A Proper Dash of SenseA Novel by A.L. Brake (or Emma Lane)

Part IA Highly Respectable Town in Northwest England

Spring 1899

Chapter One- To Foreign Lands

There is something elegant and perhaps a bit sad about a lady taking tea alone. Kathryn Williamson had chosen to do so one particularly fine day on which she found only solitary reflection would suit her.

No sorrow, with the exception of early childhood bereavements and the common trifles that never fail to occur in anyone’s life, had ever snatched even a little of the sparkle out of Kathryn’s eyes. But recently she had felt something amiss. Kathryn had become accustomed to leading a quiet life of studies and long walks and afternoon tea punctually at four o’ clock with her fellow boarders. It had been disrupted as of late –very naturally– by the termination of her studies at Somerville College, Oxford; and, since, she had come to live at the estate which had been, in name, hers for a matter of four or five months.

Young women of class and distinction often had schedules brimming with social engagements and a thousand fluffy, delightful worries which could have easily remedied the sudden inactivity which that pseudo-graduation had introduced into Kathryn’s life. But Kathryn had never known such a life, and was disinclined to begin one. She was not a recluse, nor reserved, nor unsociable; all the parties she had attended she always enjoyed to the utmost. Gaiety attracted her, not only in itself and because she had a natural temperament to be merry which was repressed under a good deal of gravity and sense, but also because she had known so little of it.

Kathryn’s tendency to seriousness had been encouraged by a militant aunt and uncle, her guardians. Orphaned at an early age, Kathryn had endured their rigid discipline until she had found relief in the residence hall at Somerville, some one hundred and fifty miles from her home and, afterwards, as mistress of her own estate. But even after her well-deserved independence took place and she was free from such restraints, the friendship and eventual attachment to a solemn young man had kept her consistently graver than her nature would have otherwise allowed.

She loved to laugh, but Mr. Randall Gleason, her intended, rarely discovered anything humorous in the curious idiosyncrasies of common life –and even mildly disapproved when she did. He was, in fact, the chief reason at the time for Kathryn’s social inactivity. Though society once in a while was “perfectly cricket,” dinner parties and dances were “unnecessary frivolities” and generally frowned upon as disturbances to one’s habits. Randall liked a routine, and had fostered that in Kathryn as well.

Although her upbringing and Randall’s influence had taught Kathryn solemnity was the best course of action on all occasions, her sensible side had told her this was not wholly true –and she secretly feared a world in which it would be! Kathryn had long since realized, with the help of the Wisest of kings to have ever lived, that there was a time for everything –for laughter and for graveness. She wished to instill this into Randall, but unlike herself, he was curiously unbending, like a steel bar on a window which would not give. The only effect on either of them, then, was that Kathryn had gradually and unknowingly grown more and more serious and Randall, quite pleased at the prospect, remained –unchanged.

Of course, Kathryn was half-convinced that she loved Randall as well as anybody could love another, and she had never had any thought of his purposefully trying to repress the part of her which was most natural. He was thoughtful and sweet, in some ways, and not a bad intellectual companion –though bantering was beyond his talents and sarcasm utterly lost on his understanding. (These were two of Kathryn’s favorite devices in conversation.) And, feeling her

affection to be returned in a quiet, reserved way, Kathryn could never own to be, well, unhappy, exactly, with the present state of affairs.

Yet there was something troubling her. Yes –Kathryn, sipping green tea from hand-painted china, felt this essentially. She felt it so much that the tea-set she had asked Martha, one of her maids, to lay on the summer table a short while before was the Dutch blue and white affair with small maidens in plaited braids and traditional clogs and one solitary shepherd boy looking after one solitary sheep. It was a prosaic piece, and though admirable, far from being Kathryn’s favorite.

She was of the opinion that one should enjoy the best –as far as the tea and china went- when one was feeling the best. And as that was not the case, the whimsical pale green set painted with spring beauties and rimmed with silver, would have to wait until a more decisively happy day.

So Kathryn sat in the high-backed white chair on her lawn, drinking several dismal cups of tea and nibbling on airy pastries. She looked out across the grass, to the small outcropping of trees to the left and to the white trellis decorating the entrance of the gardens to the right. Worthing’s landscaping had, since her parents’ and their parents’ time, made it a renowned place of beauty and repose, the perfect seaside manor situated exactly to sate a Victorian taste.

She was nearly finished with her tea, when the sight of Mr. Roy Gleason –Randall’s twin brother- galloping towards her staid her from moving.

“Oh, Miss Williamson!” he cried breathlessly, throwing himself dramatically into a chair opposite her, his dark, unruly hair set entirely askew by his energy. “Mrs. Gleason and I have had the most dreadful idea and I’ve just had permission to tell you! And by dreadful I do indeed mean wonderful!”

Kathryn, used to Mr. Gleason’s wonderful ideas, did not give any expression beyond complacent surprise. ‘Oh, yes?” She offered him some coffee, having had Martha prepare a pot (though she herself did not drink it) in the gloomy hope that someone would join her.

Mr. Gleason gratefully accepted, grabbing a scone and talking excitedly between mouthfuls. His dark green eyes sparkled in visionary hope. “We have planned, for a month of this summer –oh, these scones are heavenly!- to take an ocean liner,” here he paused for effect, “to the United States of America! As a celebration of our graduation,” he added, his green eyes bright.

Before Kathryn could respond to this staggering statement, she caught sight of Randall approaching and lost all power of speech for several moments. He walked with careful, methodical steps; never slipping or stopping and intent on his purpose. So different from his brother, Kathryn mused, who was ever pausing, or forgetting what he was doing altogether, and strolled in a kind of haphazard jig. Right away, though they had the same dark hair and green-hazel eyes, anyone could have told them apart. “What time is it?” she questioned worriedly.

Mr. Gleason glanced at his pocket watch, remarking that it was nearly five.Kathryn relaxed. Randall was not early then. She had merely been sitting in despondency

for a very long time. That explained the half-empty teapot, at least. Turning back to Mr. Gleason and troubled no further by any possible peculiarities in Randall’s arrival, she was now able to craft an expression of considerable astonishment. “To the United States? What in heaven’s name do you mean, and why?”

Mr. Gleason nodded, relishing his tale. “Yes, it’ll be a boat trip to beat all others! Studies are over, we’re free, and for Old Saint Peter’s sake, if I start in on the business track right away I’ll go raging mad! You too, Miss Williamson, and no amount of protesting will convince me

otherwise. My wife needs a companion, besides. Sometimes I think I bore her exceedingly.” This last comment did not seem to weigh upon him too heavily.

Randall had by then finished his journey over the grounds and greeted both, perfunctorily kissing Kathryn’s hand as he chose his usual seat. It was so regular an action and so mechanical in its execution that sometimes Kathryn wondered if he rehearsed beforehand. (“Oh, how-do-ye-do, my brother,” with a curt nod of acknowledgement, and a “Hello, dear, how-do-you-do” –and he would time the affectionate gesture just right before taking an imaginary seat and then contemplating himself contentedly in the mirror.) What nonsense am I thinking!

“I suppose my brother has told you his fantastic plan,” he stated mildly as if the subject was of no more interest than the state of the roads.

“You know about this?”“Yes.” Randall smiled. “For my brother, and for the sake of my relatives, I will be going.

I would not trust Roy alone in America. Somehow, between him and Mrs. Gleason, they would end up in California searching for New York!”

Mr. Gleason started indignantly; but, admitting that this was very possibly true, subsided in sheepishness. “Perhaps,” he muttered.

“Is that all?” Kathryn had difficulty believing Randall would break his routine in order to visit relatives for whom he had never before shown any affection or to be a companion to a couple who frequently aroused his irritation and censure. Though Kathryn herself loved Mrs. Gleason’s endearing nonsense and her husband’s enduring good humor, it was doubtful if her betrothed shared the same view.

“Well…” Randall shifted, accepting Kathryn’s offer of tea and (much to her silent mortification) pressing her to take a little more herself. “We do have some cousins or something in a part of New York, and it’s a good excuse to visit them, staying in an old-fashioned house instead of an American hotel fright. And there is another thing…” He looked past a teetering tray of feathery light sandwiches and a jar of seedy preserves to give her a grave and worldly smile. “As of late, Kathryn, you have seemed overworked and tired. If our wedding is to take place in the coming November, I would not wish for you to be ill while making preparations.”

He means well. Kathryn assured herself, biting her lip. He means well. “Oh, you have agreed to Mr. Gleason’s scheme already, then?” It came as somewhat of a surprise to her that Randall would even entertain the notion as plausible; it took considerable deliberation for him to arrive even at such a simple decision concerning what color his coat-tails ought to be for the day.

Randall hesitated. “In all other circumstances, absolutely not. It is too disrupting to one’s habits to be desirable, even for relations’ sake.” He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in calculated ease. “But this summer, I think –yes.”

Kathryn gave him a wistful smile. “I had hoped you would like it, for I am quite taken with it, though still, and not undeservedly, shocked.” She smiled wryly.

Feeling too much out of the conversation, Mr. Gleason interjected, “I told you it was a dreadfully wonderful idea, did I not, Miss Williamson?” He beamed, extraordinarily pleased with himself and the entire world. “We plan to leave on the 17th of June.”

Further surprised, Kathryn ejaculated, “The 17th? But that is not three weeks from today…”

“Well we can’t leave later,” Mr. Gleason went on, not at all phased by her reaction as he took an exquisite plum tart and chewed thoughtfully. “I do have things to attend to, business matters, and I want to avoid them as long as I can. But,” he sighed, “all the same they have to be done some time.”

“But –but –three weeks? Surely, the tickets cannot be procured at such a late date-” she stopped, suspicious. “Mr. Gleason, when did you buy those tickets?”

“December,” Randall cut in calmly.“You have known since December?” Kathryn was beyond incredulity and anger. Her

hand shook as she poured herself more tea.“November, actually.” His tone, even and smooth, made Kathryn immensely irritated.

Randall apparently could find nothing wrong in keeping such an enormous secret from her.“Why was I not informed?” she asked stiffly.Randall continued to answer her, though she could have better borne Mr. Gleason’s

cheerful voice inflections to Randall’s monotone, as if its dry practicality could only increase her fury. “I felt it would be better if you were not told. You were so involved in your studies in school –and might have decided against it. Really it was done –or rather, not done– with your best interests in mind.”

“Couldn’t I have decided that for myself?” Kathryn said coolly. “I am not, nor ever will be against the idea of traveling. And you will recall that I have not been outside of England for some time. I am, in fact, thrilled with this chance, and would have felt exactly the same had I been told in November, or December. It would have been something to look forward to as the school year was coming to an end!”

Sensing an argument (though Randall’s defenses always consisted of cool and colorless statements, Kathryn had a temper,) Mr. Gleason performed an exaggerated yawn and stretched. “Well you know now, Miss Williamson, and this way you don’t have to wait so long. My wife and I have been simply falling to pieces with excitement.”

Kathryn looked at him helplessly. “But it’s so soon…”“Eighteen days, actually,” Mr. Gleason finished happily. “And Mrs. Gleason and I are

planning a goodbye party for the week before.”Randall sat up, almost upsetting his tea. He flushed. “We are having a party? Why was I

not informed –or consulted?”“You can’t know everything, Randall… that’s half the fun! And you couldn’t seriously

have thought that we would leave England without one.”Randall frowned, and then consulted the time. “We can discuss this later. I must leave.

Good day –brother, Kathryn.”He gave her a cool bow and left. A few moments after his departure the church bells clanged importantly in the

announcement that it was thirty minutes past five, and Kathryn angrily realized why Randall had gone without apologizing or attempting to resolve their dispute –for the sake of his schedule.

“I should be going as well. Oh –but I almost forgot!” Mr. Gleason stopped in the midst of standing up. “I hope you don’t mind, but a friend of mine from Cambridge –he graduated last year– will be joining us. His name is David Harrington.”

“Oh, no –I won’t mind at all,” Kathryn heard herself say. Her mind was still reeling and she paid little heed to what he had said.

“All right, goodbye then!” Mr. Gleason’s eyes twinkled. “It’s going to be such an adventure!”

Kathryn wondered.She watched him leave and returned to the tea table. Between Randall and her, the pot’s

contents looked exceedingly grim. Still, there was enough for one more bitter and lukewarm cup…

Kathryn began to examine her jumbled thoughts as she drank. If Randall had not presented her in such an unfavorable light, she might have expressed more reluctance in agreeing to his brother’s proposition. Kathryn loved company and dinners and silly or somber exchanges with friends, but she most loved her home. In the short time of her residence, she had grown much attached to it.

The lush green of the grounds; the cheerful exhibition that was the garden; the library with its ancient volumes; the music room and its grand piano, the keys soft with use… Kathryn did not hesitate to call Worthing Manor the best place in the world.

What she had told Randall was absolutely true; Kathryn had not ventured beyond England for many years. And why should she have? Everything she could have needed, or wanted, was at her disposal at Worthing or in town. All her gowns were shipped from London or Paris, the latest piano music from Berlin or Austria, and her cook was famous for having perfected all known European cuisine. Even Randall rarely traveled, though he could have easily found an excuse for going halfway across Europe and back again.

Kathryn had never been to America, nor had she previously any inclination for such an undertaking. Traveling was all very well for certain people, but not everybody had it “in his blood.” But Randall needn’t have been so controlling about the whole business, either.

Kathryn stood resolutely. She was now convinced that, whatever her attachments to Worthing or her orderly existence in general, she would enjoy the trip and would enjoy visiting America.

It was, as Mr. Gleason had said, an adventure. And though Kathryn had had a sparse acquaintance with adventures and looked upon them as foreign and thoroughly un-English, she supposed it was nearly time that she embarked on one.

Chapter Two- The Love Affair of 1854

A week and a half later, Kathryn –though frantically busy with her preparations to leave, what with cancelling half-formed plans, tearing up reading lists, reminding and re-reminding her servants, under no account, to disturb the precious inner workings of her library, and pleading with Carl the gardener to take good care of her poor, soon-to-be-motherless flowers– invited the two foremost ancient and venerable ladies of Cambrien society over for tea.

Kathryn did not see how the invitation rationally could have been avoided. They, interested in everyone else’s affairs, would somehow or other have contrived a way to see her before the formal and upcoming party, but Kathryn (anticipating this) had resolved, soon after receiving the news concerning the entire business of the trip to America, to precipitate their innocently spindled plans.

As a new addition –or, more accurately, as a re-addition– to Cambrien, Kathryn had aroused a good deal of speculation and interest, (as much as a lovely and unattached woman could, in that part of the country, where the young were scarce and the beautiful still more so,) stylizing herself as independent of relations and husbands alike. This perception had not lasted more than several hours for, following her settled removal to Worthing, Kathryn had been most properly and most assiduously visited by Mr. Randall Gleason.

The town of Cambrien had noted this with unconcealed curiosity. The people had a sincere, almost jealous regard for Kathryn, as she had lived there with her parents some years previous, and they eyed the object of her affections and the future master of Worthing Manor

with a shrewd and narrow gaze. It did not seem, at first, that any man could be worthy of marrying a Williamson of Worthing.

Hither, then, had Ms. Anders and Mrs. Frawley come to use their formidable talents of accumulating mass amounts of information in the most ingenuous manner possible, to gently inquire as to the exact nature of this serious gentlemen who called upon Kathryn and had managed to ask her hand successfully without the town’s consent.

Kathryn, pleased at their condescension and persuading herself that she remembered their faces from her childhood, knew full well that they had accepted the invitation with an expectation of procuring every last detail about Randall, and perhaps even every last detail about the last thirteen years of her own life, without the slightest trouble.

She had prepared accordingly for the inevitable inquisition, arming herself with the finest tea and the choicest crumpets to present to Cambrien’s stateliest personages. Anxious to prove that Worthing still retained its easy elegance and charm from the days of her father and mother, she worked relentlessly –throwing open every window and door of many rooms that Ms. Anders and Mrs. Frawley would see and many more that they would not. And, when everything that could possibly have been done, was done, she began, tentatively, to look forward to tea-time.

Ms. Anders and Mrs. Frawley arrived fashionably early, as was their custom, and of course for any other purpose but to surprise their hostess into unaffectedness. Fortunately, Kathryn had been ready since seven o’ clock that morning, and it was doubtful that even those formidable ladies, so careful to comply with every minute regulation compiled in A Guide to the Manners, Etiquette, and Deportment of the Most Refined Society, could have managed an excuse for presenting themselves before that hour of the morning.

And so, dressed in white patterned muslin and satisfied that she and her household had carried out all the necessary preparations, Kathryn met the ladies in the front hall with the smile of a gracious queen and the hidden anxiety of a sixteenth century Protestant.

They greeted her with a single chorus of, “Miss Williamson! How charming! Look how you’ve grown!”

Admittedly, she had grown a little in almost the decade and a half since they had last formally moved in the same society. “So happy to see you!” Kathryn said. “It’s been such a long time since you were guests at Worthing. My mother and father would be pleased to see that it is so. I thought that we might have tea out on the lawn, as it is uncommonly warm and fresh outside.”

“What a lovely idea!” twittered Mrs. Frawley as she adjusted her pince-nez perched precariously on a decidedly aristocratic nose in order to inspect Kathryn more closely. She was tall and thin, smelling faintly of mothballs and lavender. Her gentle, slightly quavering voice did not quite match the keen, steady light in her coppery-green eyes.

Ms. Anders echoed, “Yes, lovely.” She had twinkling brown eyes, a merry countenance, and a menacing double chin which habitually quivered. Her ample and generous proportions, however, were outward signs of a benevolent soul, and the poor received both relief, which is welcome, and kindness, which is still more so. She was, as she herself declared, “an old maid, and always had been,” with the same fashions and ideals as immortalized in the year 1837, the first of their beloved Queen Victoria’s reign.

Kathryn liked both of them very much, from what she could remember of their faces and manner, and she said with a smile as she led the way, “Well then, shall we?”

***

Once the three had been seated, the tea poured, and the two ladies had given their assurances that everything was to their liking, Ms. Anders began. “So, Miss Williamson,” said she, setting her tea cup down decisively, “you must tell us all about this Mr. Gleason of yours.”

“Fidelia,” said Mrs. Frawley sharply. She had intended to wait at least another two minutes before broaching the subject.

“Oh, I don’t mind telling you about him.” Kathryn smiled. “Although it is not, I am afraid, an interesting story.”

“Men in general are not very interesting, dear,” said Mrs. Frawley placidly. “I am, in fact, inclined to believe quite the contrary about them. Poor Mr. Frawley never was, God rest his soul.”

“Yes,” Kathryn recollected, “I did send me condolences, did I not, when he passed away three years ago?”

“You did, my dear, and it was very kind of you considering how busy you must have been at the time. Poor man.” Mrs. Frawley sighed darkly. “Roast never did agree with him, and he would take three helpings against my advisements. But men will have their own way.” She shook her head in remembrance. “Of course, it was his time to go.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Kathryn, suddenly finding it necessary that she abandon the effort of sipping her tea for a moment.

“Oh, you may be surprised! but, truly, it was. Men can be so tiresome, and the older they grow the worse they are. But, for all his whims, I loved Mr. Frawley dearly all the same.”

Ms. Anders broke in, “I think, you know, that it is better to do without them altogether.”Kathryn, bleakly attempting to smile as if she understood, wondered if they had devised

this conversation for the express purpose of wheedling her out of marriage. Had they perhaps heard something disreputable to tarnish the sheen of Randall’s spotless character and wanted to spare her the pain? Did they mean to keep her solitary forever at Worthing for reasons undisclosed?

“You mustn’t say that,” protested Mrs. Frawley with a ladylike sniff as she touched a lace-edged handkerchief to her nose. “Just because you have never had an encounter with a man does not mean you have the right to delineate them all.”

“There you are wrong,” countered Ms. Anders triumphantly. “I have –I have!”“Oh, yes?” said Kathryn, interested, for she had always thought that Ms. Anders was

nothing if not spinsterish. “My heavens!” exclaimed Mrs. Frawley with astonishment as she turned to the other. “I

have not heard of this! If it is true, you must tell us –but can you be in earnest?”“Is it so very strange that I should have had a suitor?” asked Ms. Anders sternly. Kathryn

did not deem it wise to reply and Mrs. Frawley, too, held her tongue. “I assure you, I am entirely sincere. It happened such an age ago –perhaps more than forty years –that it was before I even lived in Cambrien or knew anyone here.” She stopped anxiously. “Are you quite sure you want to hear it?” Her little love tale had hitherto lain so jealously guarded in the talons of her heart’s secret recesses that, if she brought it out from the shadows now, some of its meaning might be lost. But the other two pressed her so solemnly to continue that she could not delay the telling any longer, and thus the ancient maiden commenced:

“It was spring –the spring of the year ’54, I believe. I remember that because it was the season of my eighteenth birthday, and all the daffodils peeked their golden noses out of the ground and the buds were just beginning to unfurl on the trees –one of the most beautiful springs I can remember, or perhaps it just seemed that way. For that April, the militia moved into

Lancashire. At first, I could not have been less interested. My sister was in love with every officer who came into town, but I had somehow gotten the idea that they were all vagabonds and hardly worth the trouble. Perhaps it was her own enthusiasm that cooled any excitement I might have felt, for heaven knows I hadn’t a real reason for disliking them so. At any rate, they were there, and would be till the end of May, and I found that I just had to endure their presence.

“Now, I was in the habit, as it were, of going a bit away from the usual lane from town to our home, as there was a small shortcut through the woods. I say ‘shortcut’ although, more often than not, this would not be the case, as I would spend so many minutes looking at the trees and wandering through the wildflowers that I quite forgot the time, and my mother would scold me shamelessly when I returned home. On one occasion, much in my usual manner, I was just coming back from the millinery, having bought a new bonnet with a rose ribbon, the dearest bonnet I had ever seen. I was quite in good spirits as I went, when, suddenly, a commotion broke out nearby. It was Mr. Phillips’ chickens, all twenty-nine of them, got out of the coop again! It had happened before, as the local yarns went, because he never kept his coop properly patched. It was told that his chickens were uncommonly vicious and, for one reason or another, always attempting to escape. I’ve no idea why –perhaps they did not take to laying eggs. Whatever the cause, it was nothing less than a disaster that they had finally managed to get out. Oh, I was in such a flurry!

“You see, aside from the natural fear I felt because of the reputation those chickens had earned, I myself was unaccountably afraid of them in general. Something about their sharp, beady, watchful eyes or their funny little strut always unnerved me. So, there I was, terrified as I had ever been (and have ever been since,) pinioned to a tree by my own self and quite at a loss as to what I should do. Fainting would have done no good –what if they should attack me while I remained unconscious? Running, too, seemed like a dismal option –would not they chase me and I, with all the precious sense of dignity that a girl has at eighteen, could not bear to be seen running, half-mad, with twenty-nine squawking chickens in my wake.

“There was my dilemma –and so, as I saw them barreling towards me, I thought I might rather die than endure it –and shut my eyes to my fate. These were my thoughts when he rushed forward and, somehow making noises which were far louder and more impressive than the chickens’ caterwauling, scattered them. I still had my eyes closed but, at the new sound and then the sudden, silence, I opened them fearfully, wondering if something more dangerous had come. But –it was him.

“Dressed in regimentals –the uniform I loathed, and now to which I was indebted!– he introduced himself as Captain Matthew Brinston.”

“Brinston?” interrupted Kathryn. The name seemed somehow vaguely familiar to her ears.

“Yes, Brinston. Well –anyway, after that, I felt a little foolish and endeavored to explain the circumstances which had brought me into the predicament, and also to confess my silly fear of chickens. He then told me, most seriously, that he, too, grew very uncomfortable in their company. Then he asked if he might escort me home, and I said that he could, and the next day he called on me to make sure that I was quite recovered from the incident of the day previous –and after that, we met each other in the woods often, at first by accident, and later by design– and he continued to call on me.” Ms. Anders sighed.

“I was so in love with him by then –so ridiculously in love– and so totally sure that he loved me –I was a pretty thing then, pretty and guileless, not knowing that a lady never banks upon a man’s love if she can help it– that I had no doubt that, one day, he would propose.

Although he was a poor soldier, with hardly a penny excepting what his father had promised him on the day of his death, I did not think my parents would raise material objections of that kind. They were such benevolent people that they would not have impeded my happiness for the world.” She paused to ascertain if the listeners still listened, but Kathryn and Mrs. Frawley were quite enrapt and had completely forgotten the tea, the scones, and everything else save for the end to what must be a tragic story.

“There isn’t much more to tell, really. I waited for him to propose –the end of May came and the regiment left– he promised he would write –and he never did. I have not seen or heard a syllable from him since. After that, well –I did not have the heart to marry anyone else, mine being quite broken as it was. A spinster, then, I am, and will be until I die.” Quite overcome with memories and finished with her love tale, Ms. Anders took recourse in eating a few sugar-dusted scones and, at Kathryn’s urging, having another cup of tea.

“Well,” said Mrs. Frawley at last. “Well –well –well –I never knew! Oh, Fidelia, you poor dear!” Her voice rang out in sympathy. “What a shameless man, to have used you so cruelly!”

Kathryn, who could not decide if she felt rather more ready to laugh or to cry, sagely chose to do neither and now spoke. “But –surely –there must have been some mistake. He seems a very amiable and honest gentleman, a man unlikely to use any woman ill, if he could help it. Perhaps he was detained –or the letter misdirected. Any number of odd occurrences, guided by the sorry hand of Providence, might have prevented you from ever forming a serious attachment which had nothing to do with the man personally.”

“To own the truth, I have wondered that myself –especially in the years following that spring, as hope gradually faded but uncertainty remained. Uncertainty is the worst of it, I think –for I shall never know what happened to him, or why he did not write, I daresay. But, as you said, Providence did not Will it –and far be it from me to question that.” She eased back in her chair, her cheerfulness returning. “Still, I have not been made unhappy. As the Lord says, ‘it is more blessed to give than to receive,’ and because of my spinsterhood I have learned the lessons of mercy, and of kindness, in devoting myself to the needy, more than I ever could have as a married woman. So –as you have heard– I do know a very little something about men. But –oh! I have been all this time talking of my own little story and have forgotten about your Mr. Gleason. Do tell us everything, Miss Williamson. I do love a happy ending.”

Kathryn could not promise that the story of her own courtship would be half as entertaining as the spice a flock of temperamental chickens could add, but she satisfied them with her account of their meeting, their acquaintance, and subsequent engagement. Ms. Anders and Mrs. Frawley exclaimed and sighed over her good fortune, hoping that they would have the honor of meeting the man soon, at the farewell party, and Kathryn said that they could.

But all the while she was thinking not of Randall, but of Ms. Anders’ poor love affair, and of those fortuitous chickens, and wondering if Captain Brinston was still alive and –if he was– how he could possibly explain his behavior so many years in the past.

Chapter Three- Introducing Mr. David Harrington

Between tea and last-moment traveling arrangements, Kathryn hardly had time to think any more about Ms. Anders, or anyone else, except for ships and accounts and the flowers she would miss and wondering, at times when the luggage threatened to overflow, why she had ever

assented to going on the trip. Still, she vowed that once she returned from America, she would somehow discover more about the unhappily fated Captain Brinston.

These thoughts swirled in Kathryn’s mind as she sat on the edge of her sofa, staring blankly at the wardrobe in front of her. Nearby her maid Sarah hovered. Sarah had several suggestions, but the mistress was sometimes not fond of advice. Kathryn usually could make decisions quickly and precisely –and of what importance was a gown at a goodbye party, at any rate?

Randall’s favorite color was blue, but Kathryn did not feel in a blue mood. Kathryn had not seen him, but for short spaces of time, since they had last had tea together. It was perhaps better that way. Amid all the frustrations of packing and re-packing and maintaining a semblance of order about the manor, Kathryn would have felt quite unequal to dealing with Randall as well.

Kathryn noticed Sarah fidgeting. She smiled, sighing. “Sarah, what would you recommend?”

“Oh, Miss!” Sarah burst out. “I couldn’t be sure, but I do think that green silk might be the best choice.”

“I believe you are right,” Kathryn responded, “Thank you,” she added softly. During the past week, Kathryn had grown more appreciative of her servants, and Sarah’s youthful chatter had given her cheerfulness. “You do well, Sarah. I will miss your helpfulness when I am gone.”

Sarah finished assisting Kathryn in dressing and giggled. “Oh, but you won’t be gone forever!” She steered Kathryn to the vanity and started pulling the dark red locks into an elaborate bun. “Six weeks isn’t so very long, and Hilda will be there.”

Kathryn had chosen Hilda, a stern and no-nonsense woman who had known Kathryn since childhood, to attend her to America. Hilda had expressed a mild interest in traveling and was secretly anxious for Kathryn, knowing her lack of experience. A gruff, nursery-maid manner hid the true pure gold of Hilda’s heart, and she loved Kathryn dearly.

“Yes, you are right. Hilda will always be with me.” “And to travel the world with your love-!” Sarah sighed, thinking of the many advantages

which might arise from seeing other parts of the earth with her own dear Jim at her side.“Yes, well,” began Kathryn dryly, checking herself in the event that any gossip should

spring up in the servants’ quarters.“There,” Sarah announced in satisfaction. “You are ready.”“Thank you, Sarah. I should be back no later than twelve –and, indeed, perhaps earlier,

considering the number of things left to do.” A knock resounded on the doors of Kathryn’s chambers. “Come in.”Francine, looking slightly frazzled, entered with a curtsy. She was not very happy about

Kathryn’s departure and had spent the whole week in a cloud of despair and anxiety, recollecting and relating all the horror stories about drowning and tragic ship accidents she had ever heard. “Miss Kathryn, Mr. Gleason has come to escort you to the party.”

“Has he?” returned Kathryn, masking her surprise. It was too early in the evening, and the party would not officially begin for over half an hour. Nevertheless, she thanked Francine for the information and prepared to meet Randall.

With a tentative smile, Kathryn descended the winding staircase to find Randall at the bottom. He seemed, as ever, unruffled and placid. A genial smile spread across his face when he met her. “As always, you are looking lovely, Kathryn.”

“Thank you.” Kathryn took his offered arm, glancing sideways at him as she did so. He was looking his handsomest in a dark olive overcoat which accented the tints in his eyes and the

richness of his dark hair. Randall, Kathryn thought reflectively, had never failed to attract attention with his fine, distinguished figure.

“I thought we could walk. The weather is fine and beautiful, and it is only a half a mile to the Town Hall. If we start immediately, we can be there on time.”

“A lovely idea! I should be happy to walk,” said Kathryn warmly.They walked out arm-in-arm. For a few moments the only sounds were the merry

chirping of sparrows and the soft pitter-pat of boots and dainty shoe, and Kathryn took the silence as an opportunity to study the scenery about them. June was a beautiful time for greenery in Cambrien. The leaves on the trees were full and sprightly, signaling the beginning of a promising summer. Brazen hollyhocks and shy buttercups dotted the avenue while wild tendrils of morning glories, curled around lampposts here and there, hid their violet faces from the world until the sun’s rebirth anew the next morning.

The town of Cambrien, nestled in a quiet nook of English seaside, was small and bustling with everything for which a well-off area could wish. A hundred little insignificant happenings at balls and dinners and everyday life occupied the chief of Cambrien’s wagging tongues. They did not care for anybody or anything outside of England; everything was all well and good, in its place, but the world would turn round and round without much ado… And if England was England and Cambrien remained relatively unchanged, nothing else mattered in the least.

Kathryn and Randall had, by this time, reached the Town Hall. There had been no more conversation between the two, but the atmosphere surrounding the quietude was not cool or hostile. Randall often preferred silence, and Kathryn had too many reflections to wish to break it. They entered the hall and found that most of the guests (though Kathryn neither knew nor particularly cared who had been invited) had not yet arrived.

Disengaging herself from Randall’s arm with a vague excuse to obtain a glass of something, Kathryn walked in the direction of the punch bowl. The stationed servant poured her a crystal glass, and she stood, mesmerized by the effect of the light playing on the scarlet liquid.

Kathryn was unconscious of the attention from curious eyes which had before been less agreeably employed. She made a lovely view, a sweetly pensive expression adorning her face and a slender figure adding grace to her movements. Wearing a beautiful green, she matched the young leaves adorning the branches. The skirts of the gown were covered in a golden transparent mesh which was intended to offset the necklace at her throat as well as a certain sheen in her hair. Her curls, now imprisoned in coils, were a deep but rich auburn with golden hints that shone in the sunlight. Such brilliance might have overpowered her face were it not for her singularly expressive eyes, amber in color, and a fair and unblemished complexion which, to someone of particular discernment, was liable to give away exactly what she felt. She was undoubtedly very lovely, and whereas greater beauties had been forgotten after the initial and usually unconscious verdict, few could forget Kathryn.

All this was seen, and comprehended, and admired in an instant, for the observer had a good deal of shrewdness, if he chose, and the moment Kathryn stood slightly frowning into the depths of her punch glass, he had been watching her thoughtfully as if in a trance…

“Miss Williamson, don’t you know how to say ‘haloo’ to a friend?” Mr. Gleason called from several feet away. Kathryn, who had been drowning in the sea just then and tragically but triumphantly noting Randall’s infinite despair as he gazed longingly after what he had lost (she had, after all, never traveled by the ocean and leaned towards romanticizing any unknown excursion,) glanced up blankly and, for a second, without comprehension.

“I am sorry,” she murmured distractedly, fiddling with her chain. “I was…lost in my thoughts.”

“Well don’t get too lost; this is a party, and dinner’s half an hour away with dancing and socializing to follow. One doesn’t have time for thinking, dear, what a preposterous idea!” Mr. Gleason said merrily. “Oh, Miss Williamson, I would like you to meet someone.” He took her elbow. “Over here –wait, put down your punch, there will be time later, there’s a good girl –now I have a duty to do you and Randall… who seems to have disappeared; where is that confounded brother of mine? He was just here…” This was all said in rapid succession and not very intelligibly. “Ah, well, they’ll know each other by and by.”

“Mr. Gleason,” Kathryn stated firmly, stopping, for until that point she had been fairly dragged by his energy. “I beg of you, please explain who this person is, and what he has to do with Randall or me, and why we are being introduced.”

Mr. Gleason gave her a look that he might have given an unusually slow-witted child. Miss Williamson, dear, you will understand in time, I promise! In fact –now– ho there, Harrington, my man; a second of your time over here!”

Kathryn immediately became embarrassed. She hissed hurriedly to the perpetrator, “What can you possibly be thinking-?” But, seeing the man conclude his former conversation and step towards them, she composed herself. Had not she heard the name “Harrington” before?

“Harrington, aha, here you are! You won’t mind if we take a few minutes of your time, will you?” Mr. Gleason shook him warmly by the hand. He gestured to Kathryn. “Miss Kathryn Williamson here is my fellow graduate this year and quite the intellectual. She was the top of her class, you know, (despite all that foolish rigmarole they say about not giving women diplomas.) My brother was quite proud of her. But oh! you haven’t met him yet.”

(Mr. David Harrington… the one who will join us in our travels to America.) Kathryn grew irritated by his boisterous praise. “Mr. Gleason, please,” she said in mild reproof, lowering her eyes. Academic accomplishments were generally not looked upon with favor when achieved by the “gentler sex,” and Randall would have disliked what had been said immensely.

“And Mr. Harrington here, my good friend, though he is a Cambridge man himself, is still fresh from graduating last year… and he, too, was at the top.” Mr. Gleason beamed, oblivious to the distress he was causing.

Kathryn felt a kindred spirit in Mr. Harrington when he reddened in frustration at the statement. He recovered beautifully, however, and said, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Williamson.”

“Likewise, Mr. Harrington.” The smile that danced across her lips was gone in a flash, quick yet illuminating her face

with the brilliance of an elusive ray of sun. The remnants of it hung about the dimples in her cheek. Its brilliancy affected Mr. Harrington peculiarly, and he believed he had never seen anything quite like it.

“Well, now that we are all friends and everything’s perfect and peachy, I need to help Mrs. Gleason with the dinner preparations and greeting guests, hunting down my brother in the process, so why don’t you two –um– chat and get to know each other a bit?” said Mr. Gleason. He bowed –a comical sight, as he had intended– and “harrumphed” away.

“Shall we?” inquired Mr. Harrington, motioning to a lounge area. “Dinner is not so very soon that it would be a fruitless endeavor, and we will see each other frequently beginning tomorrow.”

Kathryn glanced at the doors. A steady stream of people had trickled in, but thus far no one she knew, could pretend to know, or would even wish to avoid. She assented.

They sat, and Kathryn had a few seconds to appraise Mr. Harrington quietly. He was a tall man; well-built, and handsome in a quiet, unpretentious way. His wavy hair was a very light brown and short; his eyes the grey-blue of a far-away mountain shrouded in mist, keen and intelligent in their gaze. Altogether his air was that of a well-bred and educated gentleman.

Having not the slightest inclination for talking with someone she had just met –even such a pleasant and well-looking man as Mr. Harrington appeared to be- Kathryn contented herself with observing the interior of the Town Hall.

The chief of the hall was made of solid stone, fondly worn away by decades of weather and use. It had originally been the estate of some long ago Significant Sir whose vast wealth and importance had made Cambrien an elite village, though its size was not large nor its members of Parliament excessive. The majority of non-private parties and social events were held in the ballroom, or what had been the ballroom. Its hugeness made it ideal for relaxation, dinner, dancing, and casual conversation. The architecture was nearly medieval; its stone walls grey and almost ominous were it not for the soft pastel accents of the china, cutlery, platters, and lacy table coverings. All of the furniture, too, was strictly Victorian, the tastes of its ruler permeating all the corners of every English town.

It was almost laughable, then, that the vaulted ceiling should be painted shockingly with round, beaming, scantily clad cherubs playing on the lyre and harp. They flew through an azure sky and jetted around merry white clouds. If it had been any other ceiling in any other place, it would hardly have been deemed appropriate or English. But the Town Hall, in its name and even more in its existence, was ancient and its few flaws perfectly allowable –the hall was, some said, even the better for them.

“May I ask you a question?”The sound of Mr. Harrington’s voice startled Kathryn. She had, for a few moments,

forgotten his presence. “Oh –yes, of course.”“Why did you agree on this trip to the United States?” His tone was curious and pleasant,

though frank.“Well, I…” Kathryn colored. She had been explaining her reasons to herself all week and

hardly found them adequate. It was doubtful that Mr. Harrington would understand, as she herself did not. But Kathryn despised deliberate dishonesty, especially in herself, and she did not avoid answering him. “I –I needed a change after graduating.” She lifted her chin defensively.

“Mr. Gleason said that you were told the trip was taking place just a few weeks ago.”“This is true.” Kathryn silently condemned Mr. Gleason for his tongue. “My fiancé, Mr.

Gleason’s twin brother, chose not to inform me until then.”“And his reasons for doing so?” Mr. Harrington pressed.“He felt it would be beneficial to me if I did not know about it. He thought –he thought

that perhaps I might not have wanted to go if I had had time to contemplate it,” Kathryn said, trying and failing to appear as if she understood the reasonableness of Randall’s decision.

Mr. Harrington saw, and understood what he saw. He had been tiptoeing on delicate ground and sent an apologetic look. “This is a very strange scheme of Mr. Gleason’s –even for him. I would not have blamed you if you regarded the whole thing as ridiculous and flatly refused to go… I travel frequently as it is, and the company of friends is better than solitude,” he added in response to her questioning look.

“I have never traveled, except to the heathery highlands of Scotland, and that many years ago.”

“Roy told me that also.”Kathryn raised an eyebrow. “What else has Mr. Gleason told you about me? Some of it

may be incorrect, and I can right you.” Her eyes were twinkling now.“I would not wish to betray a trust…” he began lightly, a gleam also in his eyes.

“However, much that Mr. Gleason tells the world is common knowledge that you have doubtless heard…. Such as,” he hastily went on, grinning at her petulant impatience, “that you are extremely intelligent and witty besides. You have a captivating way of delicacy and decorum which generally offends nobody, and, sometimes,” he emphasized the word, “you can have quite a temper.”

(Mr. Gleason told him that?) Aloud, she said, “Mr. Gleason often does and says things he should not –it irritates or amuses me –and as for the others, he also exaggerates.”

“Surely not,” Mr. Harrington answered seriously.Confused at his gallantry and unused to the practice of it upon herself, Kathryn said

playfully, “And what about you? I had not heard your name mentioned once –indeed, I think, not at all until I first heard about this.”

“That is a shame. I would very much hope that, in the future, we may become better acquainted, and that you will know the person attached to the name.”

Before Kathryn could reply, a voice said behind them, “I believe it is time for dinner.” It was Randall.

“Oh, yes of course.” Kathryn stood. “I hadn’t realized…” She trailed off, remembering then that the two men had not yet met. “Mr. Harrington, this is Mr. Randall Gleason, Mr. Gleason’s brother and my betrothed. Randall, this is Mr. David Harrington. As I understand, he will be going to America with us.”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, I am sure.” Randall shook hands with the taller man, his tone cold.

“The pleasure is all mine. I shall be happy to further our acquaintance in the coming weeks,” Mr. Harrington returned with more animation. He bowed slightly.

Watching them closely, Kathryn thought that something else was happening, an undercurrent, of which she was not fully aware. Each man seemed to be measuring the other up –idiotically, she thought –for what had they to compete? But then perhaps it was just masculine pride that had banished the jovial glint in Mr. Harrington’s eyes, replacing it with an even stare deep, thoughtful, and penetrating. Randall’s reciprocal gaze was one of contention and frosty dislike.

It all happened, and was over, so quickly that it was almost as if it had never occurred; but Kathryn noticed the dislike still lingering with Randall, though Mr. Harrington’s manner of address instantaneously reverted to its former geniality.

Mr. Gleason chose this inopportune (as were most of his entrances) time to trot up, suggesting that they all sit at one table. This was met by strong opposition. Kathryn wanted to mingle with various townspeople, Randall was adamant in his assent, and Mr. Harrington merely desired to be accommodating.

After declaring in the most tragic tones that friends were scarce indeed and that he would be miserable until the day of his death, Mr. Gleason joined his wife and her female companions at their table. A few minutes’ observation of him later convinced Kathryn that he was not too much affected when abandoned to such company.

“Kathryn,” Randall said impatiently. “Are we going to sit down for dinner?”“We had better,” Kathryn said, suddenly tired. She turned to Mr. Harrington. “I suppose I

will see you later tonight.”“Oh, yes, I will be somewhere hereabouts –might I secure you for a dance when all your

social obligations have been fulfilled?”“Perhaps,” Kathryn smiled as Randall, shifting from one foot to another, showed clear

indications of wishing to leave. They walked away, choosing a table where some of the most notorious gossips sat chatting excitedly, among them being Ms. Anders and Mrs. Frawley. The women immediately hushed each other on their approaching.

“Good evening,” said Kathryn with these thoughts in mind as she sat down.There was a cacophony greetings from the various females. “Oh, Miss Williamson dear,

we are so excessively worried for you!” Mrs. Frawley cried out. “The closer your trip comes, the more imprudent it seems.”

“Why imprudent?” Randall asked abruptly. Public opinion was important to him, and though indeed he was not overly fond of “useless” social events, he cared deeply about what Society itself said.

Ms. Anders piped in, “Well, after so much studying for the university, she must be so fatigued, and traveling is not for the faint of heart. A bird is safest in its nest, you know.”

Kathryn did know. She glanced at Randall, whose demeanor remained mild. “Mr. Gleason suggested I take the trip because of my studies and before our wedding.” The mention of weddings always softened the hearts of elderly ladies.

“Oh, of course, dear.” Mrs. Frawley smiled gently. “I remember my own very well. Such a handsome pair we were, in those days! None of the new-fangled fashions of nowadays, however, though you dress very respectably for a young lady and I am sure will make an admirable bride –make sure to get your dress made here –do you have it yet? and not in some high-flown shop in Paris! That wouldn’t do at all. But above all, before the wedding, you must rest consistently, my dear. I don’t understand why anyone would want to make such a dangerous journey abroad with such a future ahead of you.”

Randall straightened in his chair. “Kathryn needed change,” said he stiffly.Mrs. Frawley could see Randall growing frustrated beneath his politeness and kindly

entered into another topic of interest. The story of an unusual funeral, related to Mrs. Frawley by a very reputable source (her second cousin’s sister-in-law) soon completely captivated the other ladies, and they became oblivious to Kathryn and Randall.

“Malicious old hags,” Randall whispered in Kathryn’s ear.“Randall!” Kathryn said reprovingly, trying not to smile. “They mean no harm –they’re

merely curious, and they do have some right to be concerned about my health. I suppose I have looked a bit peaked these last few days, though that can hardly be surprising, considering all that needed to be done.”

“But why should they care whether you go to America or not? Can’t you do as you please?”

Kathryn frowned. He was not sounding like himself, but of course he did not like parties or interrogations from old and inquisitive females. “Randall, you knew they would say something about it, you must have known. I do not mind them in the least. In fact, I rather like them, and their concern for me is something for which to be thankful.”

“Kathryn,” Randall was interrupted by the entrance of the soup. He resigned himself. “Perhaps there is truth in what you say.”

His earlier question burnt into Kathryn’s mind. Yes, she thought, can’t I do as I please without your interference? I don’t mind advice or caution –but in moderation. She knew Randall’s motives were honorable ones. Sometimes, however, she wished they manifested in different ways.

The ladies were yet discussing the details of that most peculiar service over the entrée. Kathryn was content to listen to the cadences of their chatter. Tonight, she reasoned, is not the time to be angry with Randall. Or any time, for that matter, if we are to be married in a few months’ time. She glanced about the room. For a moment, her gaze rested on Mr. Harrington, who seemed to be looking at her as well. Realizing this, Kathryn blushed deeply and busied herself with her dinner. She resolutely kept to this task all the way through the raspberry tart.

***While everyone was still talking and laughing and exclaiming over the excellence of the

arrangements, Mr. Gleason made his way to the front of the room. He cleared his throat, capturing no one’s attention except, perhaps, Kathryn’s. After observing the uselessness of this practice, Mr. Gleason clapped his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “ladies and gentlemen, please.” At last the hall fell silent. “Thank you. Now, I hope you all enjoyed the dinner?” Everyone seemed to be in agreement that they had, very much, enjoyed the dinner. “Ah, good, good. Don’t worry; I won’t be making any long dull speeches or anything of the sort. I just wanted to say that the musicians are warming up now for a few waltzes, which will begin in twenty minutes or so.”

The doors of the hall, creaking open slowly, interrupted him. In sailed a pair of well-dressed, aristocratic people. The man was tall, thin, and silent, with spectacles magnifying the reserve in his eyes. The woman was petite and aloof, her hard blue eyes cold in a steely gaze that, after sweeping over the assembled company and making a judgment instantly, landed on Kathryn.

Kathryn froze. It was her aunt and uncle. (What are they doing here? How have they heard?) She glimpsed Mr. Gleason’s face and knew that he had invited them, probably more as matter of courtesy than anything else.

Slowly, Kathryn rose to greet them as she knew was her duty. Plastering a smile on her face, she held out her hands to her aunt. “Aunt! I am happy to see you.”

Her aunt took Kathryn’s hands, pressing lightly with an icy touch. “And I, you.” She smiled, but the smile was such that belied her words. “I am so sorry we are late. Our driver had a slight cough and could not be prevailed upon to make the journey. We had to find another. You can imagine how inconvenient it was and how distressed we were.”

“Naturally,” Kathryn murmured sympathetically. “I understand completely.” She moved on to her uncle, who wore a sheepish expression. “Uncle Charles.”

He grasped her hand warmly. “Kathryn, my dear, how are you?”“Never better, Uncle.” Her tone held more animation, though it lacked sincerity. Charles

Williamson had always held her affection because of his kind-hearted nature. But he was afraid of his wife, so afraid that he had never gained the courage to speak for his niece openly when he thought the hand of discipline too stifling. Kathryn almost hated this fear more than her aunt’s distance and commanding rule of the household.

“I don’t mean to interfere, my dear,” said Mrs. Williamson, “but I do think that this is an abominable idea of yours, scampering about the world with just a few friends. One does not do this sort of thing on a whim. You know the only reason that we approve of this trip in the least is because it will allow you to meet some of Mr. Gleason’s relatives. Oh, I’ve no doubt that he’ll

take care of you. But I thought we should have raised you better and with more sense than to choose to go to America, willy-nilly. But you are your mother’s daughter.”

“Yes,” said Kathryn, her voice constricted, “I am indeed my mother’s daughter.”Mrs. Williamson looked as if she took this admission as an affront but said carelessly,

“Yes, well –it has been simply lovely chatting with you. But we really must talk with the rest of Cambrien, dear. It has been too long since we visited.”

“It has been long. And you are both in luck, for the socializing has just begun. You must want something to eat, so be sure and ask the servants. There, surely, is more than enough dinner left. It would be no inconvenience.”

Mr. Williamson looked as if he liked the idea, but his wife silenced him. “Neither of us is hungry, thank you. And we won’t be here but a few minutes.” And with that she swept past Kathryn, taking her husband with her.

Kathryn stood, unable to move, and wishing that she could run out of the hall for a few moments of quiet. But how could she possibly convince anyone that she would be all right on the trip to America if she cowed at her aunt’s coldness?

As a sensitive child, every harsh word, every unkind sentence uttered in the household of her aunt had pricked her afresh and haunted moments which should have been happy. Ah, well. What is the old saying –grin and bear it? I cannot grin, but I will bear it. Kathryn sighed and moved to the seat where, before, she and Mr. Harrington had first conversed. That had seemed to be the least bleak part of the evening.

After sitting a few minutes in self-pity, trying to appear outwardly calm, composed, and happily unaffected, Kathryn turned to see if she might catch a glimpse of Randall so that he would come and sit with her. She should not have. He was glibly chatting with her aunt and uncle.

Kathryn went back to staring at the golden tassels of a throw cushion. Perhaps by the time she had counted every single strand Randall would have remembered her existence and might even condescend to…

“You look dreadful.” It was a matter-of-fact statement without sarcasm or malice. David Harrington sat down across from her, sympathy suffusing his features.

Kathryn shot him a wry smile. “Thank you. But do I really?” “Well, not inherently, no. You –er– actually look quite lovely as far as that goes… I am

sorry; my mother always says I am far too candid. Perhaps I ought to have stuck with ‘dreadful,’ but I believe in forthright honesty. You do seem as if you could do with some cheering up, though.” He cleared his throat. “And those good people, I hear, are your aunt and uncle.”

“Yes, they are. And don’t apologize, please. Candidness is –refreshing. But –how did you know of my aunt and uncle?”

“Ah, I have my ways.” Mr. Harrington’s eyes twinkled. “Actually, I love endearing females who have long since passed the age to possess any desire but that of talk –and then about anything and everything. They are the real philosophers of the world. What did Locke or Descartes or any other old fools, even the older ones, Plato and Socrates and Cicero and their lot, know in comparison to a single female who relishes nothing but the observation of others?”

A stronger laugh escaped Kathryn at this denouncement of some of the finest minds in history. “I suppose you mean Mrs. Frawley and Ms. Anders and all the rest?”

“Oh, the very same!” Mr. Harrington nodded. “Small-town ladies are the best, of course, as human nature usually translates universally even if one is an observer who has never traveled.”

“That sounds logical. Perhaps –I could imagine it to be so,” she mused equivocally. “Well, you do read, don’t you?” Mr. Harrington asked with convincing solemnity.Kathryn, seeing his device, could not get offended. She instead gave him a grave smile

and said, “Tolerably well, I have been told.”“There you have it, then –all literature points to human nature.”“But every author studied a different specimen,” Kathryn countered. “Heroes are often

radically dissimilar –look at Romeo and –hmm– the celebrated Mr. Darcy of Miss Austen’s fancy. Their characters and actions are very unlike.”

“Ah, yes –but their motivations are similar, ones of love. Darcy overcomes social prejudices because of his love, and Romeo –well, poor, lovesick Romeo commits suicide, for the same reason.”

“But the actions that spring from the motivation are entirely differing in nature and sense; and it is the action which makes the most impression. Mr. Darcy gained a happy life with the woman he loved; Romeo was dead and buried in a cold, loveless grave.” Kathryn spoke scornfully.

“You do not seem overly fond of Shakespeare. You have dismissed perhaps the greatest writer of the sixteenth century within a few short sentences.” A flicker of a smile passed over Mr. Harrington’s face.

“Oh, I didn’t mean that. I am fond of Shakespeare, at times, and see him rather as a good chronicler of bad fictional events rather than a man without sense. Some of his comedies I consider excellent, and I do like Julius Caesar though it frustrates one the entire way through; but Romeo and Juliet really is intolerable.”

“And why is that? Some would argue it is the greatest love story of all time –and I am sure Shakespeare himself thought so as he penned those last words –‘For never was a story of more woe than this of Juliet and her Romeo’ and indeed I am inclined to agree with him –as to the woe, I think. Why, I must have not had two cheerful thoughts together for days afterward.”

Kathryn snorted almost disdainfully. “I pity your suffering, but I have heard the same said and cannot believe it. When true love has been proved to have been founded on a melodramatic young couple, more concerned with utterances of passion and so-called ‘dangerous’ obstacles to a union than with the practical sense of the matter, then I will take back my claim. But if Romeo had only waited –or if he had realized that life was not so very unbearable without Juliet, and Rosalie might have re-entered his consciousness-” Kathryn stopped, flushing. “Well –it is but a story.”

“No, do not pause. I am thoroughly enjoying this. Though this part about Rosalie –are you contesting that there is no such thing as true love?” Mr. Harrington leaned forward in his seat eagerly.

“Of course not!” Kathryn cried in reproach, as if she would be the last person in the world to suggest such blasphemy. “But it can be found again, or re-found, or it couldn’t have been true love at all in the first place. And it is rather comical, you must admit, that Juliet so surpassed Rosalie in every respect, utterly eclipsing her when but a few moments before Romeo wondered if anything was ‘half as fair’ as his Rosalie.”

“Your real argument, then, is that behaviors shape character –in general– regardless of motivation, although motivation does play a part.”

“Well- exactly.” Kathryn gave him a quizzical look, unsure as to why he thought it necessary to sum her position up so neatly.

“Then –I am in perfect agreement with you.”

“You are?” She stared at him in bewilderment. “Then why were you-““Arguing?” Mr. Harrington finished. “I like playing the advocate of the devil, and never

have I had so fair or intelligent a sparring partner.”“And I have never met a man so intent on complimenting a lady. It astonishes me to a

great degree,” Kathryn returned hotly.“Have I been too candid again?” Mr. Harrington’s tone held a ring of anxiety. “Or is the

lady unused to it from he who holds her heart?”“I cannot pretend to deny it.”“And why is that?” Mr. Harrington was all sincerity.“Mr. Gleason’s personality is such that he conveys his affection in… other ways than

mere words.”“How does he show his affection for you, then? In refusing to tell you of a singularly

important journey across the sea, one which would alter most of your plans for the summer and, being unknown to you for so long, would have caused more pleasure than pain?”

“Actually, yes.” Kathryn took on an injured air. “His affection channels differently, that is all. I myself do not understand it, but I have a lifetime to do so, do I not?”

“You do indeed,” he said quietly. “Forgive me. My mother, assuredly, would be most heartily ashamed.”

Kathryn smiled; she found she could not be cross with Mr. Harrington long.

Chapter Four- Reflections, Early Assumptions, and Ponderings

The rest of the evening, following three dances with Randall and one with Mr. Harrington as he had promised, passed pleasantly enough.

After dancing with Mr. Harrington, she saw no more of him –and was glad of it. Kathryn had already spent too much time talking with him; and, finding her spirits greatly improved by his conversation, could only logically come to the conclusion that it was not the wisest of decisions.

