then I shall proceed with chapter sixteen." Laurie leaned back against her own pillows and, with another glance at Edward, began reading. "'There was one point which Anne, on returning to her family, would have been more thankful to ascertain…'"

With no one to hear her but Edward, Laurie sought to keep her voice low and even, yet lively enough for a narrative, though after a few moments she quite forgot her manner of speaking, and even her audience, as she grew wholly absorbed in the story. When next she thought to look up from her text and see what Edward made of it all, she saw he was lying comfortably against the pillows, with his head nodding to one side, his lips parted, and his eyes closed.

"Edward," she whispered tentatively, but he did not stir at the sound of her voice, and she was left watching him as he drew each breath slowly, peacefully, unconsciously.

Very unconsciously.

"Edward," she murmured again, firmly yet softly, her voice informed as much by affection as exasperation. She would not disturb him, though he had once again proven unequal to this proposed exercise of reading together. He had more than earned his rest.

Still, she did feel a degree of loneliness sitting awake with only a novel, and of course a sleeping husband, for company. A week spent convalescing at home had brought her quite near to despair, relieved only by Edward's society, and frequent visits from Lady Ludlow and Mrs. Morgan. Indeed at such a time Harry's artless messages of concern, and even Mrs. Greenfield's tact and kindness, meant a great deal.

But now treacherous Morpheus had stolen Edward from her once again, leaving nothing but the consolation of Miss Austen's novel -- which Laurie had always found engaging, even if her husband did not -- and the prospect of reading herself into a state of drowsiness.

With wistfulness, and a degree of envy, Laurie looked over again at Edward. He looked wholly contented lying there, and she wished that she might be resting so herself, though curled about him, as heretofore. He had been nothing if not gentle and kind during her convalescence, but after the first days had seemed hesitant to touch her.

She should have given all she possessed to restore their former happiness, and her rightful place in his arms.

But if her spirits were low, they had not been entirely quenched.

She suspected that by now Edward could only with difficulty distinguish one character from another, or recount a single event from Miss Austen's novel. It should afford Laurentia great entertainment to tease him when next they took up the book together.

She smiled to herself, and nestled into the pillows, as she opened the novel yet again and began to read, this time silently.

Why had she never noted the passage before?

She had no child to connect her with life and happiness again, no relations to assist in the arrangement of perplexed affairs, no health to make all the rest supportable...

Mrs. Smith -- poor, brave, resilient Mrs. Smith! Laurentia had thought only to enjoy making her acquaintance again, much as Anne Elliot must have done when she had returned to Bath. Yet Miss Austen's account of their meeting had not brought solace, but reawakened pain.

She had no child to connect her with life and happiness again...

She ought to have put the book aside, and taken it up again when Edward was ready to listen, if only to avoid reading by herself, and making such a discovery.

She had no child to connect her with life and happiness again...

Yet she was glad, curiously glad, that Edward had already gone to sleep, and so been spared her tears.

Had she sat there a few minutes, or an hour? She could not say, nor did she know how long she had looked upon the page before her tears had dried, and her mind began again to grasp the meaning of the words before her eyes.

A submissive spirit might be patient, a strong understanding would supply resolution, but here was something more; here was that elasticity of mind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily from evil to good, and of finding employment which carried her out of herself, which was from Nature alone.

Hers was not a submissive spirit, not at present. Indeed she might make complaint against God Himself, though Isobel should counsel faith, and Lady Ludlow fortitude, and Edward should fall silent, as though unable to refute her accusations.

Here and there, human nature may be great in times of trial; but, generally speaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a sick-chamber. It is selfishness and impatience, rather than generosity and fortitude, that one hears of. There is so little real friendship in the world!

But perhaps her resentment, though not her sorrow, was unjustified. She was by no means wholly bereft. Indeed she was well supplied with friends, and with counselors, if she chose, though surely they none of them truly understood, save Lady Ludlow, and Reverend Hutton, for he too had lost a child.

