Chapter Twelve Back to Previous Chapter June burst upon Uppercross in a blaze of beauty. The roses in Walter's garden, fertilized according to Eileen Gilbride's instructions and freed from the burden of deadwood that had choked them for so many years, flowered magnificently. The bulbs and seedlings bloomed and flourished; birds nested among the branches and fluttered about, tending to their young; bees hovered lazily, heavy with their burden of pollen, ensuring that the flowering plants would propagate. The garden was a delightful oasis, and the perfect place to sit and contemplate. Michael Gilbride also found it the perfect place to study; on fine afternoons, he was never happier--or more attentive to his lessons--than when he was in the garden. Walter saw no harm in it, and the boy throve under the influence of fresh air and sunshine. One afternoon they were so deeply involved in Euclid that they lost track of time, until Eileen came into the garden, directed thither by the housekeeper. She stood just inside the big wooden door from the sweep, staring about her, her expression one of pure delight. Walter rose, smiling, and went to meet her. "Is it how you imagined it, back in the spring?" he asked her. She smiled at him. "It is more than I imagined," she said. "Much more." They walked about, inspecting the blooming shrubs and the roses that climbed over the high stone walls. Eileen looked closely at the roses. "They bloomed a little early, I think. You should remove some of these blown blossoms; the plant will bloom better for it. I dare say Mrs. Wilson will have uses for the rose hips, so certainly you should not cut them all." "Rose hips?" Walter was at a loss. Eileen laughed at him. "Rose hips are the fruit of the rosebush. If you leave some blossoms to wither, the fruit will develop here toward autumn." She pointed to the base of the blossom. "The fruit contains seeds, some of which you will want to reserve. I brew tea from rose hips; my father finds it is excellent for the digestion. It also seems to ward off colds. This early in the growing season, however, you still should remove the blown blossoms. Have you shears? I will show you which ones." Mrs. Wilson had left shears, a basket, and heavy work gloves outside, and Eileen immediately appropriated them. She called her brother over; "Someone must teach you botany," she said with an arch glance at Walter, who just shook his head and smiled. She showed them how to identify the blossoms that had bloomed fully, and were beginning to drop their petals, and how to cut them off just beyond the base. "This way," she explained, removing a wilted bloom, "the plant may direct its energies toward producing new blooms, rather than a seed pod, and you will have roses for a longer growing period." She told Walter of the hybrid rose varieties she had bred in the hothouse at Kellynch. "I shall reserve the seeds, and allow them to sprout in the hothouse over the winter, and set out the plants next spring. If they take, I shall give you a plant or two. There!" she said, cutting off the last dying bloom. "That will do for now." She turned toward Walter, and exclaimed in surprise. He held out a single perfect white tea rose. "Why did you cut this one?" she asked. "It is just opening; it would bloom for another week, at least!" "It is for you; for all you have done for me, and for this garden. And an advance payment for the hybrid rosebushes, as well." "I thank you," she said, and her hand lingered on his as she took the flower; then she blushed, and looked away. Walter's eyes remained steadily upon her. Michael stared at them for a long moment; and then his face lit in a sudden, brilliant, grin. The next morning, Walter stared out the library window toward the sweep, drumming his fingers impatiently. He was startled by a knock on the door, and even more startled when Michael entered with a decided spring in his step. "When did you arrive?" asked Walter. "I did not hear the gig." "I rode over," said Michael, visibly pleased with himself. "Eileen said the weather was so fine, I could take myself to lessons. Although she would make the groom ride with me," he added, his brow darkening. "I rode straight to the stable, and left the horse there, and walked over. Did I do right?" he added. "Of course. You did exactly right." With an effort, Walter controlled his disappointment. "Right, then, did you read the assignment I gave you?" As the end of her month of confinement approached, Anne grew increasingly restless. Charles brought her armfuls of flowers, but she still pined for her garden. The only consolation was having her daughter in her arms, but month-old infants sleep more than they are awake, and Anne's friends and family contrived to fill the empty hours of waiting. Walter was at the Cottage daily, and always found himself among a convivial group that might include anyone from his aunts to his mother to his cousins, and most often, Eileen. He always sat by her; always talked to her; and they were the subject of gossip from Winthrop to Crewkherne that declared Kellynch would see a wedding before