Mr. and Mrs. Williamson left early –as they explained, they simply had to go as to be sufficiently rested– and without too many comments that Kathryn considered injurious. She had been in a better temper and was able to bear them with something approaching indifference.

It was nearly half past ten when Randall and Kathryn reached Worthing, having left early with the very valid excuse that there were preparations yet to be accomplished. A velvety twilight had encompassed the world. Everything was still and quiet; Cambrien peasants –and even the animals– had retired for the night.

“Randall?” Kathryn asked as they prepared to bid each other good evening.“Yes, Kathryn?”“How was your evening?” She added –silently– that she had not seen a great deal of him.Randall smiled, looking tired. Kathryn pitied him for it. He really did not enjoy busy

social engagements. “It was nothing special. Not too bad, overall, I think –perhaps not a wasted evening, as I thought it might have been. What about yours?”

Kathryn frowned, remembering conversations and dances and food and people. “I think I had a good night.”

They were both very exhausted, and this mutual exhaustion brought about a strange sense of togetherness –as if each was sharing the other’s burden. Randall took Kathryn’s hand and patted it. “I am glad you were happy,” he said softly.

The rumble of carriage wheels broke the spell, and Randall and Kathryn stood back again, separate. The carriage stopped, and Mr. Gleason poked his head out. “Would you like a lift, brother dearest?”

“Thank you, I would have walked otherwise,” Randall replied. He turned back to Kathryn. “Well –we will see each other soon, before we are off to America, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Kathryn nodded. A cloud of sadness descended on her. He had returned to his former self; crisp and efficient and immovable. “Good night, Randall.”

“Good night, Kathryn.” Randall stepped inside his waiting carriage.She watched them drive off until the hoof-beats and the rattle gradually faded. Looking

up at the sky, Kathryn noticed the stars. They were very ordinary stars, as far as stars go, but Kathryn wondered about them. She wondered if the same stars could be shining over America, or if the moon –her beloved English moon, just a thin luminescent sliver now– would show the same face such a long way away.

Sighing deeply, Kathryn walked up the drive to Worthing’s main entrance, and the doors opened just before she went inside. The servants had been waiting for her –they always did. That was an unspoken command which every truly good servant obeyed; and she, Kathryn reflected appreciatively, had very good servants.

Hilda appeared quite suddenly, her stance and manner as placid as ever but suppressed excitement in her eyes. “Everything is ready for tomorrow, Miss Kathryn. We have all attended to it, so you may go immediately to bed.”

Kathryn gave an involuntary yawn and found that she was blinking slowly and sleepily. “Oh- thank you Hilda. I did forget about the rest of the preparations… I had such a wonderful time.” Only a moment before she had told Randall it had been a good time –but then Randall never liked exaggeration. But was she exaggerating?

“Now, now.” Hilda eyed her critically. “If Saint Peter does not mistake me, and he never really does, my dear, I would say that you are all but done for. I’ll have Sarah run you a nice hot bath and perhaps I can arrange a few treats to be sent up to your chambers as well.”

Kathryn knew she was being coddled and cajoled as might befit a child. She did not mind, however, and mutely followed Hilda upstairs. “He’s such a nice dancer,” she mumbled on the way. “And very –very gentlemanly. Good conversation too. A bit surprising, but excellent company, I should think.”

“And who is this?” Hilda asked, not turning around.“Mr. Harrington,” Kathryn answered automatically, then heard herself say it and quickly

grew silent. All at once her mind was wide awake and telling her what she had previously said. Hilda was no great gossip, thankfully, but there were others –the walls might not have ears, but servants did… and, unlike walls, had ways of being present and invisible. “He was pleasant enough, I suppose.”

“Oh, I see.” Hilda seemed doubtful.Kathryn wanted to say more but did not know how. Mr. Harrington was an intellectual

companion, a man who had the potential to be a friend –just as Mr. Gleason was, just as university men had been. She was not married, after all, and there was surely nothing immoral in enjoying another’s company. It was not reasonable to wish to spend every single moment at Randall’s side. Was it?

***

After taking her bath, instead of reverting to her former state of semi-consciousness, Kathryn could scarce stand still. When Francine entered with hot scones and warm milk, Kathryn accepted them but sat down just to get up again.

She paced her floors noiselessly, contemplating and assessing the evening and its possible outcomes. All the Cambrien gossips would whisper about the trip to America –no doubt they already were –but Kathryn knew without any sort of vanity that they liked her too much for this one “indiscretion” to have any lasting effect. Besides, Kathryn would come back virtually unchanged. She would continue, occasionally, to attend dinner parties, take long walks, play the piano, invite people for tea, and pretend to run Worthing… but in November, she would be married…

Kathryn halted. Marriage? Was she ready for marriage? For Randall to be a frequent companion, always at her elbow, always near? And what about her privacy? Kathryn glanced around the room lovingly –at the pale blue walls, the polished wood floors, the mellow paintings of regal queens and careless flowers and beguiling landscapes, the golden velvet chairs and lounging sofa, the grand bedspread with its lilies, leaves, and interwoven designs…

Would Randall appreciate the room and its little beauties? Was she willing to share it with him if he did not? And what if Randall did not like it at all but wanted her to move to a separate room? He was already giving up his own estate for Worthing (though it was no great sacrifice; its position was inconvenient at its best and encumbered with a number of additions and improvements which needed to be made; and by law, too, it was his brother’s, and Mr. Gleason was the type of person to be ambitious for additions, improvements, extensions, and such.)

Kathryn shook her head and suddenly felt very tired. Those thoughts were not healthy –and perhaps even illogical, considering the lateness of the hour of their inception. She stopped pacing and slipped under the soft sheets. All of the week’s preparations and that night’s busyness came upon her at once with fatiguing strength. Within a few minutes she was sound asleep.

Chapter Five- The Lucania

Kathryn, looking up at the ship towering above her, was feeling positively cowed. Its graceful curves, sleek and daunting black red livery (making it instantly recognizable as one of the line of elite Cunard “speed queens,”) seemed to tell Kathryn of her own inferiority –taunting her with the greatness of such a goddess. The RMS Lucania, as Kathryn understood from what little she had read, was the fastest and grandest passenger ship ever to sail the seas. Knowing nothing of oceans or knots (which she had only just learnt from her library meant something other than “difficult to untangle”) or, indeed, anything related to that subject, Kathryn found that the mystery of the giant vessel completely overcame her courage. She made a tentative comment to Hilda, beside her, about the Lucania’s largeness.

Hilda passed the ship’s size off with obviously affected familiarity. “Humph!” She muttered. “And for my Miss Kathryn, a better one should be in order. These boats are all the same –very shoddy-looking, if you ask me.” Kathryn could not contest such utter contempt, and humbly, silently apologized to the great beast before them for the other’s heretical words.

Kathryn and Hilda were alone on the docks, save for a few handfuls of other passengers. They had come one hour early for boarding, and fifteen minutes early for the scheduled time everyone was to meet. Kathryn’s luggage was already stored in her room according to one of the crew hands. All that remained to do was wait.

Perhaps, if my mind is occupied… Kathryn casually glanced at the other passengers already present. One of her greatest amusements was the observation of persons unknown to her, spinning highly romantic and wildly improbable stories from every gesture and expression. A tall, bejeweled, gibbering lady was talking rapidly in low tones in her husband’s ear. The lady might have been thirty or forty –but her face was so heavily made up it was hard to conjecture accurately. Still, she was handsome nonetheless, and might have been handsome without the rouge –and her husband seemed devoted. Obviously American. Were they traveling back home –or perhaps just for a visit to relatives? Wealthy Americans so often traveled abroad, and for some reason, England –with its chill winds, biting rain, and reticent people– seemed to hold for them an irresistible attraction.

Their story more or less completed, Kathryn contemplated another pair. A young woman, perhaps Kathryn’s own age or a little younger, conversed occasionally with what was obviously her maid, a foolish and plain-looking woman with devoted brown eyes and a submissive air. The young woman, as she turned to smile at the other whose eyes followed her every move with an almost repugnant, dog-like hunger, was very pretty, in a conventional way, with glossy golden curls and demure blue eyes –the sort of girl one met in every respectable area. Dressed discreetly but expensively, the young woman seemed wealthy and distinguished. What did she have to gain by a trip to America? Pleasure? Escape?

As Kathryn’s gaze rested on the next cluster of people, she smiled. It was a young family –both husband and wife no more than six or seven and twenty. A prim lady of about three years stood holding her father’s hand while her rosy-cheeked sister had fallen asleep in her mother’s arms. It was a lovely picture, and the husband and wife looked at each other so adoringly; occasionally they exchanged words, sometimes including the little lady clinging to her father. It was so lovely that Kathryn began to experience a new sensation –that she, herself, needed that more than even all the glory which Worthing could afford…

“Aren’t they beautiful?”The voice of David Harrington startled Kathryn once again. (Must he always appear so

suddenly?) She said, “Yes, indeed, very beautiful.” “A proper English family,” Mr. Harrington continued, his hands behind his back

thoughtfully. “Quiet –well-off –children behaving as they should –husband and wife seem content with each other.”

“Yes,” Kathryn agreed. She was silent a few moments, choosing whether or not to voice her thoughts. “To own the truth, I- I envy them.”

“Do you?” Mr. Harrington looked at her closely.She said again, “Yes. You see, I live in a beautiful house with beautiful gardens and

grounds and everything I could ever wish for… the world is practically at my fingertips, but it –it isn’t enough, somehow. I suppose there is only so much warmth one can glean from a rosebush or a book or a piano.”

“I would suppose so –rosebushes have thorns and books cause paper-cuts and bad eyesight and pianos can overtire your hands. And what about Mr. Gleason?”

Kathryn blushed. Embarrassingly, she had forgotten about him. “Ye-es.” She paused, not knowing how to continue further with that dubious affirmation, and dropped the subject of Randall entirely. “And I know we should find all fulfillment in the Lord, and at times I do, but-”

“It can be hard,” Mr. Harrington finished for her. “Walking with Him is never altogether easy, and oftentimes extremely difficult. But it is the most rewarding and, truly, fulfilling thing I have ever experienced and ever will.”

Kathryn smiled. “Have you considered the church as a profession?”“Yes, I have, actually. But being a gentleman, an estate owner, and the only son, business

affairs would prevent me from carrying out my duties as I should. And a shepherd leading sheep comes with great responsibility.”

“I would imagine so.”“Besides,” Mr. Harrington broke into an impish grin, “my mother would undoubtedly

have disowned me or something of the sort. She vowed her son would never be a clergyman only for the reason that her father had been the best of them, and if I did not live up to his legacy –or if I exceeded him– that would naturally be upsetting to her.”

“Your mother sounds fascinating. I would like to meet her,” Kathryn said without thinking.

“Yes, I think you two would get along –for aside from that, she is the happiest, most genial, most hospitable and darling creature you will ever meet.”

“And you are her devoted son?”“From afar, I suppose.” Mr. Harrington laughed easily. “She has my two sisters and

father to keep her company –until my sisters marry, at least.” He glanced at the young family again. “Yet there is something enviable in a picture like that,” he said gently. “One could almost call it –Domestic Fidelia, like something that ought to be hanging in the Louvre.”

“I wish-” Kathryn started.“Oh-ho! And we were sure we would be earliest here, weren’t we, darling?” exclaimed

Mr. Gleason merrily to his wife, who was resplendently bedecked in finery hardly suitable for traveling, as they appeared and approached the others.

Adelaide giggled. “Yes indeed, Mr. Gleason, our carriage drove ever so fast just to be here before everyone else, and it is all for naught!” She drew Kathryn’s arm through her own briefly. “Are you not excited about the whole affair, dearest? I’m in raptures over it!”

Kathryn noticed Mr. Harrington watching her. “Well, I cannot really say, for I have never-”

“Oh you dear, you must be! And Mr. Harrington, you sly creature! You like being early too!”

“Yes, Madam.” Mr. Harrington bowed formally. He seemed to be valiantly suppressing a smile. (I wonder what he is really thinking… perhaps, “Oh, everyone here is too ridiculous, but I must bear it all for the sake of my poor friend… and why is that Miss Williamson looking so forlorn and wistful about everything, this must be her first time doing anything in the least exciting. They say she’s awfully averse to excursions such as this and she certainly seems so!”)

“Where is Randall? Confound the man!” Mr. Gleason fumed.“Mr. Gleason, you know your own brother. He will be here when he needs to be here,”

Kathryn said sensibly.“And as it is now one-thirty in the afternoon, here I am,” announced Randall behind her.

(Does anyone make an un-theatrical appearance?)“Hullo, Randall, there you are! We were just talking of you –Sir, our luggage if you

please, I’m Mr. Gleason–my wife –my brother– and I see you have taken Mr. Harrington’s. Yes, thank you, my man!”

“Miss Williamson, how are you this morning?” asked Randall kindly.“I am well, I suppose, but I-”

“That’s wonderful, dear! Roy, when do we board the Lucania? I am anxious to get settled in.”

(Oh, it’s “dear this” and “dear that,” but doesn’t he know how I hate the name! It presents the picture of an old, frumpy, dowdy spinster who interests nobody –or, worse, an old, frumpy, dowdy woman with a husband who is nothing but indifferent! And yet if I told him again he would not understand… and we would have another argument, doubtless. One argues over such silly things!)

Mr. Harrington stole a look at Kathryn. For a moment her face betrayed irritation, even hurt, but her composure came back as quickly as it had fled. He glanced again at her, pursing his lips, and resolved later to ask how she was really doing. Her reactions were so poignant and expressive, yet swift; a flash of light in a dark room which illuminates everything as startlingly clear –but only for an instant.

Unaware that Mr. Harrington regarded her with curiosity, Kathryn had been following the unconnected and rather confusing remarks of Mr. Gleason, who was finding the fact that his brother had been anxious about anything at all most extraordinary. She saw that Hilda and Louisa, Adelaide’s companion, were talking as if they had known each other all their lives (and she thought that they might in reality be cousins, for Hilda had mentioned a Louisa as a relative, though there were so many Louisas in domestic service that it was hard to be certain.) Mr. Gleason and Randall continued to talk and Adelaide hung fondly on her husband with no more than a, “Mr. Gleason, darling, you are so clever,” every now and then. Mr. Harrington stood silently –thinking again, and, again, Kathryn wondered what he could be thinking about.

“Miss Williamson, for shame!” crowed Mr. Gleason. “Your mind is already afloat, methinks, and why not? For now we board!”

***“Beautiful, Kathryn,” Hilda said as she inserted a sparkling silver comb into Kathryn’s

upswept hair. It was the evening, nearly time for dinner in the saloon of the Lucania. Kathryn was as comfortably settled into her apartments as she desired. They were spacious and grand –but, Kathryn sighed, cheerless, very cheerless. The finery had no welcoming air; it was the stiff elegance and supremacy of a detached upper class, utterly indifferent, and done up in French and Italian renaissance, the munificence of which quite overpowered her..

The bed-covers were of the softest and most luxurious satin, a deep crimson –all the furniture smart and upholstered in fabric that begged the title of “expensive” –even the lace doilies were in abundance and stitched exquisitely. Kathryn’s eye noted that everything was carefully situated to suit a refined taste; but she mused that it was all just showy extravagance with no undercurrent of warmth.

“Thank you, Hilda,” said Kathryn finally. She surveyed herself dispassionately and briefly touched the diamonds at her throat, which had been her mother’s. Her gaze strayed downward, to the pale lavender gown she wore, and at last to her gloves still tightly clutched in one obstinate hand, and then up again to the reflection in the glass.

I, she thought gloomily, look thoroughly out of sorts. Someone is bound to notice, and I had better practice smiling. She acknowledged Hilda’s assistance with a small but sincere smile. “I do not know what I should do without you, Hilda. You have been wonderful today.” She pulled her gloves on.

“Just looking out for you, Miss Kathryn,” Hilda replied crisply, but the light in her eyes confirmed that she thought her mistress needed her too.

“I expect I will see you later in the evening, then. Mr. Gleason, no doubt, will be waiting for me in the hall.”

“Very good,” Hilda curtsied.Kathryn smiled once more and stepped out. As she had predicted, Randall had stationed

himself heroically a few paces away. His air was laconic and dull until he saw her. “You look very nice, Kathryn.”

Kathryn inclined her head graciously. She could not on any level of veracity say the same for him. His already-pale skin had grown a shade lighter with a vaguely green hue, and his green eyes roved as if in discomfort. Glancing up, Kathryn also noticed that his dark hair –usually combed so severely that not a strand would have dared to move without first asking leave– looked a bit unkempt, even slightly wild. She had an uncharitable urge to laugh, for his whole appearance suggested a mildly pathetic person to be pitied and patronized. But it would have injured him had she laughed –it would injure him to know that she had found his appearance remiss.

So Kathryn said nothing, instead concentrating on the walk to the saloon –which was not far. The constant yet gentle pitching and rolling of the Lucania, though unfamiliar, was not unpleasant. She began to think that travel suited her.

Once they had joined their other three companions, Kathryn saw that Randall was not alone in his sufferings. Mr. Gleason, too, had –according to Adelaide, who regarded it as one large joke for the benefit of everybody else– been moaning for several hours as she played the hovering, anxious wife, concomitantly half-teasing him all the while. Mr. Harrington was in good humor and as vibrant and cordial as ever. He, clearly, was an experienced traveler at sea.

Kathryn became more than a little resentful at this. Though she certainly did not feel in the least bit ill, walking in a decorous manner remained a trial as a result of the occasional heaves the waves thrust at the ship. Though infrequent, they were not so infrequent as to bury all of Kathryn’s fears about looking ridiculous.

Following a relatively silent meal, punctuated only by Mr. Gleason’s pitiable groans and his wife’s quick and not altogether solemn assurances that he would be all right eventually, perhaps–a period of dancing commenced. The food seemed to have done Randall an extraordinary amount of good, for his complexion improved, his humor rebounded, and he even declared that a few waltzes might suit his fancy.

Kathryn, however, could not trust herself to such an exertion; and strangely Randall did not press her. “May I mingle with the other passengers, then, and perhaps find a suitable partner there?” Randall asked. “There is dancing out upon the deck, I believe.”

Though astonished by his request, Kathryn readily assented. “Oh, do not let my reluctance stop you.” It was such an out of character thing for him to do, and ask, that Kathryn could not help but marvel at it. She resolved upon leaving the room, but not before she saw Randall bowing to the blond beauty she had seen that morning -and presumably asking her to dance.

Kathryn knew she ought to feel jealous, or burning with indignation –why couldn’t he find some matronly personage with whom to dance who weighed no less than twenty stone?- but she was surprisingly cool. She had, after all, never been jealously-inclined, and she would not begrudge him for it.

The scene only served to puzzle her.

***

Kathryn was making her way to the railing of the ship, at the outer fringes of the deck, where she supposed there might be the fewest people. All in all her attitude was rather miserable. Her lack of gracefulness had dampened her spirits excessively –she had always been graceful; it was the one point on which her aunt could find no fault– and twice in the past ten minutes had she nearly stumbled.

The third time she tripped, almost immediately, who but Mr. Harrington should be upon her, uttering concernedly, “Miss Williamson –are you well?”

Tears of humiliation stung Kathryn’s eyes along with tears of pain; her ankle had turned a little. “Yes, I believe I am,” she answered, though weakly and unconvincingly.

He permitted himself to guide her elbow with his hand. “Walking is difficult for anyone the first day at sea.”

“Not you,” Kathryn said ruefully.“Yes, not I,” Mr. Harrington chuckled. “But I have been at sea a time and again, and you

are doing commendably already for a beginner.”Kathryn grumbled but was pleased all the same. They had come to the railing at last,

away from the music, and she, quite recovered, could rally her spirits into grim comicalness. “Well, I suppose nothing but my pride is wounded –and perhaps a bit of my self-respect.”

“Ah,” Mr. Harrington recollected himself, “you are not otherwise hurt? Forgive me for not repeating my query earlier.”

“No, I assure you,” Kathryn said, unhappily, “I am not. Though I suppose it was funny to see me trip in such a way.”

“Not at all,” Mr. Harrington responded gravely. “Any respectable lady might have done the same. Though do not imagine I am lumping you with the rest of them. No,” he concluded warmly, as if he was about to say something else. He marveled at his own forwardness.

They stood in a companionable silence for some minutes. Kathryn would scarcely admit to herself that a silence with someone else was nearly always strained, and she was ever feeling the weight of making conversation upon her –a task to which she was often unequal when content to think quietly. But with Mr. Harrington –she could have readily talked, and he as well…and yet the quiet was no enemy, nor did it place any unwanted or oppressive burden on either of their shoulders.

Faint whispers of the music, teased and somewhat fragmented by a wind which blew Mr. Harrington’s trim rakish curls and unpinned a few of Kathryn’s, caused him to stir from his contemplation. ‘Would you care to dance, Miss Williamson?” Mr. Harrington bowed. “There are few about to watch me falter. I can be especially clumsy,” he murmured.

Kathryn blushed –but in the coming apple-green cloak of twilight he could not see. So he had guessed her foolish fears, or at least some of them, when she had declined Randall’s hand. “I thank you for the offer, sir,” she swept him her finest curtsy, “and I accept.” She gazed up at him, her eyes dark with gratefulness and understanding.

“Well, then,” Mr. Harrington cleared his throat, peculiarly shy and strangely affected by her gaze. He put his arm about her waist again, and she on his shoulder. Their hands clasped.

And then they were moving –twirling, really, and floating and spinning and dipping and flying. Kathryn did not –could not– lose her footing in Mr. Harrington’s arms, for her feet scarcely touched the ground. They glided effortlessly and blissfully under the staunch fierce glow of a dying sun, two people, and for it all they could have been two fairies, or wood elves, dancing to the mystical melody of the trees, both wishing that the music would never end…

But end it did –slowly, painfully, and finally with a wistful sigh as it dwindled. They stopped, neither out of breath, yet both gasping for it, and never had two hearts which had before beat with such characteristic ease and steadiness, now pittered and pattered in a wildly erratic frenzy.

Kathryn’s hair had completely unshackled itself from the confines of its pins and ribbons, the wind taunting it and chuckling over Mr. Harrington’s, too, which curled all and about his forehead. She felt the world sway and took an uncertain, undirected step. Mr. Harrington caught her arm to right her.

“Thank you,” she said, the banal words feeling foreign and out of place.“You dance very lovely, Miss Williamson,” said he with a small bow of tribute.“No –no- I fear all the credit is yours. I cannot conceive how I managed to stay upright. I

wonder-” she realized the probable state of her hair, “I wonder if you would escort me back to the saloon.”

“It would be an honor.”“Thank you,” she said again.Their walk back was silent –each a little dazed and unsure –but the quality of the silence

was such that by no means made their stroll unpleasant. Neither could speak, it seemed, for such minutes before had rendered each mute in a dizzying, delightful confusion. Kathryn was the more muddled –she wanted to say something but felt if she did it would sound nonsensical, or jumbled –perhaps because it was jumbled. Mr. Harrington knew more clearly what he could say, and what he ought, and the two were so very different that he remained silent; never before had they conflicted so decidedly.

Just before they entered the saloon, Kathryn stopped and told him, “Oh –please– I will go to my rooms quickly, but do not –you see, I am afraid my hair that is in the most frightful state.” She touched that offended mass lightly.

Mr. Harrington chuckled softly as he shook his head. “No –in fact, I would say it looks rather lovely… if non-conformant to the times.”

“You flatter me,” Kathryn colored, hated herself for it, and began to walk away.“No,” Mr. Harrington’s tone was serious. “I only say what I- what I see.”Kathryn did not answer but slowly made her way back to her chambers. She found Hilda

within. “Why, you should be eating by now!”“I just have.” Hilda looked shocked to see Kathryn. “Let me guide you to a mirror, my

dear.”“Oh,” Kathryn groaned, “I knew I looked awful!”“No, quite the contrary,” Hilda breathed as the two looked together in the glass.Though certainly not appearing as the prim and refined lady who had exited earlier in the

evening, Kathryn did not, as she had thought, look awful. A high, radiant color was in her cheeks, her eyes shone with a strange, foreign, and overpowering light, and her hair was brighter, and though obviously wind-blown, none the worse for it. She looked as a princess from a story might, in coming to the present age on the back of the Wind –or as if a star had fallen from the heavens and taken human form, losing none of its former iridescence.

“Good heavens!” cried she, a little frightened, for she had not immediately recognized herself. Emotion was something she had been trained to discard, as a garment, or hide if she could not let it go. The latter was constantly her practice -for when Kathryn felt, she often felt keenly. She could not give that up without giving up some part of her self, and so she had long ago mastered the art of concealing. But being half-aware of this did not lessen her wonderment

when gazing at a Self in the mirror which gazed back with such intensity, and she could do nothing but sit and stare.

“And might I ask what you were doing, which caused your hair such trouble?” Ever pragmatic, Hilda recovered first.

“I was –I was dancing,” Kathryn said faintly.“And I’ll be blessed by all the saints if Mr. Gleason has ever provoked you so before!

And him looking so awful and green when he fetched you! You must have been whirling and twirling, my dear, and making everyone envious of you. They must have been staring at such a fine looking pair.”

“No.” Kathryn stirred. “There were not many people out. I was –outside –by the railing, I mean, and most of the dancing was concentrated in another area.” All at once she struggled within herself, reluctant to correct Hilda’s mistaken words. What had been, after all, so odd about dancing with Mr. Harrington?

“Well, I’d better do something with your hair, my dear, if you’re to go out again. It’s still too early in the evening for retiring.”

“I could feign sickness?” Kathryn suggested timidly.Hilda snickered. “Now, now, there’s your humor back. Let me just get a comb…”

Kathryn reflected rather miserably that she had not meant to be humorous in the least. “Ah, there it is! Oh, but what have you done with the one in your hair?”

Immediately Kathryn’s hand went up to her head. “Oh,” she moaned. “It must have –fallen out.”

“Oh, and there were diamonds in the comb!” Hilda fretted. “I’ll look for it momentarily, after I’m done.”

“Don’t –please!” Kathryn said in a rush, with eagerness which surprised them both. “It’s my fault, you know, only mine and I will look myself.”

“As you say, then.” Hilda said. She finished Kathryn’s hair quickly, and with an inordinate number of pins. “If you do any more whirling and twirling, Miss Kathryn dear, I think your hair will be quite safe.”

Kathryn did not intend to do any more whirling and twirling, but said nothing. She looked back in the mirror. Her face had lost none of its brilliance despite her re-bound hair. (What in heaven’s name is wrong with me? I must be going mad –or seasick perhaps, though I don’t feel in the least ill. I’ve never been so flushed before nor looked so-so-) Kathryn could find no adequate word –but then, perhaps she did not want to.

Chapter Seven- Enter, Mrs. Farrow

Kathryn had stationed herself by the railing of the ship once again. She made a casual survey of the floor but saw nothing. One of the dancers had perhaps picked it up, or –worse– unknowingly sent it overboard. At any rate her comb had disappeared. Berating her own foolishness, Kathryn turned abruptly –and ran into someone.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I was not- Miss Williamson?” David Harrington asked in bewilderment.

“Mr. Harrington,” Kathryn said flatly, astonished. Her cheeks flamed, and she knew they burned brighter than even before –and she also knew, with grim certainty, that the dusky light which softened the sharp angles of the ship and cast silver wavering shadows upon the deck, could not disguise it. She looked him full in the face.

She should not have. In his eyes and countenance- showed all that had been –was– on hers, a reflection so perfect and powerful in its similarity, as if he had awakened to the sun for the very first time and could not comprehend what he saw.

And he saw the very same in her. His next words sounded provincial and foolish in his ears. “I believe –I believe I have your comb…” –and produced it.

“Why –yes, however did you-?” (Find it? Have it? Know it was mine?) Each seemed so fruitless an ending to the question that she left it at that.

Mr. Harrington had the manners to look –and feel– embarrassed and beyond all power of rational explanation; though what he said was rational enough in itself. “I –er– noticed you wearing it earlier –the glint of the –diamonds, I think?, my mother says I’m terrible with jewels and I expect she’s right- caught my –er eye, and later… well, you didn’t have it in. In your hair, I mean. I only realized this until after I left you, or I would have, certainly, told you before.”

“Yes, they are diamonds.” Kathryn looked at the comb in her hand. “It was my mother’s, you see. I have many of her heirlooms,” she added, as if that explained anything at all, which it didn’t. She could do nothing but stare at the comb until, raising her eyes to Mr. Harrington’s again, she exclaimed, “Oh, thank you! You’ve been too kind to me, and I don’t know how I shall ever repay you.”

For one blessedly short, irrational moment, Mr. Harrington knew exactly how she could. “Nothing –really nothing,” he mumbled and shoved his hands into his pockets as a skittish schoolboy might. “But I do not understand you. Too kind? What do you mean?”

“You know.” Kathryn twisted her hands together and, conscious that she did this after the fashion of someone who is dreadfully nervous, clasped them together in a vice-like grip. “Oh, I don’t know.” She felt silly and ten years younger.

“And neither do I,” said Mr. Harrington, a half-amused smile upon his lips, and with a quick, retreating brow, he was gone.

“Well!” Kathryn said, upset, to the coming darkness which served as her sole remaining companion. The emotions that coursed through her were so mysterious, so novel, and so confusing that she could make no sense of any of them –and, recognizing this, resolutely ignored them all.

She turned on her heel and went to the railing, leaning against it moodily. The sea was eerily calm, though an icy breeze flew and fretted at the folds of her skirts and cooled the heat on her cheeks. It looked, in the fading light, black and fiendish –as if it held many secrets. I wonder what would happen, Kathryn reflected, if I should climb the railing, and jump overboard. Would anyone notice? Would I have time to cry out? Would the blackness swallow me up completely? Everyone calls the sea mysterious; all the first-rate poets, and even the second-rate ones, have scribbled at least a few lines about it. And yet somehow I wonder why. There’s nothing so mysterious there, just black –and cold –and expansive and -forever. It’s probably the size that makes you fear, and write poetry if you can, and even if you can’t. For you can look every which way –but you can see only the waters, as vast as the heavens themselves….

“Pardon me,” a voice said next to her.“Yes?” Kathryn asked, dragging herself from contemplation, and finding the owner of the

voice to be the young mother whom she and Mr. Harrington had been admiring just that morning as an example of a missing Renoir in the world’s most renowned art museum.

“I’m being awfully forward, I know,” the other began, sweetly, and not without a little embarrassment. It occurred to Kathryn that she was rather shy. “But we’ll be a week on this ship, and you looked just the sort of person who might be –er,” here she looked even more

embarrassed, “good company. My husband is, of course, as are my daughters –but- it’s always nice to talk to –someone else, if you know what I mean.”

Kathryn did, and appreciated her for it. “I know exactly what you mean, Mrs. -?”“Oh-yes! How silly of me! Farrow, Mrs. Caroline Farrow.”“My name is Kathryn Williamson,” Kathryn said. “My –my friend and I were only this

morning remarking on what a handsome family you have.”“I do.” Mrs. Farrow beamed. Kathryn saw she had a light dusting of freckles just across

the tip of her nose, and marked dimples in her cheeks. (Why, she can’t be much older than I am!) “And what are your daughters’ names?” Kathryn inquired politely.“My eldest –she is but three this past May– is Rosie, and the little one, Meredith.” She

hesitated a moment. “And you, I think, are not married?”“No –but I will be this autumn.”“Oh, to the man you were just speaking to? You are certainly lucky, for I can tell he is

very much in love with you.” Kathryn’s eyes widened, and then she started to laugh, though she had no idea why she did. (I should be mortified –absolutely mortified- but I’m not. I can’t be. I’m too-) she frowned at herself, for she had been about to think the word happy, but before she had surely felt miserable, and still none of it made sense. She put the matter from her mind again.

“Have I said something wrong? Oh dear, I always do.” A hand gloved in pearl white went up to Mrs. Farrow’s mouth.

“You have said merely something… incorrect,” Kathryn said, smiling, “but it does not offend me, and certainly your mistake is very allowable. The man I was just talking with is not my fiancé, but another man who was with my little party this morning –I don’t know if you saw us? You would notice him, if you did. He is tall and very solemn-looking.” She laughed again. (That is curious. I’ve always regarded Randall’s solemnity as being characteristic of wisdom and a depth of understanding –yet now it seems so ridiculous! What is the matter with me?)

“Oh, I am indeed sorry! My husband says I am ever saying the wrong thing at the right time, or the right thing at the wrong time; although I’m sure there’s not very much difference between the two –but then he always teases me so! But let me think…” Mrs. Farrow screwed up her large green eyes as in concentration. “Yes, I do believe I know the man –with dark hair, I believe, and yes, I would say, a tendency very much not to smile… but oh! That is the wrong thing to say again! For it is certainly not the right thing!”

“No, no,” Kathryn hastened to assure her, though she could barely breathe, being overcome by another fit of hysterical laughter. “It is quite all right; please do not trouble yourself by apologizing. Your honesty is welcome. Sometimes I find that… softening a truth which ought not to be softened only worsens it and does not produce the desired effect. Yes, Randall is very solemn and does not smile except when he feels he must, or when he gives himself the liberty of being pleased about something. But I would seek to change that, if I can.” She permitted herself a small and extremely inconsequential sigh.

“Do you- laugh often?” queried Mrs. Farrow.“Why, I-” Kathryn stopped. She had been, naturally about to say that of course she did,

for it was something that she loved to do, and it brought relief –or light-heartedness to an otherwise dismal situation –when one wanted to cry at a trifling problem, one laughed instead, and then remembered it as what it was, a mere nothing in reality… only she realized then that she did not do this very often. “No, no, I suppose I don’t.”

“I thought you might not.” Mrs. Farrow nodded knowingly.

“Why?”“Oh –forgive me, but you seem so –so fresh and unpracticed when you do, as if –hmm,

I’m not very good with words, but as if even the action of it –delights you. And I had to wonder about it because you seem as someone who loves to. I would know, you see, because I do too –and there is something of a kindred spirit in someone who shares that same trait,” Mrs. Farrow ended. “And so few people do, nowadays, and yet you and that other man –the handsome and noble one who was just with you, and who I cannot now think of as anything else but the Fiancé that was Not, though it’s a horrible way to think of someone, I’m sure he’ll marry sometime; but, at any rate, you and he both love to laugh, I would say.”

“Yes, you are right.”“Although, of course,” rejoined Mrs. Farrow in a perfectly serious tone, “the decline of

people who laugh, really laugh –not just out of spite or meanness but at themselves and the little things in life that no one else thinks are funny at all- that decline is actually nothing to laugh at.”

“No,” answered Kathryn, also gravely. They looked at each other for a long moment –and then laughed because they could.

***

Kathryn bid Mrs. Farrow a good night shortly thereafter (when Mrs. Farrow mentioned, regretfully, that her husband would like very much if she relieved him of his child-watching duties) and made her way along to the more-inhabited part of the deck where people where still dancing (for her part she never wanted to dance again) –and Randall was one of them. He looked absurdly happy and more unreserved than she had ever seen him. Kathryn wondered rather idly if there had been too many glasses of wine and too many dances with the blonde who was still giggling in his arms.

She sat down, watching him cavort and smile and simper with nothing more showing on her expression than a mild bewilderment. Gradually she fell into a reverie.

Randall stood, his hat in his hand, and beheld the beguiling Kathryn as she sat half-turned, half-facing him and drinking in the sweet and pungent fragrance of a climbing rose. She was smiling, softly, as one who is enjoying simple pleasures, undisturbed by the chaotic current of life. Randall thought she had never looked lovelier, her hair the color of late autumn leaves, red and gold, framing her face; her eyes seeming to remember something far-away, something nothing to do with him or her life since he had entered it. This made him a little sad, but also more determined towards his purpose in visiting her that afternoon. ‘Kathryn,’ he said suddenly. She turned toward him expectantly, the aroma of the rose still seducing her senses and clogging her consciousness. ‘Yes?’ ‘Kathryn, will you marry me?’ said he, quietly, and wistfully, as if he was not sure of the answer. He knelt on one knee and drew out a ring with an obviously opulent ruby set in it and sparkling almost vulgarly in the midday sunshine. ‘Yes,’ she replied, hardly with emotion, and in frozen fascination saw him slip the ring on her finger. He sighed, bowed, kissed her hand –and left.

She glanced at the rose again, drenched in beauty. It was the first to bloom that June, an almost bronze orange melting into delicate pink at the very tips. She touched it, lightly, and worried that it had bloomed too early –that it should have waited instead of exposing itself to frost. It was a tragic fate, for such a beautiful thing… If only it had waited a little while longer…

“Excuse me– are you Miss Kathryn Williamson?” someone asked, and forcibly did Kathryn jolt herself from the previous year into this one.

“I am.” It was, from appearances, Mr. Farrow. He was a very nice looking man of medium height with sandy hair and kind brown eyes.

“I am Philip Farrow, Caroline’s husband.” He bowed. “I just wanted to thank you, for my wife’s sake,” he said. His air was confident but not vain, assured without being proud. Kathryn liked him immediately.

“Whatever for?”“She has long wished for a companion in whom she could confide, comfortably, and

without worry of malice or pettiness.”Kathryn eyed him bewilderingly. “But we have just met…” (And yet it seems as if we are

already good friends.)“Mrs. Farrow, in her own way, is a very good judge of character, Miss Williamson. She

has seldom been wrong.” “I am honest in saying, Mr. Farrow, that she has done a great deal more for me than I did

for her. I consider her conversation –and advice– invaluable. I only wish we could have a longer time to become acquainted.”

“That is a great pity, yes. Although,” he paused as if struck by a sudden idea, “we are in the midst of relocating from our current house in London to somewhere in the country, do you know of any place we might find? Mrs. Farrow and I think it best for the children. I have heard from the pleasant gentleman over there,” he pointed to Mr. Harrington, and Kathryn hurriedly chased away the fretful scowl that longed to take residence. She knit her brows instead, as if in doubt to the direction where he pointed. There could, of course, be no doubt as to which gentleman Mr. Farrow referred to –but knitting her brows was in any case a relief. “I think his name is Harrington –Daniel –David –something or other, but whoever he is, he told me that you live in the countryside, more or less near the sea, in a town called Cambrien?”

“I do indeed, and it is one of the most beautiful spots in England,” Kathryn exclaimed, adding more practically, “and the air there is very good –I am sure there would be someplace that is being let, or sold if you are thinking of permanently settling there.” She thought a moment, and then –“And while you are looking, I would be more than happy if you would stay with me, at my estate –Worthing Manor.”

“We could not trespass-”“No, no, I will not hear of it!” Kathryn cried determinedly. “You must come as soon as

possible after you have returned from America. Half of Worthing is left unused, for I have only a few rooms which I frequently inhabit- and it needs airing out. Really, I will be too delighted, and you must but name the day.”

“Well then,” Mr. Farrow said, dazed. “We return by this same ship late July –from the fifteenth to the twenty-second, I believe.”

“That’s perfect, then!” Kathryn clapped excitedly. “Our small company will do the same. It is all settled. I will not brook a refusal. The four of you shall stay at Worthing.” She secretly wondered at her own enthusiasm –but it was often lonely in the large manor with no one but the servants with whom to converse –and they had their duties to attend to. She knew –or thought she knew- what was going on behind those carefully expressionless demeanors when she did make conversation. (“She’s batty, that’s what,” they probably whisper in the servants’ quarters. “My last master never said a word, and here she is asking about my lumbago. How is she to know I have lumbago? Has it affected my work? And if it hasn’t, does she have any business asking after it?” And they all would nod, sagely, and someone would remark how fortunate it was that she was going to be married, and would have other distractions.)

“I suppose –so.” Mr. Farrow answered, stunned. He rubbed his fingers against his chin. “I say, Miss Williamson, would you like to dance?”

A fraction of a second reminded Kathryn that she had never wanted to dance again, and another fraction decided her answer. “I would love to dance.” She smiled.

Mr. Farrow was a good dancer, and Kathryn was pleased and continued liking him very much, not at all regretting her unorthodox invitation. After a few moments of light-hearted chatter, Mr. Farrow’s shoulder was lightly tapped by another gentleman. Her partner graciously gave way, as he said, “It looks as if I’m being replaced! Another time, then, Miss Williamson.”

The man who had taken Mr. Farrow’s place was a very handsome Frenchman with David’s perfectly molded figure and a Grecian profile, though he was only just taller than Kathryn, and had an effervescent way of speaking which was hard to follow. “Ah, mademoiselle!” he crooned. “You have the feet of the angel, mon cheri, the feet of the angel! In my own country of France where there is much food and wine and where everything c’est magnifique, everyone would be so envious, and you so happy and me –ah, I would be, how you English say it- flying up in the blue, blue sky! C’est possible? What do you say? No doubt it is mais oui, mais oui, no?” He then proceeded in a hurried undertone of French that Kathryn could not quite catch –but was not sorry to have missed the majority of it. Her French had never been very good, and she had not been listening closely –but it sounded as if he wanted to marry her, or take her away, or something very medieval and very unpleasant.

“Yes –oh, I mean no!” She tried to sound horrified, though the gravity of his proposition did not penetrate her lively amusement. “Monsieur, I am afraid that I could not, for I am already engaged.”

He shrugged before spinning her in an elaborate and dizzying twirl. “Ah, you English. Such a little thing, an engagement –tiny, tiny! Does it matter so much? Eh bien, I think not!”

“Really, I think that in England, we view engagements in a different-”But Kathryn never finished. Quicker than she could have thought possible, she was

exchanged again –for Mr. Harrington. For one awful second she could not speak a word, but then she rallied her spirits and said as one who has been saved from agony, “Thank you, sir, for I could have lasted no longer dancing with that man.”

“Was he such a terrible partner, then?” Mr. Harrington grinned.“No, he was very good, actually –as far as his dancing goes. But I think –I cannot be

sure- I think he proposed to me.”“Oh?” There was something peculiar in Mr. Harrington’s tone. But then he laughed.

“Surely an Englishman would not presume-”“No, no, you are right there. But –well- he was French –and mostly speaking his native

language. And though I could not, thankfully, understand his whole message, my French is sufficient enough that I wished for a rescue.”

“You are indebted to me, then?” Mr. Harrington had returned to his former self, and no trace of distress or agitation was in his mind or manner.

Kathryn did not like this observation –she knew that she herself was far from approaching equanimity. Instead, she replied airily and with a certain haughtiness which did not escape her listener, “I should hope not.”

Mr. Harrington raised an eyebrow. “I suppose I should apologize for leaving so suddenly earlier,” he said quietly.

Kathryn instantly felt ashamed and juvenile, but she squashed the feelings admirably. “I suppose so,” said she with a toss of her head in a manner not unlike a saint who, when offered all the earthly kingdoms in exchange for his soul, scorns even the notion utterly.

“Well, then –I am sorry,” Mr. Harrington continued, quieter still, and watched the shimmer of gold fire in her eyes fade.

Kathryn sighed, deeply, and with every fibre of her being; a sigh that reverberated throughout her and shook her and told her how silly she was and how silly this was, to be obstinate, over a mere nothing, while Mr. Harrington behaved very nicely. “No, I am sorry, for I am being especially-” she searched for a word… and found none that put her in a favorable light, and so settled with, “out of temper. I am –not myself.”

“Yes, I gathered that,” Mr. Harrington said, dryly, but the corners of his eyes were crinkling, which showed Kathryn that he had forgiven her. “I myself was –confused.”

“Was?” She had been looking at her feet, before, and noting their progress through the dance with what appeared to be unparalleled interest, but now looked up at him questioningly. (How funny, what you see when really looking at someone, and not just through them… He has tiny green flecks in his eyes…)

“Was,” affirmed Mr. Harrington unequivocally.Wanting very much to further this line of inquiry, Kathryn was on the point of saying

something else but-“Might I cut in, Mr. Harrington?” It was Randall. Kathryn blinked –once, twice, and strove to forget the color of malachite and whatever it

had to do with anyone’s eyes.“You have every right to,” said Mr. Harrington, almost cheerfully. Kathryn shot him a

look, as if to say, And what do you mean by that? But he had already turned away.She blinked again, unsure of what to say. “Hello, Randall. I –I suppose we have not seen

much of each other tonight.” This was an obvious, and rather superfluous, statement; but she could think of nothing else in the least suitable. This is all so silly. She thought, desperately hunting for another useless remark when he proved little willing to talk. I should be able to say something not completely offensive, shouldn’t I, to my fiancé of all people -“You have been dancing all night with the young woman with the blonde hair, I believe.” (And that, certainly, is not the right thing to say… But I feel it had to be said; and there, if he wants to contest it, let him.)

“I have,” he said composedly. “You showed no inclination for dancing, as I recall.”Poor Randall. Only he would be sarcastic without meaning to be. “That was –well, that

was then,” Kathryn said by way of an explanation, which failed at its purpose.“What made you change your mind?”“Well, I-” Oh, goodness, she thought, in real distress, as she sought his eyes. They’re so –

mysterious, and guarded…what does he really think behind all that stiff formality? I- I feel as if I don’t know him… “I was asked again, and I thought it would be impolite to refuse. You –you understand me better than others. I was not in a position to say no.” (But does he?)

“Hmm.”“Something quite funny happened to me, actually,” she went on eagerly, despite the lack

of encouragement. “A Frenchman proposed to me.”“What?” Randall said sharply.“I said no, of course, but it was still very funny-”

“What in heaven’s name is funny about that? Who does that man think he is? Why, if I had known sooner, I would-”

“Randall, don’t be foolish. I am sure he was only teasing.” Though indeed Kathryn was not very sure. Whoever he was, he had seemed in earnest –but then that was how she assumed all Frenchmen to be –suave, impulsive, and afflicted with moonstruck madness of the heart. It was always so with the French –they must love something –women, art, architecture– which had for so long been their bane and virtue, their pride and their downfall. “Poor man, I feel a bit sorry for him.”

“Sorry?!” Randall could only sputter, his cheeks turning an unbecoming shade of eggplant purple in his lividness.

“Yes. But,” she resumed, some devilish instinct taking over all her rational powers of mind, “I am sure he will find a receptive audience himself, for there are many beauties here.” The devilish instinct continued to possess her tongue, and she looked at him through coquettish lashes, saying demurely, “The young woman with the yellow hair, I am sure, would be very pleased to accept his hand. She seems not at all unwilling to admit the attentions of other men.”

It was an arrow well-notched and hit him squarely. “You dishonor the name of a lady, Kathryn. Miss Celia Bradford,” (So that is her name,) “is one of the most agreeable women with whom I have ever been lucky enough to be acquainted. She has grace, manners, and-”

“Oh, and I suppose she has a pretty little fortune besides, and you have conveniently forgotten to mention that she is not, exactly, unpleasant to look at.” The devilish instinct had vanished as quickly as it had come, but Kathryn’s anger had supplied its own words.

“And can that be her fault?”“No –no.” Kathryn suddenly felt very, very tired. All at once his question seemed truly

unreasonable –unanswerable, practically. The strain of traveling with little preparation or acclimation to the idea, the dreariness of quarreling with Randall over something trifling, the dancing that did not cease –and most of all a large, untidy, disagreeable feeling that nothing was right in her world anymore ever since Mr. David Harrington had entered it, and since they had danced under a moon which she did not recognize as her own, or as anything, though English shores were not far gone– all combined together at once. Heaving a small, irrepressible sigh which would have melted the stoniest of hearts, she said, faintly, “I have just been overcome with perhaps the most painful headache I have ever had. I am feeling very ill and would be much obliged to you if you would escort me back to my rooms.”

Already the room seemed to be shifting before her eyes, the objects leering at her in a most unpleasant manner. “Oh –please!” she clutched his arm.

Greatly concerned by her deathly pallor and wild, roving eyes, Randall immediately took her arm and led her gently away. “What is troubling you?” asked he. “Is it really so painful? Perhaps I should consult the surgeon.”

“Not at all necessary –I am perfectly fine –never better,” mumbled Kathryn, putting a hand to her aching head.

“And this is your room?” said Randall, pointing to a door.Kathryn looked at it without comprehension. “I hardly know.”“It must be,” Randall was saying to himself, “for I remember seeing that painting when I

came to fetch you before. Here, I’ll just knock.”He did, and Hilda answered, her eyes growing as wide and as frightened as milk saucers

as she looked at her listless and pale mistress. “Oh, bless me, what’s happened?”

“Miss Williamson has done a little too much dancing I think, than is entirely good for her. Her head pains her,” Randall quickly explained.

Hilda wrapped her arms around Kathryn and drew her towards the bed. “Oh, would you get the ship’s surgeon, please?” said she, helping Kathryn to lie down and placing a cool hand on her forehead.

“At once.” Randall bowed and left.“I’m so sorry, Hilda,” said Kathryn. “I am not feigning sickness –really and truly.” She

yawned. “I don’t know what’s come over me.”“I don’t know either!” agreed Hilda severely, though her sharpness had increased because

of her anxiety.Kathryn continued drowsily, “I really haven’t the slightest idea about what is

happening…” A few minutes passed and she fell into a light doze.“Oh, the saints preserve me!” said Hilda, finding that the only appropriate expression to

describe it all.

Chapter Eight- A Visit from Randall

When Kathryn awoke, it was in a state of joint confusion and exhaustion. Her muddled head frightened her, and so she immediately sat up and opened her eyes.

“Now, now, you just settle back down, Miss Williamson, and take it easy.” An owlish, middle-aged, and bespectacled man, occupying the greater part of an ample chair, said soothingly.

“Sir?” she said, recognizing the black bag beside him with terrible-looking instruments peeking out of it.

“Doctor Hamilton, at your service,” he said in a very slight brogue, grinning good-naturedly, and patted her hand. Kathryn found herself wondering if he had any grandchildren. (He should have grandchildren. They would absolutely adore him.)

“Pleasure to meet you, I am sure.” Kathryn extended a weak hand.“You’re very kind,” said Doctor Hamilton with a smile. “Now, I hear that you have been

unwell with a headache.”“Something of the kind, yes. Though I’m sorry to bother you, for it’s gone now.”“That’s good.” The doctor nodded encouragingly. “But how do you feel in general?”“Hmm.” Kathryn frowned. “In general, not very well, I suppose.”“I see.” Doctor Hamilton scribbled a few notes on a pad before questioning her further

with his quiet, pleasant voice. “And is this a pattern of illness –have you been feeling unwell recently? Any history of illness?”

“No, I have been in more or less perfect health for some time –except for the occasional cold, but I hardly consider that to be anything serious.”

“You are quite right in thinking so, Miss Williamson.” The doctor coughed delicately. “Any –er- disputes or upsetting happenings to worry you as of late that might have brought this on?”

Kathryn considered for a moment what she could say. Then, tactfully, “There have been a few distressing things to have occurred, if that answers your question.” It didn’t really and they both knew this, but he also knew what was not said, and guessed it had something to do with the young man who had lingered a little longer after he had come in with a near-frantic Hilda, and who had looked more perturbed than anything else.

“I see,” he said kindly. The doctor was not at all like the painfully thin, dour, and eminently respectable apothecary of Cambrien, who made his patients feel so terrible about inconveniencing him with their illnesses that they usually got well on his account instead of their own. Doctor Hamilton, on the other hand, had probably never missed a meal in his life, had a full head of silvery hair and cornflower blue eyes, and most likely made his patients well by talking to them in his hearty voice and or telling them stories of his grandchildren.

“Well,” the doctor turned to Hilda, who was hovering, “I don’t think there is anything to worry about, Mrs. Branson. She just needs some rest. By the end of the week –or perhaps by tomorrow, if you see that she is not further troubled, she should be completely recovered.”

“Oh, thank you, Doctor,” breathed Hilda.“Now, if I could attend to my other duties, ma’m,” he continued, gathering up his black

bag and giving Kathryn a sympathetic smile.“Yes, naturally, thank you so much for coming, Doctor,” Hilda said gratefully. “I was so

worried about Kathryn, you know, as it’s her first time traveling.”Kathryn rolled her eyes, mildly protesting. “I am twenty-one, Hilda.”“Yes, of course, dear.” Hilda gave her hand a squeeze. “Thank you again, doctor.”“Anytime,” he grinned at Kathryn and left.Hilda turned to Kathryn. “What happened, Miss Kathryn? You’ve hardly at a day of

illness since –since your childhood! What’s come over you? Perhaps we ought not to have attempted this trip.”

Kathryn looked at Hilda thoughtfully. She had known Kathryn for a good number of years –had nursed her out of the dangerous fever that had snatched her mother and father; had held her when she scraped her knees; talked away her first broken heart; secretly given her chocolates when her aunt had forbidden them; encouraged her in her studies; made her welcome cups of tea when she felt lonely; and loved her all the while. Finally, she said, “Randall and I had an argument –and all of a sudden I just felt so –so ill. It was not only from that, though. I think it must have been –something else, or perhaps just the strain of traveling.”

“You had an argument?” Hilda raised an eyebrow.“Yes… it was very silly, of course, and hardly worth having.”“That is the way with most arguments, I would suspect,” answered Hilda rationally.

“Now –no more talk –you had better go back to sleep and get plenty of rest, as the doctor said you must.”

Kathryn did not need to be told twice.***

The next morning Kathryn opened her eyes groggily and regretfully, but not without feeling that the sleep had restored her health and spirits. She turned her head to Hilda. “What time is it?” she asked sleepily.

Hilda replied calmly, “It is nearly nine in the morning.”Kathryn stared. “I never sleep so late. Whatever can be the matter with me!” “You were ill, of course. Oh, Miss Kathryn, I’ve been so worried about you, dear!” And

suddenly she reached over and caught Kathryn in a warm embrace. “You haven’t been yourself lately, Miss Kathryn, and the saints bless me if this doesn’t crown all!”

“I am sorry, Hilda. It’s just –getting married.” And it was, Kathryn knew without a doubt, completely and utterly about that.

Just then a short rap sounded on the doors. Horrified, Kathryn whispered hoarsely, “I’m not even dressed! Oh- heavens- I need a morning gown to wear or something suitable at least! Who could it be –at this hour?”

Hilda did not reply, but the next three and half minutes were spent in a frenzy of activity of Hilda scurrying to the trunks and muttering, “Something pale and soft, I should think… too much color would wash you out, for you haven’t regained that fine blush yet which sets off the bright ones so well…” –at last finding a very light peach gown with quarter-length sleeves and seed pearls sown in at the hem… and of Kathryn running wildly to the vanity and attempting to do something with her hair.

Quickly coming to the rescue with several thousand pins, a minute more and Hilda had tamed every curl and put each in its proper place. “More or less ready, dear,” she said. “Should I get the door now?”

Kathryn looked about the room, uttered two words –“the bed!” and they both scrambled in that direction to smooth its covers. “At all events,” Kathryn said breathlessly, “whoever it isn’t shan’t know that I’ve only been awake for five minutes!” They finished and Hilda flew to the door, taking a deep breath to settle her anxieties.

“May I?” she mouthed.“Yes –if they are still there, anyway. We did the best we could, under the circumstances.”

Kathryn stifled a smile and prepared to meet the visitor.It was Randall. He rushed into the room, uncharacteristically unconcerned about

propriety, and seized Kathryn’s hands in his, saying, “I was waiting ages! What were you doing? Kathryn –Kathryn –are you well? Is that why you’ve waited so long? Has something dreadful happened?”

This display of emotion could not fail to astound Kathryn. She said, dazedly, and blushing for the unobtrusive presence of Hilda, “Oughtn’t we to go somewhere else –somewhere other than my chambers? It is not, I believe, even nine in the morning yet.”

“Oh –of course, of course,” said Randall, coloring as he collected himself. “Dear me, I wasn’t even thinking… er… in the hall, perhaps? I shan’t keep you long. My apologies.” He said to Hilda, bowing, and followed Kathryn out of the room.

Once they were in the hall, he began again anxiously. “I hope you aren’t fatigued, at all…”

“No,” said Kathryn with a faint grin which he would not have understood, “walking outside of the room has not done me the least harm; do not be worried. This morning, in fact, I feel completely recovered.”

