Author's Note: More revelations! I apologize for the long wait on this chapter. Real life combined with a healthy dose of self-doubt kept me from writing for a bit. I would love to hear from you, even if it's just to let me know what I could do better. : ) Anyway, many thanks for reading - on to the story!

Beta'd by lastincurableromantic

Once her tears subsided, Rose made her way distractedly back to the parsonage. Though the storm had abated, a light rain still fell. Normally she would have delighted in the way the rain tickled her skin, the lovely murmur that arose from the plants and trees as it padded against the leaves, the fresh, earthy smell all around her. To all this Rose remained oblivious, her thoughts turned inward, and so she was quite startled by the anxious welcome she received. Her friends, recognizing that she was distraught but unharmed, quickly sent her up to change out of her damp things. She did so automatically, feeling like an observer as her hands deftly completed the familiar tasks.

When she was satisfied that she looked presentable again, she descended with trepidation. She had not yet made peace with all that had transpired between herself and John Smith. How on earth could she share it with someone else?

Martha greeted her as she reached the last stair, pressing a warm cuppa into her hands and nudging her into the sitting room. She then shut the door behind them and pulled her chair closer to Rose's, looking at her friend expectantly as she took a sip of her own tea. "Something happened."

Rose blinked at her. She really did not want to talk about it, but she knew that determined look on her friend's face far too well, and suddenly the words came spilling out. "I got caught in the storm, and Mr. Smith found me." Martha's eyebrows shot up at that, but Rose rushed on, her voice rising as she went. "He... he admitted that he convinced Mr. Harkness not to return. That he should forget Donna, that she was not worthy of him, that she didn't even care for him! And when I confronted him about his treatment of Mr. Saxon, he got all angry and arrogant. He didn't even try to deny it! Insufferable, unfeeling git!"

"Rose!" Martha exclaimed, her face a mixture of shock and amusement, though the latter quickly faded, disbelief taking its place. "Really? He just suddenly decided to tell you all of this?"

Looking down, Rose noticed her hands were trembling and quickly set her cup down on the table. So many emotions coursed through her, including a few that she chose not to examine too closely. By far the one winning out, overshadowing all the others, was anger. While she made a supreme effort to tamp it down, it sent fresh fire to her spirit, melting away any lingering numbness.

"He did."

Their eyes met, neither one backing down. It was not a first for them, however. They could both be as stubborn as mules. Their fathers had often teased them about it growing up, making guesses as to whose daughter would be the first to cave this time. The familiarity of the moment hit them simultaneously, bringing a small but welcome relief to the tension as they smiled fondly at each other, years of friendship and understanding contained in one look.

They fell into a comfortable silence, enjoying their tea and watching the rain. Martha understood, even shared her friend's anger, especially regarding Donna. She also knew without a doubt that there was more to the story and that Rose would confide in her when she was ready.

Rose knew that Martha knew that she was holding something back, and loved her immensely for not pressing her any further. How could she even sensibly discuss something that made so little sense? A proposal from this man whom she had despised for so long, who had behaved so abominably towards her sister and her friend, and yet who stirred such inexplicable feelings in her? It confused and infuriated her. Maybe later she would be able to laugh over it as they usually did, but not yet. She had to make sense of her heart first.

The following morning when Rose awoke, the events and feelings of the previous day still pressed heavily upon her. She had not slept well.

As the day appeared sunny and mild, renewed by yesterday's downpour, Rose escaped into its welcoming arms. Her current distracted state would make her both unfit for anything productive as well as rather dull company. She carefully avoided her usual haunts, heading towards the gardens instead.

Clearing her mind of all else, she strolled amongst the flowers, occasionally tracing a finger over a downy leaf or stooping to catch the delicate scent of a flower. Thus pleasantly absorbed, many minutes had passed when she heard the sound of purposeful steps, and looking up spied the familiar form of Mr. Smith approaching from the direction of Lady Yvonne's orchards. Pretending that she had not seen him, she turned casually as if to head back towards the house, eager to put distance between them. She was not yet ready for another encounter with him.

"Miss Tyler."

Shoot. She had only just managed a few brisk steps before he called after her. There was no help for it now; she must talk to him. Closing her eyes, she took a fortifying breath as she stopped and drew herself up to face him. Her pulse was racing as she turned and their eyes met. A natural biological response after the intensity of yesterday's meeting, Rose reassured herself.

His entire demeanor was distant and reserved, in stark contrast to the last time she'd seen him. "I have been walking out here awhile, hoping to see you. Please, would you read this?" he inquired, holding out a letter. While his tone was cool, she caught a flicker of the hurt and vulnerability she'd seen yesterday in his glance. Holding his gaze, she reached for the letter without looking, accidentally brushing her fingers against his. A traitorous tingling flowed up the her hand and into her arm from the contact.