Michaelmas. That this intelligence was in direct opposition of the common wisdom of only a few months before, which stated the wedding would be held at Kellynch Lodge rather than the great house, was not remembered by anyone. Gwendolyn Clay had gone to town for the remainder of the season, and it was said that she would be spending the summer in Brighton. She had been gone a fortnight before Walter realized he hadn't spared her a thought. A month after Marianne was born, Walter performed the "churching" ceremony for Anne, her first public appearance since the birth, and the confirmation of Marianne's baptism was to take place the following week. Anne and Charles chose Eileen Gilbride and Elizabeth Leigh as Marianne's godmothers, and Edward Wentworth as her godfather. The ceremony would be a rather subdued affair; the infant had already been baptized at home, and her godfather's ship was somewhere between Bermuda and Nova Scotia and it was not known if he was yet aware of his niece's existence. However, Elizabeth insisted on interrupting her yearly visit to London to attend the ceremony and see her new niece. The Leighs arrived in Uppercross in state; a procession of three carriages paraded grandly up the road to the Great House, the labourers in the field stopping their work to stare in astonishment at such an unusual sight. The first carriage bore Mr. Leigh's superior valet, Mrs. Leigh's even more superior dresser, and some other servants that could not be done without; the second carried the two little boys and their nurse; and the final equipage, the Leigh's town-chaise, brought Elizabeth back to her childhood home. They were admitted to the parlour, where the family waited to greet her. She ran into the room, laughing and smiling, as vivacious and pretty as ever. She went to her father, and then her mother, to be embraced and kissed. Mrs. Musgrove stepped back, looked her daughter over critically, and said, "Eliza, are you breeding again?" "Good God, Mamma!" she cried. "Well, are you?" asked her mother, not at all abashed. "Yes, as a matter of fact, but--in the future, I will thank you to remember that I would prefer to announce it in my own time, and certainly not in such a vulgar fashion!" "No need to be missish with your own mother, young lady." She accepted a kiss on the cheek from her son-in-law, who seemed more amused than anything else at the exchange. "Hello, James dear, I hope you had a pleasant journey." Elizabeth went to Anne and caught her in a long and warm embrace. "You look very well, dearest! Now, I want to see my niece as soon as possible. I am grown quite tired of exclusively male company," she added, giving her husband an arch glance over her shoulder. "Tired of male company? You?" cried Charles, kissing his sister. "I never thought I should see this day." Just then, the eldest boy, James, ran into the room, tripped and fell hard onto the wooden floor, and immediately began to wail. The harried-looking nurse came in carrying little George, who was already crying. "They're tired after the long journey, ma'am," she said apologetically to Elizabeth. "Now, now, Jemmy," Mrs. Musgrove cried over the din, "be a good boy and Grandmamma will give you some cake. Won't that be nice?" "No cake, Mamma," said Elizabeth firmly. "They should be put to bed directly." "Come along, master Jemmy," said his father, scooping him up. "Up to the nursery with you!" He smiled at his wife, who gave him a look of pure gratitude and blew him a kiss, and then he carried the now-laughing boy upstairs, followed by the nurse with George. "Ah," said Mrs. Musgrove as the room once again grew quiet. "I am sure that I love my grandsons very much, but I am no longer accustomed to the noise of children. I fear I shall be on the sopha the rest of the afternoon with the headache." Elizabeth finally was able to embrace Walter. "I've missed you, dearest," she said in his ear. "Why do you not write to me? I must depend upon Anne for my news of you." "I wonder at the sort of news you have procured in that way." "I hear nothing but good things about you. Which reminds me," she added, turning to Anne and Charles, "are James and I to dine at the Cottage tonight? Do Mamma and Papa come as well?" "Oh, yes," said Mrs. Musgrove, headache forgotten at the prospect of a dinner party. "We are all to go, Eliza: your papa and I, and Walter, and the Gilbrides. Miss Gilbride is Marianne's second godmother." "I know it," she responded. "So I am to meet the mysterious Miss Gilbride at last! I have heard so much about her from Anne. I shall look forward to it." She turned a speculative smile on Walter. "What are you smiling at?" he said, though he could not help smiling back. Elizabeth said nothing, but shook her head and stroked his cheek affectionately. The dinner party at the Cottage was a pleasant one, and when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, Walter was surprised to see his sister and Eileen chatting cozily together. He joined them, and Eileen immediately fell silent, and a moment later murmured an excuse and went to sit with Anne on the other