“You don’t think we should delay the wedding…”“Delay the wedding?” repeated Kathryn in genuine surprise. “No –certainly not! I assure

you, I am quite well –and I plan never to be ill again.”Randall’s brow furrowed. “I would think that one doesn’t plan for that sort of thing to

happen.”“Really?” Kathryn said lightly. “You know very little of women, Randall, if you think

that. I, of course, had no such designs last night –but all the same, it still won’t happen again. The same circumstances cannot possibly re-occur. It would be too much of a chance.”

The other said, slowly, “I’m afraid that I don’t exactly understand you –what circumstances? What are you talking of?”

Airily, Kathryn cried, “Oh, if you don’t remember, I shan’t be the one to tell you! I’ll only say that certain events –and perhaps, too, because I was not accustomed to the ways of the

ship and the sea air penetrated all my defenses– caused a strange lapse in my health which will, in all probability, never happen again.”

“Ah –I see.”“I must thank you for your kind services last night,” she went on, “I am grateful that you

conducted me to my rooms, or I most certainly would not have made it on my own. And for fetching the surgeon, a man whose good sense and happy humor helped lift my spirits.”

Randall preened almost unnoticeably. “Any gentleman in the world would have been obliged to do so. I am only happy that it was me, under whose protection you happened to be at that time, so that I could take care of you properly.” Was there –or had Kathryn imagined it– a slight undercurrent of thought beneath his last statement –as if he was thinking very specifically of someone who he was very glad had not been there to come to her aid?

“You were simply wonderful,” said Kathryn generously. “I could not have asked for anyone better to have assisted me. Of course, you did miss the last few dances while you worried over me –and that must have been a cruel disappointment.”

Either Randall did not understand the mischievous implications of this or he willfully pretended ignorance, for he replied, not at all suspiciously, that “it was a bit disappointing, perhaps. But I was happier to make sure that you were well. It wouldn’t do to have all the ladies of Cambrien making a fuss about how I didn’t take care of you on our journey. Already, it seems, I’m not doing a very good job.”

“It isn’t exactly your fault,” she said kindly, if not truthfully. “I’m a troublesome person on the whole, so you mustn’t be discouraged by a few setbacks.” She wanted him to laugh, but he wouldn’t; he only gave her a strange and puzzled look, saying,

“I’m glad it seems that you are back to your usual self. And –seeing that it is so –I perhaps ought to go now, and let you get back to –whatever it was you were doing.”

“Oh –yes, please, you are free to go now that you know I am well,” said Kathryn dubiously, as she thought for the first time, and does he like my usual self?

“Then good morning.” “Good morning.”He bowed and walked away.“That was unusual,” said Kathryn with a bemused laugh as soon as she had shut the doors

behind her again.“Indeed, most unusual!” said Hilda with unfeigned curiosity.Kathryn did not appear in any way tempted to satisfy Hilda’s unsaid inquiries; she merely

sighed.A few minutes of curious silence passed; a silence impressionable enough that Kathryn

began fiddling with the tassels of the brocade-embroidered cushions –Kathryn who prided herself on a devastating lack of fiddling with anything but jewelry (which only seemed natural) generally because she considered it as an unnecessary sign of nervousness or embarrassment or, horror of horrors to a refined mind like hers, ennui. She absently hummed a fragment of a waltz from the evening before –but then she realized which waltz she hummed and stopped, stricken. A silence impressionable enough, also, that Hilda adjusted, re-adjusted, and thrice-adjusted the starched linen cap perched atop her greying head; a cap which, if anything at all, was never askew and most certainly never in need of adjusting.

“Am I fit to go out into the saloon, do you suppose?” Kathryn ventured at last.“Well, I,” Hilda considered, the sharp lines of her face standing out. She looked at

Kathryn and, instead of seeing in the back of her mind as she usually did the image of a small,

lithe girl of seven or eight with heavy, bouncing ringlets collecting daisies with a gay little laugh, she saw just what was before her: a young woman, clear-eyed and level-headed, with beauty and grace to aid her; a woman who would never collect daisies and string them in her hair or sing silly songs to the sparrows so that they might understand or beg for a bed-time treat beseechingly –a woman who, unknowingly, had left all childish cares and impossible dreams long, long behind her. In that moment Hilda’s wrinkles stood more prominent, and her eyes brightened with something very like tears, and she mourned, briefly, for the girl who had most naturally and befittingly grown up –the girl who used to make her feel young again. And still could. Hilda straightened in her chair. She said in an undeniably placid tone that yes, she supposed no harm would come from it.

Kathryn saw the glistening in Hilda’s eyes and could guess, in part, of their origin. She smiled fondly, dimpling, at one who had known her for so long and was, perhaps, sometimes blinded by partiality. “You have been so good to me,” she said almost in a whisper, grasping a hand even smaller than her own. And,” she grinned, “I at last have an appetite. Is there any food to be had?”

“Yes, yes, there is some bread and jam and a very little bit of butter on the tray over there,” Hilda motioned to an obscure and hideously expensive-looking table, “with fruit, I believe.”

“Good.” Kathryn sighed and sat in an equally hideously expensive-looking chair which must have fetched its price for something other than a plump and robust cushion. She ate quickly, and without much thought. Once she had finished, she turned to Hilda again. “Do you think it would prudent of me to go out now, then?”

“Yes, if you have eaten enough breakfast.” Hilda replied, watching as Kathryn stood and moved towards the doors. She no longer saw that little girl in her –had she been lost forever when Kathryn’s steady gaze had met her own?- but could not help saying next –“You won’t be dancing, I hope, at all –not even a very short or very slow one?”

“No,” Kathryn said quietly, smiling. “I can promise you I will do no dancing for the rest of the week.” (Or indeed, after everything that transpired last night, ever again.)

She left -and Hilda sighed contentedly, assured that she had done her duty. Miss Kathryn was a young woman and did have sense- but even sensible young women needed guidance now and again. And with these affirmations in mind, Hilda set about to prepare herself a cup of good English tea, which the ship’s doctor had personally procured for the betterment of her health and spirits.

Chapter Nine- On Love and Marriage

Being ill, Kathryn soon discovered as she entered the saloon, had more disagreeable consequences than just the disgrace of having succumbed to the rigors of traveling. She was greeted by a plethora of well-wishers and do-gooders and many, many perfunctory (if well-meant) “how are you”s and “oh, we heard from So-and-so, poor thing, you seem to be bearing up tolerably” from people on whom she had scarcely laid eyes, or cared to.

Adelaide Gleason attacked her within several moments of her entrance, as one of the proliferating number of people hoping she was feeling better.

“Oh, dearest!” Adelaide sighed theatrically as she settled beside Kathryn in a noisy rustling of silken skirts which, Kathryn noted with sardonic humor, could not possibly belong to a suitable morning gown. And it did not, a quick and surreptitious glance proved at the billowing

orange silk which was heavily endowed with jewels in every possible contrivance. “I have been so worried about you; you’ve no idea.”

Kathryn had to admit that she had not, indeed, had the faintest idea.“It’s so terrible that you were ill earlier in the evening, for I made the most amazingly

good acquaintance! Can you guess who it might be?”Regrettably, Kathryn could not.“Miss Celia Bradford, Kat, that’s who. I am sure you know who she is –everyone’s

talking about her –well,” she amended with a silver little laugh, “My husband, Randall and I are, at least- and we all think she’s so amazingly fun and pretty and nice and she only travels with a maid who is apparently quite ready to do whatever she wishes–and oh, Kathryn, you will never, ever guess what the next and very best part is!”

Kathryn shook her head –not because she could not guess, but because she could not yet believe what her intellect and intuition were telling her would precipitate from the rest of this effusion- and bade Adelaide continue.

“She has no plans once she is in America. She was going to stay at a hotel for the most part, and shop alone or something awfully boring –and so we all invited her to come with us instead, for we are chaperones enough, I should think –she’s nineteen, you know, and poor girl, doesn’t go anywhere much –and Mr. Gleason’s cousin’s wife or whoever she is certainly won’t mind another addition to our little party –we have, in fact, already sent word ahead.” Adelaide rose. “Well, it’s been lovely chatting with you, but I must go and see if Mr. Gleason is out of trouble- oh, you know, it’s funny Kat, but-” she paused, giggling to herself, “Randall astonished Mr. Gleason and me so when he first said that he had asked her to come along with us. It wouldn’t ever have occurred to me, I’m so dull at that sort of thing, but for it to occur to Randall! –well, it was a very good idea, and I’m very glad everything worked out so splendidly. Aren’t you?”

It was, blessedly, a rhetorical question and accompanied with a jaunty little wave as Adelaide ran to join her husband. Kathryn was shaking like a leaf. She would not be ill again –no, she hoped that would not trouble her any more in the weeks to come– but she did shake, and turn several shades pink before the color left her face nearly altogether.

(What was it that Randall said, just before I declared myself ill? Something about why he asked me to marry him… I wonder if he regrets asking now… but then I remember he was so confident that he had made the right decision. And he isn’t a risk-taker –unless it’s all calculated, unless there isn’t anything, in the end, to be lost worth losing… But this –this decision is a very large risk, and a very foolish one, for we know nothing of this girl, this Miss Celia Bradford, who is nineteen and, I should think, very naïve or very accustomed to putting on that air of naïveté which so becomes her, from afar… But I will not think of it. I cannot. I must trust Randall’s judgment on all matters now, even this peculiar one.) And with this in mind, Kathryn staid herself from shaking and regained some, if weak, coloring.

A brave and beating heart saw cheerily the advent of Mrs. Caroline Farrow with her youngest child in her arms. “Miss Williamson,” she said, rather worriedly, “oughtn’t you to be in your rooms just now? Mr. Farrow heard that you were taken ill last night. I felt simply awful,” she added, “keeping you out in the wind as I did.”

“No, no,” Kathryn said warmly. “It was nothing to do with you…”“What do you suppose it was, then?” Mrs. Farrow mused curiously. “This is Meredith, by

the way.”

“Ah! She is very pretty, aren’t you?” Kathryn proceeded to make several inarticulate noises which people generally make at babies –presumably to speed along their language acquisition. Meredith placidly looked back with ingenuous and innocent large blue eyes.

“She takes more after her father than me,” Mrs. Farrow said, jealously. “But Rosie looks exactly as I did when I was three, or so her doting grandmamma tells me; and I must be satisfied with that.” She smiled. “In earnestness, though, are you truly well enough to be out in the rooms?”

Kathryn nodded. “Yes, it was just a brief spell of- oh, I don’t know what!” She half-laughed, half-sighed, feeling a little frustrated with herself. “I cannot tell you really what caused me to faint –it was, perhaps, a combination of several things.”

“Young men are so tiresome, aren’t they?” said Mrs. Farrow mischievously.Kathryn’s brows creased together, and she thought –though she did not wish to– of

waltzes, and of silver combs with diamonds, and of Shakespeare’s romantic tragedies.“Fiancés especially,” Mrs. Farrow went on, and noticed with a sharp eye that Kathryn’s

brow cleared.“Yes… fiancés can be very tiresome, and I don’t suppose they improve upon marriage.

What is it like, being married?” Kathryn asked, quite suddenly, and then felt a little ashamed for her forwardness.

Mrs. Farrow regarded her thoughtfully; she, herself, asked so many odd questions that little someone else said could surprise her. “It depends,” she answered slowly. “One can only speak of one’s own experience, I think. But mine is a happy marriage.” She sighed and blushed as a little girl might when confessing a first love –and Kathryn thought that Mr. Farrow might, indeed, be just that. “And I hope you may be fortunate in that too. It’s not –it’s not easy, even loving each other –I can’t imagine what it might be like without that, but all the same I don’t know if I could live without him.” Mrs. Farrow smiled softly to herself, a tender, sad smile, which Kathryn knew had a quality she could not yet replicate.

“And you aren’t –forgive me for asking, it sounds so silly –but you aren’t –oh, you know- madly in love every day of your life?”

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Farrow laughed. “I’m not even sure I would want to be. Being madly in love is a great distraction, and disrupts your peace of mind. While I was in love, I could think of nothing else –of no one else.” She frowned, thinking. “I think being in love is the easier –if more tormenting part –because when you’re in love, you would do anything for the other person, freely, and without regret, or resentment. But once it fades, and your feet have again touched the earth and everything loses its rosy glow- and you have to make a sacrifice for the other, suddenly it isn’t so easy. But you do it –out of love, not for your own gain or benefit, or because of feelings, but love for the other’s interests and desires, and needs, even if they conflict with your own. Love is more a decision than anything else –a decision to put aside your own self- and I’ve often found that feelings come with that, and out of it, too.” She smiled. “God is gracious in that, I think.”

“Yes…” Kathryn sat back in the sofa, pondering. Had she ever been in love with anyone? Even Randall? Or, more importantly, had she ever loved anyone without expecting anything in return? It was a grave question, and one which she could not answer readily. Love thy neighbor as thy self. The verse came to her, unbidden, and again questions along the same line crowded her consciousness.

“Are you well, Kathryn?” Mrs. Farrow touched her arm lightly.

“Yes, thank you. I was… I was thinking on what you said. You are very wise, I think, Mrs. Farrow.”

“No, indeed I am not!” Mrs. Farrow said fervently. “I am sure I know a great many little things –but if you only knew the mistakes I’ve made, and I’m sure most of them likely to repeat over again! And I’m afraid,” she reflected gravely, “that knowing things is not at all the same thing as actual wisdom. I’m not even sure that when I’m old and supposed to be wise that I will be. I’ve heard it’s not very much fun.”

“No, you are right there. I shouldn’t think it any fun –and no wise person, I am sure, can laugh freely, for in the back of his mind there must be knowledge of the seriousness and weight of living in such a world fraught with so many troubles.”

“Oh! I am convinced now. I must never, ever be wise! I couldn’t bear it.” They grinned at one another, each happy to have found a lasting friend on such an unreliable vessel. Mrs. Farrow broke the short silence that ensued with a delighted cry of, “And Meredith has gone to sleep! How lucky we are! It’s been so hard on the ship for her, what with the rollicking and rolling about. Poor girl, she hardly slept at all last night.”

Kathryn made appropriate compassionate noises.“Mr. Farrow will be wondering where I am, I suppose, by now. But thankfully he is so

good with the children, and they both adore him.” Mrs. Farrow moved to go but paused briefly, saying, “And you are quite sure you are all right?”

“Oh, yes, I am feeling splendidly, thank you,” Kathryn said with energy, and tried to look it.

“Hmm…” Mrs. Farrow said gently, “I am afraid that isn’t exactly what I meant.” She gave Kathryn a piercing look of discernment. “My husband says that he has had the fortune to become acquainted with a Mr. David Harrington, a gentleman whom I would presume to think you know well.”

“A little,” acknowledged Kathryn, and she knew she ought to feel astonishment at the seeming abruptness of the question. But she could not, for it did –as she suspected Mrs. Farrow knew too– have too much to do with everything.

“My husband also tells me,” Mrs. Farrow continued deliberately, “that he finds this Mr. Harrington a very gentlemanly, very well-informed, very amiable, and very intelligent young man.”

Kathryn strove to answer with relative indifference. “Yes, from what I can ascertain, he is. I have not known him for long.”

“He also speaks very highly of you.”“Does he?” Kathryn’s affected indifference could not go as far as that, and she betrayed,

if only slight, interest. Conscious however that she was being probed, she sat up and said, archly, “A presumptuous man, considering the short length of time he has known me. I would venture to claim he is a bit too hasty in his assumptions now and then.”

“Or too- yes, hasty is perhaps the word,” Mrs. Farrow concurred, with a curving and relenting smile. She caught Kathryn’s eye, and held it, and meaning passed between them, in the way that females usually exchange information without speech which has been used since the beginning of time and which dazzles and dizzies the intellect of man more than he would care to admit.

And then Mrs. Farrow went to seek her husband. She knows, of course. She knows more than I know myself. Kathryn thought ruefully. Or she recognizes what I willfully do not, in myself and him, for the sake of my fiancé, and my honor.

For Kathryn, without having to address the matter directly in her mind, could assert with finality that nothing could induce her to a breach of her engagement –nothing.

***The remainder of the morning and afternoon passed slowly for Kathryn. After dining in

the saloon –she joined the Farrows (for Randall had not yet made an appearance,) and it was a happy and delightfully noisy proceeding, for little Rosie loved to talk and oft times her sister would not be outdone in volume- she retired to her rooms until the evening and occupied herself with Romeo and Juliet, a volume which she had brought with her for better comprehension with its pages.

Hilda was very worried at Kathryn’s appearance so early in the day and asked many questions regarding her health, but when Kathryn protested that she had merely escaped boredom and would join the others later, she was (if uneasily) left to her own amusement. It was several hours before Hilda disturbed her reading (Kathryn had re-read it nearly twice in a row, and sighed just the teensiest bit over Romeo’s speeches of love when she had scorned them at her last examination of its pages) to remonstrate.

“Miss Kathryn, the evening meal is approaching fast, and you’ve yet to change into an evening gown or fix your hair; and you missed afternoon tea.”

“Oh, I am sorry…” Kathryn answered vaguely but not regretfully. She very much would have appreciated that day to go through with her usual custom of choosing a tea-set to suit her mood, and this was all but impossible aboard ship –so it was perhaps best that she had not taken tea. And, besides, before her still loomed the tragic figure of Juliet weeping over a fallen Romeo. Returning to life, which in its normalcy was devoid of such absurd and “star-crossed” events and mistaken conceptions as those that led to the downfall of Romeo and Juliet, made everything in the present seem hazy and unreal, including tea-time.

Several minutes later, in a rose and gold gown that might have borrowed its colors from the sunset, Kathryn bid Hilda a good night (once more patiently listening to anxious admonitions about the evils of dancing after one has been ill) and left.

Even after just two days at sea, (much to the pleasure of her pride,) Kathryn had acquired her sea legs. She did not worry any longer about the possibility of another ungraceful mishap. It was with a head held high and a confident step that she walked into the saloon, defying any who might come near and ask her how she was “holding up” after the ordeal she had been through.

She was glad to notice Randall leaving his chair to escort her to the table of their party, and nearly bestowed upon him a cool smile after they had exchanged pleasantries –until she also observed, seated next to Adelaide Gleason, the delicately curled and perfectly proportioned head of one Miss Celia Bradford.

Chapter Ten- The Infamous Miss Bradford

When faced with a challenge, Kathryn was not a woman to wilt or crumble. And the sight of Miss Bradford smiling and twittering and (she was sure) casting an occasional covert glance at the grinning Randall now on her arm (he’s positively beaming, when in the course of our acquaintance have I ever seen him beam) initiated an instantaneous change in her. She strode straighter, chin erect; her cheeks burned with a startlingly becoming color; her eyes sparkled and grew darker and infinitesimally deeper. All at once the chatter at the table ceased as everyone

gazed upon the bright, burning flame that was Kathryn. They took their seats, and Kathryn sent each of her companions a captivating and winsome smile.

Adelaide giggled without quite knowing why; Mr. Gleason and Randall ogled; Mr. Harrington –who had been unnaturally languid and lounging– brightened and became attentive; Miss Bradford looked dumbfounded, resentful that all immediate interest had transferred to another and took refuge in blinking her wide, long-lashed eyes like a bewildered lamb.

“I am so sorry I am a little late,” Kathryn said charmingly. “I was,” she withheld the last word as if it meant something of staggering importance, “busy.”

Mr. Gleason, who invariably found comfort in harrumphing when he had no adequate words, executed one such noise in the ensuing interval. “No trouble, no trouble,” he declared with another harrumph–for even Mr. Gleason, who of all the party had known Kathryn the longest (exceeding his brother in that respect) had never seen her look so stunning, as if she held the attention of the entire room. She certainly made every other lady seem insipid, washed-out, and faded in the fashion of worn muslin and silk. “Dinner has not yet arrived,” said he without an awareness that he had stated a palpable fact

“As I see,” Kathryn turned her attention to another who, if she had been anything other than a lady, could have been thought to be glowering underneath her lamb-lashes. “I believe we are not acquainted,” said Kathryn. She spoke kindly and with the air of one who would like to be acquainted with the person addressed, but Mr. Harrington could not help but receive the impression that the accompanying smile, though brilliantly warm, was also somehow… dangerous.

“Oh! I am sorry, how very stupid of me!” Adelaide cried gaily. “This is, as you may have rightly guessed, Miss Celia Bradford, who has quickly become my particular friend and will travel with us the rest of the way. Celia dearest, this is Miss Kathryn Williamson, my brother in law’s” (did he wince at that?) “fiancée.”

Kathryn thought she saw Mr. Harrington scowl, but it passed from his countenance so quickly that she could not be sure. (And at any rate, why should he have scowled?) “How do you do, Miss Bradford?” she said politely.

“Please,” Miss Bradford said, coyly, “I beg of you, call me Celia.” “And I in turn prefer Kathryn. All my friends know me by that name. It is indeed

fortunate that we have found another companion in you for the rest of the journey. I am sure some of us are getting bored of each other!” It was said lightly, with another flash of white teeth, and everybody laughed as they should have. Perhaps only two others –one because he was meant to, and the other because he possessed unusual acumen and, for reasons of his own, was intensely interested in the affair– understood the implications which these words were meant to convey.

“No one could tire of any of you, I am sure.” (Did I imagine that quick glance towards Randall? That man is still beaming disgustingly.) “You have, I hear from Adelaide, recently been a trifle ill,” said Celia with an expression of pity, and the corners of her rosebud mouth turned down in sympathy.

“Yes, I have,” said the radiant Kathryn, who at that moment looked as if she could never possibly have been even “a trifle ill” in all of her existence, “and I thank you for your concern. But it was a very small matter, and I trust it will not repeat itself.”

“I am happy to hear it.”

“As we all are,” Mr. Harrington said, loudly (weary of an exchange of nothing but insinuations and double meanings.) He pronounced his words with a sincerity that did Kathryn’s peace of mind no good. Her dark eyes cast him a lustrous and pleased glance.

The arrival of the first dish of their meal dispensed with the greater part of the conversation. Kathryn, who was seated in between Mr. Harrington and Randall (and felt it safer not to say anything to the former, for it might involve them in a deeper conversation in which the others could hardly take part,) ascertained that it was time to make amends with Randall, and began thus, “I hope you have enjoyed your day, Mr. Gleason?”

“I have, I have!” He responded enthusiastically. “Sea air has done me good.” (He is beaming yet; what can be in his thoughts now, I wonder –the purifying nature of the sea air, or something of more interest –the purifying nature of young ladies?) “And you, how has your day been? I have not seen you about since this morning when I came to inquire after you.”

“No, and you would not have, except at lunch, when you were nowhere to be seen; I have been reading a little Shakespeare.”

“Very good, very good,” Randall said without attending to it much, and Kathryn could have thrown up her hands in despair, for normally he abhorred Shakespeare and would have spoken volubly on the subject. (In general he detested fiction of any kind, as it distracted one from the real world. Sadly, though Kathryn disliked Shakespeare on occasion, her reasons could not have strayed further from his. For while Kathryn viewed the writer as a brilliant genius who had channeled his talents sometimes in frustrating and woeful ways, Randall waved him dismissively away altogether –and, as she had reminded Randall often enough if the sensitive subject of Shakespeare ever arose, just because they had reached [almost] the same end did not at all mean they had the same thoughts about him.)

Mischievously, Kathryn wondered if Miss Celia Bradford read Gothic romances, a hobby she herself had never taken up in her aunt’s household. Randall disliked even more romantic novels and almost considered their writers as deserving of the stock.

“Shakespeare?” Mr. Harrington cocked his head, steadfastly not looking at her.“Yes,” Kathryn said gravely, and, satisfied with a glimpse around the table that everyone

was either occupied with the crab-stuffed biscuits drizzled in crème sauce or pursuing his or her own topics of conversation, “the very worst,” she whispered.

“Not-” Mr. Harrington appeared flabbergasted, and the eyes which he resolutely did not turn toward her began to gleam familiarly.

“Yes, you have it right. Romeo and Juliet!” she said dramatically.“Oh, heaven help us!” he groaned, and Kathryn could see that his mouth was struggling

with itself to stay in a firm line of despondency and anguish.Instead of answering, Kathryn busied herself with the task at hand when more platters

arrived at their table, though she was not very hungry and ate precisely and slowly. She had sensed the imminent danger of another discussion of poor, rash Romeo (who has taken much abuse and disparagement since his birth in the sixteenth century, and probably deserves a smidgeon of sympathy) and wished to prolong its coming.

The meal was a light one and came to an end very soon. Mr. Gleason, Adelaide, and Celia exuberantly rejoiced over its short length –meaning, of course, that the dancing would start earlier– and voiced their opinions. Kathryn, hearing this, wondered what a remark such as that there was more to parties in general, and more to enjoying the company of friends or acquaintances, than just dancing, but rightly decided it would make little impression.

“You are not dancing, I presume, due to your recent illness?” Randall questioned of Kathryn. (Must he constantly thrust it before my eyes?)

“No,” she shook her head, “I do not intend to.” She rose from the table, and with no surprise heard Randall earnestly securing Miss Bradford for at least the first two dances.

Mr. Harrington rose also and fell in step with her silently. A sidelong peek at him puzzled Kathryn, for his eyes had hardened, and the muscles of his jaw had tightened; his expression was grim and unreadable. “Shall we sit?” he said, without a hint of humor or geniality, but Kathryn did not take offence. His anger, she could see, was not directed at her.

“Yes, thank you.” She sent him an inquisitive look, and he received it, softening for a moment, but waited until they had sat on a vacant sofa, near a colossal stone fireplace, which all the passengers of the Lucania regarded as the last and perfect triumph to a ship already turning heads in the nautical world, to speak.

“I must apologize for my rudeness. I am ashamed for him. He must know what he does –how could he not know- and yet he continues as if a man in ignorance.”

“Begging your pardon, but I cannot know of what you speak. In plainer language, sir.” Kathryn said determinedly.

“Can’t you?” Mr. Harrington asked, sharper than he meant to. “You do, I know you do. Very well, I will acquiesce. Mr. Randall Gleason is making an absolute fool of himself in front of the entire world, and he dishonors you.”

“He has dishonored me because he has asked someone else to dance? Surely there is no crime in that. And I am sure,” (though it was said with effort and an abysmal lack of conviction,) “that she is a very amiable young woman. I do not –I cannot- begrudge him that he, too, has made this observation.”

”You are too good!” Mr. Harrington murmured fiercely, stirring in his seat. For some moments he sat moodily. “No, no it cannot be so! You must feel something –some sense of what he has done and is doing –that should mortify you to the greatest extent –for it wounds you in a place where you hold everything dear and where no man, if he can help it, should tread lightly.” His voice sank low with fervor.

“I do not understand you,” Kathryn said carefully, still retaining the image of one who is in doubt and still striving to remain painfully polite. “What has he done?”

“This –this sudden inviting of a young woman who before was so wholly unknown to him, without the least knowledge or permission of his fiancée, to whom he should have given the most deference on such a matter! But no- Mr. Randall Gleason did not, I daresay, even think about the impropriety of such an action,” Mr. Harrington said explosively, running his hands through his hair.

It was nice for Kathryn, very nice indeed, that Mr. Harrington showed anger about the affront to her and the indecorousness of Randall’s behavior, for it forced her to think more rationally and calmly than she might have been tempted to otherwise. “Come now, Mr. Harrington,” she said judiciously. “I have known Mr. Gleason long enough that I must rely on his judgment in this case.”

“Thankfully I am at liberty and may choose to rely on it as I please, for I have not that advantage,” said Mr. Harrington stonily. He resumed, almost pleading with her, “But he does you such an injustice-”

Kathryn blushed hotly. He had gone too far now for her to continue to feign anything –rational, placating, or otherwise. “Do you not think me aware of it?” she burst out in quavering emotion. “How could I be unaware of it, and all that it implies? No, imagine me to be anything

but indifferent or insensible!” A single tear slipped out, cooling her cheek, and she bowed her head. “That would be the injustice –that my feelings should be so little regarded, as if I had none to-”

“No, no! You mistake me, Miss Williamson. I could hardly –I would never say, or think, that you did not feel anything as you ought. But you have a nature too good –too amiable– that I thought perhaps your perception –of this situation– might have been clouded had you made allowances for anyone or excuses for certain inexcusable behavior. You have, I have already seen, a knack for seeing the best in people. But I should not have assumed as I did, and for that I am sorry,” he said penitently, his previous anger supplanted by more tender feelings.

Kathryn went on as if unheeded, though his words echoed long after in her mind. “I know what he does, and I have tried to convince myself –I have tried-” She could not go on, knowing herself to be within half a sentence of a flood of tears. She recollected herself, however, saying quietly, “I know it is my right to confront him, but I –I cannot. He has acted so unusually in this, and I feel it would be better if he –if he realized himself what he is doing, and how it is affecting me. That way he is acting as his conscience, rather than mine as his.” She sniffed cautiously.

Mr. Harrington instantly procured a handkerchief from some inner recess of his pockets and held it out to her, muttering something Kathryn could not catch. She thanked him and surreptitiously dabbed her eyes, noticing that the handkerchief was embroidered with his initials, D.G.H., in very pretty script, and all about the edges were climbing vines and an occasional curiously periwinkle rose.

“Ah,” Mr. Harrington said, bashful. “My sister Lara embroidered and gave that to me.” He chuckled, some of his former self returning. “It’s not very –er- manly, but she is not yet fifteen and I know worked very hard on it for my birthday.”

“What loving sisters you must have!” Kathryn said with a bright and brave laugh. She offered him his handkerchief back, but he declined, nearly amicable again.

“Handkerchiefs were made for men to give away,” said he, “and that is my very first present. By and by I’ll tell Lara to make me a new one; it won’t distress her. I think she embroidered it knowing a lady would be the eventual owner anyway, which accounts for the roses,” he smiled, but then seemed ashamed by this admission and quickly changed the subject. “I believe you mentioned earlier as having just read Romeo and Juliet again?”

“Yes, I did.”“And have you formed any other opinions or taken back your rather outlandish claims

made the other night?” He grinned.Kathryn contemplated. “That I cannot say –I do, perhaps, feel a bit sorrier for them in the

end –and that is where most of my criticism lies, merely because Romeo and Juliet ends badly. If it had ended differently, my opinion might have been considerably changed. I do so dislike an unhappy ending. Of course,” Kathryn added as an afterthought, “that is probably not a very original statement. No young lady in her right mind could hope for a sorrowful end to a love story.”

“No indeed,” Mr. Harrington said seriously. “So, what is your final opinion on it then?”“Well, my opinion is certainly better than before,” Kathryn said, “though I will still

contest that Miss Austen’s Mr. Darcy is superior in all other respects.”“Yes,” said Mr. Harrington, but no more. Kathryn wondered at this, for he had always

shown a ready inclination for conversation, but dared not inquire as to the cause of his reticence. Such an inquiry might be within half a sentence of Randall again, and Mr. Harrington’s sentiments did not incline in that man’s favor.

Kathryn looked about her for inspiration. In the tumultuous nature of the evening before, and her preoccupation earlier that day, she had not had time to admire or appreciate her surroundings. As was appropriate for the first-class passengers of the Lucania, the ship had been furnished in tasteful and elegant style. The narrow tables and gilded, cushioned lounging chairs perched atop a great and sweeping wood floor which was polished to severity. The four walls of the saloon were hung with various imposing portraits, presumably several of the captains who had manned the Lucania, and smaller pictures depicting scenes of the greenest hills in France and the most enchanting waterways of Italy.

An immense and many-tiered chandelier weighed down the high ceiling, its jets of flame wavering and glittering among the crystal pieces. Such grandeur Kathryn could not do justice to, as she knew she should, for the room was nothing if not beautifully situated. Everything was garishly snobbish –as if to say, “Yes, I am fit for duchesses, and for dukes, for baronesses, for counts, for princesses –whatever title would do –nay, even for the Queen herself, should she see fit to travel!” It seemed an expression of arrogance to those who did not understand ornamentation like the Italian or finery like the French. Kathryn, scarcely recognizing the conceit of foreign lands which so many grow to love, in time, disdained it.

“You look displeased,” Mr. Harrington said curiously; his eyes, too, roved around the room for the possible source of her displeasure.

“Oh!” Kathryn gasped. She had not been conscious of his observation. “I was –just glancing about the room.”

“Now I see.” Mr. Harrington looked again at their environs. “Yes, I quite agree. For someone like you, who hasn’t traveled and become reconciled to it, it would seem cold and impersonal. And it is, in a way. Doesn’t make you feel very welcome –just as if everything’s cost so much and you had better be respectful of that.”

(Of course he understands. He always understands.) At this realization, Kathryn felt another tie to his kindred heart. Inexplicably it upset her. She said, coldly, “It is most kind of you to sit with me and do no dancing out on the deck. Thank you for your courteous company.”

Mr. Harrington gave her an odd look and stood. “When will you realize, Kathryn, that there are occasions on which kindness simply has nothing whatsoever to do with influencing my actions?” he said with a growl, and walked purposefully away.

Kathryn momentarily prepared herself to be offended at his abruptness, when he returned not a few minutes later with two glasses of punch.

“A peace offering,” he explained with a sheepish grin. “I have hardly been myself lately.”“Thank you, I accept the olive branch,” Kathryn laughed, still mystified. “And I have not

been myself either.” They smiled, mutually, and raised their glasses. “Ah, yes, but that makes perfect sense!” protested Mr. Harrington. “After all, you did fall

ill, quite suddenly last night, and oh-! My greatest apologies for not being in the saloon this morning to wish you well and inquire after your health.” He paused, fingering his glass and moving it from side to side experimentally. “I should have asked you how you were at dinner, but when you came… there seemed to be no doubt of your being in excellent health.”

“It is quite all right; please do not think any more on it.” An impish grin spread across her face. “And besides, I think if I had heard one more, ‘Oh, are you well, we feel for you exceedingly, etcetera, etcetera,’ I would have gone mad or run out of the room screaming. I do not relish people forcing their sympathies upon me when I do not need them or ask for them.”

David chuckled. “No, I can imagine you do not.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between them –but then, each one was much too busy draining the contents of his or her respective glass to possibly have any room or desire for talking. Then, at length – “I can scarcely think in here, it’s so stifling. Would you accompany me to the railing? I have high hopes that we will be able to catch a glimpse of a spectacular sunset,” Mr. Harrington proposed. He took Kathryn’s glass and rose in one fluid movement. “May I offer you my arm so that you needn’t tire yourself?” he said gallantly, his blue eyes sparkling.

Kathryn accepted, facetiously haughty. “Well,” she said, tossing her head expertly as if it was her chief delight and means of expressing herself, “if I had known you were going to insult me…” But she ruined the façade by laughing, and they walked from the floor on very good terms and with none of the tension which had clouded their earlier conversation.

***Mr. Harrington’s hopes were not unfounded. They arrived at the railing just in time for a

glorious and perfect sunset. So breathless was its beauty that neither Mr. Harrington nor Kathryn could find any words. The sky had indeed adorned itself with splendor.

Great billows of clouds stretched themselves across the expanse. The lavender of the wild lilac, the gold of the brightest star, the orange at the quivering tip of a candle’s flame, and the pink of the most delicate and shy rose that ever graced the soil with its blossoming, were all embodied in the brilliancy of the sky –and the sun, oh the sun! That greatest star of stars, which breathes life into even the least of the creatures, and warms the souls of those who have no roof under which to seek shelter, was, in its dying fervor, a beautiful and reverently humbling sight for the pair who watched it slip from the heavens.

At last, Kathryn sighed. “I cannot fathom such beauty,” she murmured.“Nor can I,” rejoined her companion. “Man could never invent such loveliness. It is one

of God’s merciful acts that we are even permitted to look upon such sights as these. I have always been extremely thankful for that. It serves as a grand dose of humility, reminding me how small Man really is and how large he makes himself seem.”

Kathryn gazed at him for a minute, her heart lurching, scrambling, thumping, and in general making a fool out of itself. “Mr. Harrington?” she said.

“Yes?” He turned to look at her, his eyes full of the colors of the sunset.“What do you… what do you really think of Miss Bradford?” she queried, a little

wistfully. Seeing the strange look he gave her, she went on hastily, “I did not, you see, have the good fortune to become acquainted with her last night.”

“What do I really think of her?” Mr. Harrington’s voice was amused. “Would you rather me be polite or candid?”

“I would prefer you to be candid. Politeness does not often have much room in honest opinions.”

“Happy the woman who prefers candor over the nonsensicalness of tact! I, of course, do not have much the advantage over you, for I was not in her company long, but I would say…” Mr. Harrington stopped, thinking. “It is hard, you know, to give my definite opinion; for I am sure I have met hundreds of Miss Bradford’s around the world and will meet many more. She is one of those well-looking, educated, prettily-spoken, genteel ladies found all over England. I did not talk to her –and downright avoided it, sometimes– but I got the distinct impression that she had learned a good deal, from her studies, and from reading –but that she actually knew precious little. Poor girl. I would even venture to say that she has not had one original thought throughout her lifetime. But that is unkind of me… And what, may I ask, is your opinion of her?”

“I –I have no definite one –as I said, I have not had time to form one –that is why I asked for yours. And besides, I would be too prejudiced,” she confessed, blushing a little. “But just from my first impression, she seems very nice, and agreeable.”

“You are too good,” Mr. Harrington said quietly.“No, I am not!” Kathryn answered passionately. “You mistake my reserve, as you did

earlier. I could say many things –many wicked and heartless and very unjust things which would only spring from, I daresay, jealousy, but prudence has taught me not to give into such temptations. No.” She sighed. “I fear that I have little goodness, only a reluctance to speak ill of others when I cannot judge them objectively for myself.” She half-laughed, but it was not a humorous laugh. “That is one thing my aunt has taught me, at least.” She did not look at him as she spoke, but sought the enchanted murmur of the waves, which had lost their rosy glow. The sun had set.

“Are you on good terms with your aunt and uncle?” “You could say that, yes.” Kathryn said, traces of bitterness tainting her voice. “They

have been very… very good to me, over the years, since my parents died. My uncle always sought to cheer me when I was unhappy, though I scarcely saw him.” Her eyes took on a dream-like quality as she saw the past. “Sometimes, on days on which I thought that everything had gone wrong, he would invite me into his study to have a little chat. He sat in a plain, hard chair then, but would always let me sit in a very large and red one, which as a little girl I used to think I could disappear in, it was so immense. He wouldn’t ask me –exactly what was wrong, or even mention the subject at all, but instead told grand stories of his childhood and fed me too many peppermints, and even on occasion would let me ‘help’ organize his business papers.”

Kathryn twisted her hands together, and gazed upon them, gloveless, and said softly, “And -I am sure my aunt –tried to love me. I never knew she didn’t, as a child, I just always knew that –there was something missing which should have been there; the affection a relative should naturally have for a child. Perhaps if my parents had lived longer, she would have grown to love me. But to her I was a burden, and, most probably, a reminder that she had no children of her own. I cannot blame her for that. And,” she unexpectedly grinned, “I suppose there is one reason why I am not reconciled to her treatment of me.”

Mr. Harrington had listened silently and thoughtfully, but now broke in with, “And what is that?”

“Are you sure you want hear this story? It is very, very sad and has an ending which would break as it has done mine,” Kathryn said solemnly.

“I am, I assure you, awaiting it with the utmost interest, even more so now.” The other promised.

“Well, as a girl I always wanted a dog very much, and just before my parents died, they had promised me one. In my early days of being with my aunt and uncle, I –not knowing how to fear authority, only to respect and honor it– boldly asked my aunt if it could be so, as my parents would have given me one anyway. There is just something about dogs… their selfless loyalty, their soft eyes, their whole-hearted devotion, which made me long for one. But my aunt would not consent. She said that dogs were not polite creatures, and meant only for sport. It took me a good many years to forgive her that, and I have not had a dog since.”

“But surely –as you have your own estate now, that could easily be remedied.”Kathryn smiled at him ruefully. “That, of course, is the saddest part –for when I did come

home with a puppy, just a few weeks ago, I could not keep him –because my housekeeper is violently allergic to dogs! It sounds funny, now –but I did not know what to do then. Fortunately

dear old Carl, my head-gardener, stepped in and out of unusual kindness offered to take him instead. And even if I were to fire my housekeeper –which would be terrible, for she has been managing the estate without an inhabitant for a number of years– there is Randall to contend with. He hates dogs. So I suppose, in a way, I am destined never to own one.”

“Dogs are wonderful companions,” said Mr. Harrington. “You are right in claiming that to be a very, very sad story. And to come so close to getting one –just before your parents passed away– must have been awful.” He paused. “Forgive me for asking after something so personal, and I’ve no rhyme or reason to explain away my rudeness besides chronic curiosity, but- how well did you know your parents before they- died?”

Kathryn smiled. “I do not mind answering. I confess, much to my sorrow, that I do not remember much of them –but what I do remember is very happy. My mother I can always see in my mind as being busy. There was never a moment where she was not without something to do –a new sowing pattern for a quilt, visiting the poor and giving them aid, hosting parties or balls –everything. My father used to laugh at her, and tease her for it, and I am sure he would never have liked to be so occupied. The only memories I have of him are in an armchair, smoking a pipe, and reading the newspaper at least twice a day. But I could tell they loved each other very much. They didn’t –say it, but it was in every look and small, little thing, that struck me even as a young child. I cried for days on end once I had heard they were both dead.”

“And they died at the same time?”“Yes, or nearly so. The doctor thought that my mother perhaps had contracted some fever

or curiously dangerous malady from visiting one of the poor people –and my father, also, caught it. As did I, in fact. It was a miracle that I came out alive, for I was delirious, they say, and could comprehend nothing. The first words I understood were that my father and mother were gone, and that I was to live with my aunt and uncle.” Kathryn’s eyes dimmed at the recollection, and she said shakily, “I do not know why I should be so affected by it now –it’s been such a long time!”

“I am sorry; it is all my own bad manners for bringing the subject up. But I fear I have no more handkerchiefs to give you,” Mr. Harrington apologized, and Kathryn laughed.

“Yes, I thank you. The one which you were so kind as to give me already more than serves its purpose.” She asked in recovering cheerfulness, “And what are your parents like? I have only yet heard of your mother.”

“Ah, you remember me telling you of her?” Mr. Harrington seemed pleased. “It is my personal belief that they drive each other raving mad. My mother’s habits of constantly picking up whatever my father has just put down, even if he has set it aside for only a minute or two, can make him froth at the mouth –while, conversely, when he leaves things carelessly strewn about (we have unusually lazy maids –but I wouldn’t blame them, it is all my mother’s doing, for she never leaves them any work to do) my mother is liable to take one of his good riding boots and throw it out the window. She might, eventually.” He chuckled jollily. “But for all that -and when neither is voraciously cleaning or scattering belongings, I know them to be very content with one another.”

“And you have two sisters, I believe?”“Yes, I have. I already told you that Lara is fourteen, and Rebecca, the elder of the two, is

seventeen. We all used to quarrel infamously, and Lara and Rebecca still do, or at any rate, they did when I left; but now I am on the best of terms with both of them –probably because I have very recently removed to my own estate, Rosewood, which I inherited from my great-uncle not six months ago.”

“You are very blessed with your family, Mr. Harrington,” Kathryn said. “I am,” affirmed Mr. Harrington. “Yes, I am blessed. I have a beautiful house and family,

the dearest friend in the world, on whose judgment I constantly rely, and a wealth of interesting tenants to keep me occupied.”

(Dearest friend?) Thought Kathryn contemplatively, but said, “Is it not a little cool out here? Would you mind very much leaving the wind?”

“Not at all,” He suddenly looked at her hands, which were bare and, he thought chivalrously, cold. He considered for the smallest space of a moment warming her fingers more actively in his own (which pulsed with heat) but was idiotically reminded of some fragment of a line, spoken by Romeo, about gloves and hands…

And this, somehow, reminded himself of all that he had done, was doing, and was about to do. He stepped back, intensely horrified with himself, and saw clearly the only path which he must next take.

Mr. Harrington opened his mouth only to shut it again, and on his features was plainly written signs of great distress. “Miss Williamson,” his manner –his whole person– was strained, “I must leave you now. I am –terribly sorry, but I cannot continue –I cannot. Good evening.” he finished, mortified beyond coherence, and bowed deeply.

It was the bow that unstrung Kathryn. She could be still, astonishingly and resolutely still, at any word he would utter –but a bow- so formal and stiff, a stranger’s bow!- she could not endure with any form of equanimity. “Mr. Harrington –please- what have I done?”

“Nothing,” Mr. Harrington was nearly thunderstruck by the self-accusatory nature of the question. “You have done nothing.”

“Then, pray, explain your extraordinary behavior!” For it seemed to Kathryn that he was behaving very bizarrely, and since she could conjure up no enlightenment for herself, she quickly became angry, and bright spots of color painted her cheeks.

“Miss Williamson,” Mr. Harrington shook his head, mournfully. “I wish I could tell you –oh, I wish I could!- but I am not free to do so.” He turned, but did not walk away. Instead, he continued in a very low voice, “Miss Williamson, I am afraid –I am afraid that I mustn’t talk to you so privately nor so openly from now on. It is not right –considering your rather delicate position –and it has been wrong of me to be so much in exclusively your company for the past few days. You will forgive me, and forgive me also that I did not explain more completely just now –but I hoped to spare-” He shook his head once more.

Kathryn whispered, so quietly it was almost indistinguishable, “Thank you for telling me.”

“No,” Mr. Harrington persisted grimly. “You have nothing to thank me for.”

Chapter Eleven- What’s to Be Done?

Mr. Harrington left Kathryn in a more flustered state than she had ever been. What he had said was perfectly reasonable, perfectly true, and perfectly gentlemanly. It was the right course of action –she had seen that immediately while he had been speaking. And she had speculated, briefly, why she had not been herself attentive to the fact that spending so much time with Mr. Harrington alone (albeit among a large group of other passengers) was not in keeping with the usual rules of society.

That this had wholly escaped her attention was a source of grave concern. And even if it had occurred to her –would she have been brave enough to voice her worries to Mr. Harrington?

(No, I would not have told him –I could not have. I would not have had the courage or the presence of mind.)

All at once Kathryn became very aware that it had grown quite dark and that the only light emanated from the kerosene lamps of the walkway and the grim moon and the far-off flickers aiding the dancers. She glanced toward them indifferently, searching for the forms of Randall and his golden-haired partner and, seeing them –seeing Randall glance at her uncomprehendingly, and then at the fair lady in his arms– she moved away and back to her rooms.

Hilda was waiting –she was always to be found, it seemed, embroidering some cushion or other- and was wise enough to make no inquiries when Kathryn came in with an expression more somber and pained than any which had ever crossed her face as an independent woman. Hilda merely said, “I’ll run you a bath, dear,” and went in that direction.

So Kathryn had her bath and dressed in a silk nightgown. When she was completely ready to retire for the night and had climbed onto the bed, Hilda blew out the one candle which still illuminated the room, casting eerie shadows on the wallpaper and bid Kathryn a good night’s rest. She softly closed the doors behind her, and Kathryn was left alone.

She loved him. In the dark, with no practical being to dispel any such thoughts with the salted sense of

rational thinking, it was a fact which presented itself before Kathryn inescapably. While in the sun, or with other people, it was easy to disregard such a thought or shrug it off carelessly. But no sunlight could now dim her to her innermost thoughts –no person to whom she might speak of other, trifling matters which would bury this most important matter well below the surface.

No, alone in the dark, everything bubbled up to the surface of Kathryn’s consciousness which was meant to stay hidden deep within the recesses of her heart. There was no denying it. It had been so, had it not, from the very first? Had not he captured her heart in every respect –in every way possible, taking from her what she thought already safe in the hands of another?

But she must not love him. She could not love him. It was a large, seemingly insurmountable impediment to the life before her, and yet she could –she must– conquer it. Kathryn was confident that she could –in the daytime, at least. During the day, fearless and proud, Kathryn could squash that feeling –that feeling which now seemed as much a part of herself as her left arm– under an oppressive weight of Other Things. It was the night which she would fear –the night, where everything revealed itself and showed her truths which she did not want to see.

(It’s so –so horribly unfair, falling in love with someone when you’re engaged to someone else! I didn’t mean to- I didn’t want to- I was perfectly content for everything to be just as it was, until-until he told me that I looked dreadful, and perhaps it was then that I truly knew –then that I first discovered that I had given myself to a man too early and exposed myself unheedingly –to a frostbitten end.)

How foolish she had been! How blindingly and unerringly foolish! To suppose that everyone felt love –differently, which was still true in a way, perhaps, but not in the way that she had been thinking; for love, at its core, was very much the same thing in every situation and for everyone. And what had she felt at Randall’s attentions? She had been flattered, yes, and pleased, yes, immensely so -that such a handsome and distinguished man as Randall Gleason should single her out –and had she truly been ignorant enough to call that pleased vanity of hers a product of love? What spark of passion, of real feeling had she ever felt for Randall beyond gratitude –beyond the commonplace affection of another friend?

She now knew herself to be capable of the kind of love that poets write about when they have exhausted all other enterprises and turn to that inflammatory subject, the kind of love that –yes, she would admit it- the kind of love that Juliet had cherished for Romeo, which had prompted her to plunge the dagger into her breast and fall dead and heartbroken over his motionless body. How was she, then, to forsake that love –which throughout history had tortured man and woman, friend and foe, warrior and writer alike?

But she could think no more of it! It must be put from thought, and from mind, and even from sub-consciousness, if that were possible (Kathryn could doubt its possible-ness, in the dark,) for it was cruelly and viciously unjust to Randall. And she, furthermore, could do this with more efficiency because Mr. Harrington could not love her in return. She knew this with the certainty that all members of the female gender will contest when cogitating about a man’s feelings for them. Under no circumstances does he ever return a woman’s regard for him.

(Although it does puzzle me as to why he left so suddenly and with such words, unless his reasons given were, indeed, the only ones, but then-) Kathryn stopped, her heart beginning to beat at a sickeningly fast rate. Was it possible that he detected the feelings which she had so newly discovered in herself and had been chivalrous enough to try to cool them? Was that why he had been so reluctant to explain himself? Did he really suspect that she possessed more than admiration for him? It was a horrible contemplation, and yet to Kathryn it seemed as the only plausible explanation for his agitation.

This set her on a fresh course of action. She would ignore Mr. Harrington. If he had any such suspicions (and it now seemed very likely that he did) she could do nothing better than to banish them wholly and utterly from his head. It was not a particularly pleasant task on which she was now bent. For ignoring Mr. Harrington (and the ingenious part of ignoring him was that it would not be noticed -not at first- because she would, of course, always and ever dispense with the pleasantries which a lady of any place in society must, but in the frostiest and most indifferent manner possible,) meant that she would have to turn her attention more readily on Randall… which, at that present moment in time, also might mean that Miss Bradford, too would grudgingly garner some of Kathryn’s unoccupied attentions.

It was no matter. Kathryn was confident that she could win Randall back, easily, for had Mr. Harrington himself not said that there were “hundreds of Miss Bradford’s” to be met with? And there was, certainly, only one Kathryn Williamson –so naturally it stood to reason that Randall would remember that he had a rare jewel indeed in his possession and forego his temporary attraction to a pearl of the lake-waters, a common find in its place at every jeweler’s shop.

And had not someone said, Kathryn thought as she settled deeper amongst her covers, rather sleepily, for planning something which was against her character and her feelings required energy, had not someone said that if you did something, and repressed other things, eventually you would believe in the first something and the other things would cease to be? It was rather confusing logic, and purposefully vague, and Kathryn had for the greater portion of her contemplations been thinking unlike her usual self, but it made some degree of sense. Kathryn drifted to sleep with this in mind.

***When Kathryn awoke, it was with a profound headache. She did not have to think very

hard or very long (and she wished to do neither) to discover its source. She groaned and tossed; and, as an unruly child, stolidly refused to open her eyes for several minutes.

“Are you all right, Kathryn?” Hilda said.Kathryn mumbled something which, after short consideration, she wisely decided not to

repeat. “I am fine. I just have a bit of a headache; that is all,” she said finally, cracking one eye open to see what Hilda was doing –embroidering something, of course. (Must she always have a needle in hand?) “Is there any breakfast yet?” She continued, rather grumpily.

“Yes, there has been breakfast for some time, dear,” said Hilda. “You have slept very late, but I thought it best not to disturb you.”

“Slept –late?” Kathryn said, sitting up quite suddenly and opening the other eye –instantly regretting that she had moved swiftly due to her aching head. “How late?”

“It is nearly eleven o’ clock,” replied Hilda composedly. “Eleven o’ clock?” Kathryn stared stupidly before her at the bedposts. “Good heavens,

it’s nearly time for lunch!” She scrambled out of the bed only to lean upon it again when she realized she was wobbling. Her headache had made her weak and dizzy.

Kathryn staggered over to the breakfast-table and ate with a healthy appetite. As she ate and her headache dwindled, she was reminded of all her thoughts during the night. As she had, rightly, predicted, they all seemed paltry and rather childish in the morning. (Well, not all of them –but this wayward thought was instantly caught and stuffed under several others.) To think that she had been planning to ignore Mr. Harrington! Kathryn laughed at herself inwardly. Of course, she need not go out of her way to talk to him, pointedly, or direct any more-than-usually witty remark in his direction, but that was out of respect for his wishes, and in recognition that they were the right wishes to have.

“How do you feel?” called Hilda from the other end of the room.“Much better, thank you. Do you have any suggestions as to what gown I should wear for

the remainder of the morning and day?”“I rather thought to leave that to your discretion, dear,” remarked Hilda, “if you feel up to

choosing yourself, that is.” Her words were laced with sarcasm.“Actually –do you think it would be too shocking if I stayed in my bed-clothes all day in

order to escape putting on a morning dress?”“I do indeed!” Hilda exhibited signs of acute stress and placed a hand over her surely

palpitating heart. She looked at Kathryn as though the young woman had sprouted wings and was proposing they fly the rest of the journey to New York. “Bless me, have you taken leave of your senses? Such a scandal which would arise-”

“Oh!” Kathryn interrupted, seeing her error. “I did not mean go out while in such attire. I only wish to stay in here and read –and I am sure it would not be too much trouble if I had my lunch sent here.”

“Ah, I see now.” Hilda relaxed, and her nervous palpitations ceased. “I think that, though, irregular, there would be nothing –improper about it. But if someone were to call for you-”

“I would, most conveniently, be out or unable to be disturbed. You know the way of these things more than I do, Hilda, and how to excuse me from seeing anyone in the nicest and most polite manner possible.”

Hilda agreed that she probably did know.“So, it is all settled!” Kathryn cried, “I shall occupy myself any way I can until evening,

and you may come, and go, or both, as you please.”“Very well, dear,” Hilda said, and went back to her embroidering with a definite crease

lining her face. Whatever had come over Kathryn as of late–falling ill one day, and walking in looking like the fabled Persephone, who went to the Underworld and just barely returned, the

next day- was unfathomably peculiar, and certainly surpassed her understanding or ability to mend –and so Hilda mended her stitches in compensation.

They passed several dreary hours in this manner of silent activity –and lunch was brought, and eaten dutifully; tea came punctually at four o’clock, with Kathryn looking darkly at the completely inappropriate tea-set pattern –but these disturbances by no means hastened the clock. Kathryn could not find it in herself to read; she only picked up a volume to put it down again, and Romeo and Juliet she had impulsively shoved underneath several other books which she had brought only for times of true desperation. And indeed if Shakespeare had known that his most beloved love story was wedged between a Latin textbook from latter university days and Dante’s Divine Comedy, he might have rolled over in his grave with a profound moan.