No, her situation was by no means cheerless. She bade herself acknowledge all blessings -- her kind, generous husband; Harry, whom she might love as a son; the Morgans and dear Miss Matty, who would surely call upon her as soon as was proper -- Laurentia had no doubt of that -- and of course Captain Brown.

Captain Brown. He had lost a daughter, and Jessie a sister. How could she have forgotten that? Truly, what right had she to rail against God?

Yet her spirit was not submissive, and her anger should at times burn as hotly as her tears. So should her love.

She looked over at Edward, who had stirred in his sleep but not woken. A lock of hair had gone astray on his forehead, almost obscuring a little scar that had remained behind after his accident, and there was another such mark visible upon his left cheek. Since their marriage she had each day looked upon both scars, until she had almost forgotten what they meant.

Transcend. To rise above one's circumstances. Edward had taught Harry the expression not long ago, and had resolved that for the boy it must not prove empty words. Yet circumstances had more than once tested their wills and spirits, even their very hearts.

Their hearts. Laurie softly laid a hand upon Edward's breast, and felt the life coursing through him. Slowly she drew her hand away, as if bestowing a caress, and then with light fingers brushed the lock of hair from his forehead. She leaned over to kiss the scar, very softly, before turning to extinguish the candle upon the nightstand, and to lie down again beside her dreaming husband.

He'd fully intended to remain awake, but it had been all up with him almost as soon as Laurie had begun to read. It was her voice, of course; its music had beguiled him into sleep, and into dreams.

And such dreams. In them he was as he had been, not maimed at all, and could mount his horse and ride out to the place where the railway ought to be.

When he arrived there, he found it pristine, untouched, as though no one had ever thought to build a railway.

He had turned his horse about then and returned to Hanbury, and his office, where he had found Laurie at her desk. She was as she had been as well -- Miss Galindo, his unwilling clerk, with her provoking brown eyes and mischievous smile.

Or had she been Miss Galindo still? For she had leaned forward to kiss his face, and murmur in his ear -- Edward, Edward -- and her hair had tumbled over her shoulders, and her slender, pale arms had gone about his neck, and her fingers into his hair.

When at last he awoke and found her asleep beside him, and remembered the dreams he'd had, he longed to see her open her eyes, hear her speak his name, feel her arms go about him.

But it should be very wrong, indeed selfish, of him to wake her just now, or even to touch her. Still, he could not stop himself from reaching out a hand and brushing a stray lock of hair from her brow, and gently stroking his thumb along her sweet, silent lips.

The bell had been a clever touch, and totally necessary, as he always grew so wholly absorbed in his work while seeing to the accounts. Beckett ought not to have required any summons, of course; his ears could detect the creak of a carriage wheel or the chatter of the ladies from a quarter-mile away. But Mr. Goddard delighted in the arrival of every customer, and thought the ringing of the bell as pleasant a welcome as any and so had no objection to hearing it each time the door opened.

The bell was ringing merrily just now, and for a most unexpected visitor.

"Why, Mr. Carter," said Mr. Goddard, as the estate manager stepped into the shop. "I am very glad to see you."

"Good morning, Mr. Goddard," said Mr. Carter, bowing in greeting. He was not a man given to smiling, but certainly looked to be in better spirits than he had at their last meeting.

"Mr. Carter, how is your good wife?" asked Mr. Goddard warmly.

"She is better, much better."

"Oh, I'm pleased to hear that, sir, and Mr. Beckett will be as well. She gave us such a fright the other day. Mind you, I don't know what we should have done if he hadn't seen she was poorly straightaway, and caught her as she fell."

"Caught her?"

"Why, yes. Bless me, I'm not as quick and strong a fellow as is Beckett, and though we both saw she was about to faint, 'twas he who broke her fall. And a good thing he did, too; the stone floor ought to have done her a dreadful mischief."

"Yes. Quite," said Mr. Carter, examining the floor.

"It's God's own mercy she wasn't abroad and unescorted when she was taken ill," added Mr. Goddard.