side of the room. "Was it something I said?" Walter asked Elizabeth. "No, dearest. If you will take my advice," she continued in a low voice only audible to her brother, "you will give her a little time." "A little time?" he repeated. "Yes. Miss Gilbride needs a little time to become accustomed to the idea of being in love with you." It was Walter's turn to exclaim at a female relative's outspokenness. "I'll have none of your matchmaking," he warned her. "You will not browbeat that poor girl to serve your outrageous schemes." "I assure you, no browbeating will be required. She has been leading me to talk about you all evening. You need not worry," she added, "I was much more complimentary than you deserved." "I thank you," he said with high irony. Elizabeth ignored his sarcasm. "I am quite pleased with your choice, dearest. She is all I ever hoped for you." "You seem very sure that I have made a choice." "Oh, you have," she said calmly. "I know you, Walter. You would never pay so much attention to a young lady like Miss Gilbride if you were not serious. Your former, er--conquests, let us call them--were not the sort of woman a gentleman marries." No stab of pain at the remembrance of Gwendolyn and her betrayal--could he have finally grown past it? "I wonder that you speak of gentlewomen and yet refer to my conquests in your brother's drawing room." "I am a married woman," she said, "and I was never a fool. You are a very handsome man, you know--" Walter rolled his eyes and exclaimed-- "No need to be coy with your own sister. You are very handsome, and you are very easy to love when you are not being tiresome. Never before have you had to work at gaining a woman's regard. It will be good for you, and will make you appreciate her all the more." Walter could not help being amused by such an air of superior knowledge from his little sister. "I thank you for your approval, love, but I still think you are a trifle beforehand." She gazed up at him, her blue eyes sweet and earnest. "Promise me you will at least consider making a match with Miss Gilbride." "I will consider it," he said solemnly. Elizabeth laughed and clapped her hands. "Then I shall not worry about you any more!" She turned to her sister-in-law. "Anne, are we old married ladies to show off our neglected musical skills tonight?" Walter took his sister's advice, and allowed Eileen some time and distance to know her mind. It was the easiest course of action, as he did not yet know his own. Elizabeth's words were often with him: "Never before have you had to work at gaining a woman's regard." He had to admit that she was correct. Since he was a very young man, not much older than Michael Gilbride, women had pursued him--older women at first, sometimes married women, sometimes unmarried but not inexperienced women, even the occasional maidservant. He quickly learned to recognize the certain smile, the light in the eye, the carefully-orchestrated brush of skirts against his legs, the proximity that permitted a glimpse of perfumed decolletage: all the signals that a woman used to indicate her interest. He had taken what was offered him, taken it gracefully and gratefully and nearly always leaving the women feeling they had got the better share of the arrangement. He had never had his heart broken, had never been inclined to feel anything more complicated than physical desire, until he met Gwendolyn. She had given him a taste for more; for a meeting of the minds and hearts instead of a simple, selfish indulgence of pleasure. Eileen Gilbride was a puzzle. Sometimes he read warm regard in her eyes, a regard that made his spine tingle with anticipation, the same look he had received from the parade of forgotten women; and then the next moment, she would repulse him, turn away, act coldly. If Eileen were an ordinary young woman, a girl like Charlotte Smedley, wanting nothing more than the consequence that marriage would bestow, he would have attributed it to coquettishness, but Eileen was incapable of such dissimulation. She wore her heart on her sleeve, and yet he received no firm message from her. The unwritten but understood rules of society did not permit plain speaking on such a subject, and try as he might, Walter could not take a likeness of Eileen's heart, or determine his place in it. Elizabeth and James and the boys went to Ashleigh at the end of June, and with them went the round of social activity Mrs. Musgrove had promoted for their visit. Walter rarely saw Eileen; the days for Michael's tutoring were infuriatingly fine, and he rode over with only a groom for company. Walter spent a great deal of his spare time in his garden, half-hoping that Eileen might drive up in her gig and join him. He missed seeing her; he missed their conversations, missed her intelligence, her quick wit, the quirk of her lips when he said something that amused her. He missed the flash in her dark-blue eyes when she was angry or surprised. He missed the porcelain translucency of her skin, the way her hair shone in firelight, fire itself within the depths of it, a fire that could warm a man, and her