She could not, in truth, find anything to do except fidget. Once she attempted to follow Hilda’s example and embroider a present for a friend’s newborn daughter, and once she paused to write letters to her dear university friends –useless letters which were crumpled soon after their inception; banal in their expressions of, “We’re all having a marvelous time, everything is so lovely, we all wish you could journey by sea, there is so much to do, I am afraid I don’t have much time to write, etcetera, etcetera,” but Kathryn was thoroughly disgusted with herself for inventing such poppycock –and their place in the waste-bin was well-deserved.

Her thoughts seemed to be constantly straying towards what they ought not to be straying towards; so she tried to think of nothing, which did not succeed, and then of anything else –which worked a little better. She thought of flowers, and her wonderful garden at Worthing, and of the half-German, half-English Carl, who had a hundred stories about every plant he had ever tended, and nurtured –how in his younger days in service for a grand duke, Queen Victoria herself had praised his hydrangea bushes… and of her very first piano tutor, Mr. Greenwald, who scolded her if she did not sit very straight, “as rigid as a queen must be all through her coronation,” and of his improvisations on the music of masters –of Chopin’s Fantasie-Impromptu and Liszt’s Liebestraum …of her grandfather, with his pipe from which came a long, curling stream of blueish smoke, patting her head absentmindedly as he buried himself in his ironed morning paper… and of Rachel Sullivan and Charity Beech, her dearest friends from Somerville –Rachel, an American enrolled as an international student because she was determined to become an excellent teacher, and impart the joy of learning into her students’ souls, who had scrimped and saved the pittance that was her allotted sum per annum –and Charity, one of the happiest and most fortunate creatures ever made, going for the sole reason that her father wanted a well-educated daughter, and not even for her own wishes at all; Rachel, who talked of nothing but her studies, and the anxieties of wondering if a pair of woolen stockings would last the winter, and Charity, who talked of nothing but the excitement of meeting others, and attending parties, and yet, too, was worried that she pass the final examinations, to please her father…

So deeply entrenched in the recent past was Kathryn that Hilda nearly had to shake her to tell her that it was the proper time to dress in suitable (she put particular, if unnecessary, emphasis on this word) apparel for the evening.

Visions still loomed before Kathryn’s eyes of scholarly books and fantastic flowers, but she responded obediently and readily enough –until a sudden thought disturbed her serenity and jolted her onto the ship again. “Hilda –Randall was not waiting yesterday for me when I went out, was he?” It was a question which needn’t have been asked, for Kathryn’s memory was quite as good, if not better than the average female’s when wondering about certain details or certain

people –but she wanted to be absolutely sure of the fact before putting another mark against his favor.

“No, I believe he was not waiting.”Kathryn frowned. “I thought not,” she said to herself, and then to Hilda as there emerged

from a trunk a frothy blue gown, “Oh, no, anything but that!” Registering that Hilda regarded her strangely when met with such peculiar vehemence over what she was to wear, she said, airily, “I’m not feeling like blue. I should prefer a green gown, in fact. Perhaps, yes, that light one –with the long sleeves and charming bow at the back?”

Within half an hour, and pressed for time (she fussed and complained more than usual over her hair, and whether to wear the silver emerald pendant or the golden eagle was a decision of hellish proportions,) Kathryn rushed out of the room and down the hall. She might have quickened her pace, but a familiar voice beckoned her to slow down.

Chapter Twelve- A Perfectly Harmless Game of Bridge

Curiously, it was Randall. “Why, hello, Kathryn, wait a moment!” he had yelled, but not unpleasantly.

He was alone –and to Kathryn this was very surprising. She did not conceal the fact. “Randall! I thought you might already be in the saloon by now; I thought that I was a little late.”

“No, no, just on time, just on time.” In his whole manner and air there was suppressed excitement. “Perhaps your clock is a little bit off in its precision.”

“Perhaps.”“Kathryn,” Randall stopped walking and turned towards her. “I want to apologize to

you.”“Oh?” (Now, he will prove the gentleman that he truly is and confess his undying love for

me and that he has been temporarily blinded by the wiles of another and that he shall never, ever do so again and was quite foolish to have in the first place.) “For what do you want to apologize?”

“I must apologize for not arriving to escort you sooner –for I passed by the music room and was fortunate enough to help Miss Bradford straighten out a particularly perplexing spot on her music score at the piano forte.”

“Miss Bradford-piano forte- Randall, you play the piano?” (What nerve he has! To mention her name casually, as casually as he just did without the

slightest hint of there being anything wrong about it. There is one thing I can be sure about –it is that Miss Bradford probably knew that music score by rote and could have played it in her sleep.)

“Yes,” Randall answered calmly, oblivious to her disbelief. “I find it strange that you did not know that, Kathryn. I could almost have sworn that I told you.”

“Indeed I am quite astonished –and sure that I have never heard such an admission from your mouth.”

They had reached the saloon, and their conversation had come to a close –Kathryn had just enough time to notice, dismally, that their party was composed of exactly the same persons as the night before, in the same arrangement– when Mrs. Caroline Farrow hurried up.

After Kathryn introduced her companions to each other, Mrs. Farrow did not hesitate to state her purpose in hastening to catch them. “Would you do my husband and me the honor of sitting with our own little party tonight?”

“Oh!” Kathryn, much surprised and pleased, turned to Randall and was about to speak when he said—

“You are free to go –I should like to be –that is –my brother and I have a little business we would wish to discuss. But please, do not let me stop you from dining with them.” He bowed to Mrs. Farrow. “Thank you for the invitation,” said he politely, and walked away.

A little confused but contriving not to seem so, Kathryn smiled uncertainly. “I suppose that’s settled, then.”

“And so it is!” Mrs. Farrow triumphed in satisfaction. “I was so very much wishing you would consent to dine with us! You see, both Rosie and Meredith have decided that they unqualifiedly adore you, and I do already, of course, and we have all been utterly anxious to secure you this evening –but you’ve been nowhere to be seen! Where have you been?”

“Oh –just in my room, resting,” Kathryn responded vaguely. “I hope you are rested enough. The children will be delighted and no doubt will express

themselves on the subject most overpoweringly, as you are the best companion I or them could ever have found! But poor Mr. Farrow, he hasn’t found a decent friend on board excepting Mr. Harrington, and you, sly thing, have a way of making that man follow you –but oh! I shouldn’t have said that!” Mrs. Farrow said, anxiously, for she had seen the sharp and alert way in which Kathryn greeted this news. “We have been thinking of playing Bridge today, after dinner, would you like to join us?”

“I don’t know –it’s been a very long time since I-”Kathryn was interrupted by a sweet and jubilant little cry of, “Miss Williamson, you did

come! Mummy said you would!” Rosie seemed quite elated that her latest heroine had honored them all with her presence. The news of her illness had ineffably set Kathryn in her mind as a mysterious and very interesting personage, and next to her dearest Mummy, Rosie was sure that there was no one on earth “beautifuler” than Kathryn.

“Yes, I have come!” said Kathryn gaily, bestowing a bright smile upon the young and pretty damsel. “I am very glad to see you again! What have you been about today?”

“I would warn you, Miss Williamson, that once you ask Rosie a question you are likely to get a thousand answers,” muttered Mr. Farrow conspiratorially. His wife elbowed him in the rib as a fit rebuke, but he just gave her a good-natured grin and wondered when they were to be served their first course.

Dinner was very happy for Kathryn, and for her little worshiper, who gave at least a thousand and one answers for every question. It was over too soon for Rosie, however, whose bed-time was impending fast –she had been told it would be when the dancing began. This put her out of temper for a brief spell, and not long afterwards to the amusement of her listeners, she proclaimed stubbornly, “Well, I like bed-time, for it means I don’t have to act so nice when I’m sleeping!”

“No, indeed, dear, you don’t,” Mrs. Farrow said gravely. She had trained herself never to laugh at any of Rosie’s natural foibles as an intelligent and inquisitive little girl. Mrs. Farrow turned to Kathryn. “We will leave now, for perhaps half an hour, but when we are back I expect to find a lady ready to try her hand at cards!”

“I do not know, for I-” But Kathryn got no further as family duty beckoned, and Mr. and Mrs. Farrow left with their two children. Kathryn gazed after them, smiling and observing privately that to have a family was a precious and wonderful gift.

She soon moved up to the deck, choosing to sit alone, and not unhappily watching the dances in progress. Very soon a young, good-looking man approached, apparently in the hopes

that he might be her partner. Kathryn was on the point of saying no, and that she was very sorry but did not intend to dance that evening after a slight indisposition –when the sight of Mr. Harrington dancing with Miss Bradford arrested her attention and gave birth to a labyrinthine feeling as old, as implacable, as unmistakable, as time alone.

Thus had Rachel looked upon Leah when Jacob foolishly married the one instead of the other; thus had Psyche’s sisters furiously seen her arrayed in splendor and majesty by the hand of a god; thus had Emma beheld Harriet, unconscious of the horrible and irrational dislike which had risen upon in the breast of her benefactress when Harriet declared her love for Mr. Knightley; and thus did Kathryn look upon the girl with whom Mr. Harrington danced.

Without hesitation she turned to the patiently waiting man. “Yes,” she said, with the most engaging smile which she could command and, as she knew Mr. Harrington had glanced her way, it had a particular charm. The young man then took her hand, and led her to the floor, and was rewarded tenfold for his simple and honest question to the lovely young lady who had been sitting alone and unaccompanied.

Kathryn was almost sure that she and her partner chatted, as they danced, though she could not have stated the topic or her replies –but she was more certain that Mr. Harrington’s eyes rested occasionally on her. She did not disappoint him.

As a star in the heavens would look dancing with a mortal on earth, so was Kathryn in this man’s arms. She smiled at him dazzlingly, laughed so charmingly at just the right moments, found all that he said delightful –and, above all, did not fail to capture the attention of him who she sought and repelled at once.

The poor man walked away from the dance as one inebriated and unaware of his surroundings; and Kathryn, taking note of this as she sat down again, was just a little bit sorry and hoped that he did not permanently suffer.

She was very ashamed of herself, afterwards, and could not quite believe that she had been –there was no getting around it- leading that poor gentleman on so as to agitate quite another. But Kathryn was not so ashamed as to wish that she had not done it and that she would not do it again –and though her conscience was uneasy, her heart was less so, and she was thankful, at least, for that.

***Calculating the possible outcomes of suggesting to Carl the gardener that she envisioned

a rhododendron bush in the place of a large, white-washed urn (Kathryn was again back to thinking about flowers; and it was not a decision to be made lightly, for Carl took any change not thought of by himself as a personal affront,) she was disturbed once more in her musings by the frantic gesticulations of Mrs. Farrow from across the way.

The other, seeing that Kathryn could not divine her meaning, eventually abandoned all hand-motions and rushed forward. “Miss Williamson, have you quite forgot? You promised us so faithfully that you would play.”

She took hold of Kathryn’s wrist and, leaving her speechless for several moments, pulled her down the steps and back into the saloon again where several card-tables had been set up for the convenience of the passengers. To one of these card-tables Mrs. Farrow guided Kathryn, and exclaimed at the other’s reluctance, “My dear Kathryn, you must hurry and let us begin a rubber! There is a deplorable scarcity of partners!”

But Kathryn had no intention of playing –she disliked cards and, what was more, seated at that card-table (she might have expected it, for a game of Bridge required two pairs) beside

Mr. Farrow –was Mr. Harrington. “I am afraid you are mistaken,” she said. “I did not promise to play cards.”

“Oh, but you must!” inserted Mr. Farrow. “We need a fourth.”Kathryn laughed carelessly. “Well, if it is only a fourth you need, I am sure you can get a

better one somewhere about. I am a terrible Bridge player. And,” (with a meaningful glance at Mr. Harrington), “I would not wish to inconvenience anyone with my presence. So you see it is quite impossible to persuade me,” she ended, convincingly cheerful, and began to move away with the alacrity of one accustomed to having far too many pressing engagements to waste time in idle and profitless chatter.

Mr. Harrington, however, had risen from his seat, nearly upsetting his chair and started hastily walking after her. “Miss Williamson,” he said earnestly and hardly in good temper, “what is the meaning of this?”

“What is the meaning of what?” Kathryn feigned confusion. “I have merely said that I am a bad Bridge player, which is quite true, and whoever was to be my partner would have been very sorry that I was ever persuaded to join in.”

“I don’t believe you,” Mr. Harrington said. They were speaking in near-whispers, but every word said rang out clearly.

“I beg your pardon!” Kathryn fumed. “Are you not honor-bound to take my word as the truth? And I should have thought that you have a very high opinion of honor.”

“That is unjust,” Mr. Harrington snapped, coloring. “If I did not know you better, I would have said that was the remark of someone who has left her senses very far behind.”

“And if I did not know you better, I would have said that that was the remark of someone who has left his manners with his hat. You insult me, sir, and I have nothing further to say to you!” cried Kathryn indignantly, about to turn and leave.

“Wait a moment and stop being ridiculous.”“I am the one who is being ridiculous? I am not the person who left his chair and is

nearly making a scene at this very moment when just last night, you made it very clear to me that you never wished to speak to me again. Is that not sufficient information enough to cool you for wanting me as a partner? I remind you of your words.”

Mr. Harrington was not in any way prepared for this. “I cease to understand you! My words did not in any way convey what you have just accused me of –I was merely pointing out to you the –er- dangers and why it was not wise. You told me that you understood, and I thought you had understood my meaning, but clearly that is not so.”

“I did.” Kathryn sighed, no longer irate or even irritated, only tired. “I did –and I do understand. I am sorry- I was– yes, I was being ridiculous.”

Mr. Harrington suddenly grinned. He had a habit of boyishly grinning when it was least expected of him, and all of his anger vanished as well. “And I cannot but admit to being more so than you. I should have made my opinions clearer. It is not that I have no desire to converse with you –quite the –quite the contrary, in fact. But I just felt that it would be better if-”

“Yes, yes, you needn’t go into all that again,” Kathryn interrupted quietly. She said in better humor, “You must allow for some peculiarity in my manner, Mr. Harrington. Remember that this is my first time traveling. Who knows but that the sea air has affected me for ill?”

“Who indeed,” Mr. Harrington echoed grievously. “Now, let me start afresh in my original purpose. Could I entreat you, Miss Williamson, to play a perfectly harmless game of Bridge with a few friends? We would very much appreciate it.”

“Perhaps…” Kathryn relented. “But despite clearing this small matter up, the fact that I am truly not a spectacular bridge player still remains.”

“We shall see, we shall see,” Mr. Harrington said, leading her over to the table where sat two very curious people who had watched their discourse unfold with no undue interest. “But as your partner, I can tell you confidentially that I am quite possibly the worst player in this world. Perhaps our poor skills will somehow combine into brilliancy and we will manage to win a few rubbers.”

“Perhaps,” Kathryn smiled. “But I would not pin all my hopes on that knowledge if I were you–and you can have no cause to say that you were not warned if and when we do embarrass ourselves.”

Mr. Harrington merely shook his head.

***It was nearly two hours later when the foursome agreed that they had played enough

Bridge to last a lifetime, or even several lifetimes. Kathryn was not as bad as she made out –although Mr. Harrington, poor man, had not been exaggerating his badness too much– and between them they did manage to win here and there. Overall, though, the honors went to the married couple, Mr. and Mrs. Farrow, who were clearly experienced and must have spent many hours whiling away the time with Bridge –or so Mr. Harrington had conjectured resentfully following a particularly embarrassing defeat.

“You know, I believe they cheated!” announced Mr. Harrington, after the last rubber was played –which he and his fair partner lost.

“You just might be right.” Kathryn eyed the other two suspiciously. “Perhaps it is because they are married and can now read each other’s mind, which I would indeed, for lack of a better word in the English language, call cheating.”

Mrs. Farrow laughed. “Oh, you may accuse us of cheating all you like, but in the end Bridge is won by those who have been playing the longest.”

“As you have so proved,” noted Mr. Harrington sourly.“As we have so proved,” agreed Mr. Farrow, and they all laughed heartily.“I should –join my fiancé,” Kathryn said suddenly, for she saw that he was –

unbelievably– sitting alone on one of the sofas. “Thank you so much for the lovely time –even if it did not turn out quite as Mr. Harrington or I could wish.”

She bade them good-night, fastidiously avoided meeting Mr. Harrington’s gaze, and walked over to where Randall sat. From his posture, and in his expression, Kathryn could tell that he had had a most satisfactory night. Any misgivings about abandoning him for less grim company instantly disappeared.

“Kathryn!” Randall spoke with geniality. “I was rather hoping you would come over here and sit with me.”

“Were you?”“Yes, of course,” he said as she took a seat beside him. “How was your evening, dear?”“I found it-” Kathryn searched for a phrase which would harmonize with Randall’s

thinking, “I found it very rewarding, altogether, and I am happy to say that the little dancing I did has in no way made me feel fatigued.”

“Oh, that is good news! I can’t, of course, have my future bride looking more peaked upon our return to England than on our way out. That wouldn’t do at all.” Randall shook his head.

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t,” Kathryn commiserated, glad that he still remembered that he did have a future bride and that that future bride had hair that was not the color of daffodils. “And your evening, did you enjoy yourself?” She had, with some relief, seen that he had spent a considerable portion of it talking with several gentlemen.

“It was all right, I suppose.”They lapsed into silence; Randall had nothing to say, while Kathryn knew exactly what

she wanted to say, but was not sure if she should, and decided to plunge ahead with it anyway. “Randall, why did you ask me to marry to you?”

“What did you say?”Kathryn repeated her question. “What a curious creature you are, to spring that upon me now, of all times! Well –I

suppose I asked you because you were different from the other young ladies, and not flighty, and at times you can be very sensible, and your personal attractions, as you have been told many times, I believe, are great, and-”

“Did you not –do you not- also have feelings for me?” asked Kathryn, timidly. He sounded as if he was describing her in an advertisement. And he very well might have been! (“Young woman, twenty one; sensible and down to earth, sometimes inclined to have a temper, well-educated, thoughtful, personal attractions thought to be very great.”)

“Of course I have a great deal of regard and admiration for you,” Randall said promptly.“But what about love?” Kathryn pressed. Suddenly it seemed incalculably important that

he answer the question straightforwardly.Very unromantically, Randall said, “Well, yes, I suppose I do love you, in my way.” The thought had most likely never occurred to him.“Oh,” Kathryn said, and ‘oh’ was all she could manage. She had been prepared, at this

declaration, to open up the proverbial floodgates of her heart and pledge herself to him forever, but she found now that she just… couldn’t.

Her throat was dry; her voice weak; her lips chapped; her tongue tired. But perhaps they were not. Perhaps she could not say anything because she knew, without fooling herself and no longer under the protection of any sunlight to mask feelings or not-feelings which should have been feelings, that she hadn’t ever loved Randall, and could not tell him so if he asked, for though she had exposed herself to frost and been bitten by it; to lie would be far more detestable than a grave misjudgment which she could never reverse.

Chapter Thirteen- The Last Days on the Lucania

Hilda was glad that everything seemed to be again comparatively normal. She heard Randall and Kathryn saying good night outside of the rooms, as he had always done, and Kathryn did not come in fearfully pale or incredibly distracted. Still, Kathryn seemed not-quite-herself –but then traveling, Hilda had always heard, had that effect on people, and she was not further troubled by it.

Once Kathryn was ready to go to sleep and Hilda had left her in darkness, Kathryn’s first immediate hope was that she would not stay awake thinking as she had the previous night. One could only, after all, stand so many revelations. She was so determined not to think that she fell asleep doing just that; thinking about not thinking.

The next few days were, on the whole, a blur to Kathryn. She unconsciously developed a routine, and its most notable characteristic was the avoidance of Mr. Harrington and the

observation that he did the same with respect to her. Not that it was strictly avoidance; they yet greeted each other with smiles, and made small talk, and were on the most harmonious of terms, but nothing outside of what society demanded, and each was as good as his and her word. Mr. Harrington never contrived to be alone or to speak privately with Kathryn –and therefore Kathryn had no opportunity to rebuke him if he had tried.

She spent much of her time floating between her original group and the Farrows, and a few other people –a retired military general and his wife returning from a restful holiday, an austere spinster who still viewed America as colonial property of England, a vicar looking for heavenly inspiration– and several others.

Kathryn was not able to become more acquainted with Celia Bradford, unfortunately (or was it perhaps fortunately?) Though she did feel obliged to make conversation and to question her politely as to her family, her schooling, and her pursuits, etcetera, etcetera –in the end, she formed the same opinion that Mr. Harrington had. Celia had no outstanding feature or characteristic which could distinguish her from the next Celia Bradford, and therefore she did not provoke any interest deeper than natural formality demanded.

It was to the Farrows that Kathryn felt especially indebted. That happy family often lifted her spirits out of boredom or the short but acute fits of homesickness which, in those remaining days and an insatiable hunger for something steady on which to place her foot, would have otherwise made her very unhappy and restless. As it was, Rosie kept Kathryn much too occupied with her own little affairs and grievances, such as the hardship of there being no gingerbread on board (which was her favorite snack) or the lack of playmates about (though Rosie was always quick to assure Kathryn that she did very nicely as a substitute, even if she was a grown-up, and told Kathryn that she liked her even better than she liked Mr. Harrington, who was also a great favorite –and for such an admission Kathryn was guiltily pleased)- all these kept Kathryn too busy for her to have the leisure or the desire to contemplate her own troubles.

Happily, Kathryn, when in her own rooms, was not forced to seek out her Latin textbook or the Divine Comedy but instead found that time passed by quickly enough when she read, and re-read copies of Miss Austen’s six novels. Hilda kept embroidering, and Kathryn did, once, gain the courage to ask what it was at which she worked so steadily, and was able to glean the information that it was “nothing, really, just something to do to pass the dreary hours,” whereupon Kathryn snorted in incredulity, put her nose back in her book, and asked no more impertinent questions. (Slowly, and Kathryn hoped it was to be completely unrelated to her queries about embroidery, Hilda spent less and less time with her charge and more and more time –. Kathryn did not know where, nor was she at all near risking another inquiry. Hilda’s mysterious disappearances only gave her more time for solitary thinking.)

All in all, the week on the Lucania sped by at an astonishing rate, for she was a good and solid ship, and an excellent hostess besides. Although Kathryn had been pining for land after the first excitement of the journey had worn off, when the familiar and somewhat clichéd cry of “Land-Ho!” was sounded, she could not quite believe it.

But when Kathryn ran to the railing along with the rest of the passengers, she saw that it was true, for she was staring at unfamiliar –yet unmistakable– land. They had arrived in America.

Part IIAn Impressive and Well-to-do Part of New York

Chapter One- The Parlor See Liszt’s Honor Defended*

The United States of America had thus far been a very cruel disappointment to Kathryn and had left her quite unimpressed. While it was but less than a week since the small company had staggered off the Lucania and the only glimpses of New York had been swift and tired ones through the windows of the carriage which had conveyed them to their host’s home, and the windows of the carriage which had conveyed them here and from conventional operas and stifling plays, Kathryn was convinced of her decision.

For America was not so very removed in countenance from her own home in England. Though the buildings differed in style –Kathryn noted American architects must have been, perhaps, overly fond of Grecian civilization- and the streets in general diverged in appearance –and as to the accents, well, Kathryn could have nothing to say for them, as she would have immediately made some snobbish and most likely undeserved remark about how English accents were naturally very superior… there was, running through it all, a stream of familiarity. And the most striking contrasts between the two curiously reminded Kathryn of the similarities all the more strongly.

Yes, Kathryn thought, she was undoubtedly disappointed. Yet if someone had asked her what her expectations for America had been, she could have given them an answer that was neither very specific nor very clear. (And yet, what could I have been expecting? Did I think that exotic and wild beasts would parade through the streets as domestic animals? Did I think that everyone I met would have an American flag draped across his waist just because Americans are thought to be almost religiously patriotic? Did I think that I could have no conversation with one of them that did not inevitably bring up the topic of their successful revolution and total dissolution from the ties of our Crown and country? I am sure one or other of these ideas have been floating in my head… and I have been thinking like a…. like a…) But no adequate word could be found as to the state of her thought process.

Kathryn was in her rooms while these thoughts were passing through her head. She sat at the window seat, which overlooked a considerable portion of the street beyond. She had been sitting for some time in this attitude, and thinking about nothing very important or particular besides the feelings which had not been excited by America and which she thought should have been.

Hilda was on the other side of the room. But Hilda was not sewing or embroidering. In fact, her hands were occupied with nothing else except their own fidgeting, and Kathryn –a little listless from staring at the street and not comprehending any of its dreary view, turning to inquire whether or not it might be wise to venture out that day –saw this with great astonishment. Hilda’s whole manner, indeed, was one of agitation. Kathryn observed to herself wryly that Hilda had been concerned about her charge’s adjustment to America, and how she would be able to “handle” travel in general when she ought to have doubted the perfect confidence in her own abilities.

“Hilda, are you well?” questioned Kathryn, her other inquiries forgotten a moment.“Yes –oh yes!- I am in the most perfect of health!” Hilda assured her. “I could never be

healthier than I am at this moment.”Kathryn continued suspiciously, “And you are certain of this?”“Indeed, indeed I am, I am!”Kathryn turned completely from the window and stood. She had known Hilda for most of

her life, and never had she seen her so unlike her usual placid self –fluttering and starting at the

slightest sound and not at all sure of anything she said, half-distracted, with no needle or comforting and oft-worn maxim in sight. “Now, Hilda, what is troubling you? Has the journey from sea to land been affecting your nerves? If so, I would be more than happy and willing to let you rest –I can always engage another maid at a short notice. I would not wish to damage your health in any way were you to continue in my services,” she said worriedly.

“I am fine, Miss Kathryn. Don’t worry about me!” Hilda snapped.Kathryn gave her a look of disbelief but wisely asked no further questions. She sighed. “I

suppose it is about time that I join the others in the dining room. The noon meal will arrive shortly, I believe, and I would not want to inconvenience our hosts by being late.”

“Oh –of course- go on, go on.” Hilda waved her away, only half-listening.Kathryn went to the doors but stopped halfway out, conscious-stricken. “Hilda, are you –

are you quite sure you are well? I can call for a doctor…”“A doctor?” Hilda looked up sharply. Then her harshness subsided and the angles of her

face softened. “No, the saints bless me, there is nothing wrong with me, dear. Nothing you need worry your pretty head about.”

But Kathryn, who took it upon herself to be worried about nearly everything, (whether it concerned her or not,) especially when entreated not to, did worry. She worried very much, as she shut the doors behind her with a silent shake of her head. She continued worrying as she walked down the narrow corridor and descended the staircase to find everyone assembled in one of the parlors and talking amiably.

When Kathryn entered, she found that the Gleason brothers’ cousin, Harold Charlotte and his wife Gloria were in the midst of affably apologizing for the smallness of the house (alas, there were only ten bedrooms and two parlors, amongst other amenities, to its credit,) but that the house in the country –which they assured everyone was far roomier– would have been too much of an inconvenience, for it was some distance from the house to the town, and a letter from Adelaide had impressed upon them that everyone’s strongest desire was to shop in town and to “see the sights.”

She was greeted by all, and took her seat on a sofa next to Celia Bradford with a polite “May I?” to which Celia had of course responded, “Oh, yes, please do!” Mrs. Charlotte offered her a cup of tea for refreshment and she accepted the invitation gratefully. “I would like to thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Charlotte, for the hospitality which you have already shown us in opening up your home,” she said warmly.

“Not at all, dear, not at all!” answered Mrs. Charlotte as she rang the bell for tea. She was a short and plump woman with delightfully untidy and greying hair. There was an air of wistful decay about her, as if she had once been very pretty, and had known it, and mourned the loss of her features and her figure more than most do. “Would anyone else care for tea? You English,” she giggled nervously, and Kathryn could see at once that she was neither clever nor original, “are always so fond of tea. I should know, for I married an Englishman!” And she sought her husband’s hand as she stood behind his great and golden chair, and they smiled on the company as all but Mr. Gleason said that they would indeed enjoy a cup of tea, and everyone laughed at this little joke, though it wasn’t very funny –but humoring one’s host is part of being a guest.

“Certainly, my dear,” returned her husband. He was a tall man, grown portly over the recent years, but it lent him a more jovial air which suited his temper better. His thinning head was combed over and the little hair that remained was an almost carrot orange. The most outstanding part of his features was that of his mustache, which showed no signs of age and was still as orange and long and fiery as when he had first grown it.

An ordinary couple, surely, but all the same a happy one. Kathryn surmised as she glanced about the parlor. It was a good sized room –easily holding their number of eight persons, and a servant stood unobtrusively in the background as part of the handsome wallpaper. The decorations of the room were very odd and very foreign-looking –several ivory-carved figurines were imprisoned inside a glass case, of terrible monkeys grimacing and gnashing their teeth and of tigers with mouths unhinged and waiting for their next prey. Kathryn assumed from these that Harold Charlotte had been to India, and back, more than once –and as she glanced at him again, she was sure he had that distinctive look –the look of an experienced traveler who has never been quite content enough to stay in one place.

Other than the figurines and an exotically colored rug, it was a very ordinary parlor. The wallpapering was done in a soothing cream and green, and the patterns at the very top were of herbs. All the furniture was of solid and reputable stuff, a bit shabby, but more comfortable than pricier manufacturers might have made them. Altogether Kathryn found it a relaxing and obliging room, more accustomed to accommodate than to impress, and shared her view with Miss Bradford.

“Do you not think this a comfortable and inviting room, Celia?” she asked, glancing about it again in approval.

“Oh yes! Well I suppose so, the chairs are nice and –well cushioned, I would say, and they certainly look as if they have money to spare,” said Miss Bradford warily.

Kathryn had begun to notice, as her knowledge of the other young lady increased, that she was hesitant to form an opinion about anything before her partner in conversation declared a definite view. And then, usually, how lucky it all was that Miss Bradford’s opinions coincided so closely with the other person’s! Lucky indeed, thought Kathryn with a suppressed roll of her eyes, One might even go as far as to say… providential. “And do you feel up to going into town today? It is very fine outside and the weather, from all appearances, seems good.”

“Yes, I think I should very much like to.” Celia answered, batting her eyelashes harmlessly in a way which seemed superfluous and extremely silly to Kathryn but (no doubt) made Randall breathe hard. “Only…” Celia paused as a little frown pursed her lips and her eyes filled with concern. “Only I am afraid for you, Kathryn, and what it might do to your health to be out and about again so early after our arrival, especially as we have already some very late nights. You cannot imagine all our distress when we heard that you were taken ill the second night on the ship.”

“You are very kind to show your concern.” Was everyone to bring up the subject of her illness? Oh, no, of course she must be incapable of walking because she had been ill for just an evening! Kathryn found Celia’s pseudo-concern for her health so obviously meant for spite than for actual worry, thoroughly sickening. How could Randall not see through that? Well, Celia’s talons, though they had sunk into him –poor and nearly hapless– would certainly sink no further in her influence over him –they could not do so honorably.

Happily for himself, as far as Kathryn could perceive, Mr. Harrington was unaffected by Celia’s charms and wiles, and even seemed to disdain them –just a little bit- as being beneath a woman. Of course, Kathryn had not spoken with him on the subject. (She had, in fact, scrupulously avoided speaking to him about anything except the weather –although even the weather was not safe from enchantment, for it always brought to mind that marvelous sunset which they had viewed, together.) But if at times her face was easy to read, Mr. Harrington’s was plainer. “Very kind,” Kathryn repeated. “But I assure you that I am in the best of health at

the moment. There is nothing I would like more this afternoon than a brisk walk in the fresh air. Are you fond of walking, Celia?”

Celia very nearly snorted in a most unladylike fashion, and Kathryn saw it in confusion, for she had envisioned Celia’s upbringing as genteel –but perhaps –was it possible that it had not been? (Perhaps she is the daughter of an uncouth and nasty pirate who has been the “scourge of the Seven Seas” in past years, but who decided to marry and settle down with the money from his plundering… that would account, at least, for her sometime displays of impropriety, in dancing all night with a man –or was it more than one night?- who is promised to another, and accepting the outrageous invitation of that same man to –in effect- join him in his future travels. Yes, it all hangs together nicely.) “Hardly,” she answered with a dainty laugh which, to a listener who had just heard the almost-snort, would have never believed he had heard it in the first place. But Kathryn was in no mood to think highly of Miss Bradford, or to think her at all unable to produce a snort of egregious proportions. “I do, in fact, detest walking about of any kind. I feel it wastes my time,” she added dismissively.

“Ah, I see,” said Kathryn. “What are your pursuits, then, if walking does not occupy your time?”

Celia shrugged, saying vaguely, “Oh, this and that. I read a little” (yes, I knew it to be so, she must read Gothic novels, that is the only explanation for it- I can tell it by her face –for if she had read Milton or Tennyson she would have said so immediately, but she cannot risk lying) “and I play the piano as well. I am told I am quite good.”

(By whom? The man who happens to stop by and help you with one of the more difficult and perplexing passages?) “Yes, I have heard your playing spoken of warmly. Randall tells me you have excellent taste.” Kathryn watched the other carefully to see her reaction.

But Celia was as smooth as silk, and for all her shortcomings in understanding knew when she was being tested. She deigned merely to look pleased. “Oh –yes, he did hear me play, once or twice, I believe. I’ve always loved the piano.”

“Then we have a common love!” Kathryn seized upon this, for she had heard herself thinking very dark thoughts and wanted desperately to discontinue the trend. “For I have been playing many, many years –almost since I could reach the stool! Tell me, do you have a favorite composer?”

“No, not particularly… they’re all so wonderful…” Celia waved her hand vaguely, “do you?”

“Liszt, I would say, is my favorite, without qualification.”“Liszt?!” Celia sniffed, and the sniff was such it that brought all of Kathryn’s dark

thoughts scurrying to the surface along with several new and even more terrible ones. To acknowledge Liszt as anything but a genius was, to Kathryn, near heresy –and his tragic life such impeachable proof of his ingenuity! Were not all great artists just a little mad? It made a certain amount of sense, that if a person was endowed with extraordinary talent in one area, he was sure to be lacking seriously in another. It was another reason why Kathryn was glad she was relatively ordinary

“Liszt,” Celia said, with none of the indecisiveness or uncertainty which had in recent conversation normally characterized all of her remarks, “is abominable.”

And Kathryn was so put out of temper by this insensitive comment, and felt it so personally that Liszt himself might have been avenged had he known her next icy statement. “That may just as well be. It takes a fine and accomplished player to truly appreciate Liszt at his full value.”

After that the conversation came to a close. Because the tea was brought in at the precise moment when Kathryn had spoken, and because all the clanking and clattering of cups made a good deal of confusion over which even the most interesting and friendly chats (though theirs had been neither) would be brought to a halt, was perhaps the reason why its demise came so quickly and suddenly. But then again –perhaps not.

Chapter Two- Ribbon-Buying

The ordering of the company –and their procession in walking out– was not at all to Kathryn’s satisfaction. Of course Randall had offered to accompany Miss Bradford (following a quick and not very convincing explanation to Kathryn that he did not want her to feel excluded by any of the group, although Mr. Harrington would have willingly –if not gladly– been the natural escort for her) and of course Mr. Gleason and Adelaide were infallibly inseparable. No matter the amount of teasing and bantering they exchanged, secretly both knew that one could not do anything without the other’s consent or accompaniment, preferably the latter. Naturally, Mr. and Mrs. Charlotte did also pair off… So, of course, that left Kathryn and Mr. Harrington to walk together.

This was an arrangement intensely to Kathryn’s discomfort. It would be harder –infinitely harder– to avoid talking to someone who was walking just beside you rather than across the room, but she was confident in her abilities. After all, what had the last few days been but a preparation for something of this nature to happen?

The disheartened Kathryn nevertheless saw it as a challenge up to which she must –grudgingly- rise, and since the distance to their designated shopping area on Smithson Avenue where, Mrs. Charlotte had said, “only the best was ever sold” was over a mile in length, they could not, surely, walk the whole way without speaking. It would have been a mere nothing for friends on good terms –and she and Mr. Harrington were not on bad terms –not exactly. But they were not exactly talking in complete honesty and frankness anymore, either.

Kathryn was very surprised, then, when after ten minutes or so had elapsed, Mr. Harrington addressed her in a low and rapid tone, “I do not wish to interfere, nor to cause you any unnecessary pain at recalling the incident, whatever it was, as I believe it happened most recently, just inside the parlor, but I thought that I ought to ask if you are… in good spirits.”

She did not want to violate what had been hitherto such a respected and mutual agreement of no intimate conversation, but considered that if he said something about it again, as in reproof, she could very easily point out that she had felt obliged to answer him, and that he had not been following the rules of the game either. “You are right. I am afraid… I was a little carried away by my emotions. Miss Bradford was… it sounds ridiculous now to say it aloud, but she was insulting my favorite composer.” Kathryn frowned. “No, that is not right. That does not do justice to the full impact of her words. Perhaps it is better and more accurate to say that she utterly scorned him.”

“Him who?”“Liszt, of course,” replied Kathryn, almost shocked that it could be anyone else. “Ah, yes, good old Liszt. Well, there’s only one explanation for her answer then,” Mr.

Harrington said seriously.“And that would be…?”

“Obviously she’s gone mad. Soon she’ll frothing at the mouth and climbing up the walls or doing impressions of one of those fierce looking monkeys in that good man Mr. Charlotte’s parlor.”

Kathryn smiled and then laughed. “Thank you,” she said, “that did me good. I wasn’t at all happy –and until that terrible point, our conversation was not so bad –just awfully stilted, but then, considering the circumstances, I don’t know that it could have been anything else… Poor Liszt.” She said, laughing again, and surprising herself that she could already look with humor upon something which had been degradation to the greatest degree. “You know, Mr. Harrington, I haven’t heard if you are musical?”

“And you aren’t likely to!” he said cheerfully. “I don’t know one note from another. I haven’t touched a piano or an instrument or anything since my mother went on one of her rampages to employ me in the musical department at the tender age of seven. I avoid them, usually. But,” he corrected, “I can appreciate and enjoy music, or know when it is not what it ought to be, like the Italian opera we attended this week where that fabled soprano gave me an ear-ache for the rest of the day with her high Gs and As. I do, however, recognize Liszt as a brilliant player and composer, of which you most certainly must approve.”

“I do, I do,” Kathryn said, and her heart was so light –feathery light, really– how melancholy and dramatic all of her dark thoughts seemed now, when Mr. Harrington was near to dispel them with sense and, what was more convincing, a humorous outlook.

“We’re turning onto Smithson Avenue!” cried Mr. Charlotte from the front of the company. “Move to the sidewalk and be prepared to be awed by what you see.”

“Awed?” Kathryn said in disbelief to Mr. Harrington. “Certainly it is just like any other row of shops, that-” But she did not finish her sentence, nor was she destined to. For suddenly, and without warning, they had indeed turned onto Smithson Avenue and now beheld one of the greatest prides of New York.

To describe Smithson Avenue as a street with a row of expensive and high-caliber shops was to describe a wild stallion as a horse… while, in essentials, it was not incorrect to say, such a description would be a tame and undeserved one. Spreading before their very eyes, like an eagle unfurling its wings, were simply two rows of buildings, some squat, some lean, some tall, and some round –each store gleaming in its very pride and pomp, as if to say, with buttons bursting, “Come to me, I am best!”

All the streetlamps in New York City could not have shined brighter than the very storefronts, the glass doors which taunted one with a quick peek as to what merchandise could be had, the gay colors of the banners catching every eye, the suddenly inherent knowledge that within each store, there would be a sales assistant who would, surely, die for one, the customer, if it was necessary and in the line of duty…

And yet as everyone was marveling at the wonders of Smithson Avenue, perhaps only the last couple of the group saw on the sidewalk ahead what the others were unconsciously ignoring. There were beggars. Instinctively, Kathryn stopped and almost found herself, shockingly, about to clutch Mr. Harrington’s arm before she halted the progress of her wayward arm and instead clamped it onto the other one- belonging to herself. She had never experienced a beggar in Cambrien –it was against the law, and the law was upheld so faithfully in that part of England that for anyone to disobey it, even an ignorant and uneducated child, would have been no less than earth-shattering. One heard stories of beggars –about how they did not work for merely their own bread, but for some evil man who sat in a dark and dank hole in a corner, never stirring from his spot and sucking the life out of others…

But Kathryn’s heart was compassionate, and she saw that Mr. Harrington was thinking nearly the same thing; that they should stop and see at least one of the little children who stood there, so helplessly, caught in a merciless society which cared next to nothing for the vermin and urchins of the streets and would have gladly gotten rid of the lot of them rather than lending a helping hand.

“Oh Mr. Harrington-” Kathryn whispered, and she really forgot herself then and did clutch his arm, “Do let’s stop –look, look at the girl.”

They both looked, and stopped at nearly the same time, with Mr. Harrington uneasily knowing that he was more sensible than he should be that Kathryn had gripped his arm –but when she released it a moment later, he still felt the pressure of her hand…

Before them was a girl, of thirteen or fourteen, slender, pretty, and dark-haired, with a clean and bright face. It was her face which caught them. The look of joy, of happiness, of contented and assured knowledge that her Maker loved her more than any other and that Life was worth the living every single minute of the day that radiated from the girl’s expression –confounded them both. Within approximately three seconds Kathryn began to cry –not visibly, although it was true that Mr. Harrington noticed- but her eyes became very large and her tears stood wavering in them.

It was Mr. Harrington (although he himself was finding it difficult to hold back his sudden and intense emotion) who saved Kathryn from saying something incoherent. “Why, hello there, young miss.” He said kindly, stooping a little to speak to her, for Mr. Harrington was tall and the girl before him small for her age. “And what might be your name?”

“My name, sir, is Sylvia –Sylvia Summers,” she said in an accent of perfect American English.

Kathryn and Mr. Harrington exchanged an amazed look. Did American beggars always sound so educated? “That’s a very pretty name, I think,” said Kathryn, and she laid an arm on the girl, who was still holding a mean wooden box filled with the most beautiful ribbons Kathryn had ever seen. She exclaimed upon these at once. “Why, I’ve never beheld such lovely things!”

“Thank you,” said Sylvia. “But I don’t make them; my mama does.”“Your mama lets you come out here and sell ribbons?” Mr. Harrington said

incredulously.“No, not exactly,” sighed Sylvia, and the light in her eyes faded. “She doesn’t know I sell

them out here, because she’s –she’s very sick.”“I’m so sorry,” Kathryn said, her voice deeply sympathetic. “I know what it’s like to have

a mother that is sick.”“You do?” Sylvia quickly glanced up, and saw from Kathryn’s eyes that this was the

truth. Kathryn was about to reply when who else but Randall should call for her, angrily,

having noticed their absence from the company by chance when he had looked back. “Miss Williamson, come here, what are you doing?” Randall said harshly.

She felt, rather than saw, Mr. Harrington’s jaw muscle tightening and his eyes hardening for a moment. Determined, however, not to let her emotion and how she felt about being beckoned so rudely and without ceremony show, Kathryn merely said to Mr. Harrington, quietly, “Would you stay here; I’ll be back in a moment,” and after he nodded, she strode calmly over to Randall.

“What do you think you are doing?” he hissed, gesturing visibly to Sylvia.“I am, as you may very well see, buying some ribbons from this girl.”

“Why? Kathryn, you know how beggars are, they never leave you alone, and pester you, and-”

“Randall,” Kathryn’s voice was as flint and it cut through his ranting. “Perhaps you did not understand me. I am buying ribbons from this girl, and then I will continue on my way. You are free to come or go as you please. I will be along shortly.”

“I’ll go then,” Randall grunted. He shook a finger at her. “This isn’t finished, Kathryn, we’ll discuss it later.”

“Later, then,” agreed Kathryn, and she turned without another word. It was not hard, looking at the girl –Sylvia– to put a smile on. In fact, once she took just another glimpse of that cheerful countenance again, she could not help but do so. It appeared that Mr. Harrington was already deep in transaction with her. Though Kathryn was too late to see what the final number of ribbons had been, she noticed silently as Mr. Harrington paid for them –and told Sylvia that she could take the extra money and buy herself a present with it- that he had given her a considerable sum.

“Thank you so much!” effused Sylvia, her face glowing like the sun.“I should be thanking you,” Mr. Harrington replied, but the girl shook her head fervently.Kathryn and Mr. Harrington were just on the point of leaving, when unforeseen by

herself and her companion, Kathryn suddenly turned back. “Sylvia,” she said earnestly, looking the girl in her round blue eyes.

“Yes?” inquired Sylvia curiously.“If you ever have need of anything –anything at all- in the next three weeks or so, I

implore you to come to Darvers Street, which is just a mile from here, do you know where?” Sylvia nodded. “And do you know the large green and grey house with a dogwood tree growing in the

yard on that street?”Again Sylvia nodded. “I suppose I do.”“Well, if you are ever in need of anything, again, go to that house on Darvers Street and

ask for a Miss Kathryn Williamson, and I will see you and do whatever you ask.”“You may also say the name of David Harrington,” added Mr. Harrington, smiling at

Kathryn for this sudden spontaneity of hers which was not the less sincerely meant for its unexpectedness.

“You are so kind,” declared Sylvia, and if her hands had not been full she would have clasped them in delight. “But if I might be so bold-” And she motioned for Kathryn to lean in so that she could whisper in her ear.

What Kathryn heard was of such import that it made her turn very red, and very still a moment, and she whispered something back in the other’s ear, to which Sylvia shook her head and simply said, “All will be well, I have no doubt of that.” And, strangely, Kathryn believed her.

They left Sylvia with a wave from both, and walked on ahead. Their party was at some distance down the Avenue –perhaps canvassing the various shops and their purposes before choosing which one to enter– but Kathryn and Mr. Harrington were in no hurry to catch up.

Neither could talk for many moments. “Oh, Mr. Harrington, did you see her face? She looked so happy –as if she did not have a care in the world –no, that is not it –but as if- can you help me?” She pleaded in her search for the proper words.

“To me, she looked as if she knew she had cares, and she knew of them well enough, but in the end they really didn’t matter, and that there is Joy in mere Life itself… a fact which I think most of us have missed, or misinterpreted, or perverted to mean something entirely different…”

“That puts it wonderfully,” Kathryn said softly. “I do so hope we shall see her again.”“Somehow or other, I believe we shall, Miss Williamson,” said Mr. Harrington solemnly. “She makes me feel so –so inadequate and discontent with myself,” said Kathryn

thoughtfully. “As if all that I worry about, and all that I spend so much time lamenting, would not concern her in the least bit.”

“Certainly through this short meeting I have realized my own selfishness.” Mr. Harrington chuckled.

“Yes –that’s it exactly. I really don’t have much to complain about, in the face of such simple joy when she has, what we would consider, every right in the world to be sad –out on the street, selling ribbons –her mother is sick –and surely either she or her parents were at one time in good society, for her English –though American, is in all other ways without the grammatical faults which one would expect.”

“Remarkable, truly remarkable,” murmured Mr. Harrington. “Oh yes,” he drew his hand out from his pocket, “I, uh, took the liberty of, uh, getting you a few ribbons from Sylvia –and for my sisters too. I, herm, thought you might like these four,” And he shyly held out the ribbons. One was silver and lace-edged, with a curious and indefinable streak of pale azure throughout; another was long and slim and green, a strange green as that of an evergreen basking in the sun; the third was a deep and handsome red, reminding Kathryn of a line in that despicable play of Shakespeare’s –“a rose by any other name would smell as sweet” –for it was the dark scarlet of a fully-blossomed Queen Anne’s rose; and the last, a pure and simple white, the white of new-fallen glistening snow and of the crest of a wave just before it crashes.

Kathryn was more affected by his little present of ribbons than she felt she ought to be. “Thank you,” she said at last, after some minutes of merely fingering them and letting them slide through her gloved hands. “These are –these are lovely.” And she turned her head so that he might not see her face.

Chapter Three- The Thin Border Trodden

Although, as it seemed, Mr. Harrington and Kathryn were in no hurry to rejoin the others, it was not long before they caught up to them. Randall was visibly still fuming, Kathryn saw, but she could not find it in her heart to be sorry for him. Surely Celia Bradford would ease his ill-humor with her own fair conversation. Kathryn even rather spitefully hoped that they would discuss music, and Randall would be as offended as she had been if ever the name of Franz Liszt came up as a subject of conversation. (But he probably would not be offended –he might even agree! I wouldn’t know; we’ve never discussed music. We’ve –we’ve never discussed anything, really.)

“And what have you been doing?” cried Adelaide, ever interested in the affairs of others. “We had quite given up any hope of ever seeing you again.”

Both of them reddened; the inappropriateness of her statement was so palpable that one could almost see it in the air. “Buying ribbons from a most charming girl,” answered Mr. Harrington, again saving Kathryn from replying. He had as great a temper as she did, but his was better reined.

“How quaint!” giggled Adelaide, and said to her husband, “Mr. Gleason, don’t you think that’s awfully nice of them?”

“Yes, I would say so,” chuckled Mr. Gleason –and, anxious to score points with his cousin’s wife, with whom he had not been previously acquainted, though she and Mr. Charlotte had been married for some twenty-five years, “It’s very democratic.” Poor Mr. Gleason’s comment, however, did not fall on listening ears. A woman of quick judgments, Gloria Charlotte had already ascertained to herself within forty-eight hours that one of her husband’s cousins, at least –the one who talked much and said little– never had anything of value to say, and could not be relied upon for very intelligent exchange. And so she paid little heed to any of his observations, especially those that pointed rather obviously to the fact that he was trying the old “hands-across-the-sea” camaraderie attack.

Mr. Harrington and Kathryn glanced at each other. They had neither of them felt nice or democratic –it might have even been the other way around, that little Sylvia had done something for them with her bright expressions and cheerfulness and total lack of concern for herself.

The rest of the afternoon passed tediously for Kathryn. She and Mr. Harrington did not talk again, having once violated their “treaty,” there was a silent agreement not to do so anymore, although their silence was not unpleasant or strained; she had never been one, either, to take much pleasure and passion in shopping, and saw the ordering of three new gowns, the fashion of which was very much similar to that of England’s, in a dismal state of mind. The sales’ assistant had assured them all that they were the latest styles sent straight from Paris, at which Kathryn could only sigh and think how much easier it had been to stay at Worthing, delightedly puzzling over a challenging musical score, with Francine hurrying in to tell her a new trunk-full of gowns had arrived. But then she remembered Sylvia’s life, and that she perhaps did not even buy a new dress each year– and felt ashamed of herself.

They went in and out of millineries, and Kathryn’s desire never to see a shelf of hats -tall, elegant, ridiculous looking, plain, colorful, or otherwise- grew until she was almost unable to contain it. Sampling chocolates and cheeses –imported from Belgium, another sales’ assistant was quick to note- and taking tea in a little Shoppe which was called “authentically English,” Kathryn very much wondered if they were ever to see anything that was truly American.

At last, however, even Adelaide and Celia’s passions for shopping were sated, and they all agreed to walk back to the Charlottes’ house. Kathryn had begun to walk at the front of the company, alone, and anxious that she might perhaps see little Sylvia once more and find out as much as she could; for she was unaccountably interested in the child’s welfare –but Randall hurried ahead and joined her.

“Might I walk with you?” said he, his tone cold.“Yes, please do,” Kathryn said, smiling as if she was oblivious to his tone or his

formidable displeasure.“I would like to take this opportunity to speak to you –about earlier.” Randall went on.

He offered his arm. Some pleasantries of social intercourse are always observed no matter the warmth between the parties concerned.

“Earlier?” she said, distracted, for Sylvia still remained, selling her wares. “Oh, please excuse me,” murmured Kathryn, and walked over to the little girl again. “Hello,” she greeted her a little shyly.

Sylvia’s slender, nymph-like face brightened. “Oh, hello again, Miss Williamson! It’s so nice of you to come back.”

“Sylvia,” said Kathryn, guiltily thinking of her trunk-full of gowns, “could I persuade you to accept something from me?” “What is it?” asked Sylvia.

“You know, you have the loveliest blue eyes,” said Kathryn suddenly, looking into their pure sparkling depths in admiration. “It would be a shame not to pair them with a dress of that shade as well.”

“A blue dress?” wondered Sylvia, glancing down at her drab grey garments, hanging loosely about her and only making her look more thin and frail than she really was. “For me?”

“Yes, dear.” Kathryn smiled, the simplicity of the other breaking her heart. “Here,” she reached into her little purse and drew out a bill which seemed a reasonable amount, though she scarcely knew yet how the American monetary system worked, “will this do?”

Sylvia’s innocent eyes widened. “Oh, Miss Williamson,” said she, sucking in her breath, “I could never accept so much…”

“Nonsense! Of course you can!” cried Kathryn. Impulsively, she embraced the other tightly before moving away. “Bless you, a thousand times over! And, remember, the house with the dogwood tree on Darvers Street, if you have need of me.”

Sylvia nodded. “Goodbye, Miss Williamson. And thank you.”“No, thank you,” Kathryn said, softly, with a pitying smile. She then returned to Randall, who had graciously waited for her, and they began to walk

back in silence. Upon his face was a frown, one which took form when he started prating about the evils of talking to beggars and the harmfulness such talking could bring about, as in sullying one’s own reputation by consorting with them, she could listen no longer.

Kathryn had heard the part about “consorting with them,” and her eyes sparked in kindling anger. She could understand his position –the position of an indifferent upper class, one which had always been wealthy and detached from a world of poverty and want, but it was no less inexcusable, for his education if not his good sense ought to have taught him that a man’s character was not necessarily dictated by his circumstances. “I wish, sir, you would not address her in such a callous manner –or any of them, as a matter of fact, but especially not her. They are human beings, all of them, and should be treated as such. A man’s value should not be placed upon his position in society, however low or however high, and I know all too well that we find ourselves too inclined in that direction, myself included. You may insult me and upbraid my behavior, but I pray you would not involve them in your misjudgments. None are present to defend themselves, nor might they find themselves able, when treated with such scorn as you have just spoken of them.”

Randall did not expect such a speech, even from Kathryn. Miss Celia Bradford had partially charmed him out of his anger, it was true, but she had very kindly and very properly adhered to all his views on the subject and was probably, in all her illustrious nineteen years of experience, much more well-informed than the woman next to him. “Kathryn –what can you mean? You have been acting most strangely.”

“I have?” Kathryn said hotly. “I would have said the very same of you, sir.” But had he? Had he really been acting any differently –besides the obvious and rather foolish but, undoubtedly, shortly to be terminated infatuation with Celia Bradford- or had she perhaps been seeing him differently –as he really was? (Oh, heavens! I was right on the ship –I was right about him when we danced –I don’t know him, not at all. And I thought I did…)

“I?” said Randall indignantly. “I? No, no -you do not and you cannot be speaking the truth. What instance has been brought to your attention? What can I possibly have done?”

Asked Kathryn quietly, “Do you not know? How could you not know?” And she shook her head, at this man –her fiancé- of whom she knew so little, not even well enough that she could tell his feelings or his thoughts.

“No, I do not know. And if you will not tell me, how could I know?” Randall countered irritably.

“And yet –I am sure that you must,” was Kathryn’s firm answer. He did not reply, nor did they did talk again. They entered the house in cold silence.

Exhausted from the long shopping excursion, Kathryn now had just one goal in mind: to take a lengthy and satisfying nap. She was trudging up the staircase, after thanking the Charlottes for their kindness in taking them all out that day, when Mr. Harrington arrested her attention.

“Miss Williamson-” he said, and his voice was a mixture of comical agony and torture.“Yes?” said she, awaking enough that she could wonder at his odd tone.“I will say just one thing –and one thing only, I know it makes you uneasy –don’t look

so! I can see it on your face that you are about to scold me- but I had to tell you-” He sank into a low but penetrating whisper. “I was wrong about Miss Bradford. She is an absolute –oh there’s no other word for it, I’ve tried more flattering ones in my head but this is the only one to fit or come even remotely close to the truth, and you of all people know how I hate improperly placed tact! Oh Kathryn, Miss Celia Bradford is an absolute featherbrain.”