"No -- yes," said Mr. Carter.

"But I'm pleased to learn she's making such a good recovery, and hope I shall see her out and about soon."

"Yes," said the visitor. "That is, I don't doubt that you shall."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carter," said Mr. Goddard. "I've barely let you say a word since you came in that door. Now, then, sir, what might I do for you?"

"Do for me? Mr. Goddard, you have done a great deal for me already! In fact I came here with the intention of thanking you, and see now that I am doubly in your debt, and in Beckett's."

"Oh, there's no need for that, Mr. Carter," said Mr. Goddard, feeling his face turning red. "My wife was very touched by Mrs. Carter's letter of thanks, as was my good sister-in-law. They both of them would never have let her go, not without calling young Harrison in to see her. But then the ladies of this town do look after folk well."

"Indeed they do," said Mr. Carter gruffly, grasping his hat in both hands, and again studying the floor.

"I dare say my wife will call upon Mrs. Carter, once she's well enough, and my sister too. Of course one of them must see to the twins," added Mr. Goddard, chuckling. "But they will come; I'm certain of it. You know how the ladies are about paying calls."

"Now let us see you," called out Augusta.

With a smile, and a most unexpected touch of shyness, Caroline went through to the sitting-room, and the scrutiny of her sister and the children.

"Oh, that looks very well," said Augusta, glancing up and down with unfeigned approval, though perhaps too marked a degree of enthusiasm. "I am glad we were able to finish the dress in time."

"Do you not think the fabric a trifle distracting?" said Caroline, grasping a bit of the skirt between her thumb and forefinger.

"By no means," said her sister, still studying the gown as Caroline turned about. "Red always was very becoming to you, and the sprigged pattern is most charming. Doesn't Mama look pretty?" she said, appealing to the twins for their opinion.

"Pretty!" echoed little Elizabeth, clapping her hands, while her brother, declining to comment, instead looked with interest at the little basin his stepmama had brought with her.

"Now," continued Augusta. "is all in readiness?"

"Yes, though I own that I feel rather foolish bringing a jelly to Mrs. Carter. It is not as though she were an invalid, sister."

"I am certain she will receive it in the right spirit," replied Augusta crisply. "Besides, you went to the trouble of making it, and it should be a shame to leave it behind."

"Pudding!" said Philip hopefully, tugging at his stepmama's skirts.

"You'll have pudding later," said his aunt, as though such a sensible pronouncement meant anything in the least to a child.

"Pudding, Mama," said the boy again, stretching his arms up towards Caroline.

"Oh, no, dearest. Mama must go pay calls, and you shall stay here and play in the garden with Beth and Aunty Augusta."

"Go with Mama," insisted Philip, pulling again at Caroline's skirts.

"Go with Mama!" repeated Beth, fairly throwing herself against her stepmother's knee.

"Oh, Augusta," said Caroline, looking first at the twins, then at her sister. "Perhaps I ought to remain with the children, and you had better go in my stead."

At that Augusta's eyebrows lowered and her lips pressed tightly together. "Indeed I shall not. It was you who made the jelly, and got ready for the call. I should be doing you no favors by gadding all about the town, and out to Hanbury, and leaving you ever in seclusion.

"And it is very fine out, " she continued, in a more ingratiating tone. "I am certain you will find the fresh air invigorating, and Mrs. Carter's society most stimulating. She will be glad as well of your company, now that she may receive visitors."

Caroline doubted very much that Mrs. Carter had any desire to see her, but she knew that when Augusta assumed that expression, all objections should be for naught. "Be good children, both of you," she said, leaning down to kiss one twin, then the other. "And mind Aunty Augusta."

"Go with Mama!" Philip set up a final wail of protest, in which his twin sister joined.

"Do not worry, Caroline," said Augusta, detaching one pair of little hands from Caroline's skirts, then another. "I shall find something to distract them in due course.

"Pay your calls," she added, over the howls of the children, "and by no means feel any compunction to hurry back."