eyes like a cool blue sea-- Damn, he thought. Eliza's right. I care for Eileen; and she's not the sort of girl one cares for without marrying her. He leaned back on the garden bench, crossed his arms over his chest, and sighed. "It is better to marry than to burn," he murmured to himself, and wondered what Gwendolyn would have said had she heard him quote St. Paul. The morning had dawned cloudy and cool for July, and threatened rain; Eileen drove Michael to the parsonage for his lessons, but she was already down the sweep and turning into the road before Walter could get outside. He watched after her for a moment, then silently led his pupil into the library. Within a few hours, the clouds were gone, and the sun shone brightly. Michael's eyes strayed to window at increasingly frequent intervals. "Do you think we could go into the garden?" he finally asked. "I believe it will be too damp." "It never rained." Walter leaned back and smiled at his pupil. "You are a very determined young man." Michael grinned. "With my sister, one must be determined!" "I shall remember that." Mrs. Wilson was delighted to make up sandwiches for them, and soon they were carrying a tray and blanket into the garden. They spread the blanket under a tree and laid out their feast; not only sandwiches, but a bowl of freshly-picked strawberries and a pitcher of heavy cream. They had just tucked in when Eileen came into the garden. "Michael! You will spoil your dinner." "I doubt that," said Walter, watching Michael wolfing down a sandwich. "You are probably right," she agreed cheerfully. Walter was pleased to see no evidence of her recent coolness; she seemed in high spirits as she moved around the garden, commenting upon the growth of various plantations. The gentlemen lolled upon the blanket, dragging the fat, sweet strawberries through a saucer of cream and popping them into their mouths. The sun was intense, and the heat hung in a peaceful blanket over the quiet garden. Eileen's gentle motions reminded Walter of a butterfly, lighting first here and then there. He reached for a strawberry and saw that Michael had consumed nearly all of them. "Do you inhale them?" he asked incredulously. "Find Mrs. Wilson and see if she has any more. If there are none picked, tell her to show you the plants in the kitchen garden, and you may pick them yourself." Michael went into the house, and Walter called to Eileen, "Miss Gilbride, if you want any of these strawberries, best get them now before your brother returns." She hesitated; under the heavy veil that hung from the edge of her wide-brimmed hat, it was difficult to see if her face had taken on the wary expression he had seen so often of late. He prepared himself for disappointment, but she wound her way around the path and dropped to her knees upon the blanket. "The shade is delightful," she said as she unwound the veil and removed her hat. There was a light sheen of perspiration across her nose and cheeks, and a flush to her skin; whether from the heat, or exertion, or something else, he could not tell. "I do not realize the intensity of the sun until I leave it." She struggled with her gloves; she seemed to have difficulty removing them. Walter sat up, took one of the strawberries, and dipped it into the heavy cream. "Here," he said, profferring it near her mouth. He expected her to take the entire berry in her mouth, but she bit down upon it; juice and cream ran down her mouth, and she gasped and laughed, lifting her hands to her mouth, but seemed afraid of soiling her gloves. Walter ran his thumb across her chin, wiping away the juice. She laughed again, and grasped his wrist; their eyes met; and then, because it seemed the most natural thing in the world to do at that moment, Walter leaned closer and kissed her. He instantly regretted it. He expected her to exclaim, to move away, perhaps to slap him; all these thoughts passed through his mind in a second, and none of them occurred. Their faces were close together, and Eileen gazed into his eyes, as if measuring him. Walter reached up and touched her chin; he opened his mouth to say her name; and then she closed her eyes, and they swayed together into another kiss. Walter slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close. Her hands, free now of the gloves, reached up to stroke his cheek and the nape of his neck. Her waist fit perfectly in the curve of his arm. Walter was unable to imagine a time when he had not kissed her, when he had not known her. They were together, where they belonged. She tasted of strawberries. Then Eileen broke away from him, snatching up her hat and gloves and running to the door of the garden. "Wait," called Walter, leaping to his feet and following her. "Wait--Eileen, please--" She stopped at the door of the garden, arrested by his use of her Christian name. She turned to him, but would not meet his eyes. "Please, Mr. Musgrove," she said in a low, urgent voice. "We lost our heads, and we made a mistake. I shall never mention this incident again, and I pray you will not. I think it is best forgotten." He seized her by the