Despite all her efforts to the contrary, and seeing Mr. Harrington’s pained expression, Kathryn laughed. “Is she really?” She said, too tired to chastise him for describing Celia so, and not overly willing to protest to the opposite. “I thought you said before-”

“Oh, I did, I did, but I didn’t know her then! And it would have been better if I never had. Miss Williamson, you still frown as if you think I jest –and I wish I did. But she was talking –on and on and on- about something very silly, or stupid like how to trim a bonnet –as if I cared a bit about that or anything else she could ever say! And then she quoted a famous poem wrong and got the authors mixed up- and yes, there are hundreds like her… but before, at least, I thought her well-educated –and perhaps she is, but it hasn’t done her any amount of good!”

“Mr. Harrington,” Kathryn admonished, gasping slightly –but that was as far as she went, for her chest hurt from compressed laughter.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Harrington apologized, realizing his own eagerness. “But I had to –I had to tell someone… and you were the only person I could have told safely and without –without restraint.”

Kathryn halted her ascent at his words, and they looked at each other. His word, “restraint,” hung between them in the still air.“Miss Williamson,” said Mr. Harrington in a low, deep tone. His eyes flickered and

danced, darkened from the long shadows of an afternoon sun which had dispersed its rays through the high, broad windows of the house.

Somewhere along the avenue a peddler played faint mellow ribbons of a slow and spell-binding waltz. The music eddied, seeping sinuously through the heavy doors and skipping blithely around the two on the stairs. It mingled coquettishly with the sunlight and played upon the fancies of their minds in turmoil. It seemed to say, Do you dare –do you dare?

Entranced, she could not turn her head but could only, in a fascinated, absentminded way, ponder the merits of steady blue-grey eyes.

Then, just as his hand had begun to move slowly and carelessly up the railing of the staircase where hers already rested, just as the corners of the music’s enthralling melody

attempted to tug at them, swaying and prodding them to lean towards each other –the lovely notes sputtered and fell away.

Immediately, ashen with a pale, mysterious horror, Mr. Harrington dropped his eyes and staggered back. He said hollowly, “I have broken my promise. I should not have–I should not have told you about Miss Bradford –I am sorry.”

“Do not trouble yourself,” said Kathryn hurriedly, rushing past him up the steps in a noisy rustling of skirts. “I understand completely –everything.” She half-curtsied, half-ran her way to her rooms without waiting for his reply.

After she had shut the door, Kathryn leaned for a moment against the solid oak, out of breath –and yet it was not because of her flight. A voice inside her had urged her with the unreasonable force of necessity to Flee, flee, flee! It had something to do with the peculiarity of his look, the jerkiness of his movements, and the telltale beating of her own heart.

Kathryn could not at once regain her composure. Taking off her hat with fumbling fingers and half-shrugging the coat from her shoulders, Kathryn hesitated. She remembered that in her pockets she kept the ribbons which Mr. Harrington had bought her. Reaching into the pocket to examine them, Kathryn removed a glove and felt their silky smoothness with perplexity before arranging them on the vanity. (Why did Mr. Harrington suddenly take it into his head to buy me these? It must be just that he is a true gentleman, and knew that I would have bought them for myself –and so decided that he should buy them for me instead. Certainly his two sisters’ help does him credit, for his taste is very good…) A comment of Mr. Harrington’s forced itself into Kathryn’s mind. (And he said that he wasn’t musical, at all –and that he could not play a note –and yet that didn’t bother me, and should it have? Should Randall’s admission to talent in that area have impressed me? I distinctly remember feeling only surprise… and nothing else… Oh, bother, this is all so distressing!)

And for just one moment Kathryn heard a fleeting remnant of the peddler’s tune, and, shaken, her mind grew uneasily quiet.

***The nap restored Kathryn’s spirits and rejuvenated her, and the tiring and strange feeling

she had acquired from being on the sea and which had haunted her sleep the long nights previously, had disappeared more quickly than Kathryn would have thought possible. But as much as her body was rested, her mind was yet still more agitated. The same questions which had been swirling around in her head on the ship were still swirling around now –in a gigantic and horrible circle which never gave any answers. It was all, Kathryn thought, so unfair.

But as she thought this, she was reminded of the girl on Smithson Avenue –Sylvia– the one who probably had many more significant and tragic burdens to bear than she did, of one unruly fiancé, and one wonderful –but not without fault– man with whom she was definitely, certainly, and undoubtedly not falling in love… and her selfishness fell instantly away. If a girl with so few blessings could still find, in those few that she had, joy and fulfillment, should not Kathryn even more so be able to rejoice in her bountiful good fortune for such a plethora of blessings, most of them taken for granted, as she had?

“Are you well, Miss Kathryn?” Hilda broke into her thoughts, which had verged on the point of a good dose of humility and self-reproof.

Kathryn looked up at Hilda. She was still not embroidering –so something must yet be amiss– but neither did she look out of sorts as she had earlier in the day. While Kathryn’s problems were still not solved and did not decrease in seriousness or nature, she had found an example in the very young woman of the street- and, blushing for her selfishness, could, with

genuine pleasure and happiness, keep in mind all of her blessings. It was with a sincere heart and smile that she said, then, “Yes, Hilda. I am well.”

“I’m glad to hear it, by all Heaven’s account! I was close to having to have to wake you up, soon, Miss; I’ve talked with the other maids and they said that dinner’s in half an hour.”

“Well then,” said Kathryn, “I will have to prepare for it.”“Yes, dear.” Hilda nodded. “And what color gown might you be thinking of tonight? Any

special cut? The gossip below-stairs is that everyone’s bought ever so many packages, and they’re all to arrive tomorrow. Did you buy much, Kathryn?”

Kathryn thought back. “You know,” she laughed, “I can’t really remember! But I think I bought more than I should have.” Her encounter with Sylvia had erased what might have been the more notable parts of the shopping adventure. “And I think I will wear blue tonight, Hilda.”

“Blue?” queried Hilda, puzzled. She was sharper than Kathryn suspected, and had her strong suspicions as to why that particular color had been so determinedly avoided as of late.

“Blue!” Kathryn said. “And I don’t care what shade or what cut –as long as it could be described as no other color.”

“Then you shall wear blue,” said Hilda, and pulled from a trunk a long, shimmering, and magnificent empire-waist gown of silver-blue, which winked with very small diamonds around its long sleeves. “It’s a bit dressy,” she admitted, “but certainly suitable for dinner, and not too much, if you know what I mean -and does it not catch the eye?”

Kathryn paused. She rarely wore gowns so eye-catching –but, after all, why not? If Randall’s favorite color was blue, then it was blue that he would see, and perhaps with a vengeance. “I should think that would do very well, then.” She approved, and Hilda helped her into the gown. They gazed into the vanity mirror together. The dress became her well, very well, and strangely her hair looked more golden red in its tints and her eyes sparkled. It was but a few minutes more –for Hilda’s hands were skilled and practiced- and her hair had been arranged in a simple but elegant bun of many coils on top of one another.

“Miss Kathryn, what about putting this ribbon in your hair?” Hilda held up the white and fiercely beautiful ribbon to the light. “It’s a very pretty ribbon, and I’ve never seen it before.”

For one exhilarating moment Kathryn thought –Yes, yes, I can wear that in my hair! It would look lovely with the dress, just the perfect touch… But she could not –a thousand times over, she could not! “No, no Mr. Harr– I –well –– that particular one is new… but I think my hair looks well as it is with no adornments –though that is a- a beautiful ribbon.”

“All right, then… oh, Miss Kathryn,” said Hilda in a hushed tone as they looked into the mirror again, “You have always been lovely… but tonight you are just breathtaking. I should not be surprised if every eye was on you at dinner, and that Miss Bradford will be more than a little jealous.”

“Miss Bradford has no need to be jealous,” Kathryn said sharply, but her eyes asked, How did you –how could you possibly know?

“Servants have a way of finding out more things than ordinary people can,” Hilda said, in answer to the look rather than to the words.

“Indeed!” said Kathryn. “Well, I shall have to be careful then!” And with a small laugh, she left.

***Everyone was just assembling at the table in the dining room when Kathryn came in. She

noticed, with displeasure at herself, that she had a habit of being –nearly– late. “I hope I am on time?” she inquired, and uncomfortably saw that all eyes were turned to her, with expressions as

varying as the sea. Mr. Gleason and Adelaide merely stared; Celia Bradford, for her twisted turn of features, might have swallowed a squirming codfish whole; Randall raised an eyebrow dramatically and remembered red hair for what it was worth; Mr. Charlotte grunted expressively; Mrs. Charlotte began to fuss with her toupee (which sat askew); and Mr. Harrington –Mr. Harrington was the only one who did not look surprised or struck in the least, but busied himself instead with straightening the utensils by his plate as if nothing could give him greater joy or occupy his attention more completely.

“Yes, just on time! Better timing I could not have chosen myself!” Mr. Charlotte said cheerfully. “Here, my dear, come and sit beside me.” He patted a stiff-looking chair, and she went over with a graceful nod of acceptance.

“Thank you, sir,” said Kathryn in response as she took her seat. Not long after, the dinner was served. It was not a quiet dinner; Mr. Gleason and

Adelaide did, as usual, most of the talking, and Mrs. Charlotte would come in with an occasional apology about the sad number of courses, but left no one with any doubt that in the country, the dinners were at least six courses instead of four; it was only that one could not buy anything fresh or worth eating in town, which was a great disappointment. They would all have to come back to visit on their country’s estate; that would naturally be infinitely preferable to all parties concerned, she was sure.

There was a general outcry that no, the dinner had been excellent, and no one could possibly imagine being more delighted with their time so far, and thus was Mrs. Charlotte appeased and happy.

Following the dinner, everyone was left to his or her own devices or amusements, as they had spent several nights out already and, as the Charlottes in general preferred the quiet of their own home to social engagements, everyone else acquiesced. Mr. Harrington took up a book by the hearth-fire, Mr. Gleason, Adelaide, and Mr. and Mrs. Charlotte retired to play Bridge, Miss Bradford claimed a headache and left the parlor, Randall paced the room for a few minutes in apparent disturbance before quitting it entirely, and after a few very unsuccessful attempts at beginning one of the more interesting-looking novels on the bookshelf (and, sadly, the interesting ones hardly merited the word and only promised a light doze after the first few chapters,) Kathryn sought the advice of her hosts.

“Do you have any gardens here, Mrs. Charlotte?”Oh, yes, certainly she had gardens –they were no comparison, of course, to the gardens in

the country where the air was so much more pure, if Miss Williamson would but understand her meaning, but Gloria Charlotte flattered herself that despite that impediment their gardens here were still exemplary and the most beautiful on Darvers Street. “Would you care to see them, Miss Williamson? I cannot leave my spot for long –or dear Harold would have my hide and Mr. Mr. Harrington over there doesn’t look as if he is up to cards, poor man… but I will show you the way. They’re especially fine over a sunset, Miss Williamson.”

“Thank you, I would gladly see them –if the game can but spare you a few seconds,” said Kathryn eagerly.

“Oh, he’ll be fine!” Mrs. Charlotte patted her husband’s shoulder. “Won’t you dear?”Mr. Charlotte growled. Normally a man of many words, he was not used to having his

Bridge game interrupted. Since his permanent return from India, Bridge (for they had friends over often, and those friends were usually not averse to card-playing,) and poring over the Atlas (and complaining about its inconsistencies and inaccuracies) had been his greatest enjoyments.

Mrs. Charlotte and Kathryn strode leisurely out of the parlor and through several passageways, out to a pair of glass doors which led to a path and from thence to the gardens. “Well, here we are, Miss Williamson! There’s still a bit of light by which you may admire all the flowers, Now, if you would please excuse me, I fear that my Bridge partner-”

“Oh yes, please go back to your game,” urged Kathryn, and without further prompting Mrs. Charlotte fluttered off accordingly.

Smiling to herself, Kathryn opened the doors and stepped out. The air was cool, and relatively quiet for that busy part of New York, although –Kathryn could not help observing to herself amusedly– it was probably quieter at the Charlottes’ house in the country. Near-dusk had bathed everything in a golden glow, as if it was all under enchantment.

Although, with no undue partiality, Kathryn could say that the garden was nothing in comparison to the jealously tended, hideously coveted gardens at Worthing, it was as Mrs. Charlotte had said –very fine, and meticulously cared for. All the usual flowers were in their proper places; the rose arbor most fittingly took an unprecedented place over the snubbed companions, being only next to an ivy trellis and some pathetic little snapdragons which might have been planted by accident.

There was a tall hedge, more than ten feet in height, which effectively blocked a view to what would have presumably been another side of the garden. A path led that way, and more than twenty paces down, the hedge ended. Kathryn decided to explore that section later; she now sat to admire the flowers. A dilapidated old bench, so ancient and old in its masonry that it might have always belonged to the garden, resided off to the side; on this Kathryn chose to think.

The past week had been somewhat uneventful –for all of them. While good hosts in themselves and making sure everyone was properly fed and their rooms were to their satisfaction, the Charlottes did not appear to be the sort of people who… did anything. And though they had generously taken them all to see the tragic and drama-ridden La traviata and the famed Lillian Russell with her mellow tones and honey hair piled atop her head in the absurd Whirl-i-gig, which none of their party had fully understood, on both occasions Kathryn had noticed that their hosts had, one after the other, nodded off. And who was to blame them? For, clearly, country life suited them better than anything else, and Mrs. Charlotte had taken tender care of the gardens, probably thinking to herself all the while how much better the flowers could thrive in purer air.

This garden… this garden is a haven, Kathryn told herself as she looked around and was sorry that she had not seen or thought to ask about it sooner. One felt that nothing bad could happen in that garden –its aura was of sleepy contentment, as regular as its placid owners, and it would so blissfully continue in that way until the sun set for the last time… Dreamily, Kathryn lapsed into thought about her own garden again.

She thought of her lovely blooming roses for a long time, and, rousing herself from the reverie, felt it strange that so few grew in the Charlottes’ garden, aside from the arbor. Roses as a general rule were the kind of flowers that, if you were to have a garden, you would probably have those. But perhaps, Kathryn thought, rising from her seat, they were mostly on the other side of the hedge. Or they grow more abundantly in the gardens in the country, she conjectured to amuse herself.

Kathryn was reflecting that the Charlottes would be the kind of people who hid the best flowers from view, when she turned around the hedge and saw something which drove all thoughts of roses, the country, the Charlottes, or anything else, from her mind.

She was not alone.

Chapter Five- Rain in the Garden

At first, Kathryn was sure she was dreaming. For the spectacle enfolding in front of her could, surely, be nothing but a nightmare.

She saw Randall and Miss, partially shielded by an innocent and malodorous rhododendron bush, standing hand-in-hand and in earnest and obviously secret conversation. At first, they were not aware of her presence, as Randall was in the middle of an impassioned speech.

He was saying, fervently, “-and you know, of course, that I could never have loved anyone except you– with the difficulty of my parents’ wishes and the difference in our—”

“Randall!” interrupted Celia shakily. She had finally noticed Kathryn.He turned, disturbed by the unfamiliar note in the other’s voice, and the color instantly

drained from his face. The surprise and consternation flickering across his features were equally potent. He dropped Celia’s hands as if they had just caught afire. “Kathryn– my –oh, no…” Stricken, he stretched out a hand towards Kathryn, his eyes wide and ashamed.

Celia looked this way and that, putting her small white hands up to her blushing red cheeks. “I –I’m sorry…” she said, coughing nervously.

“Go,” Randall told her roughly. “I shall be with you soon.”Celia ran past Kathryn, murmuring indistinguishably, and left the other two alone.Kathryn was in a state of something very like shock. She had no words –no adequate

words– with which to confront Randall, and waited for him to speak first.“I can –I can explain, Kathryn.”Her frozen sensibilities thawed and ignited as her temper flamed. “You will address me

from now on as Ms. Williamson, please. You no longer have the right to address me otherwise,” she said frostily, and if her words could have breathed their coldness into the air, the flowers would have shrunk in crumpled and withered agony. “There is clearly nothing to be explained.”

Randall stepped forward. “Come now and be reasonable,” he began, but Kathryn did not let him finish.

“Be reasonable? I am being perfectly reasonable, Mr. Gleason. I have just witnessed a scene such as I never thought I would ever see –especially from you.” She swallowed her sudden tears with fierceness. “You –you have just proved yourself –that is to say –you have just taken everything from me. My future –my hopes –my dreams for our life at Worthing –everything! Your character –oh, Randall, if there was one thing I could have, before, sworn as impeachable about you –it was your character. Unblemished, practically –not wholly spotless,” she amended, remembering his recent behavior, “but in all aspects perfectly honorable. And now- and now you have shattered that image, along with a thousand others so completely that I can hardly –I I –don’t know what to think.”

Her words pained him, and he bowed his head under their weight, but he took them without protest. “I am so –so sorry, Kathryn—”

“Miss Williamson!” she reminded him unmercifully. “Miss Williamson… I am, truly sorry. Allow me to tell you of the events today –you may

not think me such a blackguard—”Again, Kathryn cut him off. “I do not want hear anything. Did you not understand,

before? I need no explanation. I have seen a sufficient amount of evidence already. I can bear no more.”

“Then… will you release me from our engagement?” he asked quietly. “I have no right to ask such a thing –I know very well that I have forfeited it…”

“And yet, still, do you think that you gave me any choice in the matter? What else can I do, having witnessed as I just did something which no woman should have to see? Ran- Mr. Gleason- if only you had behaved with integrity and broken our engagement honorably and in a way that befits your station –or indeed in a way that befits any man! Why did you not? No!” She put a restraining hand up. “I ask for no explanations.”

“But you deserve—”“I will decide what I deserve, if you please,” said Kathryn. Her anger had quieted, but it

left behind a dark, empty feeling that frightened her into impertinence.“Very well,” said Randall. He did not meet her level gaze. “And will you –will you do us

the great, very great, favor of secrecy, for now? I have no right to expect it, or even hope for it –but knowing your generosity of nature—”

“Nonsense! I have little generosity left for you, and less pity for your situation –only pride which will prompt me to act for myself. And, in the light of my pride, yes, I will try to keep your secret. I can make no promises. If you are wondering if I will publicly disgrace you –then no, I do not believe I will. You will bear enough shame and reproach without me adding to it the indignation of a not altogether undeservedly harsh and unfeeling public,” she said softly.

“I think, then, that you have said enough, Madam,” he said, and brushed past her. But he paused before going around the hedge. “And –thank you.” Then he was gone.

“Oh, I wasn’t finished!” cried Kathryn, exasperated and upset, and though he could not possibly have heard her, it was something of a comfort to know that she had said it and had not wept before him.

She turned, distressed, and gazed down the long pathway, with bushes and trees and more drab and unimaginative flowers adorning the gravel along the edges. The gentle light of the garden’s spell was fading. With an almost-laugh she saw that she had actually fulfilled her original purpose for investigating the other side of the hedge –to ascertain if the Charlottes knew how to fill a garden. They did not. There was only the hateful rhododendron bush and more pitiful snapdragons –no roses.

Halfway down, the soft imprints of two pairs of feet still remained. Here, Kathryn thought, walking over to them, here they must have stood –for how long I do not know- but here they talked over it all, perhaps planned to marry, while he was still entangled… And yet he did not wait. Why could not he have waited? He need only have asked, need only have told me that I had lost his heart… She stood there, rooted to the pliable ground, and as still as if she had always been standing there from the beginning of time or even before, and gazed down at the larger pair of footprints with unrelenting fascination…

All she could think of was Randall –her memories of him… Randall sending her flowers every other Tuesday, scheduled because spontaneity was a word foreign to his nature… Randall joining her for tea and only staying half an hour, as was proper… Randall talking of the weather in desultory tones and wondering blandly if it would rain the next week… Randall visiting her at the same time each week, for months on end… Randall contentedly talking with her aunt and uncle, who loved him almost as their own flesh and blood –oh, wouldn’t they be furious with him… Randall proposing in her garden… Randall surprised into saying that he did love her … Randall, cool and calculating, never a word of passion, or even of emotion, and Kathryn had been foolish enough to suppose that it was only natural, and that he did love her in his own quiet

way…hadn’t he told her he loved her? … Randall, who she had thought she knew so well, just a few weeks previously…and yet, in reality, he was a riddle and a stranger…

And Celia, what was Celia? A young woman, just a girl, really, of some means –a pretty girl, a very pretty girl, one who had somehow managed to bypass all of the so-called arduousness of courting and all its impediments… who despite her (supposed) reading of Gothic romances and her overwhelmingly ignorant taste of music –for who could possibly abhor Liszt?- had stolen Randall’s heart from Kathryn, and with a vengeance…Celia, in all appearances a well-bred young lady –but what lady would stoop so low as that, to be a willing party to something which was so obviously wrong? Celia…lovely and common and vacuous and very, very ordinary… “hundreds of them,” Mr. Harrington had said… so why was it that Randall had to fall in love with just one of them?

If Celia had not come along –could Kathryn and Randall have lived happily as a married couple? Wasn’t everyone always talking about “learning to love” each other or some other such nonsense –at least, Kathryn had always viewed it as nonsense, for she had once thought herself sincerely attached to Randall. And yet, she was certain –they might have been happy, had each put forth an effort and tried –really and truly tried- and she would have to, and she had tried –though Mr. Harrington had made things complicated than they ought to have been… but Mr. Harrington would have vanished from both of their lives, after the ship’s journey ended –surely just as quickly as he had come in… and Kathryn had been willing –had been making efforts, for Randall’s sake, and to save their future marriage from dwindling into the sort of peremptory, uncaring relationship which she saw in the wraith-like faces of neighbors and friends– to put Mr. Harrington from her mind utterly… (And what is Mr. Harrington to me now, then? He can be nothing, of course –he must be nothing for, I believe, the rest of my life, for still I shall never seem him again after we all go back to England, and so it’s no use thinking of him anyway… and he already made it clear, in his gentlemanly way, that he did not have feelings for me –that day on the ship, with the glorious sunset… No, everything must remain as it was with Mr. Harrington –if nothing else is certain, that is... I won’t disgrace myself by throwing myself at his feet, even if I do love him…)

A drop of something round and wet landed on the tip of Kathryn’s nose. She glanced upward, and soon droplets were pouring down from the heavens in torrents, and spattering the flowers, which buckled and wavered and drew in their leaves to shield themselves from the onslaught. It was as if Heaven cried out in indignation at her plight… Kathryn was aware, dimly and almost, she thought, unnecessarily aware that she should move inside. And yet –she commanded her feet, Go, but they did not budge… and because she was almost afraid of their immobility, she convinced herself that she liked the rain, besides… it lent a soothing and cool touch to her hot cheeks and numbed her feelings … that was it, she felt as if she couldn’t feel, couldn’t ever feel again, after being so disregarded by Randall…what a horrible blow to one’s self-esteem that was!…

“Miss Williamson, are you there?” called a voice –Mr. Harrington’s voice, she thought bemusedly. What was he doing in the gardens? It sounded strangely far away, and he sounded –panicked? anxious? There was certainly something very odd about his tone…

Kathryn could not speak a word –any word– to say that she was, indeed, there, wherever “there” was; she kept staring at the flamboyant pink of the rhododendron bush ahead of her, and the rain which twinkled down upon the brilliance of her dress and splashed on her nose. One gets so much rain on one’s nose, she noticed, vaguely. How bothersome. Noses are bothersome in general, I think.

“Miss Williamson, where are you?” Mr. Harrington was saying, and Kathryn longed to cry, I am here, I am here, around the hedge where two people stood and my life was altered forever –yes, I am here! I have stayed and they have gone –I have lost the struggle. But her mouth remained stubbornly closed.

It seemed ages to Kathryn –but Mr. Harrington finally turned around the hedge –and saw her immediately. “Good Lord –Miss Williamson, what in heaven’s name are you doing? Miss Williamson?” And he sprinted to her, and shook her shoulders gently, very gently, as if he was worried that she might prove too fragile and break at his touch. “What’s possessed you? Have you taken leave of every particle of intelligence you ever had?”

As he shook her, Kathryn came to her senses. Why –why he’s insulting me! “Oh- I’m so, I’m so sorry…” And she was shivering so violently that she could not talk properly… “It’s –it’s so- cold,” she stuttered, and tried to walk –but stumbled. Mr. Harrington neatly caught her in his arms.

“Oh, Miss Williamson… I’ve no idea why you are apologizing to me… let’s get you out of this rain,” he said softly, and put his arm about her. She half-walked and he half-carried her –and Kathryn said, with her teeth still chattering as he swung the door to the hallway in and they arrived safely inside,

“Was I –was I out there for a long time?”“You were out there for a very long time,” Mr. Harrington answered in a tone which

betrayed both rebuke and immense relief. “Here, take my coat –it’s only a little damp,” and in one incredibly fluid motion he swept it off his shoulders and placed it around her own. “Sit down, sit down,” He led her to a chair –and then stepped backwards, his arms folded behind his back. Masculine and gentlemanly duty had gone far enough, and he knew very well that he had been about to cross a line that he had much better not cross. Seeing that she was no more than a little wet and a little cold and a little shaken, his anger and disbelief returned with all the unreasonableness of feeling and proper articulation that the good sense of his character and manner would allow. “I ask you again, Miss Williamson, what could have possibly induced you to stay out in the rain so long?”

“I wasn’t-I wasn’t aware it was a long time,” said Kathryn slowly, wrapping his coat more firmly around her and marveling at its radiating warmth. “I- I don’t know, really. I was lost in thought and then… I felt as if –as if I couldn’t move…” Her mind went back to those few moments –although, according to Mr. Harrington, they had been more than a few moments– and she shivered though she had felt no chill. Now that she was inside, and warm, her natural curiosity rose to the surface with full vigor. “How did you know I was out there?” –and why did you come out to find me?

“I heard you and Mrs. Charlotte talking,” Mr. Harrington hesitated, and looked deliberately at the paneling above her head. It did bear a few intricate designs worth scrutinizing, after all. “The others have been in bed for some time -but our hosts kindly said that I might leave the lamp burning to continue reading. I was about to retire, too, when I realized –I realized that I had not seen you again. And the book –well, it was not so interesting that I was lost in it and unable to observe and attend to my surroundings. It seemed preposterous that you should have been still out –it had been, if I am correct, more than an hour altogether-”

“More than an hour?” Kathryn interrupted, her eyes widening. “And how can it be possible…?”

“I do not know –perhaps it is easy to lost track of time when one is, as you said, ‘lost in thought.’ At any rate, I thought that perhaps I ought to see if you were out there, for I had a

funny sort of feeling –as if things were not quite right. And so I did –and you know the rest. I am only glad that –yes, I am glad,” he ended, wracked by the thought of other possible outcomes if he had not decided to seek her out. “But –if I might ask, I know I’m just being too forward again and you have a perfect right to refuse me- what made you so –distracted? I would not have said you were the kind of woman to do such a foolish thing as stand and think in pouring sheets of rain.”

“And I am most certainly not, under all normal circumstances!” declared Kathryn, collecting the remnants of her dignity from the ground where it had been most deplorably trampled. She glanced down, flushed, and examined the buttons upon his coat –silver buttons, of good, sturdy quality –and a stray thought ran through her head that she had never admired Randall’s flashy gold buttons… but it was such a silly thing to dislike that she would have considered it pointless to mention it… And remembering that they were talking of something quite serious, and not whether or not she approved of his buttons (would it amuse him to know that she did?,) she said quietly, “Then you do not know?”

“No…” Mr. Harrington frowned, for that one particular look –that look that she always had when talking of Randall and of his various indiscretions on the ship, had returned but with another quality to it.

“Of course; that makes sense -I suppose they must want to save themselves –for he knows I will not say anything.” Kathryn said to herself thoughtfully, and then looked right at Mr. Harrington as she said –although, suddenly, pools of tears had formed in her eyes which even the lamp could not disguise, “Earlier this evening, as I was out in the garden sitting on a stone bench, I decided to explore further. That hedge, you see, divides the garden into two parts before the lawn. When I turned round the hedge I saw –I saw Ran –Mr. Gleason and Miss Bradford together. They were –well– it happened in such a way, that is –that there seemed to be no doubt of their attachment. What ensued was a short but decisive end to any understanding which existed between myself and Mr. Gleason.”

“Can it be?” Mr. Harrington mused, as to himself, and then the full impact of her words hit him squarely. “I am- I am so –I am so sorry,” he said, and even in the light of the dim and flickering lamp, Kathryn could see the conflicting expressions upon his face; one was furious, a more furious look than she had ever beheld upon his smoothly regulated features; another was sincere and immovable compassion –compassion for her and all that she had experienced –and still another, struggling to be kept at bay and straining, for it was powerful emotion... “What a cad- what an- oh, there is no name for such a man! And for her –well, I have no right to call a lady anything, or abuse her name –but she has- oh, how to see them again with calmness or rationality!” he groaned, and paced the small corridor with increasing energy. “If I was to see Randall Gleason now, why I-why he-we-” The duplicity of such a man had driven Mr. Harrington to incoherency.

“Please,” Kathryn interjected, a little frightened at his manner and almost regretting that she had told him. “Please, no, I would wish that you would –try as hard as you can to- to behave as you always have.”

Mr. Harrington stopped pacing. He gave her a long, steady look before saying –“Yes, yes I will try to do as you ask. Though I can promise you that I will not talk to that man –to either of them- unless necessity binds me to do so. I might not even condescend to pass him the platters of food when he asks for them. He shall have to reach across me and then remark to the company that I am remarkably ill-mannered for a gentleman.”

This small shot of humor surprised Kathryn as much as it gave her relief. She even smiled –and he acknowledged her thanks with a smile of his own. A short pause followed before she urged, “And you will speak of this to no one?”

“You have my word of honor,” he said, and bowed slightly. “But I do not understand –why should I think of it as a secret?”

“It is a secret, Mr. Harrington,” Kathryn said with a small sigh.Understanding dawned upon him. “Do you mean to say that that man –that –that Cad of

cads will have no shame heaped upon him? He will hear no public outcry of –‘look at him, he has done his former betrothed wrong,’ but will only suffer under a critical eye of having broken one engagement just to make another?”

“Which is bad enough, I think, -especially for a temperament like Randall’s,” Kathryn said firmly. “And there is always his conscience to convict him –as it may, someday or other.”

“What conscience can such a man have?” growled Mr. Harrington, his fist clenched so tightly that the knuckles grew white. “Can you honestly pity his situation?”

The tears slipped out of Kathryn’s eyes and onto her cheeks unheeded. “No,” said she, just barely audible. “I cannot as of yet pity him. My own feelings –my own honor and my pride- are too much wounded still, and it is too fresh of a wound, that I cannot find it in my heart to pity him. But I will, at one point or another. For though his actions are exceedingly puzzling to me and seem to demonstrate a deviousness of nature and an underhandedness of practice that I would never have guessed to be part of his make-up, there is surely an explanation for his behavior.” Although, she reminded herself, I refused to hear it.

“Yes.” Mr. Harrington quieted and the tempest of his temper cleared. “You are wise to say such things, even if you as of yet do not believe them. And I can guess at that, at least –he has developed feelings for this woman, and when he found that he had done so, he should have cut off all communication with her and made every effort to desist, for he was attached –quite, some would say, as you and I would -unquestionably attached- to another –to you. But he must have cultivated those feelings instead, and indulged in the pleasures of spending time with her –and must have plainly seen that she was developing feelings for him, as well- and the rest we basically know. Yes –I can follow all that quite clearly… but it does not make the end result any less vile or his behavior any less reprehensible.” He was on the point of saying something else, when Kathryn’s tears, which were flowing of their own accord and still quite freely, transfixed him from anything which might be of further distress to her. A sudden thought forced itself upon him. “Might you also wish to avoid exposing him, publicly, for yourself as well?”

Kathryn closed her eyes tightly and nodded. “You are right again. I have thought that, even as in this case, when I have done nothing –or little,” she corrected, remembering that she and Randall had argued frequently, and not all of the arguments were his fault, and that she had not been completely unaware of the fact that Mr. Harrington unwittingly antagonized him, “for him to have cause to –you know, well –I do fear what people would say. You know how it is, surely, with society. Sometimes they lump you all together. I have been thinking, and this way seems the best –for all- he will have, and has had, punishment enough. And as for her,” Kathryn smiled wateringly, but her eyes had regained luster; she could not remain too despondent for long, “well, anyone who does not like Liszt as much as she does has already deprived himself of considerable enjoyment.”

Mr. Harrington laughed. “Indeed! And anyone who can bear it all with such much brevity and courage as you have done must be… must be… but oh! -I have been inconsiderate –you must still be cold, and it is growing late. Permit me to escort you to your room at once.”

“Yes, thank you; that is very kind of you,” said Kathryn, and she took his arm. They began walking through the corridors. “Poor Hilda will probably be having apoplectic fits by now,” she exclaimed with humor –and found that though her throat constricted and her head ached, she could still laugh.

“I should imagine so! I hope she has not awoken the entire household by now searching for you,” replied Mr. Harrington as they reached the stairs and started to climb to the top. “Now, which is your room?” he inquired, looking to the right and to the left.

“Oh –that one,” Kathryn pointed. Hers was at the end of the hall.“Yes, I see,” said Mr. Harrington and soon they had reached the doors. “Kathryn –before

you go in there is something I would like to say to you,” he began, shuffling his feet.Suddenly reminded that his coat still rested about her shoulders, Kathryn hurriedly took

the garment off and returned it. “Go on,” Kathryn encouraged, piqued with interest despite the lateness of the hour and the exhaustion of spirits which had settled heavily upon her.

“I need to apologize for being so –bold as to question you, alone, and at such a time of night. I felt the impropriety of it keenly, and yet –I think that in this instance, I was right to do as I did. But you may not think so, and that is why I am apologizing –and I am sorry if I have caused you any… any more distress than you have already undergone tonight.”

“No –please don’t apologize –that is something I can’t stand, after tonight,” And Kathryn tried to laugh again –unsuccessfully- but her efforts were sincere and it did Mr. Harrington’s heart good to see her trying so. “You were –you were perfectly right, and I owe you a thousand ‘thank yous’ for taking the time to come and find me, and stay with me until I was better. You have proved yourself a –a true friend.”

Mr. Harrington grinned. “Then as your friend I can accept none of your ‘thank yous,’ as it would only have been my duty, and had I done anything else I would have failed in my responsibilities and brought before the great Judge as a result.”

“I will argue that point with you later,” promised Kathryn as she opened one of her doors, and looking back to give him one more smile, “perhaps.”

Mr. Harrington chuckled, shaking his head, and left after bidding her good night.Hilda had glanced up from her vigil at the window when the doors opened and said, in

between breaths, “Miss Kathryn –Emma –Williamson! You do beat all!” And she ran to Kathryn and embraced her without ceremony. “Goodness gracious, you have so much to tell me –what have you been doing- your hair is wet –your dress –oh, that lovely dress- will never be the same again –and you look,” Hilda could not quite describe Kathryn’s look. She had never seen it on her young mistress’s face before.

“Oh, Hilda, I’m so happy to see you,” Kathryn said, reciprocating Hilda’s embrace, and then jumping back in dismay. “But I’m getting you all wet! Oh, I’m sorry…”

“Fiddlesticks, Kathryn!” said Hilda, and wiped her eyes suspiciously. “You worry about the oddest things! Now- I won’t have any of your story, though I am completely surprised and flabbergasted beyond belief, bless all the saints! I’ll admit to it readily- I won’t hear you out until you have a nice proper hot bath and get out of those wet clothes!”

***Forty-five minutes later, when Hilda had fulfilled all of her promises and Kathryn was

snuggling under the warm covers of the four-poster bed, Hilda demanded to know everything. “You promise you won’t tell a soul, though, will you –not even the cook?” Kathryn had heard that Hilda and the cook had become the best of friends, and she was not altogether sure that even

the most well kept secrets of her private life were not bandied about in the servants’ quarters as some sort of supreme comedy about the follies of the upper-class.

“Not a soul, dear, not a soul! But I am fainting with curiosity, my dear, for I saw that young Mr. Harrington fellow just outside saying good night to you,” Hilda said impatiently. She had taken a stubborn liking to “that young Mr. Harrington fellow.”

And Kathryn related her tale –the entire tale, from first when she walked out into the gardens and right up to the top of the stairs when Mr. Harrington had escorted her to her rooms.

Hilda was no less furious than Mr. Harrington had been. “My ears always turn red when I am vastly angry,” she had told a ten-year old Kathryn, and the twenty-one year old remembered it now as she watched the tips of those virtuous organs transform from a seashell, delicate pink to a burning and murderous red. “That scoundrel!” she said, her eyes a-blaze. “To think, that he jilted my Miss Kathryn for that little –that little chit of a girl, who has no more sense than a-a monk on a dairy farm! Well! That marriage, when it has taken place, won’t last! Not that I’m condemning it –by Peter and Paul, the last thing I would do would be to condemn a marriage to evil! But one such as that which has from the very first sprung from deceit and sinfulness can’t stand up under its own guilt… Oh, I never liked him, I never liked him! Judas in disguise, I suppose! Betraying him with a kiss –hmph, how appropriate indeed!”

Kathryn almost smiled at this, recognizing Hilda as entering into all the feelings of one who sincerely empathized with the wronged of the nations and had spoken as it suited the occasion. “I would not wish for them to have an unhappy marriage,” she protested, ignoring the rather confusing metaphor of Judas. “That is the sort of revenge that would in no way be satisfying. I can only hope that they settle very far from Worthing, and that I never hear from either again. Then I shall be quite content, I assure you,” and she settled among her blankets as if to prove her contentedness. She was steadily growing more and more tired, and her eyes blinked slowly and opened less.

“Now that Mr. Harrington is a fine, handsome young man (I always thought Mr. Gleason had too showy good looks for my taste –something about his hair-, though all the young ladies of the towns, as you used to say, raved about him!) and from what you’ve told me and from what I’ve seen and heard– Miss Kathryn, don’t be cross –the servants have to say something to each other, and what is more interesting than a piece of gossip?- this Mr. Harrington is as gentlemanly and as kindly as they come, and has obviously taken a great liking to you, I believe. Of course, no more than is proper. And he is, I think –quite free of any attachments to young ladies?” Hilda added with innocence.

“Yes, I believe so,” said Kathryn, giggling in her semi-conscious state. “But don’t you start match-making. I’m in no mind to heed it, and Mr. Harrington isn’t a bit like that. He’s always so nice and proper to everyone, you know, that I can hardly fancy myself singled out –he can’t possibly regard me as anything more than a pleasurable companion… And please don’t say anything to anyone… about Mr. Gleason and Miss Bradford, I mean, or any of it, really. Some people would think me quite mad for staying out in the rain so long, and I can’t yet explain it even to myself… And it was so fortunate that Mr. Harrington came just at the right time… really providential, almost. He is kind.”

“Of course, dear,” Hilda smiled and quietly left the room.Though the door had only made the faintest ‘click’ when it closed, Kathryn awoke again

completely. She sat up, and twisted the ring on her left hand absentmindedly, as she was in the habit of doing… then an idea began to take shape in her mind. Why not take the ring off, and let Randall do all the explaining if anyone asked her? She could throw it out the window –or hurl it

against a wall –or put it among the ashes of the fire… but all of these measures seemed inadequate. The idea morphed even further. And why not –why not give it back to Randall? An even better idea was to put it in an envelope, and to address it to him –and perhaps slip it under his door, unseen…

Kathryn liked this idea very much. She hopped out of her bed and lit a candle. Conveniently for the Charlottes’ guests, sheets and sheets of clean crisp paper and writing utensils stationed themselves upon the small desk. Kathryn sat in the chair, smiling just a little bit. She well knew the evils of executing something during the late hours of the night, as well as the evils of executing something when in a state of high and varying emotion, as she had found herself for the past several hours. But nevertheless, although Kathryn repented to her Maker before, during, and after the deed had been done – this tiny and very insignificant act would be sufficient revenge… and she knew Randall’s weaknesses (though perhaps she had not known his greatest,) even if she had been deluded by his virtues…

Kathryn wrote thus:Dear Mr. Randall Gleason,I am taking the rather bold liberty of returning this enclosed ring which you gave me, as

it was, in good faith. I wish you the best of happiness with your new bride. I remain,Miss Kathryn WilliamsonShe hesitated only a moment before writing the postscript.P.S. Perhaps you can put this ring to good use, instead of taking it to a jeweler’s, and

bestow it upon your new betrothed. I have not the slightest objection to such an economical endeavor.

Kathryn dropped the ring into the envelope, along with the note, and sealed it. She then stole stealthily out of her room, and felt her way along the passageway. Randall’s room was at the very opposite end of the hall, and under his doors she slipped the envelope.

It was a small kind of revenge –small and yet, for Randall, it would sting. Once she was in bed again and had blown out the candle, Kathryn smiled to herself. She knew she ought not to have done that –no matter how much he “deserved” it; but all the same, she could not be anything close to sorry. After all, Kathryn was only human.

Chapter Six- News from Seaport Lane

A slow and crawling week passed. They did not go shopping again, and at first Kathryn regarded this as rather a blessing –but then, when the Charlottes proved themselves to be good hosts but incompetent when it came to entertaining, after that first week– it turned out to be more of a curse. Everyone stayed inside; no one would have dared to go anywhere else without their hosts for fear of offending and indicating (quite correctly) that they were all, simply, bored to tears. It was providential that they did not go out or plan to go out, however –for every day of that week it rained. It rained as if it had never rained before and would never rain again, with a strange kind of ferocity that, of course, caused Mrs. Charlotte to marvel several times a day, “Oh, my dears, I’m sure it puzzles me, we’ve such strange and unaccountable weather here in the city; it’s almost always good in the country, though, and only rains when it is supposed to.” And Kathryn could not be sure, but she thought that after the repeated occurrence of these woeful musings, no one had ever mentioned the rain again.

The day following Kathryn’s discovery of Randall and Celia (a Sunday, the day which Kathryn thought that he would have avoided most for practicing his vices,) it was made generally known after the church service and a hearty meal that Randall and Kathryn were no longer engaged for reasons of, as Randall artfully put it, “extenuating circumstances” –and he did stress that he had been the one, not Kathryn, responsible for its end. This was Kathryn’s only positive proof that he had read the note she gave him –but his very silence upon the matter was of greater satisfaction to Kathryn’s pride than if he had said something. No –even Randall, in all his vanity and puffery of spirit, could not in earnestness contend that it had been unjust of her.

Upon this announcement, there were murmurs of surprise, and of confusion, and Mr. Gleason could not help bursting out, “Well, Randall, you could have told me,” and Adelaide said almost the same thing to Kathryn, and Kathryn replied simply that she hadn’t known, until very, very recently. Kathryn noticed that Mr. Harrington said nothing, and uttered nothing, at the announcement, but his eyes grew steely and very grey, and he clenched the armrest of his chair. Mr. and Mrs. Charlotte, though knowing nothing at all of the matter, and little of either person involved, were yet disappointed, for they liked Kathryn –and Mr. Charlotte appreciated that though she was not the best of Bridge players she was always willing to play (and gave him a fairer chance of winning when they were not, by some cruel twist of fate, paired together) and Mrs. Charlotte had been given a very nice compliment about her gardens, and the food served, and the house in general, all from Kathryn, (and, what was more, thought her quiet reserve and gentle cheerfulness good signs in a woman,) that she was sorry that Randall was proving just as unwise as his brother, and resolved to stop listening to him, too. (Although Mrs. Charlotte had somewhat recanted her earlier and premature judgments of Mr. Gleason -there must be at least a molecule of sense within his bones, for she had seen it, once or twice, in the course of conversation –but it was all so effectively squashed under his happy nature that it was altogether too difficult to tell- she was still too disposed to think ill of a cheerful and too-eager temper, and coupled it with flightiness, that she could not entirely forget her former opinions.)

And Mr. Harrington kept his promise. No one –except Kathryn, Hilda, Mr. Harrington, and the two perpetrators– knew about what had happened in the gardens, or what had transpired later. There was no need to tell anyone, for Kathryn had suffered no ill effects from the rain, and Mr. Harrington thought it best not to alarm their hosts or to stir up questions which would lead to even more unstable ground. He was civil to Celia, saying as little as possible –and to Randall he never said anything at all, excepting once, at dinner, when a large plate of greens which Mr. Harrington desired was placed by that man and he was the only one with the convenience and ability to pass it.

Kathryn avoided conversing with either of them as well, though it was not so noticeable as to have raised anyone’s suspicions (it was helpful too, that the one person in their company who might have noticed her slightly odd behavior already knew the reasoning behind it,) and whenever she did talk to either of them, she was conscientiously pointed in being polite and friendly, and if anyone had watched her take a chair by the fire, when there was an open and relatively comfortable chair next to Celia –well, nobody said anything, or thought it strange –and perhaps she liked the fire better than Celia’s companionship.

For there was a silent agreement, among Mr. and Mrs. Charlotte, that in Miss Celia Bradford –though in all outward appearances a pretty, ladylike, and amiable sort of acquaintance, if a bit boring intellectually- there was some quality of ….pettiness, or of inferiority of mind, or, more indefinitely –a lack of something which should have been there… and all of which qualities were not present in the other ladies from England; for Adelaide, in all her silliness, had

no jealous or spiteful tendencies, and was as cheerful and good-humored and virtuous in knowing right from wrong, as her husband; and Kathryn, the couple maintained in their private conversations, was of that rare and beautiful breed which one might truly and honestly call Lady in its purest form –and yet she had faults of her own, just to keep her from being too perfect. And so, it stood to reason, in their minds, that Kathryn would most unsurprisingly not want to associate too often or too much with Celia Bradford –not because, they thought, she feared the other’s influence to tarnish her sheen –but because it must be tiresome for her.

And it was on this day -a Saturday- that the clouds darkened especially grey, and the rain pounded especially wrathfully upon the rooftops, and the whole air was one of miserable Ennui, and everyone felt as if there was nothing and never would be anything and never had been anything to do (and Mrs. Charlotte was so low in spirits as not even to hazard a remark about the plentiful bounty of activities in the country.) That Saturday night the whole party was assembled in the parlor, just after the evening meal. Mr. Charlotte had hinted several times that the Bridge table was ready to be pulled out at any moment. But no one was in spirits to listen.

Mrs. Charlotte was fretting over the menu for the five thousandth time that day; Mr. Gleason and Adelaide, sitting silently together and seemingly unoccupied, only roused themselves once every few minutes to quarrel with one another about the weather and about politics and about the whole world in general; Mr. Harrington, extraordinarily, was in a foul temper and had burrowed his way into another book; and Kathryn had –finally, desperately, and despairingly– turned to her Latin textbook for -not amusement, nor even instruction –no, it was nothing but for torture in its acutest shape. Randall and Celia were the only tolerably happy individuals, speaking to each other in what was quite an un-suspicious manner.

Kathryn was wondering rather moodily (in between chapters about Verb Conjugations and Irregular Forms) just in what other way the two could have possibly made their secret engagement more evident when one of the maids came hurrying into the parlor. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Ma’m, I’m sure,” she said as Mrs. Charlotte showed signs of distress and seemed nearly to inform everyone that such bold interruptions were very infrequent occurrences at their country house, “but a little girl’s come, asking for a Miss Kathryn Williamson or a –uh- a Mr. David Harrington.”

“A little girl?” Mr. Harrington sat up from his slouching position and suddenly laid his book on the coffee-table.

“Did she give her name?” said Kathryn as she and Mr. Harrington looked at each other, each thinking the same thing –Could it be-?

“Yes, Miss. She said her name was -Sylvia Summers, I believe, and that she had come on account of a real bad emergency, and that she desires that you would come with her at once.”

‘Thank you for the information. You may tell her I will be right out,” responded Kathryn as she joyfully cast aside her textbook, and even considered tossing it through the window in a great cacophony of glass and triumph. Would not that rouse the company into animation?

“And I,” said Mr. Harrington. Kathryn made a quick decision. “I will go and get Hilda, then. She will want to come –

and perhaps she can help, whatever the emergency may be.” She turned to Mrs. Charlotte. “If you will excuse us –it seems that we are called away. I’m sure it must seem very strange-”

“No, go on, go on, please do! I would not wish to stop you –whatever it is,” Mrs. Charlotte added, in the hopes that one of them would explain the peculiar situation –a little girl, alone, calling on two people (two people apparently not connected to each other in any sort of

way before their recent acquaintance) and asking for their help and their help alone. But she was disappointed, for Kathryn and Mr. Harrington quit the room immediately upon her assent.

They did not speak a word, but the urgency of Sylvia’s visit sent them both running –Mr. Harrington to the door and Kathryn up the stairs and to her room. She burst in on Hilda, breathless and gasping.

“Good heavens Miss Kathryn, is anything the matter?” asked Hilda, standing from her chair and letting her book fall to the ground.

“Yes –at least I think so –I was wondering if you would come with Mr. Harrington and I and Sylvia –oh, you don’t know of Sylvia –she’s a charming girl we met while shopping the other day- something’s wrong, though, I’m not sure what it is…”

For the second time in that turbulent country, Hilda said, “Oh, Miss, you do beat all! I’ve no earthly idea what you’re blathering about. But I might as well come along. It’s not exactly what you would call proper for a woman and a man and a small girl, whoever she may be, to go scampering about town at all hours of the night. Let me get our coats… and your hat, dear- I can’t risk you getting soaked again…”

“No, that would not be ideal,” agreed Kathryn, though her mind was not occupied with practicality, and so properly attired they exited the room.

“Don’t rush, dear,” reproved Hilda as she watched Kathryn’s eager steps.“But I have to –I must –we must. I believe Sylvia to be in real distress of some kind,”

said Kathryn, and hurried all the more.“Oh, bother!” grumbled Hilda, although she was easily able to keep up with Kathryn’s

pace, “and at my age, too!”***

And then, at the bottom of the steps, Kathryn saw her. Such a change had been wrought over Sylvia’s features that she might not have recognized the girl. Sylvia’s face was pinched in sadness, and in fright. It was the look of such complete sorrow, and such a total rejection of hope as should never appear on a child, or even a human being’s face, that it tore Kathryn to her soul –for it contrasted so utterly with what must have been her normal aspect of happiness and radiant sunshine. And even if Kathryn’s maternal instincts had not taken over entirely from that moment, the look on Sylvia’s face would have prompted Kathryn to her next movement –that of gathering the girl up into her arms.

Sylvia began to cry into Kathryn’s coat, speaking in between sobs, “I’m so sorry if I –if I disturbed you –I had to come, I didn’t know where else to go… Mr. and Mrs. Cassel are gone on their honeymoon and no one was home at the Flint’s house or at the bakery and –and –I don’t know where I can get a doctor- and-”

“There, there dear. It’s quite all right, you should have come here. It was the wisest thing you could have done,” Kathryn said, rocking her gently, “Now- Hilda will hold you for a moment.” She rose, and gave the girl up to Hilda, who was better qualified for the task of comforting children anyway, though her husband had long been dead and no child of her own had ever been laid in her arms –but she had fondled and kept a sharp eye on Kathryn for most of her charge’s life.

“Mr. Harrington,” whispered Kathryn. He had previously been comforting Sylvia but now stood apart, his expression solemn and his hat clenched so tightly between his hands that his knuckles had turned a ghoulish white. “What did she tell you?”

“From what I can make out, it’s her mother –she’s been ill, and she took a turn for the worse.”

“Her mother…” And for a second Kathryn saw a vision of her own mother, writing letters or sending invitations for a party which would surely be the talk of the town, laughing with everybody and pleasing the whole room, easily conversing on any topic of interest with the seeming expertise of a connoisseur –and Kathryn shuddered to think of what the girl must have experienced.

“Yes,” Mr. Harrington paused. “And no one is there to send for a doctor, and she doesn’t know where to find him –Doctor Hamilton, I believe, is the doctor’s name. She says he would know where their lodgings are; he’s been there before.” Mr. Harrington explained. He was stepping up and down on the balls of his feet, as if suppressing some great energy which could not be directed and which was manifesting itself in impatience.

“Doctor Hamilton?” Kathryn frowned, thinking. “Hilda, wasn’t Doctor Hamilton the surgeon on the ship that came to see me?”

“Doctor Hamilton –oh yes!” And Hilda colored a deep red, even as she stroked Sylvia’s hair and reassuringly whispered in her ear. “I know where to find him –I know his house –it’s not far off.” This remark –said in an embarrassed and secretive tone– caught Kathryn completely off-guard. But it was neither the time nor place to question her about such knowledge, and Kathryn could only stare.

“Let’s go, then!” said Mr. Harrington, and was already heading for the doors, grimly glad that he could give channel to the vibrancy which was coursing through him.

“Wait-” said Kathryn. “Not all of us should go –you and Hilda find the doctor, and take a cab –and I’ll take Sylvia back to where she lives and see if there is anything that I can do for her or for her mother. Is it a good plan, do you think?” she appealed to Mr. Harrington.

“It is a good plan,” he answered, surprised; not surprised by its logicalness, but surprised that she could think so clearly while his thoughts were all jumbled and only telling him one thing, to do- to do something productive. “Well…” and his fingers splayed out towards the doorknob as Hilda unwillingly wrenched herself away from the still-sobbing girl and followed him. They vanished into the night.

“Sylvia darling, can you tell me on what street you live so I can tell the driver where to go?”

“Seaport Lane, Miss. It’s not far from here, not far at all –about a mile, I think.”“Do you think that we ought to hunt for a cab driver now?” suggested Kathryn. “That’s

quite a distance to go in the dark.” “Yes –yes, I think so, but I walked here quickly enough,” Sylvia answered. She was no

longer crying, but that horrible expression had never left her face and cast a shadow greater than that of the large and unimpressive streetlamps.

(The poor girl –walking here, alone? When any host of people or creatures might have attacked her!) “Then –we’ll go now,” Kathryn decided, and they hurried outside into the biting night air. Providence was with them as they searched for a cab –it was not long before one pulled up. The driver was dwarfish and old, resembling an eerie elf in the dim light. He took in the reins a little, causing his horse to whinny, slightly, and to nod its head in huffing impatience. The man asked, “Would you two be wantin’ a ride?”

“Seaport Lane, please,” Kathryn said, crisply. She was in no mood for trivialities. The man certainly could see the obvious urgency in their manner.

“As you please, as you please,” The man replied, un-phased by her coolness. They climbed up and into the seats. Typically American, Kathryn thought with disdain as her back

uncomfortably registered the thin plush of the seats and the hard backs, to be unnecessarily economical about essential things like the quality of seat cushions.

“Now Sylvia,” she said, firmly, and gazed at the girl with kindness. “You must try to tell me all about this so that I can understand properly.”

Sylvia said shakily that she would. “There’s not –not much to tell. Mama has been sick a very long time, and I have been taking care of her –but the past few weeks… well… she’s gotten worse,” and here the little voice halted and her throat tightened. “And today –I went away, for a little while –though I never go so late usually –to see Mrs. Flint and give her the grocery money for next week. When I came back… she was raving, and saying many things I didn’t understand and asking when her father would be home for dinner. Oh, Miss Williamson –she hasn’t seen her father in –in years and years! And then she kept calling out to Papa and talking to him as if he were there… but he’s been dead since I was eight. It frightened me so –and her forehead was burning with heat –I –I don’t think I have ever felt anything so hot! And I searched and searched for people but no one could be found… and everyone is so unfriendly at night that I dared not go out and ask. And then I remembered you –and thought that you might help me, you and –and good Mr. Harrington- and when I left my mama she had quieted again, and was sleeping. She may be sleeping still. I’ve done all I could –I have- but I know –oh, I know she’s going to go!” And she wept again, the tears streaming down her face.

Kathryn put an arm around her. She could say nothing, she knew, which would be of comfort –and prayed that Sylvia was receiving comfort from a far more competent Source.