With a last glance back at her twins, and no small degree of guilt, Mrs. Goddard departed the house. It had been a great while since she had gone out, and she had always known the day must come when she could no longer hide behind doors and curtains.

Augusta had been most insistent that Caroline call upon Mrs. Carter, and Augusta was right about most things. But this matter, it appeared, she had been very much mistaken.

It was not that Mrs. Carter had been anything other than gracious. She had offered refreshment, and inquired after Mr. Goddard's health, as well as Augusta's, and even introduced one or two subjects that should neither offend nor vex Caroline. Yet it had all seemed a mere pantomime, and it seemed that both of them knew it.

Worse still, each topic of conversation proved awkward, from the first explanation Caroline gave.

"My sister should very much have liked to have accompanied me, but she must look after the -- "

Caroline stopped herself before she could utter the offending word. "My sister is much occupied at home. That is, she often helps me with my duties," she said, forcing a smile.

After that Mrs. Carter had tactfully advanced their discussion to other matters, and had inquired after her tastes in reading, which ought to have proven a soothing topic. But of late Caroline had been too much engaged with the twins to find time for the romances she had once so enjoyed, let alone anything more, and her hostess's mention of Miss Austen and Mr. Dickens left her painfully conscious of her own ignorance.

The requisite fifteen minutes had passed, or very nearly, and with no small degree of relief Caroline began to think of taking her leave. But there remained one task yet, a matter that had troubled her conscience for some time, and she knew she must not depart without addressing it.

"Mrs. Carter, do forgive me for speaking of this, but of course there have been questions regarding your -- your illness."

"Yes." At that Mrs. Carter's eyes took on a guarded expression, much to her visitor's discomfiture.

Caroline hastened to continue. "Of course neither Augusta nor I would breathe a word of its nature to any living soul."

"No," replied Mrs. Carter softly.

"But the subject has excited some interest, you see, and we neither of us wish to be indiscreet, or rude."

"I understand."

"And you must not be cross with my sister," went on Caroline, "for surmising what was wrong. I assure you that she has ever after kept silent regarding her suspicions, and -- "

She paused, seeing evidence first of shock, then of sorrow, appear in Mrs. Carter's eyes. Fearing that her hostess was very near to tears, Caroline hastened to complete her mission.

"Augusta and I agreed between ourselves that if anyone should be so impertinent as to ask what had been the matter, we should say that you were taken ill quite suddenly, and had been conveyed home, and were making a good recovery. But we did not ask your leave to offer such an explanation. Did we do right, Mrs. Carter? If there is anything we must say or do --"

"Mrs. Goddard, you have done so much already, and your husband and sister as well, and Mr. Beckett," said Mrs. Carter. "It should be very wrong to reproach you for yet another act of kindness."

"Augusta told me you would understand," said Caroline, at last feeling a weight lift from her heart.

"Indeed I am most beholden to you both."

"Oh! Pray do not regard yourself as 'beholden,'" said Caroline, warming to her subject. "After all, we are neighbors, as Miss Jenkyns always said."

"I should have liked to have brought you some of our roses," said Miss Matty, taking her place upon the sofa. "But it has been so dry of late, and they require a little rain to refresh themselves."

"That is very kind of you, Miss Matty, but it is your company that is the most delightful gift," said Mrs. Carter, settling gracefully into her own chair. "And I am eager to hear all your news. I trust everyone is in good health?"

"We are all very well, though my brother does laugh at everyone for complaining of the heat, and says we none of us would stir out of doors, if we were made to live in India," said Miss Matty, chuckling. "Oh! And talking of summer heat, I have the most remarkable news concerning Mary. She has been invited to accompany her aunt on a journey to London -- to London!"

"I do not doubt she will enjoy that," said Mrs. Carter. "Though I imagine you miss her very much."