Mr. Smith nodded once, turning sharply to stride back towards the house. He and Colonel Fitzwilliam were leaving today. What could he have to say that was so important he'd whiled away the time waiting for her? Surely it could not be good, but Rose's curiosity was piqued, and she wandered over to the shade of a nearby chestnut tree to peruse the mysterious missive. She opened the letter, absently noting the rather elegant hand and considerable length before she began reading.

Miss Tyler,

You need not worry that this letter contains any reprisal of the feelings which disgusted you yesterday. I have no wish to pain either of us further. I hope, however, that you will allow me this chance to address the other charges against my character, particularly my part in the separation of Mr. Harkness and your sister, and my dealings with Mr. Saxon. I can only give as answer my account of these matters, and while I am sorry for any offense it might cause, I value your intelligence and opinion too much to be anything less than completely candid with you.

Truthfully, I did not think much of Mr. Harkness' affection for your sister at first. He is naturally friendly and affectionate, perhaps overly so, and it was certainly not the first time I had seen him 'fall in love.' However during the ball at Torchwood, where I had the pleasure of dancing with you, I was startled to discover that a union between the two was generally expected. Now that my eyes had been opened, I could see plainly that Jack's devotion to your sister exceeded any trifling fancy. Your sister, while always cheerful and pleasant, did not show any signs of particular regard for him, however, at least by my observation. After hearing your account of it and of her character, I admit that I may have been mistaken in this. Yet I firmly believed it at the time, and when added to other objections, it strengthened my resolve to remove him from the situation. Disparities of class, birth, and connection aside, the lack of propriety shown by your mother, your sisters, and even your father was the most glaring and insurmountable obstacle of them all.

Forgive me. It pains me to share such truths, knowing that they will hurt you. I would never willingly do so. You and your sister are blameless in this, your goodness and honor marred only by association.

After that evening I felt that I had to intervene, and with the agreement of his sisters we swiftly followed him to London, where I firmly encouraged him to remain. He had planned to return soon, and I believe he would have, despite all reason, until I raised doubts as to the strength of your sister's affection. Beneath all his amiability and confidence Jack is surprisingly modest, and when he saw that I earnestly believed it, he agreed to stay in town.

My only regret is this: that I was aware of your sister's presence in London, yet concealed that knowledge from him, afraid that any contact might reignite his quiet yet persistent affection for her. While I am not proud of this deceit, I meant only to protect my friend, and any distress your sister endured was unintentional, I assure you. It is done, however, and I still believe it is for the best.

Yet a heavier charge was also laid at my door, of injustice and unkindness towards one who was once a friend, that demands me to share a history I would rather keep secret. But I find I cannot part from you without having you know the truth.

Mr. Saxon's father was a good man and managed our home estate of Gallifrey for many years. My father cared for him and his son and strove to give the boy an education and future that otherwise would have been unattainable to him. Mr. Saxon and I, therefore, grew up together and were friends in our youth, both of us rebellious and always up to some form of mischief. Yes, Miss Tyler, even I was a child once.

After my mother's death, however, we grew apart, and he fell into such a corrupt and destructive lifestyle that I hardly knew him when we met again. He hid it well, as he had always had a knack for deception, and my father remained fond of him. Having been trained for the church, my father had promised him a position in our parish once it became open, as well as the sum of a thousand pounds upon his death.

My father was a noble, generous man and loving father, and when he died nearly ten years ago, I had every intention of honoring his wishes in this as in everything else. Upon the event of his own father's death later that same year, Mr. Saxon wrote me declaring his utter distaste for the church, and I couldn't help thinking that his decision might be the best for all concerned. He argued that he was too ambitious and wanted to study law, which was followed by a request for extra money in exchange for his forgoing the promised living. I hoped he was sincere, despite what I knew of his ways, and he readily accepted the three thousand pounds that was offered.

I thought we were done. Much as it saddened me, I no longer knew or respected him enough to invite him to visit Gallifrey. Several quiet years passed, during which word occasionally reached me of him, a shiny veneer masking a life of dissolution and greed. When our clergyman passed on, I was surprised to receive another letter claiming that he had had a change of heart, that the law was not for him, and he would now very much appreciate the position. I refused, quite rightly I think. As he was now almost penniless and therefore desperate, he persisted, as did I, and by the end he clearly hated me. At last he abandoned his cause. I know nothing of what he did for the next three years until last summer, when he returned to our lives with a vengeance.

I hesitate to continue, as what follows has been a constant source of pain and regret to me. I wish I could forget. I have never told another soul, and I place great faith in the belief that, once you have heard it, you will keep our confidence.

Since my father's death, Colonel Fitzwilliam and I have shared the guardianship of my sister, who is nearly fifteen years my junior. Last year she left her schooling back home to study in London, accompanied by a woman named Mrs. Younge, by whom we were sorely deceived. The pair traveled to Ramsgate for the summer and were soon joined by Mr. Saxon, who proceeded, with this woman's help, to seduce and manipulate my sister. Calling up her childhood affection for him and exploiting her sweet, impressionable nature, he persuaded her to believe herself in love and to agree to an elopement. She was fifteen.