wrists. "Forgotten? I cannot forget--Eileen, you must know how I feel about you!" She closed her eyes. "Please," she said, her voice a soft cry. "Please do not speak to me so--it was a moment's weakness." "Eileen--" "Mr. Musgrove--it cannot be. Please let me go." He released her, and she went through the garden door just as Michael approached, holding a bowl of strawberries. "Fetch your things, Michael. We are leaving." "Leaving?" He stood stupidly in the path, staring at her. "Go on," said Walter, taking the bowl from him. "Get your books." Michael gave him a reproachful look, and quickly fetched his books. He climbed up into his sister's gig, and as it drove away, Walter heard a snatch of conversation: "--ruined everything!" Michael was saying fiercely; and then the gig turned onto the roadway, and they were gone. Walter stood by the garden door for a few moments, his eyes closed, remembering. He could still taste the strawberries. Walter consumed Mrs. Wilson's excellent dinner methodically, without tasting it. He did not linger over a glass of port, as was his custom. He went into his library and tried to read a book, but soon abandoned it; he paced back and forth in front of the fireplace restlessly. He knew that he wanted to marry Eileen Gilbride; he knew that he loved her. When they kissed, the emotion that he had buried so deeply inside himself had finally made itself known. His heart, deadened and scarred after Gwendolyn's betrayal, had been brought back to life; Eileen had done it, with the same sure touch that had turned his barren garden into a lush, green, perfumed landscape. There was no more ambivalence on his side; but her behaviour, first returning his kiss and then running away--what was he to think of that? And why wouldn't she run away? he asked himself, running a hand desperately through his hair. He was certain that some gossiping fool had told her of him and Gwendolyn. Perhaps Eileen thought that he was taking a liberty, and did not realize that his intentions toward her were entirely honourable. The small library became oppressive, and his steps turned out of it, out of the house, down the road a quarter-mile to the Cottage. He pulled the bell, and after a moment Charles opened it, a look of astonishment on his face. "Walter? What is it?" Walter realized that it must be very late. "Oh, good God--what is the time?" "It is nearly ten o'clock." "Forgive me, Charles, I--" he started to turn away, but his brother pulled him into the house. "You are here now," he said, leading him into his own small library. "I can see that something is troubling you. What is it?" Walter hesitated, then turned to his brother and blurted out, "How did you know that Anne wanted to marry you?" Charles blinked in surprise, but said, "I did not know. I asked her without meaning to. I saw her with another man, and was horribly jealous, and I stuttered a pathetic proposal. Fortunately, it turned out that Anne returned my affection." He looked at his brother consideringly. "Does this have something to do with Eileen Gilbride?" Walter looked his surprise. "Well--yes. How did you know?" "You are not exactly circumspect, you know. Your admiration has been quite plain for some weeks now." "Mine has? What of hers?" "I do not understand." "I have tried to tell her how I feel about her--I tried today. I kissed her in the garden. She liked it, Charles, I would swear to it--and then she ran out. I started to tell her--that I care for her--and she ran away, told me it was best forgotten. Oh, good Lord, I sound like a ninny." He collapsed into an armchair. Charles was smiling. "No, you sound like a man in love." "I am," said Walter fervently. "I am. But I cannot tell if she feels the same. What the devil do I do now? I cannot imagine my life without her, Charles. Sometimes she looks at me, and I think she can return my affection, and sometimes she looks at me as though she loathes me." "I am sure she does not loathe you." "You know, Eliza told me that Eileen was different--that I always could have any woman I wanted, and she was right. I don't know what to do when I have to pursue. I don't know if I should pursue." "Walter," said Charles, "if you will take some advice from your big brother: pursue." Walter looked at him sharply. "Do you know something?" "I do not. Anne might perhaps, but she has not confided in me. However, when I was ambivalent about asking Anne, Father gave me some excellent advice: she is not going to ask you." Charles clapped him on the shoulder. "Onward into the breach, dear brother. Take my word for it: the spoils are worth the battle." Walter was nodding. "Very well. Very well, Charles. I will ask her tonight--" he looked at the clock over the fireplace, and amended, "--tomorrow. I will ask her tomorrow." "Good man," said Charles. "You might want to mention it to Mamma as well--she was rather hurt that I did not tell her before I proposed to Anne. I tried to explain about the unexpected nature of it, but she still casts it up to me from time to time. Go now--they will still be awake." Walter let himself into the Great House--fortunately