The morning had broken bright and clear with a delightful bout of warmth that was so welcome in early April. The plum blossom, that had not long appeared in the more sheltered part of the orchard, was set against the milky blue sky, the breeze whipping up ever so often that the delicate white petals loosened and then danced their way merrily across the lawn. It was an idyllic scene to be sure, although Catherine Tilney - for she had not been Morland for nearly three months now - fancied she discerned a storm beginning to gather on the horizon.

Standing on tiptoes at the furthest edge of the parsonage's modest garden, she held her hand up to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun's rays, and let herself be consumed with indulgent worry. In the early hours, a message had come that the Barretts' youngest child had taken a turn for the worse and Henry's presence was required. She'd watched from their bed as he'd hastily dressed, and then again from the window in something akin to awe as he'd mounted his horse with practised ease, his leg swinging over the saddle in one fluid motion. Her heart jolted as he'd set off, urging the mare into a gallop as they reached the lane and disappeared from view.

She had drifted back into a light slumber until the sound of their small household setting about their day had roused her and she'd reluctantly thrown back the bedsheets to set about her usual routine. This, she had discovered, could oscillate widely. As she'd weighed up quite where to begin she understood, not for the first time, her mother's wariness at her suitability as a wife. To begin with there was the considerable correspondence that the wife of a country vicar might be expected to receive, everything from invitations to morning tea to desperate pleas for assistance from the parish poor. This perhaps she had been prepared for, given the hours she'd observed her mother spending at her writing desk. However, the meetings at which her presence was seemingly required were far more numerous than she'd imagined and of such variety it was hard to fully describe the range of topics on which she was supposed to hold, and then express, a view. Both of these were in addition to the more general demands of managing a home, and of restoring the kitchen garden which had been sorely neglected and was in much need of attention.

Once she'd prepared herself for the day, she'd been sufficiently content to scratch a much overdue note to Mrs Wilson regarding the church flowers before moving on to the pressing matter of whether carrots or beans were to be planted in the fresh dug-over beds. A discussion of the week's menu had followed, and then the request to replace some worn out bed linens and the matter of an elderly hen that seemed to have riled up the rest of the coop somehow. But somewhere along the way her mind had become diverted from these most important matters and slipped effortlessly into an imagining of her husband. She'd found herself wandering out into the garden, her route taking her most deliberately through the kitchen to first satisfy her sweet tooth.

It would have taken but a quarter of an hour for him to have reached the small farm where the Barratts were tenants, lying as it did just the other side of the village. She could picture him so clearly on his arrival, his head forced to dip so as to avoid the low beam that sat over the front door before moving to speak directly with Mr Barratt in that low tone he adopted for times when seriousness was demanded above all else. He did that well, she tended to think, the way in which he expressed his calm authority in such a dedicated fashion that certainly justified the reputation for reassurance that was amongst the population. After this, he would no doubt have quietly made his way to the young child and sat with them and their mother, offering yet more words of condolence and understanding. She knew he would remain as long as was required, with never a thought as to his own comfort or why might be building out west. For she was certain now that the sun was merely teasing them and those clouds were darkening with every minute that passed.

She frowned at them, willing them away for fear he'd be caught in a sudden downpour and catch his death. Oh, how awful it would be to be such a young widow! To experience a marriage so full of passion and joy only for it to be cruelly cut short. Catherine half gasped at the idea but then another thought entered her thoughts. What if it were her who was caught? The stinging cold raindrops falling gently at first on her face and barely covered arms, and then more heavily as the sky blackened. She'd see him, of course, from where she was keeping her vigilant watch. The lane curved around the edge of the long field and she'd surely be able to see the dust kicked up from his horse. Except, she realised with a panic, she would not if the rain began. It would dampen everything down and that was if she'd remembered it was spring and therefore the roads were not yet so dry. But anyway, she might hear the horses hooves, or see the top of his tall hat above the hedgerows. It would be the signal to rush towards him, to meet him as he passed through the gate and call out to him in an impassioned greeting, to let him know he'd been so dearly missed. He would jump down without a second thought to his safety and sweep her up in his arms, chastise her for letting herself succumb to the weather whilst pressing kisses into her hair and onto her cheeks with lips that warmed her against the chill that seeped into her bones. As her knees weakened, his strong arms would lift her as if she weighed nothing at all and carry her determinedly towards the house as the rain drenched them both most completely.

She half swooned as she gripped the fence post as she saw what would happen next, Henry stripping away her wet clothes and then his own, before wrapping them both in a large woollen blanket. They'd huddle by the fire that had been unknowingly built up into an unseasonal furnace, the rug comfort enough beneath their entwined bodies as they stared into the flames and...

She was being called, a voice repeating her name as she was dragged backwards from the flames and returned to the brightness of the spring garden.

"Henry!" she exclaimed, turning towards where the voice had come from, "You are home!"

"As you see, my love," his arms spread wide in explanation. "Is that not a welcome sight?"

"Oh, indeed!" she replied with certainty, "Only you surprised me. I had imagined that..."

She tailed off and his eyes sparkled.

"You imagined?"

"It was nothing," she laughed nervously. "I thought perhaps you might..."

"What?" he interrupted, stepping forward to take her hands from where they'd languished at her sides, "Have been carried off by bears? Fallen down a deep ravine to be dashed against the rocks below?"

"Pssshhh. There are no bears or ravines in -shire!"