I joined them unexpectedly, having suddenly (and fortuitously) found myself without pressing business and missing my sister's joyful presence. The discovery I made there shook me to the core. My dear, sweet Susan, who looks up to and loves me almost as a father, freely confessed everything upon seeing my distress. Only two days later, Miss Tyler, and I would have been powerless to protect her.

I daresay you can imagine what I felt, the fury that burned within me. Mr. Saxon and Mrs. Younge fled. My concern for my sister's feelings and reputation kept me from denouncing him publicly, though he could not doubt the risk to himself if he dared to come near her again. He was quite obviously after her fortune of thirty thousand pounds, with the added perk of revenging himself on me.

I hope you do not begrudge me this confession, as my reasons for revealing it were too important to be ignored. Of course you had no way of knowing of his cunning nature; you are too virtuous and compassionate yourself to suspect such duplicity in someone else. And perhaps I should have told you all this yesterday, but I'm afraid the strength of my feelings had completely overwhelmed my reason.

I hope that you will no longer blame me, in this matter at least. If you doubt my word, you may question Colonel Fitzwilliam, who knows of it all. I have nothing more to add, except that I sincerely wish you every happiness.

Johnathan Smith

Rose came to herself with a start. She was still sitting beneath the tree, leaning against its trunk as she stared unseeingly past its translucent leaves, her mind reeling from what she'd just read.

Her initial confusion over the letter had changed to amazement at its almost apologetic tone, and then had shifted just as quickly to anger. In her eyes there was no acceptable defense for his actions against her sister, and she heard in it only his self-justification and pride. Her eyes flew over the pages, agitated and yet eager for more, her emotions everywhere at once. As she continued into his dealings with Mr. Saxon, a feeling of dread settled in her chest, pushing past her shock and denial. The possibility that she had been so abysmally wrong slowly took form and substance in her mind until it became probability.

His story and Mr. Saxon's were so similar, affirming each other up to a point, but that point was a monumental one, and Rose tried her best to view the matter objectively.

She had heretofore trusted Mr. Saxon and his assertions, yet as doubt crept in she began to question everything she knew and was shocked to realize how very little that was. She knew almost nothing of his past, aside from what he had told her. He had been a pleasant and entertaining companion, yet when she sifted through her memories, trying to find some display of goodness or integrity with which to dispute Mr. Smith's claims, she could not. She had been won over by his charm and openness alone. An openness that should have startled her, she realized. To confide such personal things to her so easily, when they had only just met, was highly improper, even suspicious.

Looking over her memories in this new light, she began to tremble with dismay and outrage. Mr. Saxon had boldly claimed to be unafraid of Mr. Smith, yet he had avoided the ball. He had run. Only after the Torchwood party left town did he have the nerve to publicly blast Mr. Smith's name.

She shivered as she recalled that first meeting, the look that had passed between them on the street that day that had left her so curious. Mr. Saxon had been quite obviously shaken, and Mr. Smith... Outwardly he had been composed, but Rose had witnessed the way he paled upon seeing this man, the barely controlled fury brewing in his eyes, mingling with what she now knew was concern when his gaze had met hers. Tears pricked her eyes as she recalled her words to him yesterday. She hurt for the pain she must have caused him, as she remembered the anger and torment in his impassioned gaze.

More moments began to present themselves to her scrutiny. Colonel Fitzwilliam's reaction to her teasing comments about Miss Smith, Mr. Saxon's sudden desertion of her company to woo Miss King (for which she had defended him to her aunt!), and Mr. Harkness' avowal of his friend's blamelessness in the matter all came to stand on Mr. Smith's side. While she might dislike his opinions or actions, all of the evidence showed him to be an intelligent, respected man, devoted friend, and affectionate brother.

"Oh, I have been so blind!" Rose cried out, unable to keep her emotions contained any longer. "Always thought I could read people so well, and I got it all wrong. I have been foolish, letting my judgment and reason be clouded by my own vanity. Hurt by the rejection of one, I chose to believe the man who flattered me instead. I am so ashamed. Till this moment I never knew myself."

Heart aching from this humbling realization, she began to wonder if perhaps her changed outlook might not affect his other claims as well. While she still felt angry and hurt by his interference between Donna and Jack, she grudgingly admitted that Donna did hold herself back around others. Hadn't Martha voiced the same concern? Only a handful of people got to know the real Donna, including herself, and, she had begun to suspect, Jack, which made his rejection even more hurtful.

Rose felt her cheeks grow red with shame as she reread the part concerning her family's conduct. She couldn't deny the truth of it, as she was rather familiar with their lack of decorum; it just smarted to hear it from someone else. Despite his kind words regarding herself and Donna, she could not help reflecting on how such domestics might injure their chance at happiness.

Running her fingers absently through the soft grass at her side, she finally rose to her feet, letting them carry her over the longer, more secluded path around the parsonage. She needed time to think, to ponder the revelations of the past two days and the truths she had uncovered about others and about herself.