the door had not yet been locked for the night--and went into the parlour. His father dozed in his chair, a shawl cast across his knees; his mother sat at the small desk, writing a letter. "Mamma?" he asked softly, not wishing to wake his father. Mrs. Musgrove looked around sharply and let out a little shriek that immediately wakened her husband. "Mary?" he said groggily, sitting up. "What is it? Where's my gun?" He looked around blearily, and then noticed Walter. "Oh, hello, son. A trifle late for paying calls, what?" "I beg your pardon," he said, smiling at them. "I have some news that would not wait." Mrs. Musgrove still stared at him wildly, her hand over her heart. "Walter, you startled me so--my heart is beating ever so wildly!" She waved at the tea service. "Fetch me a cup, there's a good boy, and then tell me your news." He poured milk into the cup, then tea, and dropped in a lump of sugar, and carried the cup to his mother. "Here you are, love." His affection for his parents suddenly overflowed his heart, and he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She looked up at him suspiciously, not touching the tea. "What have you done, Walter?" "I've fallen in love, Mamma." She relaxed visibly. "Oh, is that all? I suppose it is that Miss Gilbride?" "Yes, Mamma. I hope you will welcome her as your daughter--that is, if she agrees to marry me." Mrs. Musgrove was all indignance. "And why wouldn't she? You are the grandson of Sir Walter Elliot--and who is she, pray? Her father is a knight, it is true, but you come from an old English family. Miss Eileen Gilbride should be grateful to receive such an offer." She snorted into her teacup. "I hope she is." His mother continued to speak. "But if you are decided on her, I have something for you. Wait here." She put down her cup, rose, and went out of the room, trailing various shawls behind her. Walter turned to his father, who was smiling at him fondly. "Well, Father? What say you?" "I am pleased with your choice, Walter. Miss Gilbride is a fine woman, and will make you a good wife, I think." He added with an arched eyebrow, "Dare say she will look after your garden pretty well." Walter laughed. "I dare say she shall. Thank you, sir." Mrs. Musgrove came back into the parlour, carrying a flat leather-covered box. "Here," she said, handing it to Walter. "This is for Miss Gilbride." Walter opened the box, which contained a set of sapphire and diamond jewelry. He looked up at his mother in surprise. "Mamma, these are beautiful." "They were my mother's," she said thoughtfully. "Sapphires do not really suit me, but they will look well on Miss Gilbride, I think. You will give her the ring when you become engaged, and then the rest of the set for a wedding gift. Eliza will have most of my jewelry, and Anne will get my sister's, but you give that to your wife." Walter closed the box and embraced his mother. "Thank you, love," he said into her ear. Mrs. Musgrove patted him on the arm, her eyes suspiciously misty. "It is high time you married, Walter. I am happy for you." The old clock chimed, and Walter rose. "Thank you. Thank you both." His parents' matter-of-fact acceptance of Eileen as a prospective daughter made him think that perhaps Eileen would not find his proposal entirely unexpected, or unwelcome, and he walked back to the parsonage with a light heart. It seemed as though he had just closed his eyes when he was awakened by the sound of the door bell. Walter immediately rose and reached for his dressing-gown. Such midnight visits were not an unknown circumstance in a clergyman's household. Parishioners fell sick and needed their priest at all hours; however, he had no intelligence of anyone in the parish with a dangerous illness. He left his bedchamber and went to the top of the stairs. His manservant, the trailing ends of his nightshirt hastily and imperfectly tucked into his trousers, unbolted the door and admitted the messenger. Walter's heart sank within him when he recognized Eileen's groom. His knees buckled, and he reached out unsteadily to grip the banister. Oh dear God, no, he thought weakly. Please, no. Not now. He found his voice, and called down the stairs, "Who is it?" He managed to sound relatively normal. The groom looked up the stairs. "It's Sir Bernard, Mr. Musgrove. He's had a bad spell, sir, and he's asking for you." "Very well. Let me get dressed." "I'll wait, sir; Miss Eileen had me bring the gig." Trust Eileen to see to all the details, no matter what the circumstances, thought Walter with wry affection as he returned to his bedchamber. He dressed quickly, pulled on his boots, and ran down the stairs. He was about to leave when he noticed his housekeeper standing in the shadowy entrance to the passage that led to her room by the kitchen. "I'll pray for them, sir," she said. "I'll pray for all of them." "Thank you, Mrs. Brumby." Walter followed the groom out to the gig. Continued in Next Chapter ~ Table of Contents By A Lady Comment on this story Home ~ Site Map ~ Contact Original Images and Content Copyright © 2002 by Margaret C. Sullivan. All Rights Reserved.