Henry gave a deep chuckle and pulled her against him, his arms encompassing her slight frame completely as she nestled her head deep into his chest and savoured the scent of his exertions, breathing deeply and evenly.

In this position they remained a few moments before shifting easily into one more suitable for a vicar and his wife, her hand tucked neatly into the crook of his elbow. Catherine now focused her entire being on enquiring after the child that Henry had attended and expressed her relief that whilst danger was still present, it had appeared to have lifted some and the family had felt comforted by his presence.

"It serves as a constant reminder of the fragility of life," he mused, "This job of mine. It can be so easily snatched away."

Catherine pursued her lips in thought of this but deemed it not sensible to share what had come into her mind. He might not thank her for it just at this moment. Instead, she asked after his afternoon plans and he after hers.

"I have to pay a call to Mrs Wilkins," she sighed, "And I do believe Mrs Mason may also be present."

"The matter of the Easter baskets is still not resolved, I take it?" he asked, his voice tinged with amusement.

"You may laugh, Henry," she admonished lightly, "But it is not you that must pacify their feud. I had hoped it had concluded after all that business with Doctor Jones' headstone, but it appears not. Honestly, they see drama where none exists."

Henry's lips curled into a smile. "Is that so, my dear?"

"Yes, they do!" she exclaimed, innocent of his mirth. "You would think at their age they would be beyond such behaviour."

They slowly made their way to the house, pausing at intervals to note the remaining buds on the fruit trees and for Henry to explain how as soon as they burst into flower they'd have a better idea as to how large an autumn crop they might expect. For her part, Catherine found herself to listen contentedly to his knowledge on the bi-annual nature of apples or how he longed for their cook, Mrs Jenkins, to have sufficient pears to make enough cakes for both himself and the village. She smiled as he lamented how he'd been forced last year to sacrifice one of his most favourite of dishes for the good of the Harvest Festival.

"You are a good man, Henry Tilney," she teased, letting her free hand rub his stomach lightly, "To make such a sacrifice for your congregation."

"I am," he agreed sagely, but taking the opportunity to grasp her hand and encourage it around him again, shifting to wrap his own hands around her waist. "And do you feel thankful to have married a man who is as self-sacrificing as myself?"

"Oh, I do," she smiled, "It was always my intent to secure such a match."

"You did not wish for a far more disgraceful match? he remarked, "One born from disaster or despair, where only passion can be found, never to be bothered with domesticity."

Catherine eyed her husband with a frown. "You may mock me, Sir, but you shan't soon. Not when you realise that I speak the truth."

"The truth, Mrs Tilney?"

Her eyes twinkled as she gigglingly slipped from his hold and her feet carried her lightly across the grass. As he gave chase, she darted in and out of the trees, rejoicing in how his face lit up as he almost reached her and darkened again as she outfoxed him. She twirled and twisted as she made her way along the path lined with the fading yellow of daffodils, darting between the bushes as his long arms reached out and nearly caught her. He called her name as she disappeared around the side of the house and paused to catch her breath. She could feel her heart beating heavily with the excitement of their game and the anticipation of him finally claiming her as he most certainly would. She stood with her back to the brickwork, listening and waiting, ready to feign her escape. But she was desperate for him to succeed now and let her mind indulge in what punishment he might inflict upon her. A kiss, she hoped, and perhaps more, to her neck and more if they kept out of sight. She blushed as she imagined how he might push her dress from her shoulder, his lips brushing against her freckled skin that he seemed to so frequently rejoice in discovering. And so she waited, pushing thoughts aside as to what might occur to listen for his footstep on the gravel, ready to acquiesce.

But no footsteps came. No scuff of creeping shoes against the path, nor of teasing whispers to let her know of his approach. She leaned forward, trying to see if she could see him coming, thinking now that perhaps he'd taken the quieter route through the meadow so as to remain undetected. But she couldn't see him. She edged forward, careful not to catch her skirt on the climbing rose to her left, but still there was no sign. When suddenly, she squealed. A large hand grabbing her from behind and spinning her around, only to be wonderfully pressed against the wall of the house as his body covered hers.

"What truth, Mrs Tilney?" Henry asked darkly, his breath hot against her ear and sending shivers down her spine, "I demand to know."

"You may not like it, Sir," she breathed, "The truth can hurt as well as heal."

"Do not toy with me, Madam. For I fear I know what you speak of and if it's true then I cannot be responsible for my response."

Catherine could feel her excitement growing and his also, and suppressed a moan as she thought exactly what he might mean.

"Catherine," he demanded, "Confess your sins!"

"My sin is to your advantage, dear husband," she replied, feeling herself beginning to wilt as his gaze seemed to burrow into her, "For the sweetness you had hoped to indulge in on your return has indeed gone."

"I knew it!" he declared triumphantly. "And so, what do you offer in its place? Come now, I must know."

Catherine gave a nervous laugh. She did not fear her husband's revenge but her limited experience had taught her enough that, if she was clever, the drama that she'd sought for so long through her imaginings could be realised with the man she loved and adored.

"Well," she began, her cheeks flaming as she anticipated her words, "The taste of honey cake does linger on the palate, so perhaps I may offer up something of equal delight to satisfy your hunger."

"And what would that be?" he growled.

His lips hovered above her own as his body gave away his desire for her answer. She hesitated, almost overwhelmed by what it might mean to answer. She bit her bottom in trepidation and then, with a deep breath, replied.

"Myself."