"I do mourn her absence," said Miss Matty, looking down at her hands. "We all of us do, Martha especially. But I should not keep her from London, and its diversions, when she has had so much trouble. Oh! And I have forgotten the best news of all. Who do you suppose shall be waiting for her when she arrives?

"I cannot tell."

"Why, Dr. Marshland. Her betrothed."

It had seemed to Mary almost wrong even to contemplate going to London when she might be needed at home, but Mama had been most insistent that it should be no inconvenience. Papa, of course, had proven more resistant but could hardly refuse his sister the company of her favorite niece, or deny Mary the opportunity.

Thereafter had followed a week of preparation, and then the departure itself. Aunt Trafford had been entirely correct about travel; it was most stimulating, but also spent one's energy and resources, especially if the journey involved a considerable distance. Still, Mary had found it exhilarating to gaze out the windows of the train as it made its way past the late-summer fields. She could see people going about their work, sometimes looking up and watching as the train passed, and found herself wondering about all those strangers, and the joys they experienced, the sorrows they bore.

Her own were evident, or at least to be guessed at, owing to her black dress and lack of ornament.

Despite being in mourning, however, she would by no means be denied what pleasures the city offered. Aunt Trafford and their cousin would see to that.

Moreover, as soon as it might be arranged, they had extended an invitation to Jack to dine with them, and now Mary, having made ready for the great occasion, stood before the looking-glass. She did not mean to make any addition to her toilette, for there was nothing she might change, but to study her own face. There was something of weariness in her expression, as well as of grief, and the color of her gown only drew attention to both. It had been mere weeks since she and Jack had seen each other, yet it was possible he might find her much altered.

But then a great deal had happened since then.

Thank God he'd a decent waistcoat to wear to supper. Of course he'd not make a coxcomb of himself, not when Mary was in mourning, but neither should her relations think he hadn't sense enough to dress properly for an evening in company.

He leaned towards the looking-glass. Was that a bit of grey in his hair? Well, then, so be it; his father had been just the same before he was thirty. So Mother had always said. He should be proud to be as good a man as his father, and there was certainly no shame at all in looking like him, grey hairs or no.

But Mary hadn't known his father, and would never know his father, and Jack wondered if she would find him greatly altered, for all that they'd been apart for but a few weeks.

Jack, Jack, could you not have shut your gob for five minutes?

He'd fully intended to prove a credit to Mary, and deferential to her aunt and cousins. But almost as soon as he'd opened his mouth to answer a question, the words had kept pouring out, one after the other. He'd talked of his work, of Scotland, of the weather, of any nonsense that came into his head, and could feel his face burning all the while, and how he kept smiling too, like the great fool he was.

Worst of all was having Mary fully across the room from him, and looking no happier for his being here. All the days and nights he'd spent dreaming of her, and promising himself that their parting should be well worth it, if only she'd be proud of him! But there was no chance of that now, or even of a smile, let alone a kiss.

Dear God, he'd spoilt everything, and before Mary's relations to the bargain.

"Mary, I should like your company this morning on a walk, and for one or two errands. Can you be ready in a quarter of an hour?"

Mary made haste to put away her pocket-handkerchief. "Of course, Aunt. Indeed I do not think I shall require so much time as that."

Aunt Trafford was looking intently into her niece's face, but made no inquiry as to why Mary's eyes should be red and swollen.

"Excellent. I shall expect you downstairs presently, and we shall be on our way. It should be quite unpardonable to waste such fine weather as this, or to squander your opportunity to see something of London, and I dare say the exercise will do you good."

And with that she turned away, leaving Mary to fetch her bonnet, and perhaps regain a degree of composure.

"Now here is a pleasant prospect," said Aunt Trafford as they turned down another path in the park, and were rewarded with the view of an impressive statue, and a well-tended arrangement of flowerbeds. "It is well that London offers good places to walk, when we neither of us have ever learnt to ride.

"I take it that Dr. Marshland keeps a horse," she added. "When he is in Manchester."

"Indeed he does, Aunt." Mary was not about to reveal that that selfsame horse had brought Jack to and from Cranford an almost unseemly number of times.