Sylvia wiped the tears from her face. “But –but I’m being so selfish!”Kathryn echoed, “Selfish?” and tried to remember an instance in their past conversation

in which Sylvia had sounded or behaved even remotely close to the word. “Dear, what do you mean?”

“Well –it’s selfish of me to want to –to want to keep her, when she must be in pain and God must want her more than I do –He’s trying so hard, He’s been trying to take her for such a long time now! But I don’t understand… I know it’s wrong, I know, to wish that my mother would stay just for my sake… but she’s all that I have –she’s all that I’ve ever had, since Papa died. Not even Mr. Cassel or Mrs. Cassel or Mrs. Flint or anybody can take the place of my mother –and for that part of me to be gone… forever… is more than I can- more than I can-” And the tears again stole down Sylvia’s cheeks.

“Oh, Sylvia,” said Kathryn and hugged her tighter. “It isn’t a bit wrong. Surely our reward will be much greater in the times to come –but that doesn’t mean this life is to be wasted, or that we are forbidden to regret and be sad when someone is close to… close to death.”

“But I’ve always thought it was wrong,” sniffled Sylvia. “Isn’t part of loving –sacrificing too?”

“Yes, you’re right. Sacrifice does come with love –and perhaps this may be the greatest act of love –letting her go.”

“And yet –and yet- it will be so hard!”“It is very hard,” replied Kathryn, and sighed. “I was younger than you are, and I do not

recall it well –but I can still remember when my mother died, and my father. They contracted a fever –and so did I- but I was the only one who survived. I was so angry and upset after I was better and found out about their deaths… and so broken-hearted. It takes a long time for the hurt to go away, Sylvia. Even now –even now I cannot think of my mother or father for long or I will begin to cry.” And her mind went, briefly, to the night on the ship, when she had related to Mr.

Harrington the deaths of her parents… “But we need not talk of that now! Your mother is still alive –and she may yet live for many years longer; who can know if such is to happen?”

And as Kathryn was saying this, they drove onto Seaport Lane –a narrow street, by Kathryn’s standards of judgment, and poorly lit. The driver said brightly, as if he had not heard a word of his passengers’ conversation, (though it was always a habit of his to listen, so that he could re-tell any interesting stories to his wife, for one wouldn’t imagine the strange tales that could be had in the back of a cab,) “Here we are! That’ll be a dime if it’s anything.”

“Indeed,” said Kathryn dryly, and took from her money pouch what she thought was the appropriate coin –but it might have been a quarter. To Kathryn the difference mattered little, and American money –especially the coins– was so confusing as to be rendered almost incalculable. Whatever it was, the driver obviously thought it the correct amount of fare, for he grinned, tipped his hat, and drove off. “So this is Seaport Lane,” mused Kathryn. (But perhaps it looks pleasanter when in the light of the sun and there are not so many shadows.)

“It is –and this is our lodgings.” Sylvia took Kathryn’s hand and opened a crooked door which led to a small and dingy corridor. “We go up one flight of stairs –here,” and she pointed to the rickety-looking staircase.

“Let’s go up, then,” pronounced Kathryn, her doubtfulness about the reliability of the staircase evident, and they did thus. The stairs creaked horribly and dreadfully, and Kathryn longed to plug her ears –but she maintained her hands by her sides and the stairs did nothing but creak, thankfully.

“In here,” Sylvia whispered, and they stepped into what must have been a kitchen.Kathryn had not brushed with poverty –or so near to poverty– ever before. She realized,

as they walked into the bare room, that she had been living within her own sphere of how everything should be run and how everything worked, and pleasing no one but herself. Of course, she made regular visits to the poor in Cambrien, and supplied them with provisions so that they might not be uneasy or in want of food... and she had talked with them, and listened to their cares, and felt deep sympathy for their plight… but the poor rarely had faces, or personalities, or hopes or dreams in Kathryn’s subconscious mind… it was just a title, as one might say, The Poor collectively and as a whole –just one mass of people who had fallen on hard times, or had been born into them, and were doomed never to escape… and yet here was Sylvia, who –as evidenced by her home, which was small and relatively unadorned- was in the midst of poverty, and yet she was shining with hopes and dreams and fears… The swift glance at the kitchen taught Kathryn that valuable lesson –that everyone, even in the lowest degree of what, by Society, would have been considered as faceless and valueless, had, if not hopes and dreams, at least the capacity for them, to the smallest who could not yet even think or be in his own power, and to the largest who was thinking with passion…

“This way, Miss Williamson…” said Sylvia, and Kathryn obeyed. They went into a small bedroom with two cots, a water-basin, and a crude nightstand. On one of the cots lay Sylvia’s mother.

She was tossing back and forth, muttering to herself brokenly. She had once been beautiful, this Kathryn immediately saw, from the damp golden curls and the long lashes fluttering restively on her cheek. It made Kathryn quiver to look at her–for there was something haunting in that beauty –some unearthly quality. It gave Kathryn the distinct impression that the woman would not be much longer alive. All the quick assurances to Sylvia that her mother was surely not as ill as it might have seemed died, unsaid, in her throat.

Kathryn roused herself from such morbid thinking and asked Sylvia how she could be of help. “I’m afraid that I know little about taking care of the sick… I’ve never had the opportunity –or the need to. But -might we wet a few cloths and see if we can cool her fever, or strip the sheets back?”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve done before, let me run and get them,” said Sylvia, and she darted out of the room.

It does her good to be active, poor thing… Kathryn looked again at the turbulent figure upon the bed. Although there is not much –there cannot possibly be much –which can be done for her mother now… For Death was in the room. She could feel it, nearly tangible, spreading its icy fingers around the walls and enclosing the room in a stifling shroud. Sylvia returned with the cloths, and put them gently upon her mother’s forehead while Kathryn pulled the sheets from her body. Sylvia’s mother groaned, and Kathryn quickly took her arm, feeling for a pulse in her wrist. Her heart was beating as fast as a hummingbird’s wings, and Sylvia had not been exaggerating the heat of her mother’s temperature. It seemed to radiate off of her skin into the air.

“Now,” said Kathryn, “we must wait for the doctor.” Sylvia nodded, but would not leave her mother’s side, and took the warm hand in her

own, laying it against her cheek. Kathryn, afraid for Sylvia’s frazzled nerves, knelt by the bedside also, and put an arm around the little girl. She bowed her head in intercessory prayer, knowing that the future was already known by the Omniscient One… she only feared what had already been decided.

Half an hour had passed –but to Kathryn, moving her lips silently and fervently, it could have been any amount of time when a knock rattled the stillness of the house.

Chapter Seven- Bittersweet Release

Kathryn started. “Sylvia, don’t move. I will answer it. That must be the doctor and Mr. Harrington and Hilda come.” She stood up, and took wavering but directed steps to the door. A raging ache, which had taken residence next to her temples, was pounding in her head, and she was certain that she had never before been so tired in her life. Kathryn answered the door to the three expected people. Doctor Hamilton gave her a quick hello, impressionable lines creasing his forehead, and plowed into the other room, Hilda close at his heels and not a word did she say to Kathryn –but Mr. Harrington –Mr. Harrington cast her a long and searching look.

They walked slowly through the kitchen, without speaking, until, just before the door to the bedroom, Kathryn turned to Mr. Harrington, her headache roaring and throbbing with perverse fierceness, and said, “It’s so –so horrible, all of it,” and a torrent of tears flooded her cheeks.

“Oh, Miss Williamson,” said Mr. Harrington, and without another word he took her hands and pressed them.

“I don’t understand –I can’t understand why this has to be happening to her –her mother is –she’s the only companion Sylvia has, besides her neighbors… and it’s all so cruel and awful, with her mother in there, dying –I know she’s dying, Mr. Harrington, I saw it on her face and you can feel it… poisoning the air… it won’t be long, no, it won’t be long…”

“Shhh,” crooned Mr. Harrington gently. “What have you been doing that has made you so distraught?”

“I was –praying.” And hearing the puzzled note in her own voice, even at that moment Kathryn could laugh, just a little, for she had sounded almost accusatory. “It’s just, truly, very exhausting– and I don’t understand, any of it… but there are some things, I suppose, we will never understand. I’m sorry…” Kathryn added, straightening and drying her eyes with the back of her hand. “I am myself again.”

“Are you?” said Mr. Harrington. And his eyes gave her another thorough and piercing glance.

Kathryn thought then of the many things that she could say –mostly about Sylvia, but also about Randall and Celia and about –about loving him, Mr. Harrington, and how she feared that she would never see him again, and live a doomed old maid –for she could not marry after having known Mr. Harrington –no, she could not bear to even entertain the idea. Kathryn thought of all these things, and many more, and said with faintness, “It doesn’t –it doesn’t matter now, I think. We should go in to Sylvia. She needs us.”

“Is there yet anything we can do?” Mr. Harrington asked gently.Inexplicably, his question rallied Kathryn’s dragging fatigue and a spark kindled in her

dark eyes. “There is always something,” she said, harshly, and put her hand to the doorknob. “Wait a moment!” said Mr. Harrington as a frown marred his countenance. “I didn’t

mean it that way, you goose!” His fingers brushed her arm as he stopped her. “I was purely being practical.”

His words registered. A ghost-like, indignant laugh escaped her. “Did you really just call me a goose, or am I perhaps hard of hearing?”

“You have no such defect. I did indeed call you a goose!” said Mr. Harrington nearly playfully as he opened the door and whispered, “And I’m liable to do it again.”

He held his arm out to her, and for a moment she almost deigned to be half-offended at this perfect knowledge of her own weaknesses and irresolution of spirits, but the gravity of the situation –and the humble admission that she did lack strength –and the gentle persuasion of his movements– powerfully overcame her protests; she took it then, gratefully.

The small encounter in the kitchen had calmed Kathryn’s nerves and soothed her fears, partially obstructing the glaring truth they now faced in the adjacent room. Even with Mr. Harrington next to her, even leaning on him for support, did not dim the practical realization that Mr. Harrington –in all that he could do and say– could not help Sylvia’s mother. Her fate was of another, Eternal Thread, woven by the Great Weaver and already marked out in its pattern.

“Are you ready?” whispered Mr. Harrington. He had only opened the door a crack, not enough to send the harsh light of the kitchen scurrying into the dim and pulsing aura of the other room more than the length of a long, intruding sliver.

Kathryn could but nod in reply, clutching his arm tighter. The few minutes’ relief she had received from the oppressive heaviness of the sick room had done much for her headache.

The two at last entered slowly as the only onlookers unable to give any practical help. Sylvia’s mother had stopped raving and tossing, and the faint flutter of the pale ribbon along her nightgown was the one indication either Mr. Harrington or Kathryn had of her continued inhabitance on the earth. On one side of the roughly-hewn bed stood Doctor Hamilton. A shadow contorted his normally happy features as he shook his head, murmuring things too indistinguishable for the rest of the company to hear, excepting his companion, Hilda. Her face betrayed violent sorrow (though only so lately having become acquainted with Sylvia and her plight) and the singular misfortune of a very red nose as her tears flowed freely prevented her expression from being as entirely woebegone as it might have been.

The lamp did not shine on either the doctor or Hilda in its soft radiance, instead concentrating on the two figures upon the bed. With both of her mother’s transparent hands clasped in her own, Sylvia did not speak, did not move, even –but all the earnestness of desire burst from her unrelenting eyes as she looked at her mother –her only source of comfort and joy and heartache and pain and laughter and love. Sylvia looked as if she was willing her mother to live. Engulfed in the lamp’s gentle glow, the two could have been an immortal symbol of Love and Sacrifice, of Cherishing and Letting Go.

Cynthia Summers opened her bright, feverish eyes just one more time that night. She awoke suddenly, as from a dream or vision, and said in a clear, strong voice to the daughter still clinging tightly to her, “My dearest, dearest darling… Sylvia Anne… you were always such a bright ray of sunshine in my life, especially after your father died. I never thanked you for all that you have been to me. You are a beautiful girl, little sunbeam.” She smiled weakly. “I love you, dearest.”

“I love you too, Mama,” said Sylvia quietly. She kissed her mother’s damp forehead. “I love you very, very much.”

Her mother smiled once more and closed her eyes. A few dreadful moments passed before Sylvia recognized that the hands in hers had grown completely limp and the pale pink ribbon had ceased its hopeful flutter. She folded her mother’s hands together, placing them over the faded bedspread, and looked beseechingly toward the doctor. “I’m afraid…” she started, averting her eyes.

In a swift movement Doctor Hamilton, though knowing the outcome by instinct as a man long practiced in his profession, checked the pulse of the lifeless hand. He turned to the others. “Yes. She’s… she’s dead.”

The awful word, spoken in a gruff whisper, reverberated around the small room with dreadful finality. Only when Kathryn noticed unshed tears pooling in Mr. Harrington’s eyes did she realize that they were freely raining down her own cheeks. “Sylvia…” she said brokenly, and the girl –who could not bear to feel the increasing coldness of her mother’s side– ran to Kathryn immediately.

“Oh, Sylvia, I am so, so sorry,” said Kathryn, holding her tightly. “No-no- don’t be,” cried Sylvia shakily. “Oh please, don’t be sorry. I mean- I mustn’t- I

mustn’t be selfish, you know… I can’t be selfish… she’s with Papa, she can say hello to Papa now, and they can run without growing tired and walk all day through the forests if they want to… there are forests in heaven, aren’t there?”

“Of course there are, I’m sure,” Kathryn said with an air of absolute certainty. “They can wander on forever in those forests, without getting lonely or hungry or cold… and God will grant them happiness… and you must remember the most important thing, that they are with Him forevermore and so must have perfect happiness.”

“Yes,” Sylvia almost smiled. “Yes –I had nearly forgotten, but they would be so happy –Heaven is such a happy place! And Mama hasn’t been happy without pain for such a long time now.” She glanced back at the motionless figure on the bed and added, in an anguished half-whisper with much of her former sorrow returning, “But –but- all the same I wish- I wish-” and she buried her face into Kathryn’s bosom.

“I know, dear,” said Kathryn. “I know…”Mr. Harrington touched Kathryn’s arm lightly, gesturing in a meaningful way to the

distraught girl. He dropped his voice very low, so that none but Kathryn could hear. “I have just been speaking with Doctor Hamilton and Hilda. They agree it would be best –since her

neighbors are gone, all of them– that Doctor Hamilton take her home with him –and Hilda accompanying, and afterwards finding lodging at a nearby hotel. The doctor says he has an old housekeeper, but they’re afraid that Sylvia will want someone she knows –and, luckily, she and the doctor have had some exchanges in the past. Certainly we oughtn’t to let her stay alone in this place.”

“Shouldn’t we leave a note for the neighbors? I’m sure they’ll be anxious for Sylvia and her mother –unless they have hearts of stone.”

“Yes, of course,” Mr. Harrington agreed. “I hadn’t thought of that. The undertaker also needs to be called… there’s no telephone here, of course, but there might be one on the street. Did you chance to see one?”

Kathryn shook her head. “No –I’m afraid not- I didn’t have the presence of mind then to look around for one and I was hoping we would have no need of one.” Watching Mr. Harrington go over again to confer with the other two, Kathryn recalled his earlier words which had not stood out to her before in the midst of their discussion. ‘And Hilda accompanying,’ he said… it wouldn’t mean much, perhaps, but with all the other instances this week piling up… the little things… the fidgeting…the lack of embroidering…no! certainly it couldn’t be! –but, glancing over at Hilda, and observing her lean on the doctor’s arm in a variation of the way she had leaned on Mr. Harrington’s and seeing that Doctor Hamilton in return gave Hilda’s worn hand a comforting squeeze- but it is! And she hasn’t mentioned a word about it! Good heavens –now- when everything else is happening…

Mr. Harrington returned to Kathryn. “It would seem we have some sort of a plan worked out now. The doctor-” here he pointed to the man who seemed on the point of leaving the room, but kept stalling to say another word to Hilda, “knows where a telephone is nearby and can make the necessary calls. Hilda, apparently, never goes anywhere without a pad and paper, so she can stay here and write the note to the neighbors –a Mr. and Mrs. Flint, I believe. There are others –the Cassels- but they’ve just gone to Europe for their honeymoon.”

“Europe?” Kathryn interrupted. “Their neighbors are wealthy enough to go to Europe?”“Apparently he’s an eccentric who, before marriage, had much money but little to do

with it, and so lived here on Seaport Lane –that is, at least, the account that the doctor has given me. At any rate, after all that is taken care of, Doctor Hamilton and Hilda will go to his house in town –not far from here, I think- with Sylvia and you and I will-” he peculiarly stumbled on that phrase, “you and I will go back to Darvers Street. Is it a good plan, do you think?”

“It sounds very reasonable,” said Kathryn. She was having trouble with reason as she embraced a girl victimized by what should be the most illogical and confounding enigma of all mankind –undeserved loss. “But Mr. Harrington –she’s just lost her mother.” The fact somehow seemed incredibly important to their conversation.

“I know, Kathryn, I know,” sighed Mr. Harrington, thinking of the personal weight and heart-wrenching remembrances that must haunt Kathryn. He risked touching her shoulder for a moment in reassurance. “All will be well.”

***Within a very few minutes the companions had accomplished much. The undertaker, a

Mr. Fresenhood –tall and thin and somber-looking, exactly the kind of undertaker for whom people always asked, arrived promptly and stood darkening a corner of the little room, his bony fingers curled around a long black hat. Hilda had just bustled in from the Flints’ house where she had wedged a note under the doormat. She immediately took charge of Sylvia, relieving Kathryn

at Mr. Harrington’s urgent and under-toned request. He could not forget what had happened on the boat and how many (if unfounded) fears had risen in his chest when she fallen ill.

Mr. Harrington had somehow never failed to remember her throughout it all –stopping to interrogate the undertaker, to deliberate with the doctor and commiserate with Hilda, to aid the grieving Sylvia- but always and in between times at her side, pestering her with pointed questions about her health, seeking her judgment on all the little matters and arrangements, comforting her with looks rather than words, and a thousand other things.

And now they all formed a semi-circle around the bed, looking at the lifeless body of Cynthia Summers. The undertaker took dour notes, and uttered many words and expressions which, though distantly familiar could not help but sound like jargon to Kathryn’s numb ears as she saw, instead of Sylvia’s mother, her own parents, pale from relentless fever and lying forever cold. Sylvia had stopped crying, but she would not let go of Hilda’s hand nor tear her gaze from her mother. The doctor, Kathryn saw with a somewhat sinking confirmation of all her very recent suspicions, had taken possession of Hilda’s other hand. She and Mr. Harrington merely stood, apart.

A moment passed in which everyone was staring at Sylvia’s mother. In death she formed the sweetest and happiest picture, a portrait of a carefree girl never knowing the hardships of poverty nor the heartbreak of filial rejection, as had been her lot early in life. A small, secret smile graced her beautiful face and the curls, so prized as they had been not ten years before, framed the strangely pink cheeks.

“Oh, Sylvia,” Kathryn said with emotion, marking the smile, “I think you may be certain of her happiness.”

Sylvia nodded slowly. “I am assured of it.” She finally gazed all round at the assembled company, even Mr. Fresenhood the undertaker. Bravely, Sylvia went on, “Now I can be happy knowing that my mother is eternally so. I love her and I will miss her dearly –not a day will go by without me missing her! but she has gone to a place I would not take her from, now. She is with my Papa, and with her Father.”

After such an intrepid little speech even the undertaker, who counted himself as being one of those fortunate human beings not easily surprised out of countenance or driven to great displays of emotion (except when his wife did not broil the mutton to perfection) found himself patting his stern black pockets. Mysteriously, he procured the handkerchief his granddaughter had embroidered for him and with which he suddenly felt he needed to polish his spectacles energetically, muttering to himself all along, “What an extraordinary child!”

Chapter Eight- A Stroll in the Moonlight

Over an hour later –the body removed by efficient Mr. Fresenhood and the girl, Sylvia, left in the hands of Hilda and Doctor Hamilton with strict instructions to bring her over to Darvers Street straight in the morning– Mr. Harrington and Kathryn saw the sorrowful trio go with a variety of emotions.

Kathryn was feeling sad, confused, betrayed, angered, mournful and very, very weak. The most predominant emotion was sadness –knowing what Sylvia must feel, and must think, as she wondered what life would be like without a mother- but a sense of betrayal and anger crept into her consciousness as well. All seemed settled between Hilda and the doctor –they were practically married already! More change, Kathryn thought gloomily as she and Mr. Harrington waited on Seaport Lane for a cab.

Twenty minutes passed before either of them said anything. Each was wrapped up in his and her own thoughts, apparently completely absorbed –and each was also very sensitive to (disregarding the situation’s perfect allowance of this so-called indiscretion) the indecorousness of being together, alone, at what could only be called the very early hours of the morning.

A cab, however, did not come, and at last this misfortune compelled Mr. Harrington to say wearily, “I fear that- it would seem- as it is-” but then, gathering himself together, he said directly, “Miss Williamson, I think we have no choice but to walk.”

“Walk?” Kathryn repeated. A thousand doubts crowded her mind at once. “But neither of us know the way –at least I don’t- and I’ve only seen it from a cab, which is something -but I wasn’t paying the least amount of attention –no, no, I cannot think this our only choice.”

Mr. Harrington responded with silence, wisely refraining from reiterating the fact that the time of night, and the total absence of activity on the dismal street, seemed to necessitate that the natural way of transportation (putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward) was now the only means of returning.

Kathryn had been busily turning the predicament over in her mind, desperately searching for other possible solutions and wishing that a city, so crankily alive in the daytime would remain so in the later hours of the night. But she could think of nothing else. “Why don’t we go out on Smithson Avenue; perhaps it is more awake out there, and we may find a cab,” she suggested.

“Perhaps,” Mr. Harrington forced himself to sound cheerful.They hurried along the sleepy street, hoping rather than thinking that a cab –or

something, anything in which to travel- might greet them at the corner. But the whole city had fallen eerily asleep as if by enchantment –as if the death of Sylvia’s mother had left the city quiet and sedate –dead. Hardly a noise –not even the stray hoot of an owl or the shrill persistent cries of a small child- sounded in the still night.

At the corner, their fears cemented into sobering reality. All traces of humanity –of life- had practically deserted the wide, broad, and beautiful street of Smithson Avenue. The menacing ruffians prowled alone, ducking into small alleyways and skirting along the edges of the pavement. Mr. Harrington instinctively moved closer to Kathryn.

“Stay close,” he said edgily at his observance of the swift and tell-tale shadows, his hand instantly guiding her elbow.

Anxiety for her own safety was also a new emotion for Kathryn. She had never traveled a dark street –or any street– at night, and never in the city. A sheltered life at her uncle’s, a routine of regularity at the university, and the quietness of humble Cambrien had ill-equipped her for such outlandish experiences. “You are right,” said Kathryn with resignation. “We must walk.”

Seeing her uneasiness, Mr. Harrington ventured, “I suppose there is another option… we might be able to find a hotel or lodgings near here, perhaps where Hilda is staying, if we could find-”

“No!” protested Kathryn loudly, surprising both of them. A host of possibilities had immediately risen to her imagination as to what that might entail –what gossip might ensue, reaching even as far as Cambrien, as far as the whole of English society –for a young woman of independent fortune, even Kathryn herself could discern, though she had not commingled with the Upper Class at gatherings or dinner parties, was a topic of conversation in the highest and lowest of houses. She could hear their voices now, Lord Somebody-or-Other the most regretful of the bunch and expounding his views to all the present company, (“Oh, and I was so looking forward to meeting her… she sounded like such an unspoiled young woman, if you know what I

mean, the kind one would like on one’s list of acquaintances or invitees –a name that looks well with practically any other! But now, of course, it is all for naught. Such a scandal! What a waste! High Society has certainly never seen the likes of it!” His audience, probably consisting of young ladies dressed in the extravagant finery with ribbons all about their Parisian gowns and diamonds sparkling and twinkling about their outrageous sleeves, would turn to him and in a collective, breathy gasp, ask, “What happened? Oh, do tell us, Lord---, we wish to know simply everything!” “Well,” the lord would continue conspiratorially, a full glass of the best sherry in his white-gloved hand, “I’ve heard from a highly reputable source that she was out in the night, around early morning I believe, with another gentleman –you all should know his name, he was quite the respectable man –I believe I even took tea with him once!- and that somehow, they entered a hotel –together… of course checking in with different rooms, but that, you know, doesn’t signify –and there you have it! Ruined, quite ruined, the both of them! I just couldn’t believe it when I heard!”

(And Mr. Harrington, poor man, would feel obligated to marry me after that –which would be terrible, although I would love to marry him –but those are exactly the sort of reasons for which I could never be induced to marry, and both of us would be miserable, for I am sure, the carefree way he talks and behaves, he must have left his heart behind somewhere…that’s it, of course! That would explain everything –all the little inconsistencies of manner, all the bizarre changes in attitude… oh unhappy Kathryn!) She lamented. Condemned to love one who can never love her!

“Miss Williamson,” said Mr. Harrington worriedly, for her eyes revealed her to be lost in unpleasant thought. “I think we had better begin walking, then. I would rather not waste any more time in standing on a street corner, with all kinds of men roaming around here. I’m not really in the mood to ‘do anyone in,’ as they say, right now.”

“Yes, we should go,” she answered tonelessly, only half-listening. (Tall or petite, I wonder? Certainly not blonde –I couldn’t stand another blonde after Celia… Did they meet at a dinner party, in town, or is she the entrancing daughter of a friend of his parents? Oh, she’s probably intelligent and beautiful and wonderful and all that he could ever want in a woman –never losing her temper and never doing anything wrong or attaching herself to men of faulty character- never in strange moods… perfect in every particular, I would imagine! That is the sort of woman to attach –and who has attached- Mr. Harrington.)

“I think I know how to go back –it isn’t too difficult or too far from here, I believe,” said Mr. Harrington, watching her moody expression in the pathetic light of the streetlamps. They began their way. Clearing his throat, for her lack of chattiness made him nervous and concerned, he exclaimed, “What a night!”

“Yes,” responded Kathryn, stuffing away her selfish musings as she thought of Sylvia. “I heartily concur.”

“Poor, poor Sylvia.”“I wonder what will happen to her now,” sighed Kathryn. “Though I’m sure Doctor

Hamilton and Hilda will make sure she’s comfortable for the night.”“You know, I believe that something is going on between those two –though I’ve terrible

judgment when it comes to that sort of thing. I know nothing of love,” Mr. Harrington chuckled.(Did I imagine it –or was there really the slightest taint of bitterness in that laugh? Has

his fair one perhaps not answered favorably to his proposals? But that is impossible –no one could or would ever reject David Harrington.) Kathryn tried to pass the subject off casually. “Oh, I’m sure no one knows anything about it.” She maintained her gaze on the road ahead,

praying that she looked more knowledgeable and unconcerned about their exact whereabouts than she felt.

“Well, you ought to,” Mr. Harrington said half-accusingly.“I?” Any other statement could not have made Kathryn more profoundly astonished.

“And what do I know of love? Clearly, I’ve made some dreadful mistake so far, for my fiancé makes plans with another woman while still engaged to me and arranges clandestine meetings with that same woman –my marriage is cancelled, everything ruined –all the plans called off and the townspeople to tell, people who will condescend to pity me but will really not be surprised that I couldn’t ‘hold’ him in the first place.”

“Couldn’t ‘hold’ him? Miss Williamson, what on earth are you talking about?”“Why, the same thing that you are, I am sure!” cried Kathryn. “Only that –well-

obviously it must be something I did or said or I myself who have dis-”“I have never heard anything so silly in my entire life!” said Mr. Harrington, half-

surprised, half-angered. He stopped walking to face her. “The fault rests almost completely with that –that buffoon!” Jabbing his finger emphatically in the direction of what (Kathryn could only assume, for she certainly didn’t know) must have been the Charlottes’ house, he continued in the same heated manner. “Yes, it’s he and that chit of a girl. He is exactly the kind of man who passes over real worth for fake! A man attracted to the cheap sparkle of a regular rock rather than the brilliance of a diamond! Just because poor and ‘defenseless’ Miss Bradford may bat her eyes and weasel her way into his affections! I mean- you can’t even properly compare a Miss Bradford to a Miss Williamson! It is degrading –that is, if anything could tarnish a diamond.

“And nothing can sully you, Kathryn. How you even became attached to such an unfeeling cad as Randall –well, I can’t pretend to understand that. He probably deceived you completely, disregarding every proper consideration. Oh, that man! I would happily consent to never seeing him again.” He paused, but at her shocked silence, repented- “I am sorry. I am being my too-candid self and not thinking of your sensibilities and natural delicacy. You are of course too good to blame him for almost everything, but I have not your good temper. Perhaps I should have called the whole thing a large misunderstanding instead.” They resumed walking again.

The only way Kathryn had been keeping herself tolerably calm and collected through this passionate outburst was by repeating to herself, over and over and over and over, that he said all this –and had the freedom to say all this– as a gentleman and a perfectly disinterested friend. In fact, privately in his own head he was probably making –inevitable, so she couldn’t blame him for it– comparisons between Kathryn and that –that Mysterious Lady, who jealously guarded his heart.

“No, no,” she said, correcting his mistaken inferences about her silence, “You are being –well- partially just –and I hardly deserve such praise as you shower upon me. Though I cannot own the fault to be wholly Mr. Gleason’s, under other circumstances I believe he still would have made the same wrong choice. The flaw lies deeper than this one instance, you know. It reflects a bad character which, though cleverly concealed, would have made me miserable for our whole marriage. But to be so mistaken in him! I, who credit myself with a discerning judgment! Ah, that is my chief lament –that I had not seen what is now so plain! I suppose I did not want to see.” She had never spoken so forthrightly about Randall, but her unburdened heart grew lighter after she had finished.

“And before, remember, he had no object –not until Miss Bradford, of course. I must confess myself puzzled, however, as to the speedy rapidity with which they formed such an

apparently strong attachment. Dancing is not the best time for intimate conversation, and one can hardly get past the how-do-ye-do’s before it is all over and on to the next partner.” Bewildered, Mr. Harrington shook his head.

“That has confounded me as well,” admitted Kathryn. “I hardly know how it could have happened –but I did not see him often on the journey over, and they perhaps had many chances to converse and become acquainted.”

“And then, as fast friends –to plot to marry! It seems such an imprudent scheme.”“And imprudence is not one of Mr. Gleason’s faults…” mused Kathryn. She thought for

a few moments and then laughed, shortly. “Heavens above,” (using one of Hilda’s pet phrases,) “this is not the time for me to discuss anything of material substance.” She yawned as if to prove her point. “I don’t know that I would add anything worthwhile or sensible to the conversation.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ve been neglecting your comfort again,” said Mr. Harrington in distress, though he had already insisted upon taking the better part of her arm. “Come, let’s talk of something nonsensical. It will require little to no intelligence and you may be as silly as you please.”

Kathryn laughed again. “Please no- I really am fine, I was only joking –we can talk of anything you wish. But let’s not talk of Mr. Gleason. Before, I think, we were mentioning Sylvia. I don’t know what to say about her, though. I wish I knew –I wish I could take her back to England and back to Worthing and away from every bad thing in the world…just so she will remain the cheeriest ray of sunshine that ever was.”

“You know,” Mr. Harrington started thoughtfully, “I think that in itself is the queer and extraordinary thing about Sylvia. It isn’t that she has been sheltered from the bad –quite the contrary, it would seem, for she’s an orphan now and has endured the cold and many hardships just to keep bread on the table –but rather that she can separate the good from the bad and focus on the good.”

“That does make sense,” Kathryn nodded. “And that is where her talent lies. We all complain far too much, I think, and about the most ridiculous of subjects.”

“Oh, without a doubt –I suspect it is one of the universal kinks in the armor of a rich man. He always finds something to complain about. And I am not exempt,” concluded Mr. Harrington ruefully, glancing up at the star-studded sky as if for heavenly confirmation.

“We can only hope her mother’s death does not affect her too cruelly. She has gone through so much already; it’s remarkable how she even manages to hold her head up.”

“Indeed, truly remarkable.”Their conversation waned then, for Mr. Harrington –despite his indefatigable

cheerfulness, springy step, and firm command of Kathryn’s own faltering gait– was regretting more than he ought all the benefits of a good night’s sleep which he had foregone in the seeming necessity of hard contemplation for many moons. And Kathryn –so spent and exhausted, wondering if she would ever feel properly rested, or happy, or content, or calm again –a tumult of emotions jumbling her consciousness and severing her reasoning power- had enough trouble just walking.

Not much more time passed (although to the two weary companions it could have amounted close to eternity) before they rounded the corner onto Darvers Street –a sight, which, with its more generous lamplight and luscious lawns, would forever rest in Kathryn’s mind as a fond and delightful scene of haven.

Miraculously, as Mr. Harrington and Kathryn reached the Charlottes’ doorstep, the housekeeper swung the doors open and ushered them in with no more than a, “Goodness gracious, at this hour of the night! It’s nigh on two o’clock in the morning!”

It was Mr. Harrington who informed the housekeeper of where they had been (although she knew already from the maid, as did the rest of the staff who happened to stop by the kitchen at any point in time after the two visitors had left,) Mr. Harrington who related the sad tale of Sylvia and her mother, Mr. Harrington who smoothly explained the absence of Hilda, and Mr. Harrington who made positive declarations that she, Kathryn, needed rest and a cup of tea more than anything else, and hinted that he hoped to place Kathryn in the housekeeper’s more capable care.

Responding as she did almost automatically to his authoritative tone –and only pausing him on his way to his room to say that “young men just as young ladies needed their sleep too,” (he chortled at this), the housekeeper attended at once to Kathryn. She seemed only to snap her fingers and instantly two blustering maids appeared fully regaled in uniform, bobbing and curtsying to the wavering Kathryn until she clumsily signaled that she had had enough respect for one night. Ordering the maids to convey the young lady to her room, give her anything she was in want of, and run a piping hot bath, the housekeeper scooted all three of them upstairs, glared frighteningly at the bunch, and shut the doors firmly behind her.

“I’m glad she’s gone!” Kathryn giggled. That was all she said –or could remember saying, at least. What a tale must those maids have brought back to the Servants’ Quarters otherwise!

“Yes, miss,” one of them said –it didn’t really matter which, presumed the half-asleep Kathryn, as long as she did actually say it and Kathryn had not yet begun hallucinating.

Both maids performed their duties with quickness and efficiency, Kathryn could not help but notice and admire, for all their bobbing and curtsying and blushing and youthful natures. Barely twenty minutes had passed before the maids were already tucking her sheets about her arms and fluffing the pillows under her head.

As they curtsied their way out of Kathryn’s room, one of them said, “Good night, Miss. I’m sure it’s been a very stressful day for you, so sleep well.”

“Humph! Stressful indeed!” muttered Kathryn crossly to herself some minutes after they had gone. “Stressful doesn’t begin to cover it!” She snuggled deeper in the soft plush covers and sighed. “That was quite a day.”

Chapter Nine- Loose Ends

The next few weeks, and the end of the company’s trip, ran together almost in a blur for Kathryn. She found that she felt no inclination for any more shopping, or reading, or anything, really –and most often resorted to the grim Bridge table with the tiger Mr. Charlotte and his country-loving wife. The fourth for the Bridge table almost always included Mr. Harrington, who quickly gained the skill that he had once so woefully lacked (as he elucidated the reason –in response to the astonishment of his fellow players– it was discovered that he had only started to play very recently) and soon rivaled even Mr. Charlotte’s formidable talents. Since, however, both Kathryn and Mrs. Charlotte remained only passable, the pairs were evenly matched.

But even with Bridge –or perhaps especially with Bridge- Kathryn’s restlessness and longing for home grew. She had nothing to attach her to New York- nothing except dear little Sylvia, and the many moments of pleasure and pain which the Charlotte’s house had equally

afforded her –and the unhappy and hardly bearable news that Hilda would marry Doctor Hamilton, and stay behind with him in New York.

Hilda had come to Kathryn, when they were all discussing Sylvia’s fate again a few days after her mother died, almost in tears and begging for her forgiveness –but she did want to marry her “dearest Clyde” so, and in a very short time too, and if only her “dearest Miss Kathryn” would give her leave, and dispense forever with those services which would render Kathryn without a companion, without a helper, and without a dear friend, then Hilda might go on her way with the affable doctor. Of course Kathryn consented and of course she did not hesitate to assure Hilda of her warmest congratulations, bearing her no ill-will and even promising to send a late wedding gift from England upon her return –but she, who had known Hilda as an unceasing, solid constant for seventeen years and had thought, if she could rely on the dependability of anyone, it would have been Hilda, could find very little comfort in the realization of some of Hilda’s most sacred dreams.

The wedding, as Hilda was quick to say, was not so soon as for anything else but convenience. Sylvia needed a good home –the Flints, though amiable enough, as Hilda doubtfully assured Kathryn, did not seem to be as steady as would be desirable, and though the Cassels -who had somehow been contacted in some foreign and distant country, possibly Switzerland- agreed and were thrilled at the prospect of having Sylvia come and live with them more or less permanently –the fact remained that they were blissfully traveling across mountains and through pine trees somewhere in Europe and could not yet return.

That, of course, left no one else to care for Sylvia in the continued absence of the Cassels but the doctor and Hilda –and, as Hilda blushingly admitted (Hilda, blushing! Kathryn marveled at the time,) it would not be seemly for two “old, unmarried people planning to marry soon enough,” to be housed under the same roof with only an old housekeeper to chaperone. (Kathryn had marveled at the word chaperone, too.)

Mr. Harrington, who never failed to notice anything, noticed Kathryn’s despondence about the matter, and they had a long and satisfying chat about it, in which Mr. Harrington never said anything unkind, or unjust, but which all the same made Kathryn feel like a rebuked schoolgirl told she should not be sad at the marriage of her favorite teacher, for it meant the Fidelia of another, worth far more than her own unsupportive spirits. But that chat helped, somehow, and helped Kathryn bear the other disappointments as well.

For Randall and Celia did not lose time in announcing their engagement, and announcing that they intended to remain in America for a little while in order to marry. (Was Celia anxious that Randall might change his mind again? Kathryn wondered.) Many were surprised, many shocked, many angered, and few pleased –and the Charlottes, in their private discussions about the business, declared themselves absolutely confounded. And many guessed the nature of the real events which had occurred, and not as the newest happy couple seemed to paint everything as rosy and perfectly proper, and many sent Kathryn looks of sympathy and concern which gave her more anxiety than satisfaction. She viewed it almost as (and so she had prophesied) an assault on her own unsullied character, and feared the amplified response which would erupt once back in Cambrien.

But, one way or another, the month the English company spent in America wore gradually away, and the day came at last when the final goodbyes were said, the last promises sworn and the last recipes given (with Mrs. Charlotte’s especial compliments.) The Lucania left harbor punctually at three o’ clock in the afternoon on the fifteenth of June, and Mr. Harrington, Kathryn, Mr. Gleason, and Adelaide stood out near the ship’s railing, waving their handkerchiefs

until the last speck of American soil had vanished in the distance. A collective sigh swelled in the hearts of the significantly smaller party.

They were going home.

Part IIIBack to England

Chapter One- A Visit from Mrs. Gleason

“Isn’t it good to be home?” Kathryn cried delightedly, half to herself and half to Francine and Sarah, who hovered in the background of the drawing room where Kathryn was walking to and fro. The two exchanged worried and concerned glances. Kathryn had been repeating that same sentiment for three days since she had returned from America. Her mood, peculiar in its unpredictability, was altogether a new one, foreign to either of their experience.

By turns happy, by turns gloomy, and by turns in between, the only consistency Kathryn had shown was in her feverishness of behavior. She took up one occupation only to abandon it for another, assuredly more interesting one –which was just as quickly forgotten. The piano, which had often tied Kathryn to its bench for hours and hours, and on which she sometimes lost all sense of time and proportion, could only hold her long enough for one and a half Sonatinas until she suddenly recollected a small project which beckoned her or book which wanted re-reading.

Her beloved and peaceful library during those tumultuous days transformed into a disturbed sanctuary, too confused for even the methodical servants to right. Books lay scattered about the tables and chairs, a proliferating number of markers holding the pages on which Kathryn had abruptly stopped –candles of every shape, size, and fragrance stood, after having been almost recklessly snuffed out, in the most bewildering places –behind large and dusty volumes, on the rungs of the tall book-retrieving ladder, and even on the window alcove, partially hidden by an immense and intricate tapestry in the oriental style.

It was the candle behind the tapestry which convinced Francine after its discovery that day that something had to be done about Kathryn’s bizarre mood. Neither she nor Sarah nor anybody else (not even Carl the gardener, although Kathryn in her ramblings about the garden usually told her flowers everything of consequence, in order to bolster their growth, and in doing so accidentally informed Carl himself, who always lingered jealously around his precious pets) knew what exactly had happened on the journey to America. The only definite news any of them had received (and with which the whole town practically buzzed in its novelty) was that she was not going to marry Randall anymore, and he was still in America on the point of marrying, if not already married to, another. This scarcity of news, Francine surmised, was the source of the entire problem. If only Kathryn would talk to somebody about the trip, whatever had happened, she might relieve some of the feelings which had so affected her regular routine.

The much younger Sarah disagreed with this reasoning. Sarah had a strong conviction, which she did not relinquish even with pressing from Francine (who had never liked Randall too well altogether) that Kathryn was suffering under the acute pangs of disappointed love and ought to be left alone to, as Sarah put it, “get over him.” To risk opening a wound as fresh and exposed as Kathryn’s, Sarah argued, would only further her pain.

“Bah!” was Francine’s response. “Better to have everything out in the open than kept tightly closed! She’d be worse off in the end for that.”

Though still not reconciled to Francine’s point of view, Sarah did not want to forego hearing Kathryn’s response to Francine’s final inquiry, which occurred soon after Kathryn’s

outburst concerning the merits of arriving and staying at home, which had been followed by a lengthy almost-soliloquy, the main point of which seemed to be that no one should ever travel anywhere or do anything out of the ordinary because that only led to meeting people, and forming swift attachments –and meeting people was, of course, never a good habit for all too soon those people forgot about their attachments and were never seen or heard from again.

“Miss Kathryn,” Francine said timidly, “we’ve all been wondering…”“You’ve been wondering,” muttered Sarah, and received a sharp elbow nudge from the

other.“Yes?” Kathryn said, closing her book –which she had been about to stop reading

anyway. “Well, you never really told us about your trip to America, and naturally we are very

curious about it, and about all that happened-” “Though we don’t mean to pry!” Sarah cut in anxiously and for her exertions Francine

gave her another nudge.“Certainly, certainly!” exclaimed Kathryn, who had actually been waiting for one such

opportunity. She set aside her book completely and settled herself more comfortably in the overstuffed armchair. “What would you like to know about?”

“Oh, whatever you’re willing to tell –beginning, middle, and end, I suppose,” uttered Francine noncommittally but with a secret glance of triumph in Sarah’s direction. She adjusted her cap.

“I see,” answered Kathryn laughingly. “But… I have no idea where to start…” She did begin her narrative, however, and though at times she stumbled a bit over the name “Mr. Harrington” (who figured more than she felt he ought into the story) and frowned too much whenever “Mr. Randall Gleason” came up, her tale was more or less as detailed and as long as Francine could have wished.

Both Sarah and Francine continually expressed astonishment over Hilda’s marriage, for a letter –from Mrs. Hilda Hamilton- had preceded the day of Kathryn’s homecoming (though each had somewhat of an inkling about it in letters from Hilda herself, who thought she owed it to her former work-mates to write of her budding romance,) and their curiosity on that subject especially flowed freely.

“To think,” Sarah said in wonderment, “Hilda married again! I can’t envision it.”“Well, I remember when Mr. Branson was alive,” sniffed Francine, “and there was

nothing strange about it. You were of course too young, Miss Kathryn –just about three, I think. And Sarah here was probably no more than five or six and still running around the servants’ quarters wild!”

“Francine, don’t tell tales!” admonished Sarah with a blush. Who knew what she might reveal next to the young and impressionable mistress?

“Just the strictest truth!” huffed Francine superciliously. “Ask one of the older servants and they’ll tell you the same thing.”

Kathryn, sensing a dispute, interrupted it with the laughing claim that, if she wanted to know any gossip of olden days, she would be sure to ask the other servants’ herself and not plunge any deeper into the grapevine by hearing it from a second source. “And you two had better get busy,” she added with a smile. “I told you the Farrow family is coming in less than a month to stay for a little while. They’re looking for a place here in town, you see. The air here is better than the air in London.”

“Ah, yes, I remember you mentioning that,” sighed Francine, momentarily diverted. “You said they had two charming girls, I believe.”

“Rosie and Meredith –the most darling creatures who ever lived, I can promise you.” Kathryn smiled again.

“You were a darling creature as a little girl,” said Francine reminiscently –and then, more mischievously, “sometimes you and Sarah would race about the grounds together, frolicking and gallivanting to-”

“Oh, don’t start that again!” fussed Sarah as she tugged on Francine’s hand. They stood from their seats. “Come now, Francine, you heard Miss Kathryn. We’ve a lot of work to do. The other bedrooms haven’t been thoroughly cleaned for ages and ages, I am sure. And you are the best polisher around.”

“Don’t let me keep you from your polishing!” Kathryn called after them. Several minutes inched by and she still, remarkably, remained seated in the same position –had even contemplated taking up the book she had readily discarded earlier- when the agitation which had haunted her days and robbed her of sleep recently came back in all its terribleness.

Mr. Harrington. How he tortured her –how his memory gave her at times the happiest reflections and at others the most painful! She could think of nothing but him. His face –his looks- his smile- his frowns –his mannerisms –simply everything about him sent Kathryn into a dizzying spell of emotions. Love had its benefits, some said, but Kathryn, by her own cruel and unknowing design, had been familiar with none of them.

For she had loved, and buried her love almost upon its discovery, while engaged to another –had seen that other attach himself to another woman- and yet still Kathryn had not the freedom to love Mr. Harrington! There had been moments, yes, when an expression of his –or a movement, or an almost movement which he restrained at the last moment –or a meaningful word- had seemed to indicate that he not only returned her love but matched it in strength and character. But the night of the death of Sylvia’s mother had refuted, rather than confirmed, that budding hope.

Kathryn had then seen him just as he was –a handsome, well-bred, and genuine gentleman –as unaffected, as prepossessing, as frank, as humorous, and as perfectly imperfect a man as was beyond even her vibrant imagination– but a man who had already pledged himself, in heart, perhaps, if not in word, to another woman –the Mysterious Lady, as Kathryn termed her for lack of another, more descriptive phrase. Oh! She wished him –them– well, wherever they were!

(Probably making very merry at some dinner or other. I suppose his family adores her!) She thought resentfully, standing from the chair and beginning anew to walk about the room with her arms folded. But how could she bear Mr. Harrington’s utter lack of affection for her –worse, his indifference? Even scorn or hate was preferable to the disinterestedness with which she now characterized him. She had once looked so contentedly upon her life and its future.

Now, Kathryn was not at all satisfied with any part of her world, and did not know how she could manage even to become tolerably content at the miserable path on which everything seemed to tread. The most grievous part –and one of the most frustrating memories, she was sure, of her whole existence, had been their parting, when the Lucania had at last docked in the good old English port.

Mr. Harrington, Kathryn had felt at the time (and still did feel), ought to have put on his gravest face, and given his most solemn looks, the moment English soil was spotted, for it would mean his Final Parting (unless he changed that) from Kathryn. This seemed the last test of

whether his affection for Kathryn sprung from more than just the pale and listless flower of The Platonic. But had he looked grave or solemn or as if the world was coming to an end? No! He joined the rest of them, straining out on the ship’s railing in eager anticipation of the sight of what was sure to be a good, thick, English rain beating upon English trees and English houses.

And (for that Kathryn could make allowances) at their actual goodbye, Mr. Harrington merely kissed her hand with his usual air of gallantry and proclaimed cheerfully –cheerfully, without the smallest breath of regret!- that he was certain they would meet again, very soon. Not long after, his carriage had arrived. And that had been that.

Certainly all the sages claimed Time to be the best healer of all things in need of mending. But Kathryn’s heart, at every thought of Mr. Harrington and at every thought of anything else (for he never left her sub-consciousness) still thumped and pattered and bruised itself. In fact, Time only seemed to magnify the wound’s dangerous potency.

Increasing her speed so that she traversed the whole length of the room in a matter of seconds (and the drawing room of Worthing, one of the boasts of Cambrien, could not possibly make one feel confined as to the limits of space,) Kathryn’s thoughts continued to run along the same woeful and circuitous lines.

Soon, however, the doors opened and Francine walked in to say in the dry, official tone she always used when announcing visitors, that someone was waiting to see Kathryn and should she send them in right away?

Kathryn’s heart skipped an entire beat. Was it possible-? Had he come-? Could it be-? She tried to sit down and compose herself. “Yes, send whoever it is in, Francine,” she answered in a reasonably calm voice hiding an undercurrent of hysterical anticipation.

“It’s Mrs. Gleason, Miss Kathryn,” said Francine as a warning. She knew Kathryn well and could see through her charade of unimpeachable quietness without any difficulty. And Sarah had thought Randall still plagued Kathryn with all his airs!

Struggling to hold her countenance, Kathryn sank –sank to the depths of her soul. She might have wept for the sudden and unimaginably weighty disappointment which immediately descended upon her, clipping the wings of her frenzied flight of fancy with a vicious trim. “Oh,” the single syllable –Kathryn could not have suppressed it– accidentally exposed all the feelings which she had tried to conceal. “Well, send her in, then.”

“Right away,” Francine curtsied formally and left. Only a few more seconds had ticked away on the ancient clock before Mrs. Gleason swept in.

Normally she was a very imposing woman, upright in figure and firm in principle. She had, as the gossips maintained, once been a very fine young lady, but her blooming days had long passed –and though still handsome in her expensively cut clothes and commanding blue eyes, the beauty so cherished of yore had faded.

But that day penitence –an expression very little seen on any of the Gleason faces (except for Mr. Roy Gleason, who seemed to think that he never apologized enough for his odd ways, and he was not very near being wrong) settled deeply across Mrs. Gleason’s features, and lent her an air of humility. Before Kathryn had time to say anything, Mrs. Gleason had already begun with, “I’m sure that I am the last person you would wish to see.”

“Oh no,” Kathryn protested warmly –she had always felt a little sorry for Mrs. Gleason, having heard so much about the former “belle of southern England,” and the “envy of every young lady,”- and asked politely, “Do sit down. Might I get you anything? A cup of tea, perhaps –or a cup of coffee?”

“No, no,” Mrs. Gleason dismissed these pleasantries with her hand before Kathryn had finished, taking a spot on the blue-and-gold sofa. “I want nothing, thank you.” She stopped for several seconds before continuing. “I am sure you can guess why I am here.”

But no, Kathryn could not guess. (I had not time to guess!) She added to herself, wryly.“Well –I came to offer some small and very meager excuse for my son’s behavior. No,

that is not right,” Mrs. Gleason frowned to herself, “I cannot call it an excuse, for it does not deserve the name- you know, we all loved you.” she said, breaking suddenly off from her earlier train of thought.

“Did you?” said Kathryn softly.“Yes,” A sad smile crossed Mrs. Gleason’s face. “Yes, we adored you! Randall had

finally found a girl worth having –good-natured, even-tempered,” (have you seen me these past few days? If you had, would you consider taking back that last remark?) was Kathryn’s immediate and almost amused thought, “beautiful, intelligent, hardly any relations to raise silly objections, an excellent family history –oh, quite a paragon! Nothing could have seemed brighter than his future! And then, of course, he writes to us all that everything is at an end between you two and that he plans to marry instead that Celia Bradford, the Celia with no connections, no family about which to boast –nothing but cold, hard money.”

“I beg your pardon –excuse me- but- you know Miss Bradford?” said Kathryn in increasing astonishment.

“Know her!” Mrs. Gleason repeated. “My dear, the Bradford family has been friends with the Gleason family for many, many years! Randall was half in love with Celia, when he met you. I had tried to separate them before –but, clearly, that did not succeed. Mr. Gleason and old Mr. Bradford were involved in several business ventures together –very good people to have as friends, you know, but we never thought to go as far as in-laws –after all, they had no people here at all… Just imagine how happy we were when you and Randall were introduced at that dinner party!”

“Yes… naturally…” Kathryn said. Her head reeled.Mrs. Gleason continued in an uninterrupted flow of thought. “Of course, we had no

objections to the girl herself- she was well-educated and quite pretty, in a common sort of way,” (aha!) Kathryn could not resist triumphing, “but she had nothing else to recommend her, poor thing! Nothing, not even a decent coat-of-arms or a second cousin once removed who had been a duke or something nice and convenient like that –no uncle or cousin in Parliament, even! Why, Mr. Gleason and I asked ourselves, would we promote a marriage so completely advantageous to her?”

“And his marriage to me would have been advantageous for both sides,” said Kathryn carefully.

“What could have been better?” agreed Mrs. Gleason with a heavy sigh. “But so the world goes –so the world goes, and we, his family, suffer for it!” In a few moments, however, she remembered that it was Kathryn Williamson, whom her son had jilted, with whom she had just been speaking so openly. “Oh –do forgive me, dear,” she said, rising, and a confused Kathryn saw that she meant to leave without further explanation or apology, “I have been running on so! But it is very distressing –and I’m sure that we are all sad that Randall chose Celia over you. But it’s his happiness that counts, you know, and you mustn’t be angry about that.”

“I would never dream of it,” said Kathryn solemnly as she saw Mrs. Gleason out and into her carriage, bidding that good lady a happy afternoon. She ran back into the drawing room, dropping into her chair again and gasping for fits of laughter which came upon her.

Kathryn had only ascertained one fact about Mrs. Gleason herself from that entire conversation. She no longer liked Randall’s mother.

“Oh, goodness!” Kathryn said aloud, her hand to her forehead as the last of her laughter died away. “I could not have borne such a woman!” Perhaps she ought to be thankful that Randall had unwittingly helped her escape an insufferable mother-in-law.

Chapter Two- Another Explanatory Visit

Not five minutes later, there was more commotion in the hall. Kathryn looked up, frowning and perturbed. She had just been settling into her book again –a rare blessing for her restless mind– and could not imagine who else would wish to call. Whoever it is, she thought, it will certainly be an anticlimax to Mrs. Gleason’s visit.

Francine came precipitously into the drawing room. “Mr. Randall Gleason to see you, Miss Kathryn,” she announced. Her face was a mask of impassivity, her mouth set in a firm line and her movements quick and efficient, but her eyes prickled with daggers.

Kathryn had only a few moments to start in confusion –to rise –to collect her wits –to assume an appearance of calm mastery of the situation before the man himself walked in. She cleared her throat –she dropped her book on the little table –she smiled with all the civility she could muster. She and Randall had not had a conversation –rational, heated, dull, or otherwise– since the events of their meeting in the Charlottes’ garden. “Won’t you sit down?” said she, motioning to various articles of furniture.

“Thank you,” Randall said, quietly, and took a seat opposite her. He had his hat in his hands, and he was fiddling with it nervously.

Kathryn was determined to play the role of a good hostess. “Would you care for any tea?” She knew he had no taste for coffee. “Afternoon tea is not so far away –perhaps I can persuade—”

“I’ll have nothing, thank you,” said he, wincing almost visibly at her kindness.“It’s no trouble, really,” Kathryn assured him.“I didn’t come for tea!” Randall said explosively in a low tone.“Then-” Kathryn stopped. She had been about to ask, then what did you come for? but

thought the question perhaps too bold. She was busy congratulating herself on the adept way in which she was dealing with the irregularity of his visit –just as if it had been anyone else– and meant to continue in her civilities.