"Such a pity. You might have together gone on a ride through the park, as the young people do here. It is a most charming practice, and quite the fashion, as I recall."

"I fear that while I am in London, Dr. Marshland and I will by no means distinguish ourselves among people of fashion," said Mary, smiling, a bit sadly. "Though of course he knows the city, and I do not in the least."

"Do not be so severe with yourself, my dear," said her aunt crisply. "Or with him."

"Yet I must apologize for his behavior the other night," continued Mary. "And for my own ill humor afterwards. I had thought it should prove a great comfort to see Dr. Marshland again; there has been such sorrow since last we met. Now I discover I have come such a long way to learn he has nothing whatever to say to me."

"On the contrary, I fear he had too much to say to you!"

Again Mary smiled to herself. "Indeed I believe everyone present learned more than they wished ever to know about diseases of the eye, or sea-journeys to Ireland, or the weather in Scotland. Dr. Marshland is a sociable man, and enjoys conversation, but even I thought he wanted some restraint."

"Mary, it should be a wonderful thing if men could be relied upon always to do precisely as we would have them do, but that is by no means possible. And I would further observe that a young man working to advance himself in his profession, and to ingratiate himself with his future relations, must of necessity succumb to nerves now and then. In fact it is to be expected."

Mary walked on in chastened silence. Jack had been extremely unhappy when he'd left the house the other night, and she had given him no indication that he should be welcome to return, though of course her aunt and cousins had.

"At such a time you must furnish the example, by your patience and restraint – that is not to say coldness," continued Aunt Trafford. "I dare say you understand my meaning."

"I believe I do, Aunt."

"Good.

"Now we must turn back. Such a pity; the weather is very fine, and I feel I could walk all the day long. We must return here on Sunday, if it is a pleasant day. Do you think your young man would consent to accompany us? After all, he cannot always be working."

"No. No, he cannot."

Sunday. Thank God he hadn't despaired enough to do himself a mischief, and had lived till Sunday.

He'd never thought to see such a grand day again, especially not after Scotland, when his only company had seemed to consist of books and grey skies, and of course Ferguson, if he was truly lucky.

But all that was forgotten now, and the other night as well, or nearly. Mary had been in a tolerably good humor when he'd called upon her and her aunt, though of course she must play the dutiful niece, and primly walk by his side, with her aunt more or less standing guard at his other elbow. Still, it had been no punishment to accompany two ladies through the park, and they'd not wanted for conversation, either.

Afterwards he'd escorted them back, and of course Mary's elder cousin had insisted he take some refreshment with them. A servant had collected his hat, and Jack was still dusting off his coat and straightening his neckcloth when Mary came back downstairs, having put off her bonnet.

Without thinking he had gone to the foot of the stairs. She paused on the step just above him and smiled, lowering her eyes just as she had done when he'd sung to the company at the Tomkinson sisters' Christmas Eve party.

Only it wasn't Christmas Eve, and the Tomkinson sisters and even Miss Matty were nowhere to be found, and Mary came down that final step and stood before him, shyly placing one hand against his chest, as though she wanted to brush off his coat, or arrange his neckcloth herself.

But she wasn't thinking of such things, not just then.

"I have become so accustomed to watching for the post," she said, smiling. "There was always a letter from you, or nearly always. I looked for a direction written in your hand, with a great many blotches of ink."

They both chuckled at the image, though Mary kept her eyes lowered, and seemed to be close to tears.

"I confess, though, that the penny post has been most inadequate these past weeks," she said, at last looking directly at Jack. "Perhaps it is very selfish of me to say as much -- "

"Selfish? No, no --"

" -- but I have wished you back in Manchester a dozen times."

"Mary -- "

That was all that he said, or could say, as he gave her no opportunity to speak another word while he showed her how very much he had missed her, and it wasn't until Mary's aunt produced a credible imitation of a cough that they were reminded that their presence was required in the sitting-room, almost at that moment.

"I do not think Mrs. Carter so very altered," opined Miss Pole, as she and Mrs. Forrester made their way back to Cranford. "She is as rational as ever she was, for all that she has pledged away her liberty to a man."

"But she is grown melancholy since her illness," said her friend with a little sigh. "I thought I detected a certain want of spirit."

"That is not so very strange in itself, Mrs. Forrester. I should not like to be made to stop at home, and forgo all manner of intercourse. Mrs. Carter shall soon be set right by resuming her duties, and her accustomed exercise. Indeed I do not know what I should become if I might not have the pleasure of a daily walk."

"I should have thought it as much a necessity as a pleasure, Miss Pole," cackled Mrs. Forrester. "The robust figure is by no means enhanced by a life of indolence."

"Yes. Well," said Miss Pole, her eyes narrowing and her mouth working. "I trust I have acquitted myself well in that regard, and do not entertain an idle minute or thought from sunup to sundown.

"In fact our call upon Mrs. Carter has inspired me to contemplate a new undertaking. Should you like to hear the plan?"

"Does it involve Mrs. Carter?"

"Mrs. Forrester, it involves a great many people. But let us not play a game of Yes and No; attend to me for a moment, and I shall reveal all..."

"You are not feeling unwell, Laurie?" said Edward as they mounted the stairs.

"Unwell? By no means. I am only a little tired," said Laurie. She was tired, and well contented to be going upstairs, and to have taken Edward's arm while doing so.

"I had only thought -- well, I had thought you might be feeling faint."

"Oh, no. It is only that I have been discussing news and novels all the afternoon long with fully one-quarter of the ladies in Cranford. Or perhaps half."

Edward smiled at that, not the dutiful, desperate smile of previous days, but an evident recognition of her somewhat recovered spirits.

"Well, then, we must get you to bed, and I shall read aloud to you, if you like."

"I confess I am very sleepy just now, and do not care to read tonight." At that Edward showed astonishment, and another emotion. Laurie could not quite decide whether it was disappointment or relief.

"But perhaps you are not sleepy yourself," she continued, "and should prefer to read until you grow drowsy."

"There is no need," he said, patting her hand. "Not tonight."

The day, she decided, had marked a beginning and an ending, the resumption of life as she had known it, and the conclusion of her convalescence. She felt both heartened and disconcerted. She was altered, and should be always, yet was the same woman still. Life proceeded as it always had, with calls and conversation and cups of tea, and yet no one talked of what was most important. Everything had changed and nothing had changed. How was that possible?

And how could she speak of any of it to Edward? Yet she must make a beginning there as well.

He had settled into his accustomed place, and looked very tired himself. No doubt he should fall asleep almost as soon as she put out the candle. What she must say she must say quickly.

"Edward?"

"Yes?"

"Might I rest my head upon your shoulder, as I have been wont to do?"

"Of course."

Laurie extinguished the candle, then turned about in the darkness.

"Edward?"

"Here. Take my hand." She felt his hand grasp hers, and with some awkwardness Laurie crept to his side of the bed, and settled herself next to her husband, her hand resting upon his chest, her head against his shoulder. For a few moments they lay there in silence, sleep temporarily eluding both of them.

"Edward, I should like things to be as they were," said Laurie suddenly.

He made no reply, but she knew that he had heard her, for he began to stroke her hair, as he had done so many times.

"Do you understand what I meant, Edward?" she whispered, her voice almost breaking.

"I think I do," he said honestly, still caressing her.

She pillowed her head upon his chest, and could feel the beating of his heart. Edward turned to kiss the top of her head.

"I should like things to be as they were," she whispered again.

He laid a hand over hers. "We shall talk of it. Rest now, my love."

"Edward -- "

"All shall be well." He touched his lips again to her hair.

She had a great deal more to say to him, and to ask of him, but in this moment his words must serve as a benediction, and his arms as a refuge, as she closed her eyes upon this day at last.

To be continued…