“I know very well that you have no, or little, desire to see me.”Curious, noted Kathryn, that he should almost echo the words of his mother, earlier. Of

course, she could not immediately combat the simple truth of his statement as she had done with his mother’s. Its accuracy was too blatant to deny without obvious deception. Did he know that his mother, too, had visited Kathryn? And what, wondered Kathryn, can you possibly have to say that would interest me? Has not everything which needs to be said, been said already?

Seeing that she was gracious enough not to respond, Randall ventured, “I would not presume even to visit you had I not thought that there were –are– many unpleasant things still between us which have not been cleared up, that should be.” He hesitated.

“I have no ill-will,” said Kathryn with what she hoped was a genuine smile. “I do wish you all the happiness in the world, as regards your marriage –you are married now, I think?”

Randall nodded, smiling a little self-consciously.Kathryn, again pondering her own affairs for a moment, could not help but be jealous of

that smile. “Then I owe you my congratulations.”Randall bowed his head. “Thank you. I know that I have done nothing to deserve them,

and so freely given –yours is a character which any woman would envy, Miss Williamson.”No, I am just being polite. Kathryn could not acquit herself of wrongdoing. It would not

do to have a scene in my own home –that is the sole reason for my composure, that and because your selfishness does not hurt me anymore. “I cannot accept your compliments.” She sighed, and then resolved to match his frankness. “As I told you before, I only act with pride. But I am sincere in wishing you all the best. She is a –a very lovely and very amiable young woman.”

“If you only knew-” Randall began. “But –no, I have not come to discuss the merits of my bride, nor do you want to hear of them. I have come to explain.”

“There is nothing to be explained,” said Kathryn firmly. His frankness astonished her. Here was a Randall unafraid, it seemed, to say or reveal anything which he deemed necessary. She did not know how to reply to his out-of-character candor. There had been times when she had wondered, with natural curiosity, what had really happened that night between Celia and Randall. But she would never have asked.

“As you have said before,” acknowledged Randall. “Nevertheless, I would entreat you to hear me out before you condemn me. I have already said that I do not deserve your attention. But, for myself and for my –for my wife’s sake, everything had to be resolved with you before either of us could be at peace. You see, Miss Williamson, we –I– am probably not as bad as you are making me out to be at this moment. Still dishonorable, yes, still shamed, yes, still unworthy of your attention –yes. And that is why I now give you the option of refusing to hear me.”

Kathryn did not immediately speak. She sat in contemplation for several seconds, attempting to piece together this new, happy, and loquacious Randall with the silent and thoughtful man she had known before. Had love changed him thus? He was very eager to tell her –he seemed very sincere –and he had aroused Kathryn’s interest with promises that she would soon think better of him. What else could she do? “Yes –I will hear you, as you are so intent upon telling me.”

Randall looked immensely relieved. “Thank you. Now, I am not sure that you knew the degree of acquaintance between myself and Celia when our paths crossed on the trip to America. I thought you did –but it has since occurred to me that perhaps I only assumed you knew because everyone else knew. Were you aware that we had known each other –before?”

“I have recently become aware of the fact, yes. Your mother was here not ten minutes ago.”

“My mother?” Randall repeated, surprised. “Whatever for?”“I believe,” said Kathryn, smothering the smile that threatened in recollection of the visit,

“I believe that she was apologizing or excusing your behavior. At any rate, she mentioned that you and Miss Bradford had known each other for some time.”

“Yes, this is true. Our families, you see, have been connected for a number of years. We moved about in the same circles and knew the same people. I was very young –seventeen– when I first met her. She was only fourteen. And, within a year –I had fallen desperately in love with her. The summer before university was one of the happiest and also the most miserable periods of my life. I loved her –I was reasonably sure that she had loved me –and every minute I spent in

her company assured me of the fact. I went to my parents for help –almost positive that they would support me, as her family was respectable and well-known.

“Though an engagement was too premature –considering our youth– I presumed that I might gain their blessing and perhaps some sort of promise that I would be able to marry her eventually. I was wrong in thinking that I would receive my parents’ encouragement. My mother was so opposed that she came near to forbidding me from ever seeing Celia again. I needn’t detail to you, of course, how dreadfully I felt after that interview. Although I had never told Celia openly that I loved her, knowing her age to be a difficulty, she must have surely had her suspicions, which I had never done anything to dispel. Besides, it was summer, and I would be going away from home to attend Oxford. And this,” he sighed with the memory of it, “was the beginning of my foolishness. I went to Oxford quite convinced of my love for her. That remained unchanged for two years until my mother wrote me and said that, though she couldn’t be sure, she thought that Celia had developed feelings for someone else –an officer– and had forgotten about me. I was heartbroken –but considering how I had treated her, this was to be expected. The two summers I had been at home I had scarcely seen her, and when we did see each other, we exchanged such cold formalities that it would have been hard to imagine we had ever been in love.

“Indeed, after my mother informed me of her supposed attachment to the officer, I grew so angry at first that I thought myself indifferent. I would later repent of that belief. I became devoted almost entirely to my studies –machine-like, really– a man without a heart –careful, methodical, doing everything with order and precision so that I might forget my feelings. And I thought I had.” He stopped in his narrative and stood, striding over to the mantelpiece and shifting his hat in his hands restively.

Kathryn watched him with mute surprise. Such revelations as he had just given her were preventing her from forming any sort of intelligible comment to his story. Was Randall right in assessing himself? The cold detachment –the ceaseless routine of his daily life –had that not been a part of his nature, as she had thought almost from the beginning of their acquaintance? Was he an entirely different person from the one to whom she had engaged herself? It was a frightening thought, to think that she had almost married a stranger!

He said again, “I thought I had forgotten her. And then –and then there was that dinner party, where Roy introduced me to you. You were beautiful and funny and intelligent –and my mother loved you.”

“But I hardly ever saw your mother…”“Perhaps, but she knew of you, and to her that was almost more important. Your family

was impressive. And –what can I say? My parents approved of you –everyone approved of you –and I myself thought, for a while, that I loved you rather than Celia…”

“So you did love me, once?” That was gratifying to know.“I did, yes.” His face flushed.Kathryn, hastening to put him out of his embarrassment, said, “And –next?”“Well, you may guess at the rest. You and I were going to be married in November and I

was certain that Celia would marry the officer who had before caused me so much grief. I was contented with the life I saw before me –with you as my wife. But then something singular happened –Celia was on the boat to America too. Her mother had sent her, it seemed, for a little fun –and, even more surprising, she had no definite plans once ashore. At first I only approached her as an old acquaintance –my manner cold and stiff. I asked if she would be married soon. I remember –she laughed and replied with some confusion that I would be more able to tell her of

her future husband than she could tell me. Eventually it came out that there had never been any officer –that she was, and had been unattached all that time.

“What could I do? There was my engagement to you –but every meeting with Celia reminded me of the feelings that I had thought safely extinguished. Fool that I was –I convinced myself that, perhaps, spending more time with her would remind me of your superiority –you were her superior in countless respects– and my sensible side told me that I ought to love you rather than her. In the early days, on the boat, I was so sure that the love I had for you eclipsed my first love.

“But it wasn’t true.” He shook his head, putting a hand to his forehead in distress. Kathryn almost pitied him. “I am sorry, Miss Williamson, truly –but Celia was the only woman I ever really loved. It took me a long time to realize that. And, once I had, I didn’t know what to do. I was unsure still of Celia’s feelings –she who probably thought I had treated her ill– but, sweet-tempered as she is, she never reproached me for it.

“That night –the night in the gardens –began miserably. I had purposefully sought her out on the street as we shopped –determined to be assured of my love for her before I made any other rash decisions. I was still wavering as to what I should do that night –I left for the gardens to get my head clear– when she appeared. She had had a terrible headache and thought the fresh air might do her good, she said. She was in low spirits –that much was plain. I inquired as to the cause. At first, she would not say, but after I had pressed her it became clear she had long been wondering at my behavior. My attentions had been so marked in past years that she could not have mistaken them –and then, when I left for the university and returned, there seemed to be no trace of former regard. And this –this is where I miss-stepped. So earnest was I in appealing to her, in acquitting myself of wrong, in begging for her forgiveness, that I went too far. Oh, forgive me if you can, Miss Williamson! I forgot about you, I forgot about our engagement, I forgot about everything but assuring Celia that I had always loved her, and explaining all the circumstances and misunderstandings which had troubled us from the beginning. And that was when you found us,” he finished.

A dead silence spread across the room. Kathryn did not know what to think. Before her was a man of whom she had no knowledge but that which he had just given her. Someone who had pretended to know her intimately for a year but who had, really, been living like a machine. Kathryn looked over at him, fascinated. He had assumed the air of an unhappy schoolboy ready to receive whatever punishment merited his offense –an expression so unlike the usual collected conceit of his manner that she did not know which to believe. His story –his honest, forthright, and candid story– conveyed a Randall whom Kathryn had never known. And, perhaps because she had not known him, she could feel sorry for him, for this man who had loved once, and then been thwarted, and, through a series of events (some for which he was partially to blame) found himself in exactly the sort of situation which his honorable, if weak, nature could hardly tolerate.

At this realization, Kathryn felt the virtues of Mr. Harrington –of strong character and purposeful resolve– which Randall lacked with all the strength of the proof that Randall had presented through his words, and Mr. Harrington through his actions. Comprehending again the great gap between the two men made her all the more benevolent towards Randall.

She rose and approached him where he stood in an attitude of uncertainty and despondence. “Come, and shake hands with me,” she said with smile.

A beam of light relief passed over Randall’s dim features. “Then you forgive me?” said he in disbelief.

“I forgave you a long time ago –but now I really do wish you well, and that you and your wife would have all the happiness in the world.” She held out her hand.

Randall grasped and pumped it warmly. “Thank you –thank you! Oh, I don’t deserve it, not from you, who I have injured most! I could bear all the haughty pride of my mother, but I knew I would not be happy until I had told you everything. You know, Miss Williamson, I think that I didn’t deserve you anyway…”

Kathryn could not refute the point. Instead, she said, “And would you stay for tea? Four o’ clock is drawing near, I believe…”

“No, no, thank you!” Randall crossed the room and put on his hat. “I must be off.” Suddenly he grinned. “We’re going to Paris, you know.”

“Then, I should say au revoir.” Kathryn smiled. “A safe journey to you!”“Yes –well– goodbye!” He left with unceremonious quickness. “Well,” said Kathryn to herself, speaking aloud. “Well!” It seemed to be the only syllable

she could manage with coherency. She sat and clutched the arm of the chair, her fingers digging into its plush softness for support. His parting had called to mind the image of another schoolboy, happily pardoned of all wrongdoing and now off freely to conquer the world. “Paris,” said she –there, another word managed without stumbling! “Paris, the City of Amour. They will be happy, no doubt –very happy. And why should they not be? I have misjudged them –misjudged them both! He is bad still, yes, but his mistakes have been ones revealing a weak temperament rather than a strong defect, and that may mend in time. And she –I wonder if she really is as innocent and unpretending as he makes her out to be! I never thought it was so –but then she is young, and perhaps I only imagined her to be spiteful towards me. I cannot expect a woman of her age to be as cynical as I am at twenty-one. There’s only one person in the world who could possibly change that, and he is—”

“Begging your pardon, Miss Kathryn.” Francine rushed in. She had heard the last part of Kathryn’s soliloquy but, as all well-trained servants know, did not dare reveal cognizance. “Martha says that tea is almost ready, if you’ll come and have some in a few moments.”

“Tea –oh, yes, of course –I’ll be right there,” murmured Kathryn vaguely. She was still thinking of Mr. Harrington’s infinite superiority to the man who had just left Worthing for his honeymoon.

Francine added, doubtfully, as if unsure that she had said enough to entice the mistress into movement, “Cook’s made your favorite treats, I think.”

“How delightful! You must thank her for me –or I will –or something…”“Indeed,” said Francine somberly. “And –what tea-set shall we put out?”Kathryn looked at Francine pathetically. “Oh –anything you like, anything at all!”“I see,” said Francine, frowning. She knew Kathryn’s habit of particularity about the tea-

sets, and attributed her strangeness to “that horrible man” with whom her “poor, defenseless mistress” had just had a lengthy interview. She had not listened at the doors, of course –not like some common chambermaid would, who wasn’t at all respectful! But when she had passed by them, regularly and all within the course of her normal duties, what she had heard was telling enough. “It will only be a few minutes then, Miss Kathryn. Martha does flutter over which tea-set to use, when you don’t choose it yourself.”

“Does she?” said Kathryn, at last startled out of apathy in concern for her servants. She loved them dearly. “Oh –well– just the one from Holland then, so Martha needn’t worry about it.”

“As you please.” Francine nodded knowingly. Still, affairs did not seem as grim as they had at first, when Kathryn had forborne from naming any set at all.

And Kathryn, her head in her hands, had already forgotten tea or anything else but the queer, shapeless feeling that, without Mr. Harrington, nothing really was important anymore. How to “get over” him? How to be rid of love for such a man?

Chapter Three- The Roses of Hope

The next day, a cheerless yet sun-filled Thursday, afforded Kathryn no respite from the feelings of the previous. But the worries and whisperings of the whole servants’ quarters (which could not fail to escape her notice, even while in such fretful and varying moods over her own sacred concerns) reminded Kathryn of the all-too-perceptiveness of the underestimated Servant Class. With the exception of a few, most of the servants had known Kathryn for the better part of her life while in service for her parents, and the smallest of her distresses they could detect without the least difficulty.

Of course, as Kathryn knew, this distress was neither small nor hard to observe. Much was her consternation when she discovered (after the maddening and condescending but ruthlessly efficient housekeeper Mrs. Lands had questioned her closely as to what sort of happenings and goings-on occurred in America which had affected her mistress so peculiarly) that her temperament, and her health, were some of the most prominent sources of gossip in the lower ranks of Worthing.

This knowledge forced Kathryn to rebuke herself severely for those displays of emotion which had given rise to the various and inaccurate speculations now brewing below-stairs. She determined to regulate her behavior, and appear as if not tormented by a person who would, at all events, remain nameless. Deciding upon something enabled Kathryn to suppress her fidgeting, fluttering, and inattention from any and all of the servants, except possibly Sarah, who attended to her dressing and hair every day (thus knowing more intimately her mistress’s expressions, however well concealed) and, as the youngest of the servants and only just married, knew the symptoms characteristic to frustrated love.

But Sarah did not like to gossip –and, having more than the usual share of delicacy allotted to maids, never mentioned anything on that tender subject to Kathryn. Francine, naturally feeling it almost her right to know every one of Kathryn’s concerns, (especially as Hilda was not present and so could not inquire,) did not actually say anything more to Kathryn –but sent a prolific number of pointed glances in her direction which anyone but the most ignorant of persons could not have mistaken.

Francine came running into the music room that cheerless afternoon –Kathryn had resorted to the piano for another attempt at persistent, normal activity which had once kept her captivated- and gave her mistress a powerful and curious look, more forceful than any others in her repertoire, which startled the other to such an extent that her hands slipped from their measured, cautious dance and sounded in a horrible discord.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” She laughed. “Francine, whatever is the matter?”“Well –nothing- only –oh-” Francine recollected that she had burst into the room with no

further explanation for her entrance. She immediately composed herself. “Oh, goodness, nothing’s the matter! But just now –a man came by-”

“What man?” started Kathryn, almost executing another discord before wisely removing her hands permanently from the keys.

Francine went on hastily, “Oh, no one particular, I’m sure. I didn’t mean anything by that –oh! just the post-man, indeed! But he’s come with a letter from Hilda and from someone named Miss Sylvia Summers, both from America –and what’s more, two boxes of flowers!”

“Two boxes?” said Kathryn in surprise. “Who should send me two?”“Begging your pardon, Miss, but there’s two different hands that wrote the addresses- so

it must be two different people. Not that I read them!” Francine added indignantly. “Upon my honor, I only glanced at them, and not more than once. Privacy’s privacy, as I always say.”

(And Francine is Francine –which means she may have perused them.) Kathryn thought. “Well –never mind about the addresses- where are they now? The flowers, I mean.” She stood, piano forgotten, and twisted her hands nervously, all the while saying to herself, Don’t get your hopes, up, Kathryn Emma Williamson –don’t dare to! You oughtn’t to. If there are two boxes of flowers, then neither one of them is from him, surely. They’re probably both from old university admirers, having heard that I am back in town and unengaged.

“On the pretty little table in the drawing room,” Francine returned.“Thank you for telling me. I’ll be there as soon as I can,” said Kathryn as indifferently as

she could –as if she had not, for a moment, forgotten even the names of the great piano maestros and the pieces which they had composed in similar agonies of mind.

“Oh,” Francine said, deflated. She had anticipated a stronger reaction –but should have been suspicious for the very fact that Kathryn exhibited nothing more than the usual pleasure at the unlooked-for receipt of flowers. “As you wish then –I’ll return to my duties, if you please.”

“Yes,” Kathryn nodded, smiling as Francine exited. She said to herself, “Yes, I think that would be best.”

Ignoring the rapid beating of her heart and endeavoring to look something near composed, Kathryn methodically shut the piano, stacked her sheets of music in a neat pile –though one of the maids would have done the same without any additional trouble- and complimented herself on how calm she must seem.

Her step was unusually slow on the way to the drawing room, slow so as to compensate for the heart which beat too fast within her. On the way, she stopped several times to admire the portraits of her long-dead ancestors along the hall –regal and proud characters, some dating as far back as the times of the Elizabethan ruff and the whalebone hoops, a fashion which to Kathryn’s modern Victorian taste could not but seem a trifle ridiculous if not for the dignity it appeared to impart to all its wearers.

I wonder, thought Kathryn, still stalling her straining feet in forced contemplation, I wonder if you, sir, gazing upon an austere noblemen, his sword half-drawn from a jewel encrusted scabbard and a fine, thick beard tufting his cheeks, were ever unlucky in love? It’s different with a man, of course. Men have all the power in their hands –they may ask, and marry as they please, when the lady says yes. We as females have not the power to do so –and, I daresay, would repent it if we had. It is not a woman’s way. And yet- Kathryn paused in her steps again, and pondered the bearded Sir once more, and yet, more ladies have pined away for love than men. What have we to do –but sit, and read a little perhaps, or play the piano, or walk into town, or pretend to run a household –all the while without any real occupation which could stop us from thinking of –of love, and especially of disappointed love?

Kathryn shook her head. “That’s silly,” she said aloud. “I’m talking to a painting –of a man dead for centuries, with far more important matters to worry about.” She continued walking. “I’m being nonsensical, I suppose.”

***

Just as Francine had told her, Kathryn found the two boxes in the drawing room, as well as the letters. Her curiosity burned so strongly about the flowers that, to prolong its suffering, she opened the letters from Hilda and Sylvia before touching either of the boxes.

The letter from Hilda was as follows:‘Mistress Kathryn,In your last letter you were so kind and generous, my dear! I cannot help but think it is in your good nature to be so forgiving towards your oldest and fondest maid. Bless your heart! I know you mentioned your desire for details concerning Clyde and I’s house, and here they are-It is medium-sized, much finer than I could have ever imagined –but then, he is one of the best doctors in town, so all our new friends tell me. On that note, the people here are very friendly and inviting –those already known to Clyde, that is. The city is not such a bad place to live, I think, though for all of our health’s sake I wish it was not so smog-filled or dirty. London is worse, however, so I mustn’t complain –and there is nothing in Cambrien that I miss so much -not the trees, nor the flowers, nor the quiet nights- as you, dearest! But concerning the house –well, as I said, it is neither too big nor by any means too small –a lovely and well-furnished place. He was once married, you know (and has three grown children who are all married or involved in business several states away, I believe,) and therefore does not have the bad habits of a bachelor. We have already had a considerable number of people coming and going, sending presents and well-wishes, that our house is sometimes nearly full. The doctor keeps odd hours at times, but he never misses a meal nor is he gone long enough for me to miss him. Sometimes I even accompany him on his visits or calls.I expect you want to know how Sylvia does. She is sending her own letter, so I will not say too much for fear of overlapping in news and boring you. I will say, however, that she is very well, and has lost none of her brightness –though she still grows very sad, sometimes, when thinking of her mother. We go and visit her grave every Sunday at a pretty little chapel which the doctor and I now attend.The cook –with whom, you will remember, I became so well acquainted at the Charlottes’- has sent me a letter of news which she heard from the maid who accidentally overheard the Charlottes talking. I know you must be frowning at this –but it is reliable; servants nearly always tell the truth amongst themselves, from my experience, at least. The contents of the letter stated that Mr. Randall Gleason and Miss Celia Bradford are married, and will go to France for their honeymoon. They didn’t go right after they married, which we all thought was a bit odd, but stopped a short while in England –are they still there, do you think? Cook thinks he had a bit of explaining to do with his relatives and his mother especially. I wonder he wasn’t too afraid to face them all! Not that they know the whole truth… not that many people will, of course. You needn’t worry on that account, my dear, I haven’t breathed a word. You don’t know, by all the saints, how much I’ve been tempted to, though! Ah, well. The gossip says they are happily married. Well, let them be! I say that that Mr. Gleason was charmed out of his heart. But don’t think I pity him! I only wish you are not feeling too sad about it. Shameful affair!But no more of that! We are planning our garden for the next spring –Sylvia’s helping, the dear, and she has quite a taste for flowers which seems unaccountable in one so young and seemingly uncultured. But I have heard of a little of her family history, and what little she has told is very sad. Her mother was gentle-born but fell in love with a cleaning-man, or something, and her father was so furious that he disinherited her. They’ve been living in near-poverty ever since. Poor Sylvia. She does not even know if her grandpapa is still alive.

But, at any rate, that does perhaps explain why she knows when which flowers bloom, and where to plant them. And of course flowers make me think of crotchety old Carl, and of you.I miss you, Miss Kathryn dear! The doctor also sends his love, and –as Sylvia told me with the most solemn of expressions– she needn’t send hers because it’s all in a letter of her own. The dear! We have grown quite fond of her and will be sorry when the Cassels return from Europe.Blessings, my love! Say hello to all the servants, especially Francine, who will be dying to hear the latest news. With Love,Mrs. Hilda Hamilton’

“Dear, dear Hilda!” said Kathryn, quick tears forming in her eyes. She clutched the letter tightly. “I miss confiding in you –or rather, not confiding in you, but you somehow found out anyway.” She wiped the tears away with a sigh. “That is silly, of course, for she is very happy. After all she has done for me I cannot deny her that –a husband and a house and good friends. And now –for Sylvia’s letter.” It read:‘Dear Miss Kathryn,You cannot imagine how kind the Hamiltons are! They have shown me such kindness this past week, and I shall never forget them for as long as I live. Mrs. Hamilton has taken me shopping –and now I think I own more dresses than I ever did before –and, with part of the money you so very kindly gave me, I had permission to buy one of them –and it is the bluest of blues, as if some of the sky had been stolen. I could never have dreamed of such happiness!Of course, you already know the one drawback in all this happiness –my mother’s death. Death is such an awful word, isn’t it, Miss Kathryn? I should be a sorry daughter if I could forget Mama so soon –and I haven’t. Sometimes I am very sad and it takes a good deal of reminding about how happy she must be in heaven to keep me from being ungrateful to God.My happiest piece of news is a new addition to our little temporary family –a black kitten! I have named her Jewel, for the remarkable green color of her eyes which reminds me of a beautiful picture of emeralds I once saw in one of Mama’s books- and Doctor Hamilton (for he knows about these things, being a doctor) says she is about five weeks old, which is very young. She was outside the doors of the house meowing pitifully, looking so lonely and frightened, that Mrs. Hamilton said I could rescue her and keep her as my own. I am so happy! She shall be my best friend.I wish very much that someday you –and Mr. Harrington– would come visit us at our house, or in my new home with the Cassels. I am sure Mr. and Mrs. Cassel would love you just as much as I do.Yours Respectfully,Sylvia A. Summers’

“What a dear girl!” cried Kathryn, looking over the letter once more. “I am glad she is happy. But,” Kathryn amended in a low tone, “I have not the power to inform Mr. Harrington of Sylvia’s wishes.”

Kathryn did not have anything else to detain her from opening the boxes of flowers. Waiting any longer, she reasoned, would contribute to their demise sooner –and whoever had sent the flowers certainly did not deserve that. She took the lid off of the first box accordingly.

The card, not the flowers, caught Kathryn’s eye –and she sighed as disappointment struck her. It couldn’t have been him, of course. That was too much to expect.

‘I remembered you always had a fondness for flowers, and when I heard that you were back in town, I decided to send you some. Dinner parties abound in fall, don’t forget, Miss Williamson! I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you soon. Consider these as being a token of my affection. Sincerely –Charlie Campbell.’

Kathryn laughed. Charlie Campbell had been one of the more determined flirts in his years at Oxford. Handsome and brash, he had wheedled and connived and contrived his way into the hearts of many innocent females –but Kathryn had never been one of them, which she had always supposed incensed Charlie, who did not often know what it was like to be disappointed. Apparently, he had not yet become entangled in marriage. Kathryn had heard and seen very little of him since her engagement with Randall, who had shielded her from practically all male contact –as if Kathryn would have ever broken her promise to him!

Despite his manifold attractions and charming air, Kathryn had never been more than half-amused by Charlie’s attempts and flirtations –unlike many of her companions. Such arts could not capture her heart or interest –nor could the lovely pink carnations Charlie had included with the audacious note.

“No,” Kathryn said as she, teased out of her trembling, prepared to lift the second box’s lid, “for my favorite flowers are-” her trembling began again, with renewed vigor, as the word stayed in her throat, for she had no reason to utter it now that the most beautiful she had ever beheld lay patiently among a crowning of white lace –a dozen roses of the purest colors. There were eleven snowy, glistening white roses –and, nestled amongst them, one deep red rose.

Kathryn knew instinctively who had sent these roses. Had not she told him, a day not long before, of her passion for flowers, in particular roses? The included note simply read, and tore her heart as she took it up in with shaking fingers, ‘To a very dear friend. We shall see each other soon. ~David Harrington’ Such a short note! So poignant –yet so perplexing!

What could he mean by those expressions? Kathryn pored over each word eagerly, searching for its meaning. (‘A very dear friend’ –that is certainly promising, is it not? The ‘very dear’ I will cherish always –but ‘friend…’) Kathryn frowned. ‘Friend’ was a word to cool passion rather than to excite it, cancelling out the ‘very dear’ and almost robbing the phrase of its potency entirely.

Kathryn moved on to the next sentence. ‘We shall see each other soon.’ That seemed promising, in particular the confident air of the ‘we shall see’ –as if no doubt remained. (But it could have been merely masculine pride, a confidence unfounded in reality. Who knows but that Mr. Harrington only seeks to give reassurance, hoping that the thought will count more than the event itself –our seeing each other again. What a gross misjudgment, if it were true! But it must be true –he cannot be serious in thinking that our paths are ever likely to cross.)

And, deciding thus, Kathryn found herself at the very spot which she had occupied earlier in the day, prior to his present of flowers –confused, at times hopeful, at other times despairing, never constant to the same thoughts which a moment before had convinced her completely of their truth.

There was one glimmer of faint hope in this present –it meant that the mysterious lady, entirely of her own fabrication, did not actually exist –or, if she did, their relationship was such as did not prevent him, in propriety, from sending another woman flowers –and roses, at that. But, if not a mysterious lady, then who was the dearest friend to whom Mr. Harrington had called his pledged undying devotion, upon whom he had declared once that he unceasingly relied? What of that person?

“Oh- never mind!” Kathryn said, frustrated, and rang the bell for Francine.

In a few minutes the maid came, curiosity still standing plainly out from her features. “You wanted me?”

“Would you get two vases of water for these flowers –the carnations and the roses?”“Certainly,” Francine halted as if waiting for Kathryn to supply more information as to

the senders. She waited in vain, and in a different, more formal tone illustrating her displeasure, she asked, “Where do you wish me to put the flowers, Miss?”

“The carnations can go anywhere you like, but not somewhere too obvious,” said Kathryn. “You know Carl hates them,” she chuckled. “He calls them cousins to weeds, though for what reason I can’t pretend to know. Put them in the stables if you must! But the roses –ah, well- they are very beautiful, and deserve to be put on display.” Unconsciously she smoothed out Mr. Harrington’s note in her hand. “Put them on the dining room table under the lace doily that you’ll find in the box, if it’s not ruined.”

“Yes, Miss.” Francine smiled, appeased, as she curtsied and took the boxes from the room. Kathryn’s conscious blush had been hint enough for her.

Nothing has changed from this morning. Kathryn thought, anguished, even as she admired the bold and indefinably masculine writing on the note. A small voice persisted inside her head. And yet…

Chapter Four- Kathryn Decides to Investigate

While Kathryn continued to muse over, she thought, the two most significant sentences she had ever read in the course of her existence, Francine announced the arrival of Ms. Anders and Mrs. Frawley, whom Kathryn had invited for tea. She knew that they (especially Ms. Anders, considering their newly-formed kindred ties of situation –eternal spinsterhood) were longing to come and chat and condole about Randall. Well –she would not meet them unarmed.

She had told Martha to put out the lavender and thyme tea-set, one she liked when in a pensive (yet not necessarily unhappy) mood, she had prepared the tea-table on the lawn for its last use that summer, she had dressed in her gayest colors and put on her brightest smiles and, rising to greet them, she casually stuck Mr. Harrington’s note within the pages of a nearby book.

After they had exchanged pleasantries and gone out to the lawn where the tea awaited them, Mrs. Frawley asked Kathryn gently, “And how did you find America, my dear?”

Kathryn smiled. “We had a wonderful time. All the usual sights were seen and dutifully admired, and we went to see la Traviata and a few funny American plays on Broadway. Mr. and Mrs. Charlotte were most kind and attentive.”

“Oh, yes!” agreed Mrs. Frawley. “Though I am not acquainted with his wife, I knew Mr. Charlotte when he was quite young, and remember him as a very kind man, if perhaps a little too eager to travel. He was in India for some years, I believe.”

Was there anyone, Kathryn wondered, who they did not know?“Yes,” Ms. Anders chimed in. “Doing something dreadfully boring like working for the

East India Company. You know –actually meeting the natives and doing business with them. I know we practically own India –but I wouldn’t want to live there. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Kathryn could not say that she had ever particularly wanted to live in India either. “Yes, it’s better to stay in England, for some people. But enough of America –what has happened in Cambrien since we went away? I would so love to hear the latest news.”

“Nothing very exciting, I am afraid,” said Ms. Anders with a sigh, for she dearly loved to relate anecdotes. “Only the usual sort of thing which one would expect. We’ve never had much to tell as a town, though I cannot say that that is at all to our detriment.”

“But you, we hear,” put in Mrs. Frawley with soft emphasis, “have some very sad news.”“Perhaps not sad,” Kathryn said with a wry smile. “Was it not the last time we had tea

that there was a consensus that men in general were not altogether very interesting?”Mrs. Frawley and Ms. Anders looked at each other, both alarmed. “Oh, my dear,” began

Mrs. Frawley anxiously, “that doesn’t mean one should abandon them absolutely. They can be very good in other ways. And now, of course –after what has happened –after Mr. Gleason has behaved so indecently by you, why you should get married at once if you can.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Kathryn in confusion.“Yes, indeed, it is the only way!” pressed Ms. Anders. “Only way to what?”Mrs. Frawley gave Kathryn a look as suggested that she ought to know the answer for

herself. “It is the only hope –the only way of your ever getting married, perhaps. You see, men, my dear, are notoriously afraid of ever proposing to a woman. You, having been so close to marriage, will certainly become an object of sympathy among them but also one of –almost formidableness. You see, everyone has assumed that you must be very sad by now.”

“Indeed?” said Kathryn, not much interested, for she had already resigned herself to only accepting one man in the world, and if every other one chose to pity her, she did not mind.

“Yes –of course, this is why you must marry immediately, before it is generally known. Unless you have a few friends –from the university, or from here in Cambrien –who know you too well to let that bother them –for it shouldn’t –but men are so silly!” declared Ms. Anders.

“What about,” said Mrs. Frawley, as if coming upon an idea, “my nephew? He is unmarried –and, it is true, perhaps nearer two-and-forty than two-and-thirty, but one could not begrudge him that.”

“No, no, he wouldn’t do,” Ms. Anders cried impatiently. “He is not scholarly enough for Miss Williamson –and he goes hunting far too often. Let him marry someone else. I have a much better idea. Mildred, do you remember the name of the man we spoke with on that eve of their farewell party almost two months ago?”

“Oh! Yes –I knew his mother, I believe –a Mr. David Harrington –oh, he would do splendidly.”

Kathryn turned very red, but the other two had started plotting with each other and did not take the least notice.

Ms. Anders smiled. “That is why I mentioned him –so very well-mannered, exactly what a gentleman ought to be, I think. And they had a good deal of time to become acquainted. Miss Williamson, did you and Mr. Harrington ever converse in the course of your trip to America?”

“Yes, a little,” said Kathryn, hoping they did not notice that her cheeks remained flushed.“And what did you think of him?” asked Ms. Anders eagerly.Kathryn gathered her courage and said, flippantly, “Well –as a husband, he would do

very well, I think.” “That’s settled, then.” Mrs. Frawley sighed in a satisfied way, as if, now that an object

had been found, their scheme could not fail to succeed.“Ah, to be young again!” said Ms. Anders dreamily, evidently thinking it very romantic

that they had just settled Kathryn’s fate over tea. “If only Captain Brinston…” she paused eloquently. Now that the other two knew of her love affair, she loved to bring it up.

“Yes,” Kathryn pounced on the subject with enthusiasm. “Do tell us more about him. What did he look like?” She inquired innocently, but in truth, an idea had planted itself in her mind which she simply could not uproot. But she needed more information.

Ms. Anders closed her eyes as in remembrance. “Well –he was tall, with chestnut brown hair, a crooked nose, freckles, and an honest face. He might have been plain were it not for his eyes, a startling and piercing blue. I shall never forget them. They seemed to see everything that I was thinking, everything that I had ever thought, and everything I ever would. They made me feel –at once very unsure of myself and at once quite confident that here was a man who would do away with dangers.”

“Such as chickens?” giggled Mrs. Frawley. Beaming good-naturedly, Ms. Anders replied, “Yes, chickens.”“Did he have family in the area?” Kathryn continued.“It is rather curious that you should ask that, Miss Williamson,” said Ms. Anders

thoughtfully. “For the soldiers in the militia are not usually stationed near family. They move about too much for it to be certain. But, while he was in our village, he did mention a father –and a younger brother –who lived not far off. It’s so long ago now that I wouldn’t remember their names, but I know his father was a gentleman who had come upon financial difficulties, none for which he was really to blame– and that often gave the captain much grief and sorrow.”

“He was very tender-hearted, too. He loved the birds that perched in the trees and all the little animals scampering about the forest. He was perhaps the only man I have ever met who knew anything at all about flowers. Sometimes he would gather some for me and leave them at my doorstep, with a little mysterious note. Courtship was very romantic in those days.”

Kathryn had to concede that, if someone had personally left flowers on her doorstep, she would have been more than a little pleased about them.

“Yes –men were very crafty then!” said Mrs. Frawley with a smile. “Mr. Frawley used to come up with all sorts of ways to deliver little presents for me. And –the sweet man, unlike most husbands– he continued the practice after we were married.”

“But, my dear, all things considered, you had better marry Mr. Harrington right away –so you will not end up like me,” said Ms. Anders, not unkindly.

Kathryn smiled. “Considering your life of virtue, I should not at all mind.”And yet… she found it in her heart to hope otherwise.

*** Following their departure, Kathryn sat for a long while in her chair and thought. She

thought about Ms. Anders’ description of Captain Brinston –of his crooked nose but, more importantly, of his piercing blue eyes.

Kathryn, unhappy in her own love, only wished that everyone else might not share the same fate. This determination decided her course, and she had long ago promised herself that somehow, some way, she would find this Captain Brinston, whether he be married, in his grave, or –could it be possible?– single and yet aware of the charms of his old love.

And, thinking thus, she thought even harder about those eyes, about all the fragmentary bits and pieces of conversation to which she had half-listened, a family history of sorts... And surely –no other family could be credited with such a description. Surely –the surname could not be a coincidence?

In but a few more minutes, Kathryn rose to investigate her suspicions. She walked calmly out into her most favorite spot of repose –the gardens– and, squaring her shoulders, told herself

that, should she be wrong, none but herself would know. But Kathryn felt that she could not be wrong. Too much depended on it.

Chapter Five- Carl Gains His Point (or the Petunias)

Sometimes the other servants of Worthing wondered who, exactly, was ordering who in the gardens. To see Carl and Kathryn together, haggling each other over what seemed like superfluous details (like the placing of flowerpots or the paving of the path,) it was sometimes almost impossible to tell to what extend Kathryn fulfilled her identity as mistress and Carl as the subservient head-gardener.

This impression was even more apparent as Kathryn approached Carl that day. He was not in one of his better moods, having just learned from the under-gardener, who had heard it from Sarah, who had overhead Francine and the housekeeper discussing the matter, that Kathryn had allowed –actually allowed– carnations to pollute the sweet fragrance of Worthing’s air. Consequently, he was not in a humor to countenance her presence with anything near civility (and he never did, quite, reach that point anyway,) and only saw her coming with a just-distinguishable grunt of welcome, or of warning.

“Good afternoon, Carl” said Kathryn brightly, emboldened by her mission and hardly noticing his black scowl.

“Nothing good about it,” mumbled Carl. “Eh, what do you want?”“I am afraid that I need your assistance. It is a matter of the most vital importance.”Carl’s scowl deepened until his peppery-grey eyebrows and his sharp eyes almost

married each other. “The only matter of vital importance around here is the fact that you put those snapdragon cuttings* in the wrong spot the other day, and I dearly want to move them.”

“Never mind the snapdragons!” Kathryn waved them away impatiently. “Will you or won’t you hear me out? I could dismiss you,” she ended impressively –or it would have been impressive, but for the fact that she knew and Carl knew that she knew that she would not have dismissed him for the world.

“Well, get on with it, then,” said Carl, unbending a little, for in spite of himself curiosity had begun to get the best of him.

“Do you by chance have a brother?”The only indication that Carl was at all surprised by this untoward question was a quick

widening of his comely blue eyes. “I’ve one older, yes.”“What is his name?”“Brinston, same as mine,” Carl chuckled, knowing very well what she meant.“No,” said Kathryn composedly, “his first name.”Carl inspected a spade in his leathery hand before nonchalantly asking, “And what is it to

you?”“Carl,” said Kathryn, desperately, shutting her eyes as if what she was about to say would

give her physical pain, “If you tell me, I promise that I shall let you have free reign –free and absolute reign over my poor petunias next spring.”

A greedy light gleamed in the old man’s eyes. “Free and absolute reign?”“Free and absolute reign,” Kathryn confirmed, groaning.“Well –then my older brother’s name is Matthew –or Colonel Brinston, I should say.

Why are you so interested?”“Oh, Carl,” Kathryn cried rapturously, “don’t you see this is wonderful?”

Carl (who perhaps had good reason not to see anything at all) scowled and shook his head.

“And is he –is he alive?”Carl nodded.“And unmarried?”Again, Carl nodded.Kathryn sucked in her breath queerly. “Oh, can it be?”“Well, as it is, I don’t see how it couldn’t be,” said Carl querulously. “Poor chap –as if he

ever would get married after what happened to him in ’54. I can’t blame him for it. Never touched matrimony myself –foolish, I’ve thought it, and always have –but poor Matthew has a different story to make him hate it.”

“Do tell me,” Kathryn pleaded. “I know one part of the story, but I expect you know the rest.”

“Well, it isn’t much of a tale,” Carl began, even as his rough tone softened and he leant upon a nearby urn contemplatively. “We Brinstons have never been much for love; my father married his neighbor’s daughter, and never said anything about it. I suppose the rich –begging your pardon, Miss– have time for it and the poor have to work and not bother about nonsense like that. Not that we were exactly poor –my father was a gentleman, and so are we his sons –but even a gentleman has to have something to live on. Well, our finances not being in too great a state, Matthew went off for the army, and Father to look over the accounts –and me to dilly and dally around until I finally settled on what I am doing now –a bit of gardening. Not glamorous, exactly, but I’m fond of flowers and always was. Matthew did well –made captain, and my father was pleased. He wrote that year, ’54, to say that he had fallen in love and planned to marry a Miss- something or other, I forget her name. But then my father fell ill –very ill– and Matthew, taking leave of the regiment for a little while, took care of him and looked after his affairs. They were in rather a bad way, much worse than he or I or anyone suspected. It wasn’t long before we realized we were poor as paupers, or worse, but we kept the news from my father so that he might die honorably.

“Matthew wanted to go back to that girl of his after he had joined the regiment again and made a name for himself as a fine officer. But he felt sure her family, if not the girl herself, would object to the match now that he had no money and but a promising career to his name. Apparently she came from a good family, wealthy and well-respected in the area. He wanted to spare her the pain of seeing him again, and having to refuse him. Poor man –left his heart in the north of Lancashire, he did,” said Carl, and, liking the phrase so much, he repeated, “Left it in north Lancashire.” He was of a poetical turn of mind (perhaps on account of tending flowers all day) and quite fond of alliterations.

“How sad,” said Kathryn sympathetically, unavoidably thinking that, if Mr. Harrington was suddenly left destitute, without a penny or an estate, she would not have hesitated to love him the same as before. How mercenary men were! “And so –he’s gone on loving her and never marrying anyone else, ashamed of a situation he could not have helped?” It touched her female sensibilities tenderly.

“Yes, poor chap. He did once, a few years later, return in the hopes of perhaps seeking her out again –but by that time, they had moved from that part of the country, and no one wanted to oblige a poor soldier’s inquiries.”

“And where is he now?”

“Just wait a moment, Miss Williamson –I ask again, waiting for an answer this time, why have you taken it upon yourself to poke around about my brother?” His weathered face screwed into obstinacy, and Kathryn knew that if she did not let him in on the secret, he would tell her no more.

She sighed. Certainly if anybody could keep his own counsel by the mere virtue of reticence, it was Carl. But this venture had been her pet project –her idea from the very beginning. Never mind –as it was all for the sake of someone else, she must not be selfish. “Well,” said she, pausing magnificently, “I happen to know this old love of your brother’s.”

“Do you, now?” “And she, also, is unmarried.”Understanding dawned upon Carl. He put his hands in front of him, as if to ward off her

schemes. “Now, now, Miss Williamson –I won’t go playing matchmaker. You know I’m not a married man myself and would do more harm than hurt. And you yourself haven’t exactly been lucky in love, either, if you’ll permit me to say so.”

As this was undeniably the truth, Kathryn could not argue the point. She tried another tactic. “But it’s all for your brother –surely, if he still loves her, he would still wish to marry her. Don’t you want him to secure his bride happily at last?”

“He’s nigh on five-and-sixty!” exclaimed Carl. “And, to be frank, she must be roundabouts that age as well. Who would want to get married? You get pretty settled in your habits at five-and-thirty, say, and marriage is what I would call a disrupting force.”

“But your brother isn’t you,” Kathryn protested. “From what Ms. Anders said,” (“So that is her name,” muttered Carl,) “he seems to be a very pliable, very gentlemanly sort of man- not one to get too settled into bachelorhood if he could help it. Mark my words, Carl; your brother would love to at least meet her again. Doesn’t he want to explain the past? Doesn’t he want to explain that he didn’t mean to treat her badly at all? Wait –that gives me an idea –why didn’t he write her a letter?”

“You would have to meet my brother to understand that, Miss Williamson. He has a very low opinion of himself –and at the time thought that even a letter might be unwelcome. No, he thought, better to let her think the worst of him, so that she would marry someone else and be happy, rather than leave her pitying for him all her days.”

“But that was absolutely the worst thing he could have done! It had the opposite effect. Ms. Anders, instead of looking about for someone who might suit her better and who didn’t run off mysteriously, pined and moped –in short, could not think of marrying anyone so long as she remained in uncertainty about your brother’s fate. Oh –why are men so impossible?” This ended with an unaccountably personal burst of anger, which Carl thankfully attributed to someone other than at whom she directed it.

Carl shrugged as if the accusation did not bother him.“At any rate –that is beside the point. I asked where he was –and the question remains. Is

he in health?”“As healthy as any man of his age –with his own house not terribly far from here. He has

asked me to go and live with him many a time, for he has enough money now to live comfortably by himself –or even with several others– but I like my work here and my little cottage too much. Men like me do not like to change their ways –and this brings me to the point that I made earlier –it just wouldn’t work.”

“And I say it would!” persisted Kathryn indignantly. “Or,” she amended, “we should at least try. I have an idea and I want you to help me.”

Carl resigned himself to fate. “Well, if it does not put me to too much trouble… and, after all, for the petunias…”

***“So very nice of you to invite us again for tea, my dear,” Ms. Anders was saying. “And

so soon. We were quite overcome, for we always have the nicest times here at Worthing, just as it was when your parents were alive –wouldn’t you say so, Mildred?”

The two ladies were being ushered into the parlor, rather than the lawn, for Kathryn had already informed them that there was someone whom she particularly wanted them to meet, and (she explained) the introduction could hardly happen outside.

“Oh, quite, quite,” agreed Mrs. Frawley, who (from Kathryn’s hasty aside) knew the real purpose of the visit.

“And who is this we are to meet again?” asked Ms. Anders.“A colonel, of good family, who is just in the neighborhood and desirous of the

acquaintance,” said Kathryn, in all truth. She did not mention, of course, that he had been summoned –nor did she mention that the colonel, too, was in ignorance about it all. Carl had (for the sake of the petunias, he said, although Kathryn was inclined to think that he had some little sense of romance in him) arranged everything perfectly. His brother, though no doubt confused at the sudden and unwarranted cordiality of a young woman he had never met, could not possibly have suspected what really awaited him.

Kathryn only hoped it would come off. Her greatest fear was that one would remember the other, but not the other way around; that so much time had passed that even love could not transcend the boundaries which must arise; that (though this was probably groundless) Colonel Brinston had been married the day before and would realize his mistake too late.

These fears carried her into the parlor, where she and the ladies sat down in the hopes that the gentleman would arrive soon.

Meanwhile Ms. Anders sighed beautifully and said, in a gentle murmur, that “she had been fond of the colonel’s profession, at some point in her life.”

This lament (uttered unconscious of the others’ rapid and meaningful glances in her direction) was followed by a suitable remark of Mrs. Frawley’s that the weather had been unusually hot as of late.

Kathryn replied that it certainly had been. She glimpsed uneasily at the doors. Surely, by now…

The doors, as in response to her thoughts, happily opened. Francine, as instructed, merely announced the visitor with a, “The Colonel’s come, if you please, Mistress,” and hurried out of the room as quickly as she had come.

The gentleman, a little at a loss, took off his hat and bowed to the three rising ladies, looking at first to Kathryn who, as he had been told, must be the lady of the house. He was tall and well-dressed in an officer’s regimentals –and his face was homely, save for those eyes, the description of which had aided Kathryn in her endeavors to bring the two lovers together again. He had a fine crop of downy white hair, and the prepossessing air of a gentleman accustomed to giving kindness wherever he went and in whatever place.

Smiling, Kathryn led him so as to place his full person in front of the others, saying with a little laugh, “I may, perhaps, need only to make one introduction, Colonel. We are acquainted by letter –and Mrs. Frawley is, if I am not wrong, the only other person in the room you do not know.”

The lady in question curtsied, appraising him with a quick but satisfactory look.“But –this is extraordinary –for I do not,” said the gentleman, and then he turned to Ms.

Anders, and his words stuck obstinately in his throat.He knew her –impossibly– but love as a rule is impossible. In the turn of her cheek, now

soft with age –in the sparkle of her eyes, now burdened with cares the simple girl of eighteen had not yet known –in the slight smile of her lips, now faded and pale, he could see the same woman of his youthful love. And she, at one swift gaze into the depths of his blue eyes, knew him as well.

He bowed again –a bow of servility and homage. Then –with a hesitance and trembling which had not dulled over the years– seized her hand and pressed it to his lips.

Kathryn, eyes shining, hands clasped, marveled that she had ever doubted the success of this meeting, and would have, at that moment, given Carl free and absolute reign over every single plant she had.

“You are Colonel Brinston now, I believe, and not a captain any longer?” said Ms. Anders, faintly, and with a discreet look at his unadorned hands.

“I am.” He bowed again. It seemed he could not stop. “It is my pleasure –my most heartfelt pleasure– to see you again, at last.” He paused for the barest space of a moment. “And –is it –is it still –Miss Anders?”

“Yes,” that maiden blushed prettily, “yes, it is.”

Chapter Six- Philosophizing Over Tea

That affair concluded in the most beneficial way to all parties, Kathryn was left with the rather disagreeable feeling that she had nothing now which could reasonably prevent her from thinking of Mr. Harrington again. She had seen Ms. Anders and Colonel Brinston’s reunion with rejoicing and happiness –but, now that it had all come to more or less an end, she had nothing to do –no one else’s problems to solve which would distract her from her own.

In this frame of mind she had taken up The Histories by Herodotus, a volume which (if not exactly edifying) would at least transport her more than a millennium away from all references to, of, or about, Mr. Harrington. She had gotten as far as the middle of the sixth page in the space of half an hour and, considering everything, she congratulated herself on even this meager accomplishment.

Meanwhile, Francine answered the doors to the beaming couple, Mr. Gleason and Adelaide Gleason, who, they explained as they followed the maid into the drawing room, had just “dropped in to say hello for a moment.”

“She’s in the drawing room just now, you’ll find,” said Francine. “I’m sure she’ll be very pleased to see you. Not much has happened around here since that grand boat adventure you took to America, and it’s been affecting her.”

“The poor dear!” murmured Adelaide compassionately. Then, aside to her husband –“and we can guess what has also been affecting her, can’t we?”

Mr. Gleason sighed and nodded. “Yes, unfortunately.”Francine pretended that she had not heard a word and instead said, “If you’ll excuse me, I

will let her know you’re here.” She went into the drawing room. “Miss Kathryn, two visitors to see you –Mr. and Mrs. Roy Gleason.”

“Oh!” said Kathryn, surprised into animation, as she laid aside Herodotus and privately resolved to throw him out the window as soon as she could. “Please, send them in, Francine. And

have Martha bring in afternoon tea, coffee, and tarts -and perhaps some cake and biscuits. Mr. Gleason will want something to eat, probably –and he likes his coffee strong.”

“I’ll see to it, Miss,” Francine curtsied and returned to the guests. “She’s ready for you, Mr. and Mrs. Gleason.”

“Good, good,” answered Mr. Gleason enthusiastically. He and Adelaide watched her leave before they greeted Kathryn.

“Dear, we’ve come to cheer you up!” proclaimed Adelaide gaily, flying to Kathryn’s side and seizing her hand.

“Thank you,” said Kathryn in some confusion –“but I don’t need cheering up anymore than-”

“Of course you do!” said Mr. Gleason. He took a seat on the sofa and immediately began fiddling with the white-tasseled pillow next to him. “But first we have news which is not so cheerful.”

Adelaide glanced at her husband. “Oh –yes,” she agreed with a solemn air, patting Kathryn consolingly. “You tell her, dear.”

“Tell me- tell me what?” Kathryn’s mind went insensibly to Mr. Harrington.“It’s not really telling, Adelaide,” amended Mr. Gleason. “I mean –it is news, but not

unexpected news. First, however, we must apologize to Miss Williamson.” He gave Adelaide a pointed look.

“Ah, yes, darling,” Adelaide cleared her throat and turned to Kathryn. “We are sorry to burst in on you like this –but you know Mr. Gleason and me!”

“Yes, I do,” said Kathryn with a smile. Mr. and Mrs. Gleason so rarely knew what they were going to do or say themselves until the instant that it was done or said that she had discovered it nearly impossible to quarrel with them. “It is no trouble, I assure you. You know I love company –and lack it– and I must confess that life has been a bit dull since the excitement of America.” She recalled for a moment the recent triumph of Ms. Anders and Captain Brinston, but realized that, for all their amiableness, the Gleasons probably would not find anything worthwhile in that, and so let her statement stand.

“Don’t worry, darling,” said Adelaide. “Mr. Gleason and I feel exactly the same way –it’s almost the end of summer, you know, and everybody is dragging his feet a little. Mr. Gleason’s been bogged down by business and I haven’t seen any new fashions,” she adjusted a be-feathered and be-flowered hat conscientiously, “for days on end. We’re all miserable –it’s too hot to have a nice picnic or summer party and the evenings are too insufferable for cards. Up where Mr. Harrington lives it is all coolness and nice breezes, farther away from the hot air which blows from the sea.”

“You have seen Mr. Harrington?” A wave of jealousy swept over Kathryn.“No, we haven’t. I’ve just had a letter –well, a note, really, for he never was much at

letter writing- from him, and the weather over at Rosewood –near a forest, I believe, has Adelaide jealous,” explained Mr. Gleason. Impatiently, he said, “but what my wife spoke of earlier wasn’t what I meant about apologizing. As you yourself said, Mrs. Gleason –Miss Williamson knows our odd ways and so of course will pardon them. We’re old friends, aren’t we, Miss Williamson?”

Kathryn could not deny it.“Anyway,” Mr. Gleason continued, “what I’ve got to say is much more unpleasant. We

never told you –we never really had time to tell you– but –well –I have to apologize for my brother’s behavior.”

“Don’t worry,” said Kathryn laughingly, “your mother and brother have both been here.”“My brother? That’s news! Not such a heartless fellow, after all, perhaps? Or just trying

to save face… at any rate, I knew my mother had come to see you.” admitted Mr. Gleason ashamedly. “She told me something of your conversation –and she’s another reason for us, at least me, to be sorry. I’m afraid she was not very polite the last time she was here –belittled Celia for her family rather than for her actions. We have known Celia a long time –but I thought Randall told you that after he invited her to come with us. Ordinarily it would have seemed exceedingly strange –and it still was.”

“I was surprised,” Kathryn confessed, “when you, Adelaide, told me what he had done –but this makes everything make much more sense.”

“Oh, Miss Williamson,” said Mr. Gleason, and she had never seen him graver. “It may make more sense, but it doesn’t make what he did any less reprehensible.”

“Reprehensible?” Kathryn raised an eyebrow. She lowered her eyes and said in an almost-whisper, “How did you find out –what happened?” She thought again –irresistibly– of Mr. Harrington, but knew that he could not have betrayed her confidence.

“Randall told me himself.” Mr. Gleason shook his head over the recollection. “How you had discovered them –doing what, I’m not quite sure. By his tone –it wasn’t as bad as it might have been. He never told Mother or Father –knowing Mother would be dreadfully sad over the ‘family honor’ part of it –and Father over the morals. We still don’t understand it.”

“Indeed!” Adelaide roused herself indignantly from a reverie. “No, we can’t understand it, can we, Mr. Gleason? Though I, for one, saw it coming.”

“Woman’s intuition, eh darling?” Mr. Gleason joked fondly.Adelaide sniffed. “Call it what you will –I’ll not say it wasn’t intuition- but I think that

anyone could have noticed how Randall was making a fool of himself. Why, Mr. Gleason, even you noticed! And Kat dear,” she said with an elfin grin, “my husband is not the keenest observer in the world, I can tell you that.”

“Perhaps not…” conceded Mr. Gleason, shooting Adelaide a mock glare. “Oh, I tried to warn Randall about what he was doing –if he didn’t realize it, and I wasn’t sure that he hadn’t by then –I tried to reason with him. But I’ll be frank with you. I’m so used to being the unreasonable one in the family –the one who never takes anything seriously –don’t protest! you know it’s true, I can tell by that half-smile you just so cleverly tried to conceal– that when I did say something it didn’t have much effect and only made him more pigheaded and obstinate about his virtue than ever. I think he was convinced, up until it actually happened, that he would still marry you and that he would, in some way or other, ‘get over’ Celia.”

Adelaide interjected kindly, “But darling, I don’t think he would have ‘gotten over’ Celia so easily. They had been attached in affection before. It was foolish of him to suppose that he could have ‘gotten over’ Celia by increasing the amount of time with her! And I know she felt the same, for I permitted myself to ask her a few questions, to see if she would perhaps stop admitting his attentions and behave sensibly –but she refused to believe that her actions were unwise.”

“A healthy dose of sense would have been proper on this occasion, I think,” said Kathryn. “Although people in love are said never to have any sense, I really doubt the truth of that statement at times. Surely, one can always make rational, reasonable decisions –if only feeling inclined in the opposite direction.” She smiled, though her thoughts were serious. And to think, that I was sure Adelaide and Mr. Gleason weren’t aware in the slightest what was going on –or if they were, that they thought it merely an ‘innocent flirtation’ –like one of Charlie Campbell’s

campaigns to lightly break a woman’s heart! I have misjudged them -Mr. Gleason most of all… Kathryn had attributed more virtue and sense to the character of one brother while neglecting the merits of the other. A near-fatal misjudgment. Randall’s indiscretions prove more and more advantageous to me daily.

“I couldn’t agree more. If only either of them had acted with sense!” lamented Mr. Gleason. “Look at what a sorry group we are now, Miss Williamson! Dear me, you’ve no idea!”

Unavoidably thinking of him again, Kathryn said wistfully, “Haven’t I?”The entrance of Francine to tell them that the tea was ready in the sunroom interrupted

their conversation. “Shall we go, then?” said Kathryn, gesturing in that direction.“Yes, by all means!” rejoined Mr. Gleason eagerly. “Come, Mrs. Gleason, we oughtn’t to

miss tea!”“No,” giggled Adelaide, “anything but that.”Kathryn led them through the doors, past another hall of Stentorian portraits, and into the

sunroom where Martha had laid the tea and coffee along with a deplorable amount of food, (Mr. Gleason had visited Worthing with Randall often enough that he had developed a reputation among the servant staff) upon the table.

The sunroom was a fine but relatively small space, beloved by Kathryn’s mother and just as cherished by Kathryn herself. A large bay window looked out onto the grounds, and frosty green curtains adorned the window as well as a seat with plump cushions and silver pillows. The table itself was made of finely polished oak. As a centerpiece, a very elegant tea set hand-painted with blushing roses on the fine white china sat complacently in the middle amidst various trays heaped with pastries and tea-sandwiches. The only articles of furniture that seemed misplaced in the elegance of the room were the chairs around the table, hideously colored a hue of sickly green.

Noting them afresh as they sat down, Kathryn laughed. “I’m sorry about the chairs –aren’t they awful?”

“Oh, yes,” Adelaide cried, relieving herself of the burden that the fashionable elite sometimes feel when viewing something not adherent to their taste. “Darling Kat, whatever makes you keep them?”

“For sentimental reasons. They were my mother’s. Every piece of furniture in here –and almost throughout the house– is more or less as it was when my parents were alive. Those chairs, as I recall, were a gift from my great-aunt, and I- I just couldn’t bear to part with them.”

“I forgive you then,” said Adelaide generously.“Thank you, Adelaide.” Kathryn smiled. “Shall I pour out now? One lump of sugar or

two in your tea, Adelaide –milk perhaps?”Once she had completed her duties as mistress, Kathryn poured her own tea, righteously

abstaining from sugar, and announced her intentions of having them over more often. “I’ve grown too used to being solitary, you see,” she said with regret. “Randall never liked dinner parties.”

“No, he didn’t, poor devil,” recounted Mr. Gleason. “But don’t imagine that I pity him.”“With a wife like Celia –Mrs. Gleason now, I suppose- he’ll have to!” exclaimed

Adelaide. “She loves society –balls, dinner parties, card parties –anything. She is at that age where society is an intoxicating spell. We found a common interest there on the Lucania –and she hasn’t a bad eye for fashion either, though one of her dresses on the boat –a white and gold silk, I believe, had far too many ruffles to be at all the thing.”

“Poor darling.” Mr. Gleason took her hand in sympathy. “Awful for you really. You must have suffered.”

“Oh Mr. Gleason, don’t be silly, darling! But fashion and society, as I quickly discovered, were the only things Celia and I did have in common,” Adelaide said ruefully. “I’m sorry, Kathryn –I talked about woman’s intuition earlier but that isn’t completely true… she told me of her love for Randall, thinking that I would support her.”

“Did she really tell you openly?” said Kathryn in a grim tone. “I suppose she thought she had the first claim to him in a way,” cut in Mr. Gleason. “Mother said that she had mentioned their former attachment –an attachment which she had forbidden because of her age and her family, of course. But then the trouble went away when Randall went to Oxford.”

“And met me,” finished Kathryn, suppressing a sigh. “And he forgot about her, as he said himself.”

“In fact, it seemed he forgot about her almost instantly,” said Mr. Gleason thoughtfully, munching a sandwich in his ponderings.

“Oh, let’s not talk about that, please,” said Adelaide in distress. “You know this whole business is just –dreadful, dreadful! Kat, I think I speak for my husband as well when I say that –as much as it pains us– it is our most fervent wish that you forget about him, and that he should not have any hold over you any longer.”

“Any –hold? I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” responded Kathryn. She took a Shrewsbury tart in hand and puzzled over it.

Mr. Gleason saved his wife. “I think what my wife means is –clumsily, for it’s awful forward of us to say it - is that we want you to understand that –well- Randall’s my brother and he always will be, but the character flaws he’s shown seem to go deeper than this one incident –and we hope that you not only realize that, but also that –that he wasn’t worthy of you.” Mr. Gleason looked acutely embarrassed.

“No, I wouldn’t say that,” protested Kathryn. “For the time that I was engaged to him –until the end– I never once questioned Randall’s fidelity. While he was faithful, he was faithful –and true and kind and just, to the extent of my knowledge. We were happy, and I do not begrudge him that –any longer. That is not to say that I loved him as –as perhaps I should have, or might have –but that I respected him, and thought his character the steady kind which would secure me a good husband for life.”

“And how wrong you were –how wrong we all were!” Mr. Gleason mourned.“No,” said Kathryn softly. “I do not think I was so very far from right as I first thought,

and as you think now. Perhaps this incident as you call it, and as I, too, have conjectured often, does reveal serious character flaws which went for so long undetected –but I do not think that is altogether true. For you cannot deny, Mr. Gleason, that his motivation was very strong! He did not desert me without powerful feelings for someone else.”

“That’s still wrong, though, dear,” reminded Adelaide.“Of course it is,” acknowledged Kathryn. “But the vices of Randall might not have been

revealed ever –if Miss Celia Bradford had not tempted him in the first place. He would never have carried his folly out into action. Without an object it could not –would not, I would even say, have materialized. And I did find his visit to me the other day very –satisfactory. He explained many circumstances which made him –well– not as bad as I thought him before.”

Adelaide sighed. “Kathryn, dear, it’s strange that you should be more just –or more kind, I know not which- towards Randall than we have proved.”

“Perhaps not,” Kathryn mused, taking a sip of tea. “I mean, perhaps it is not strange. You are his family –family is always notoriously more severe in judgment when it comes to vices or virtues –the quickest to praise and the quickest to denounce, I have found.” Her mind wandered to her aunt and uncle –one with sight only for faults and the other anxious and pleased at the detection of virtues. What would they have to say about Randall Gleason? In the consciousness of Kathryn’s aunt, he had represented the perfect combination in a man. What would she think now?

Suddenly Mr. Gleason began to laugh. “You know, Miss Williamson, I do believe that you had an absolute right to being hailed as a genius at Oxford, whatever Randall may say!”

“What do you mean?” “You can philosophize with the best of them –and Randall was never a philosophizer,

only pretended to be when he wanted to impress some professor or another.”“Oh, dear.” Kathryn sounded mortified and quickly swallowed a gulp of tea. “Have I

fallen to philosophizing again?”Adelaide said, “You have, Kat! Don’t worry, we don’t mind!”“You know, Mrs. Gleason,” said Mr. Gleason in a tone which was jokingly confidential,

“I really think that Kat and my good old friend David Harrington would do for one another. He’s the only one out of our set who philosophizes with the best of them. Have you ever philosophized with Harrington, Miss Williamson?”

Mr. Gleason’s innocent question took Kathryn so totally by surprise that she blushed crimson and put her teacup back in its saucer with an audible clatter. Trying to regulate her voice, she answered, “Well, I- yes- I suppose –yes- we have philosophized –er- together- at times-”

Seeing her distress with the acute powers of female observations sometimes termed as another sense, Adelaide said quickly, with a silvery peal of laughter, “Oh, Mr. Gleason! You know Mr. Harrington! He philosophizes with –with everybody, I should think, if he gets a chance.”

Mr. Gleason was not to be so easily put off. He turned an incredulous eye upon his wife. “He never philosophized with you, darling.”

“That’s because,” Adelaide said, deliberately fixating her gaze on the diminishing tower of pastries, “that’s because I can’t philosophize well at all –and you know, I don’t think Mr. Harrington likes women very much generally, and we never conversed on anything more than the weather and How England Is Doing Wonderfully and other conventional niceties- anything worth philosophizing about.”

It was not the diversion for which Kathryn had hoped and expected from a fellow sympathizer. Well done, Adelaide, she groaned inwardly. “That can’t be true,” she said firmly, willing the color to flee from her cheeks. “For he –he was always so cordial to everyone, and never showed any preference-”

“Oho, didn’t he?” said Mr. Gleason expressively as he snatched two more peach tarts from one of the trays. Something seemed to strike him then (which had penetrated Adelaide’s intellect long before,) and he gave Kathryn a meaningful look which she perfectly understood and just as perfectly ignored. “No, Mrs. Gleason’s right, I’m afraid. Harrington’s often spoken to me on the subject –we’ve argued many times. For I, you know,” he said, glancing affectionately a moment at his wife, “am most definitely not averse to females in general –one female in particular. But he is quite a different man.”

“I don’t understand you,” said Kathryn. “I really do not –for I have always observed I-I mean, from what I have observed, Mr. Harrington has behaved most gentlemanly and, as I said, cordially to any and all, with no distinction-”

“What is all this about distinction?” Mr. Gleason fumed. “I have never seen any woman more distinguished by Harrington’s attention than-” his eyes widened in sudden pain. He glanced under the table, frowned at his foot and then at his beloved, and said, “In any case, he the highest respect for you females –and he’s not a man to give judgment hastily– but still, he has always had an incalculable aversion to them which I could never explain.”

“Indeed?” Kathryn was entirely at a loss as to how to respond.Something amusing seemed to strike Mr. Gleason then, for he laughed. “It might have

something to do with his greatest friend at Rosewood –upon whose judgment, I believe, he consults in everything. You know the one I mean, don’t you Mrs. Gleason, dear? He’s never to be seen about Rosewood with him.”

Adelaide thought for several minutes and then, catching Mr. Gleason’s peculiar manner, said, “Oh! Yes! Goodness me –one would think he practically depended on him for everything!”

As Kathryn did not want to show any more interest in this friend of whom she had heard so little, yet so much, silence permeated the air for a few minutes, in which many things went unsaid which should have been voiced, and many things which should not have been uttered happily remained in their graves.

“Our main purpose,” said Adelaide at length, “in coming here, was not to eat your tea-things,” she gave Mr. Gleason a look of poignancy, “but to apologize, as we said earlier, for Randall’s conduct.”

“Oh yes!” Mr. Gleason smiled secretly. “Yes, that was our one purpose –the only thing. We weren’t sure, you see, that Randall had even apologized for himself –knowing now the moral pattern which he has so lately been following, I wouldn’t trust him to it.”

“Well, thank you for the apology –though I expected none, especially from you two – who have done nothing. You should have no worries about apologies –Randall has, I admit, done handsomely for himself.”

“We should go –oughtn’t we, Mr. Gleason darling?- before we talk you to death –or eat all of your lovely tea-things, hmm?” Adelaide said to her husband gently.

He seemed hurt. “Oh –yes, yes. We should most certainly be on our way –we’ve many things to do, I suppose, which Adelaide recollects but I do not.”

“Come, darling,” Adelaide laughed as they all rose, “don’t hold a grudge against me; you just want to keep eating the food. Thank you so much for your hospitality, Kat.”

“The Shrewsbury tarts and the sandwiches were excellent –tres bien, as the French would say! And, I suppose, the conversation wasn’t half-bad either,” Mr. Gleason joked. Adelaide nudged him again.

The three walked down the hall and through the drawing room, into the wood-paneled vestibule and through the doors of the front entrance of Worthing Manor. The sun’s rays beat relentlessly upon them at once.

“Oh, this heat!” said Kathryn to her companions. Their buggy and driver pulled up along the lane. “Isn’t it awful?”

“It will soon cool –I wouldn’t worry,” noted Mr. Gleason. “In a few weeks, by September, the weather will have drastically changed.”

“Says the expert weather-man,” said Adelaide drolly, hooking her arm through his. They stepped into the buggy and waved.

“Come again!” called Kathryn after them, shading her eyes with one hand. She slowly made her way back into the house, shaking her head. “What a day!”

Mrs. Lands appeared from around the corner, in the direction of the servants’ staircase. “The day isn’t over yet, I’m afraid, Miss Kathryn,” she said ominously.

Chapter Seven- Dinner with the Family

“Oh?” said Kathryn. “What can possibly happen that has not happened already today?” (The flowers –Mr. Gleason and Adelaide coming- I suppose Mr. Harrington himself will be over soon enough!)

“If you’ll but look through the window, Miss,” Mrs. Lands pointed ambiguously. “You’ll see what I mean.” She had always liked to be mysterious.

Fearing something had happened to one of the servants –or perhaps Carl had overworked himself– Kathryn hurried over. “Oh, good heavens!” she said as she viewed the scene enfolding in front of the glass. Just as the Gleasons’ buggy rounded the corner and could no longer be seen, her aunt and uncle’s stately carriage pulled up, rolling to a stop.

“Oh, good heavens!” Kathryn said again under her breath. “Mrs. Lands, would you tell the cook that my aunt and uncle will be staying for dinner tonight?”

Mrs. Lands stated imperiously, “She won’t be happy, Miss. She’s already sore about afternoon tea today and will have to perhaps send someone for more ingredients. Your aunt and uncle like a proper dinner, you know.”

“Oh- let her be sore!” snapped Kathryn ill-temperedly, Mrs. Lands’ manner grating on her nerves. “I know they are finicky about food –they have every right to be, after all! My uncle always keeps a fine table. I’ll not have them dissatisfied.”

“Never, Miss.” Mrs. Lands looked shocked at the idea.“Good,” said Kathryn firmly. She turned from the window and headed into the drawing

room, muttering to herself, “It’s about time that I acted mistress of my own estate. I’ve been too lenient among them all –Mrs. Lands especially! Letting her run the place indeed. Well, I’ll show that I’m mistress well enough.”

Francine was busy in the drawing room plumping pillows and fluffing cushions, straightening paintings and dusting in places she had just cleaned the day before. “Oh, Miss!” she said, breathless, a strand of grey hair wiggling out from her cap, “I expect you know that-”

“Yes, I know my aunt and uncle are coming,” Kathryn finished for her. She prayed Heaven would forgive her for her next small fib. “But don’t trouble yourself Francine – I’m not in the least worried about it. I’ve been far too occupied all day. The place looks lovely.” That part, at least, was true.

“Of course –of course –naturally,” agreed Francine, thinking about the flowers. She said reluctantly, “Well –I should let them in perhaps –no need to keep the Lady of the Land or her consort waiting.”

“Francine,” Kathryn remonstrated half-heartedly. Most of the servants did not like Mrs. Ada Williamson for the cold and indifferent way in which she treated her niece. The cook, even, in her more heated fits of temper (which Kathryn was always quick to soothe with inflated panegyrics) had threatened to put a mild poison in the food which would prevent the “dear auntie” from sleeping well for a week. (Kathryn had forbidden that, without question, poisoning of any form was not permitted no matter the guest or his temperament–but she had to admit that the idea had, just for a moment, been tempting.)

For the sake of appearing as if she was doing something instead of simply waiting for her relatives to come in, Kathryn picked up the book (Romeo and Juliet again; she would not admit the reason why she scanned its pages so often in those dreary days) that she had been attempting to read earlier in the day. It fell open to its marker –Mr. Harrington’s note. Kathryn swallowed the first fluttering of emotion, vainly trying to shut her eyes to the few precious words, and hurriedly returned the note to its former place, between the acclaimed balcony scene and the silly friar’s presumptions of Act II.

Mrs. Williamson strode into the drawing room prematurely, eclipsing even the swift Francine. She walked over to her niece and embraced her warmly. “Kathryn, oh Kathryn dear, you must be so low,” said she tragically, grasping Kathryn’s hands in her own.

“Low?” said Kathryn, astonished by the manner in which her aunt acted and spoke.Mrs. Williamson did not seem to hear her. “You don’t know, my dear, how much your

uncle and I feel for you after what has happened.”“Happened?” “Hello, Kathryn,” Mr. Charles Williamson entered, at last with Francine, who gave

Kathryn a meaningful and exasperated look, saying as she adjusted her cap,“Mr. and Mrs. Williamson to see you, Miss Kathryn.”“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?” said Mrs. Williamson acidly, momentarily

diverted, and Kathryn instantly felt under-staffed and that her servants should see to their jobs more efficiently.

“Uncle!” Kathryn rose to her feet and took his hand, “It’s so good to see you –both of you!”

“My poor dear!” Mrs. Williamson remained talking in the same sympathetic tone. “How can you look so happy? You bear it well! Your fortitude is admirable, dear, in front of strangers –but really you oughtn’t to hide it from us –we who have known you for all of your life and been your guardians for most of it –surely you can show your true feelings.”

(If only you knew my true feelings!) “Aunt, I cannot continue in ignorance –I do not know in the slightest of what you speak. I am in the happiest of spirits and good health –even after so long abroad and on the ocean.”

“The ocean, the ocean!” Mrs. Williamson raised a gloved hand to cover her eyes. “Do not speak to me of the ocean! That’s where it all started –or so they say.”

“Aunt!” said Kathryn, almost sternly. “I really cannot understand what you are saying, though I am beginning to see.”

“Mrs. Williamson, dear,” interceded Mr. Williamson, leading his wife to a seat where she might execute her dramatic performances without fear of fatigue, “I think Kathryn is telling the truth. She seems not to know.”

“She seems not to know?” spouted Mrs. Williamson incredulously. “You must know, of course you must.”

Out of patience, Kathryn was on the point of reiterating that no, she did not know, and would not regardless of the number of times her aunt told her she did, when Mrs. Williamson said with a distinctive sigh,

“Ah well, Mr. Williamson. I suppose we must humor the girl; she’s been through so much already, just look at her.”

Kathryn wished with all the spirit she had left within her that her aunt and uncle would have chosen, just once, to inform her of their visit by other means than the usual rumble of their carriage wheels on the lane. Then she might have had time to fortify herself for the occasion.

“Dear,” Mr. Williamson said firmly –and for that Kathryn thanked him silently; it was not often that he crossed his wife’s intentions, and never with an obvious resolution to maintain his opinions. “She yet does not understand.”

“As you wish it,” said Mrs. Williamson, frost tainting her voice. “We have heard reports, Kathryn. And of course we received your letter. At first I blamed you,” she laughed lightly, “but that was an erroneous assumption, and I am sorry that I ever thought of it.”

“I think I understand now,” said Kathryn quietly. “But please, go on, and speak plainly. I shall not mind to hear the whole thing with all the names, and places, and facts. It will not give me unnecessary pain. Circling around the subject might even be considered worse –but as it is I am not hurt by the mention of details.”

“Noble girl!” cried Mrs. Williamson half-affectionately. “To bear it as you do –when your heart must be breaking!”

“It is not breaking,” Kathryn contradicted, folding her hands together very tightly. “My heart has never been safer from that offense; I can give you my word.” (At least- as far as Randall is concerned. What Aunt does not know of other men will have little if any bearing on the future.)

Mrs. Williamson glanced at her sharply. “Oh, Kathryn, I told you not to hide your feelings. I know how it must all be with you, and it is useless to pretend! You always were a sly little thing.” She narrowed her eyes. “I can see everything, you know.”

“Indeed, ma’m?” said Kathryn, commanding her features not to twist in sarcasm.“Mrs. Williamson, my dear,” persevered Mr. Williamson, “Kathryn has always been

truthful. She will not deceive us now, I am sure of it.”Kathryn glimpsed up for a moment, with gratefulness in her eyes, and met her uncle’s

kind gaze.“Perhaps,” Mrs. Williamson pursed her lips. “Yes, perhaps it is so. As I was saying,

Kathryn –and if you do not want me to dance around the subject, I will not –I’ll be the soul of all that is frank and forthcoming, you both know me as such! Well –frankly then- I would have called this an absolute mess on your part, but as the reports say –he, Mr. Randall Gleason, whom everybody praised and lauded about as if he was a god! is already married to some low-class nobody, of little beauty and education, so they tell me.”

“She is, I believe, a genteel woman, of a good, respectable family if not old or noble.” said Kathryn.

“As to that-” Mrs. Williamson sniffed dismissively. “Any young woman may have good manners, and perhaps no connections of reputedly low character –no one hanged for robbery, or anything unpleasant like that- and be called ‘a genteel woman of a good family.’ That signifies nothing in real society! I was excessively disappointed with young Mr. Randall for showing such a lack of discernment. We had thought better of him, didn’t we, Mr. Williamson?”

Mr. Williamson drew himself up in his chair. “I would not have consented for him to marry my niece otherwise.”

“A cruel, cruel disappointment,” Mrs. Williamson reflected.“He had strong incentive, Aunt, though it does not excuse his behavior.” Kathryn said.“Strong incentive?” Mrs. Williamson repeated in a tone of cool disbelief. “My dear

Kathryn, don’t be so delusional. You’ve just practically admitted that the only claims this –this –what was her name?”

“Celia Bradford,” Kathryn supplied.

“Yes –this Celia Bradford –the only claims she ever had were of beauty, and so-called education –taught by a governess for a few piddling years, Kathryn, when we sent you to Somerville at seventeen! And you –one of the loveliest in this part of the country, a Williamson of the great family of Williamsons which has been here since almost the dawn of time –distant cousin to lords and descended from a forgotten line of nobles- you were passed over for this nobody from nowhere! And Mrs. Cameron, who came to tea recently– said that Mrs. Baker told her that a friend of Mrs. Baker’s –someone who has seen both of you- said that you were far more beautiful than this Miss Bradford could ever pretend to be. So you see it’s all so provoking when you stop to think about it –because Randall, by all reason, ought to have preferred you above everyone else, considering everything.”

“I believe,” said Kathryn as seriously as she could, for the conversation savored of the same hints as had also provoke Randall’s mother, “it was because he was –they were- in love.”

“In love!” scoffed Mrs. Williamson contemptuously. “What a notion!”“We were once in love, you know, my dear,” Mr. Williamson reminded her mildly.“That was different, of course; why-ever should you bring that up?” Mrs. Williamson

said, discomfited – (is she actually blushing?)- and added quickly, “All the reports are that it is a most unlucky and sad business.”

“Well, I cannot call it an unlucky or sad business,” Kathryn began boldly, and resolved that since she had started, she could not help but finish this train of headstrong brazenness. “I was never in love with Randall, nor was he ever in love with me –we might have loved each other, perhaps –but that is quite a different thing– and so as Randall has found the girl he truly loves, I wish him all the joy that anybody else might on the occasion.”

“And you are, I suppose, an expert on love as you have been jilted?” said Mrs. Williamson with a delicately penciled eyebrow raise.

“Jilted is such an awful word,” Kathryn hesitated. “But I think I may safely say that I know something of it, yes, after all that I have experienced and seen. Please, Aunt, I know you do not believe me when I say that I can view the event of their marriage –which has already occurred– with something near or like indifference –but it is the truth. It has been some weeks since he first broke off the engagement, and since then I have had time for steady reflection and solitude, which have both given me proof that Randall no longer has influence over me, for good or for ill.” (It does help that I am in love with someone else –someone so far above Randall that the comparison oughtn’t to be made.)

“At any rate,” said Mr. Williamson, who had sat in a reflective mood for some minutes without substantially adding to the conversation, “we are glad that you are not too upset over the termination of your engagement. That is, I think, the chief sentiment that your aunt wished to express –a concern for your happiness.”

Mrs. Williamson, trapped, said with a degree of confusion, “I- well- yes, yes, that’s it exactly. Your uncle always sums up everything so neatly.” She fidgeted, rustling her skirts. “Of course, this all comes from going overseas and meeting Americans. Americans have such odd ideas about life and customs. It was one of them that most likely put the thought into Randall’s head anyway.”

“Aunt,” Kathryn stood. “I beg of you, please do not speak of others that way. I met several wonderful and noble people –the Gleasons’ American cousin, for instance–with the most golden of hearts.”

“Very few of them, I suppose,” said Mrs. Williamson coldly. “You’ve strange ideas of your own, sometimes.”

“Mrs. Williamson!” said Mr. Williamson abruptly. “I think the servant’s telling us that dinner is ready. Were we planning to stay for dinner?” He gestured to Francine waiting patiently in the open doorway.

“Yes, yes, please do,” Kathryn urged.Mrs. Williamson smiled. “Why not?”

***In the days of Kathryn’s parents, the dining room at Worthing Manor had once seen the

grandest dinner parties, the finest guests, and the best entertainment. As a young and unmarried woman, however, and the relatively new mistress of the manor, Kathryn had not had the leisure or the inclination for those diversions. Her marriage to Randall would have changed that.

It was a pity, for the long, dark mahogany table begged for people to sit at it, and put their elbows upon its smooth surface if they dared, and the magnificent size of the room pleaded that guests might linger, and chat, and comment upon the many paintings which ornamented the walls.

“This room needs airing out,” commented Mrs. Williamson critically. “Do you use it often?”

“I have no need to,” answered Kathryn. “It is often only me who is eating, and I see no reason for the servants to set out a full dinner at this table when I can eat it in the smaller private dining room with less inconvenience.”

“But they’re servants, dear,” said Mrs. Williamson. “It’s what they do.”“Yes,” Kathryn maintained, “but I still do not want to give them extra work. They have

many other regular chores which need attending –and I don’t want them to think they’re being treated ill.”

“I am sure they’ve never had a thought of that. Mr. Williamson and I always eat in the proper dining room, yet have we heard a word of complaint from any of our servants? Of course not! They almost worship the ground we walk on! If you ask me, Kathryn, yours are just getting soft, and softness among servants breeds discontent, and discontent the necessity for dismissal.”

“There is no danger of that. They suit me well enough, every one of them.” Kathryn stated evenly.

“I do not know what has gotten into you, Kathryn,” said Mrs. Williamson with a wintery eye roll. “You are being extremely quarrelsome today.”

“Forgive me, Aunt,” said Kathryn, repenting that her temper had ignited as fast as it had in the turmoil of her mind and heart.

A stony silence settled upon the three, broken only by the gentle scraping of cutlery against the dishes and the “hemming” and “harrumphing” which Mr. Williamson deemed necessary to accompany his meal.

At length he spoke. “Kathryn – I didn’t mention it earlier, but I had a visit recently –Tuesday, I think it was– from a young man with whom –I presume– you are well acquainted.”

“I didn’t know this,” Mrs. Williamson frowned.“Later, dear,” said Mr. Williamson.Not daring to hope, Kathryn studied her serviette absorbedly and asked, “Who, Uncle?”“The son of a very old friend of mine, one of the best men to have ever lived –we knew

each other at Cambridge –Mr. David Harrington –the son that is, not the father.”“Mr. Harrington saw you?” She accidentally dropped her soup spoon with a clatter back

in its dish.

“Mr. Harrington?” Mrs. Williamson’s frown grew to frightening proportions as she saw her niece’s nervousness. “And do you know this young gentleman well, Kathryn, as your uncle seems to think?”

“Well, I,” Kathryn blushed. “I –no- certainly –that is- not really. I do know him –a little, I suppose, or, at least, I think I could say that I know him quite well, more than most people.”

“From what he said of your acquaintance, I did gather that you two had been very well known to each other,” affirmed Mr. Williamson. “He was full of praise about you, Kathryn –and of course I could not quarrel with him about that.”

“Was he?” Kathryn and her aunt said in unison. “Mr. Harrington has always been very kind and good to me,” Kathryn said, “and I can

truly say he is, as you say of his father, one of the best men I have ever known.”“Well spoken.” Mr. Williamson nodded reminiscently. “My dear –we must have them

over for dinner or something soon. It would be a pleasure to talk over old times, and to see their family –Mr. Harrington has a younger sister, I believe.”

“Two,” corrected Kathryn promptly.“And do you know his family as well?” said Mrs. Williamson, eyeing Kathryn with a

narrow, shrewd glance.“No, no, he only –he only told me of them.” Kathryn replied, biting her lip, and regretted

that she had spoken with such candor. (A trait I have learned from Mr. Harrington. That man!) “Isn’t it surprising, Uncle, that their family should not have been known to us sooner? I mean –if you were, as you say, good friends with his father.”

“Not really –no. We see each other once in a while when I go to London for business –and we have a few shared interests in invested stock. But that’s all business –and London is no inconvenient distance from our house. It’s just never been necessary. Business –well, a sort of business –a matter of business, you could name it, was Mr. Harrington’s purpose in seeing me. I liked him very much –a rare young man.”

Mrs. Williamson could not be impressed. “A rare young man! Well, we thought Randall Gleason was one such man, and just look at how everything came out!”

“Oh –please,” Kathryn could not keep silent, “Please, do not compare Mr. Gleason and Mr. Harrington.”

“Kathryn is right,” said Mr. Williamson. He continued surprising Kathryn throughout the evening –speaking in defense of her interests, standing up to his wife, and defending all that he said without cowering like a dormouse. “You know, I never set much store by Mr. Randall Gleason. There was something about his handshake… so cold and empty. It made me think of a slippery fish. Now, Mr. Harrington on the other hand -I think that Mr. Harrington is the gentleman and Mr. Gleason only seems to be.” He looked at Kathryn penetratingly. The reports he had heard from reputable sources were of a more serious and shocking nature than those that his wife had gleaned from the village gossip –but he could keep his own counsel when it pleased him.

“I really couldn’t say,” Kathryn lowered her eyes.Entirely oblivious, Mrs. Williamson said with a yawn –bored to listen to a conversation

in which she had little to contribute- “You know, dear, as you speak so highly of this Mr. Harrington I think we had better be introduced sometime.”

“I’m sure you will be.” Mr. Williamson smiled.

Kathryn cocked her head perplexedly. She was utterly at a loss to understand her uncle. What had changed him? What had caused the transformation of the once timid, half-afraid man to the firm command he exhibited now without difficulty?

“What lovely and strange roses in the middle of the table!” Mrs. Williamson effused, suddenly turning the subject to one on which she could prove herself expert as she caught sight of the dozen flowers in the crystal vase which served as the table’s centerpiece. She did not see Kathryn’s eyes widen or her cheeks redden. “It’s such a peculiar way to arrange flowers –yet catching, all the same. Where are they from?”

Kathryn prepared herself to answer, heart palpitating, but her uncle –who had, extraordinarily, observed her reaction to the question of the flowers– said in a loud voice, “Kathryn, didn’t you say something in your last letter about a family coming to stay with you soon –next week, was it?”

“Why –yes, I did,” said Kathryn in response. She could feel the beat of her heart instantly slow to its normal pace. “Yes, they will be coming a week from today, actually.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Williamson ejaculated, her curiosity piqued. She had barely glanced at the letter, for a more pressing one had also arrived from a dear friend with the latest news and gossip. Ever concerned about family and connections and parliament, she asked, “What is the name of the family?”

“They are the Farrows -Mr. and Mrs. Philip Farrow.”“Ah, the Farrows!” comprehended Mrs. Williamson, calculating to herself and wishing

she could remember what Mrs. Baker had last whispered about them. She was certain it had been something agreeable.

“Yes… and they have two lovely daughters, Rosie and Meredith. I think I told you that I met them, on the Lucania on the way to New York. Mr. Philip Farrow happened to say how much they wanted their girls to be free from the stifling air of London, and I immediately thought of Cambrien. We have such clean, fresh air here –near the seaside.”

“You could have thought of us,” said Mrs. Williamson stiffly. “In Pranesville, away from the poisonous air blowing from the sea –don’t you think Kathryn looks a bit pale, dear?, it can’t be anything but the sea air– we have air which is much superior to this town. And the Farrows are exactly the sort of family we should see more of.”

“Do you know them?” inquired Kathryn.“No, unfortunately we have not had that pleasure,” scowled Mrs. Williamson. “His uncle

has a seat in Parliament, I hear –as does her second cousin. I would call them very valuable acquaintances.”

Kathryn suddenly recalled a long-ago conversation with her mother, in which her mother had (never liking the wife her brother-in-law chose for himself –or was it the other way around, she had sometimes speculated) hinted that Mrs. Williamson –née Carson– had herself, for all her prating about family and connections and Parliament, come from a family of low birth and only a little money, yet had somehow managed to consort with the most fashionable and wealthy people in London, where she and Mr. Charles Williamson first met.

She shook her head smilingly at the recollection. Remembering this, she said mischievously, “The Farrows are valuable acquaintances regardless of –or perhaps despite– his or hers or both of their relatives having seats in parliament. I do not know when I have ever met such a happy, unaffected family.” Kathryn smiled again, restored to good humor and ease thanks to her darling mother, and said with an arch look in her uncle’s direction, “And here is Martha with the plum pudding! How delightful!”

The rest of the evening could only improve from dessert.

Chapter Eight- A Providential Walk into Town

Kathryn spent the next week in a busy flurry which was happily uninterrupted by visitors –filial, friend, or otherwise. She flew from room to room, following in Francine and Martha and Mrs. Lands’ footsteps –inspecting the accumulation of dust in that room, throwing open the unused draperies in another, ordering the re-upholstery of several chairs and furniture including the faded and favorite one in the library (an order which caused Francine to stare in wonderment, at first, for Kathryn had, when questioned if she “absolutely wanted” the precious and worn cover re-upholstered, said merrily, “change, change, everything should change! heaven knows I’ll be the better for it”), writing to Sylvia, opening up every single room and forcing the sunlight into all the unused crooks and crannies of each corner –in short, examining and ordering and re-ordering that everything which could be done, should be done with the greatest attention and care.

At the end of it all, at exactly ten twenty-two on the morning of Thursday the eighteenth, Kathryn flopped upon her bed, exhausted but assured that she and the equally spent servants had accomplished everything necessary for the arrival of the Farrow family. (And she had, not quite as successfully, tried to occupy her hands so as to have no time for idle contemplation or the thoughts which still persisted each night just before sleep.)

“Well,” she said to the gilded ceiling above her, “there’s nothing more to be done. Let them come, let them come!”

And they did. The Farrows’ carriage screeched to a halt in front of Worthing Manor early that

afternoon. As Mr. Gleason had rightly predicted, the heat had receded in the face of a dying summer, and Kathryn ran out to meet them in the crisp air with a light shawl about her shoulders.

“Welcome, welcome!” she cried as they all stepped out of the carriage. “Welcome to Worthing!”

“Thank you!” said Mrs. Farrow happily. She carried one sleeping child, Meredith, and Mr. Farrow followed with the other, also asleep. “Kathryn, we can’t thank you enough for this kindness –we really can’t.”

“Oh –hush, hush, I’ll have none of it!” answered Kathryn warmly. “Worthing is so dull at the end of summer –just before society gets underway again and everything’s lively. I’m more than happy to have you here –you really have no idea. Come –Irving will take your luggage inside –you must all be very fatigued.” She ushered them into the house.

“We really are obliged to you-” started Mr. Farrow.“No!” Kathryn held up her hand with a smile. “I’ve just told your wife, you are doing me

a greater service by providing your cheerful company than I am doing you by offering up my poor house as lodgings.”

“But Worthing is so beautiful!” said Mrs. Farrow in protest. “Oh, it’s lovely, isn’t it, Mr. Farrow?”

“Yes,” agreed Mr. Farrow, looking around, “Don’t get envious, Mrs. Farrow darling.”Mrs. Farrow laughed. “I’m very likely to. What a charming place you have, Kathryn! I

can already feel the air cleaning out the muck and dust of London in my throat. Mr. Farrow and I just love the seaside.”

“It’s a bit lonely, though,” said Kathryn with a knowing sigh.

Mrs. Farrow, who knew very well the tone in which Kathryn spoke, only replied, “I can imagine.”

Kathryn roused herself. “But what am I doing to keep you standing around in this manner? You have had a very long journey! Come, come –here is Francine to show you your rooms.”

***A few hours later, Mr. and Mrs. Farrow descended the stairs with their two daughters,

both awake. Rosie, red-cheeked and bright-eyed from sleeping, immediately raced to Kathryn. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you! Mummy told me we would soon! But I missed seeing you

at first ‘cause I was sleeping.” She hugged Kathryn tightly.“Hello, Rosie darling! I thought you might have forgotten me after all this time!”“Forgotten you?” Rosie frowned petulantly. “Why, it hasn’t even been a month!”“Of course, darling –so it has. But people of my age are often afraid of very silly things

which they needn’t be afraid of.” Kathryn rose, Rosie’s hand still in hers.“Mrs. Farrow and I were wondering,” said Mr. Farrow slowly, “if you were up to a walk

into town, perhaps. In the carriage it did not seem far from here, and we would like to see a bit of Cambrien –and see what they have to offer, as far as shops go –which is Mrs. Farrow’s concern, and not mine.” He was quick to clarify.

“And I love walks!” declared Rosie.“And also because Rosie loves walks,” chuckled Mr. Farrow.“That’s a wonderful suggestion!” said Kathryn, struck by the novelty of the idea. She did

not usually walk into town. “The weather is just cool enough now to make a walk perfect at this time of day. Let me get my shawl, quickly, and a hat –and then if everybody is ready we can leave at once for town.”

As they all assented to this plan, Kathryn walked quickly up the stairs and into her chambers. She stopped for a moment to catch her breath, leaning against the steady bedposts. Slow, Kathryn. She told herself. Not so fast! You’re trying to forget Mr. Harrington –admit it!- by being too active and too busy and too excited about everything! You are going to get too tired too quickly –and the Farrows will worry and Rosie may even notice. Stop –consider– why should your heart beat so strangely when you shall never see Mr. Harrington again, unless at frivolous social engagements? Because I love him, she answered herself, and because I cannot help it.

Still, it was with a calmer demeanor that Kathryn returned to her waiting companions, dressed for the cooling weather. Going to the doors, she apologized, “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“It was no trouble,” assured Mrs. Farrow. “We were busy admiring your house again, I’m afraid.”

Kathryn smiled. “I am so glad you like it.”They followed her out into the bright yet gentle August sunshine and walked to the end of

the drive and onto the lane. In mid-August, the faded glory of a fiercely hot summer still hung in the air. The leaves on the trees had reached their extent, proudly displaying the greenest colors in nature, blissfully unaware of the dangers the early frosts of September would bring.

Along the lane flowers bloomed still –audacious and thriving hollyhocks –deep purple and gentle cream– and winking pink, feisty snapdragons, and cheerfully orange butterfly weed. A few trees dotting various places shaded the company from the sun if it became too oppressive or invasive.

Cambrien was a proud town, cultivating its beauty with conscientious vanity. Gardeners hired by various people tended the flowers along the lane and occasionally snipped the lawns and pruned the trees to ward off the likes of Mrs. Frawley, passing by in a buggy or a carriage, who might say in disdain that the lane almost took on a “jungle-like quality, as if something from India instead of England” –and of course no one could abide by that.

“Such lovely flowers!” exclaimed Mrs. Farrow. “Mr. Farrow –look at them!”“Yes, darling, I see them,” said Mr. Farrow absentmindedly, shifting Meredith –who had

fallen asleep again- to his side. “They are very lovely.”“Poor dear!” Mrs. Farrow leaned toward Kathryn and Rosie who were merrily holding

hands, with Rosie pausing every other moment to smell the flowers. “My husband has no head for flowers.”

“Nor do you, darling,” accused Mr. Farrow with a laugh, drawing his wife’s arm within his in a way that made Kathryn ache.

“Perhaps not,” admitted Mrs. Farrow. “But that’s because we have an awful gardener who drinks more cups of tea than he waters flowers and I haven’t had the heart to dismiss him yet –and it’s so hard to find anyone worthwhile in London. I have a sneaking suspicion that London stifles flowers and everyone worth having is in the country –and, by the looks of things here, of course they must be...”

“I will attest to that!” said Kathryn heartily. “I can only speak of my gardener, Carl, with the highest of praise –though he is in a bad mood more often than not. Carl has made me a connoisseur of flowers, and now I defy anyone with my knowledge of petunias versus gardenias –the merits of annuals and the virtues of perennials, or the deficiencies of each. I will have to show you my gardens sometime soon so that you may see it before the frost sets in, throwing Carl and me into fits of gloom for weeks.”

“I should like to meet this Carl of yours,” remarked Mr. Farrow. “I can be cantankerous sometimes too; we might get along.”

Mrs. Farrow said in a half-whisper to her husband, “Now darling, don’t be cross because I exposed your lack of expertise on the subject of flowers. Remember I’ve hardly a clue either. But we can always learn.” She paused, seeming as if she was going to continue –but the view of the town, with its little shops and quaint buildings gave her a start. “Oh –Mr. Farrow –look– isn’t it charming? Rosie, do you see the town?”

Rosie, who had been intent on chasing a fat and lazy striped bumblebee, briefly glanced up. “Yes, I see it,” she confirmed and slipped her hand into Kathryn’s again, forgetting the bumblebee.

“And what do you think of it?” asked Mr. Farrow, always ready to hear his daughter’s opinion.

“Quite nice,” said Rosie decidedly.“It’s looking very much as if Cambrien will have a new family to contend with soon,”

Mrs. Farrow said with a happy sigh.“I have no doubt that all of Cambrien will love you if you do decide to settle here. The

townspeople are generally agreeable –a bit standoffish at first, but only because so many people have lived here for ages and ages that it’s hard not to form circles and groups. We haven’t such exciting news as London does, perhaps,” added Kathryn as an afterthought; she was thinking of the flagrant scandal that London society treated lightly but nevertheless was seen as almost being necessary, and comparing it with the upheaval which had resulted from Ms. Ander’s cousin’s

dairy cow breaking through the fence and trampling the prized flower beds of several prominent citizens.

By that time the five had reached the main road of the town. A cool August afternoon in Cambrien such as that saw the height of bustle, and both husband and wife gained private amusement from the large number of people who knew, or appeared to know Kathryn by the astonishing amount of nodding hats, or almost imperceptible curtsies which she received at every storefront.

Mr. and Mrs. Farrow continued to be delighted with the town and the general friendliness of the townspeople. They announced themselves so pleased, in fact, that they wished to know immediately where the office of a land agent in Cambrien was, in order to stop in and inquire about a house to rent or even buy.

Kathryn, in near-raptures of joy, pointed out the local agency as being not far down the road, Milton & Lacey, as it was called. “Would you mind if Rosie and I lingered near instead of accompanying you? Old Mr. Milton is a very fair and kind but old-fashioned gentleman. He will be happy to help you –and if you want my assistance, we wouldn’t be far. I’ve a negligible errand to run –some new gloves.”

“No, no,” said Mrs. Farrow warmly as they halted in front of the large grey building of the agency. “Rosie would probably be impatient and squirming at any rate –that is if you don’t mind occupying her for a little while. Meredith, I think,” she said with a smile and a significant nod to the still-sleeping child, “will not know the difference.”

“Then it’s settled,” Kathryn replied and watched Mr. Farrow and Mrs. Farrow go. “Come, Rosie – what shall we do next?”

“I like looking at all the stores.”Kathryn said, “Well then, we’ll do just that.” They began walking further along the road.

Kathryn turned from looking at Rosie. “Now, which store would you like to…” she trailed off, unable to finish her sentence or even remember what she had been going to say, as her gaze traveled to the streets ahead.

For Mr. Harrington was walking, without observing Kathryn or her small companion, unmistakably in their direction. There was a man with him. Could it be the man –Mr. Harrington’s most trusted friend? Certainly they seemed to be talking as in confidence. The man with him was tall (not as tall as Mr. Harrington, though) and boisterously good-looking. They could not be avoided –not that Kathryn wished to avoid them– but she should not act as if perceiving him first, though she knew that in the ordinary way o f things it would have been her duty to acknowledge him first.

Calm, calm. “Rosie –Rosie.” Violently affected, Kathryn turned quickly to the shop window and thanked heaven that the window happened to contain something of reasonable interest. “Look –just look at these charming hats. Do you like hats, Rosie?”

Unperturbed by Kathryn’s manner, Rosie said, “No, I do not like hats! I love them!”“Good, good. That’s –that’s wonderful.” Kathryn muttered, fighting to breath regularly

and trying to hear anything more than the pounding of her own heart. She searched her mind desperately. “What about ribbons, Rosie? Do you like ribbons?” She tried to seem completely taken by the most outrageous hat on display, a puritan grey, conservative if not for the cascade of waxed and shining fruit which weighed it down. “What do you think of this one, Rosie? Would I suit it, do you think?”

But it was not Rosie who answered. “I’m not entirely sure, Miss Williamson, that that hat is in your style.” said Mr. Harrington frankly. His friend, waiting for a moment of proper introduction, stepped back into the obscurity of the busy streets.

“Isn’t it?” Kathryn asked, standing perfectly still, and then turned to face him. “Mr. Harrington.”

“Miss Williamson.” He took her hand in his and they looked at each other for a long moment.

Rosie broke the spell. “Have you forgotten me, Mr. Mr. Harrington?” said she, her lip protruding in a pout. “It hasn’t been that long since we saw each other.”

“Of course not, Rosie dear!” said Mr. Harrington gaily, stooping to pick the girl up. He twirled her around. “How have you been, Rosie?” said he, smiling in camaraderie at Kathryn, whose heart warmed.

“Just fine,” Rosie beamed. “We’ve just been looking at hats, you know.”“So I saw,” said Mr. Harrington genially. Then, to Kathryn with that familiar and heart-

wrenching glint in his eye, he asked, “You aren’t really thinking of buying that hat, are you?”“Well…” Kathryn pretended to consider. “It might not be such a wasteful purchase. I can

always chop off the fruit and put it in a fancy bowl for the middle of a table.”“To entice little children, I suppose?” joked Mr. Harrington.“Exactly,” Kathryn said solemnly. They smiled at one another again.“I can’t tell you how good it is to see you, Miss Williamson,” Mr. Harrington said in a

low tone.“Nor I, you.” she replied softly.Mr. Harrington seemed then to remember himself. “I have an introduction to make, I

think. George –come for a moment.” The friend came back and took off his hat obligingly with a bow. “Mr. George Bradley –I present Miss Williamson, a good –friend from my travels to America –and her little friend, Miss Rosie Farrow.”

Mr. Bradley smiled. “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Williamson. I hear much of you. And you, Rosie.” He winked at the girl who, hid shyly in the folds of Kathryn’s skirts.

“You are too kind,” said Kathryn with a curtsy.“Not at all. But –pray,” said Mr. Bradley, “excuse me –I have some business here that I

cannot delay.” He bowed once more and moved off. Mr. Harrington turned back to Kathryn. “And –how are you? I hope you have been well

since we returned.”“Yes,” Kathryn nodded. “Yes, I have been quite well. And you-? Of course, I needn’t ask

–you who are so used to traveling by ship, you must be like one of the sailors!”“Not quite –but I am well, thank you.”“Oh,” recollected Kathryn, “I wanted to thank you for the flowers you sent. They were

lovely. Roses are my favorite.”“I know,” said Mr. Harrington with a grin. “You told me, once. We were talking about

flowers, I believe.”“Ah, yes –we did- I remember now. It was very kind of you.”“Kind?” Mr. Harrington puzzled. He looked bemused. “Yes –yes- I suppose it was kind.”

A few seconds of silence dwindled in which Kathryn traced the outlines of the buildings across the road with her eyes and Rosie pressed her nose against the millinery shop window and Mr. Harrington thought it necessary to fumble around in his pockets for something which he could

not, evidently, find. He suddenly clapped his arm on his coat in frustration. “Oh, goodness, I’m being stupid! I’ve just been to your house –Worthing– hoping to find you there –and the Farrows, of course- to invite you to a dinner party.”

“A dinner party?” Kathryn’s heart quickened. Here was assurance that she would see him again! Would his friend be there –had she just met that confidant of his? “That sounds lovely.”

“Yes –a dinner party, at my estate –Rosewood, on the third of September –a little over two weeks from today, I think. You and the Farrows are to come if you can. Nothing too fancy, you understand –just my family –mother, father, and sisters– Mr. Bradley, whom you just met and me.”

“We will be happy to come, for we have no other engagements.”Mr. Harrington appeared happy. “I was hoping you hadn’t.” Kathryn said, tentatively, “And –permit me– is this Mr. Bradley –is he your highly

valued friend? The one on whom you rely in every particular?”Mr. Harrington’s brow furrowed in evident confusion. “One on whom I… I’m sorry, I do

not understand who you mean.”“You mentioned him on the ship,” prompted Kathryn. “The night –the night I spoke to

you of my parents?”“Oh, yes of course!” Mr. Harrington laughed peculiarly. “I do not know how I could have

forgotten him. Yes, he will be there, undoubtedly. I am never without him.”Kathryn grimaced. Was he that indispensable –that fearsome that Mr. Harrington did not

even utter his name? “Kathryn, are you all right?” said Mr. Harrington, concerned.“Yes- yes. I am in the best of health –the most perfect –I have never been in happier –or

more content spirits than I am now,” she ended more miserably than she had begun.Mr. Harrington frowned playfully. “Clearly I do not believe you. But that is taking

candidness too far –and Rosie, poor dear, I fear feels that she has had too little part in the conversation. What do you say, Rosie, to a dinner party at my estate?”

“Well…” said Rosie, scrunching up her face to think. “I love dinner –and I love parties –though Mummy doesn’t let me go to them often ’cause I’m so young and I need to go to bed- but a dinner party together –that sounds nice.”

“And don’t worry about going to bed,” said Mr. Harrington. “You may stay up as long as the dinner party lasts, at my decree –for it is my house.”

“Truly?” cried Rosie in excitement.“Truly!”“Then I can’t wait!” Rosie stood enraptured, her face glowing. “Neither can I wait,” said Mr. Harrington seriously.I can and I can’t. Kathryn thought in misery, raining curses down upon the consequences

of anxious love. I could, perhaps, wait a thousand years before seeing this friend who will expose all my faults and dispel Mr. Harrington’s affections –if he has any, which of course he does not.

“Miss Williamson,” said Mrs. Farrow behind her.Kathryn nearly jumped. Mr. Harrington whispered his question again. “Are you sure you are all right?”Kathryn bristled. “I have never been better,” she hissed in the most indifferent tone she

could muster.

“Oh, Miss Williamson,” Mrs. Farrow was saying excitedly as she pulled Mr. Farrow along with her. She stopped when she saw Mr. Harrington. “Hello, Mr. Harrington. Whatever can you be doing here in this part of the country?”

Mr. Harrington explained his errand. “Oh, a dinner party –just the sort of thing for a Friday evening to celebrate September!

Don’t you agree, Mr. Farrow?”“Yes, darling, certainly –but you were about to tell Miss Williamson about the house…”“The house! Yes, I had quite forgotten! Well –Mr. Milton was so gentlemanly and

obliging just as you said. He made us feel comfortable immediately. He said that there were several options, further away from the town but still near enough –and that he’ll let us know within a month. We’re in no hurry, of course –until you tire of our company, Miss Williamson.”

“Do not be afraid that that will happen,” laughed Kathryn. “I will never stop loving Rosie or any of you.”

“Who could?” Mr. Harrington smiled.“Well- I expect you are all done in as far as shopping and seeing the town goes. It’s

nearing dinner time as well –and Mrs. Lands the housekeeper likes punctuality. Is everyone ready to leave?”

Mrs. Farrow and Mr. Farrow both assented. “House-hunting inside an office is hard work!” said Mr. Farrow, and they all laughed.

Mr. Harrington turned to Kathryn. “Might I accompany you in your walk back to Worthing? My horse is contentedly munching hay in your stables. I had business here in town –of all places!- and spared him the inconvenience of a short ride.”

“Of course –yes –and you must stay for dinner.” More moments of torture and more moments of happiness. Is this to be endured?

“No, thank you,” Mr. Harrington regretted. “My mother expects me to dine with the family later on tonight.”

“Oh,” said Kathryn shortly.At her mother’s invisible beckoning, Rosie dropped back with her parents, and Mr.

Harrington and Kathryn were left to walk side-by-side. Both of them strolled relatively fast, and within a few paces had made a gap in between themselves and the slower Farrows (encumbered with Rosie, who was easily side-tracked.)

Noting the convenient distance between the walking companions, Mr. Harrington said, “Miss Williamson, I wish you would tell me what is troubling you. You have never acted so before.”

“How can I?” Kathryn said helplessly. “I hardly know myself what it is –if there’s anything –and there isn’t.” (What a first-class liar I am turning out to be! How dreadful!)

“Is it-” Mr. Harrington gently probed, “is it Mr. Randall Gleason?”“No,” Kathryn said, genuinely surprised. “No –no –no –Mr. Gleason could not be further

from my mind or thoughts. I do have something to tell you about him, though,” she added, a faint smile gracing her face.

“What?” queried Mr. Harrington eagerly. “I had two visits a few weeks ago –one from him and one from his mother –have you met

her?”“You had a visit from Mr. Gleason? Come, you must tell me everything. As to the mother

–yes, I did meet her once, but very briefly –and not long enough to form a picture as to her character. What is she like?”

“Wouldn’t that be telling!” Kathryn said impishly. “I’ll let you draw your own conclusions after I tell you of our conversation. She astonished me with her visit –for I never knew her or was able to get to know her well. Her intent, I think, was to apologize for her son’s conduct. But what eventually came out was not that she necessarily regretted it for the action itself –but because, in terms of consequence and a few other factors, I had been a much better match for him than Miss Bradford was.”

“You cannot be serious,” said Mr. Harrington with a skeptical look. “What woman would–”

“I am being serious –perfectly –and what is more –she accidentally revealed to me what she thought was common knowledge –that Mr. Gleason and Miss Bradford have actually known each other for some time –and that he had been in love with her before he met me, but she was so young then and his family disapproved that it did not amount to anything –at that time, at least.”

“They knew each other?” Mr. Harrington’s eyes widened at this disclosure. “I suppose everything make a little more sense in light of that –but then –he now appears worse!”

“Worse?” Kathryn raised an eyebrow. “I don’t understand you –I thought better of him, poor man, after knowing that.”

“Don’t you see?” Mr. Harrington ran a hand through his hair. “Don’t you see? If he knew Miss Bradford before –he should have avoided her rather than renewing their acquaintance and running the risk of igniting whatever remnants of the past remained! But, like a fool, he courted his passion instead of burying it when he ought to have, for then it would have stood some chance of being extinguished. If he was even in love with her –and I don’t think he really was.”

“It isn’t my place to say,” said Kathryn. “But then there was his visit, as well, and he did touch upon that subject. And, I assure you, he made it perfectly plain that he loves her and always has.”

“And what did he have to say –what can he have possibly said? The impudence of the man, to visit you –to assume that you would forgive him as the rest of the world had!”

“He was very penitent.” Kathryn proceeded to relate the details of their conversation. “And perhaps,” she added, concluding, “you will think better of him now, as I did. His faults have almost been forced upon him –and though it is a bit frightening to think that I –that I almost married him, when I must have known so little of his real character –it is a comfort to know that he is not as bad as we thought him.”

“No, he has improved.” Mr. Harrington sighed. “And though I shall never like him, he seems less of a cad and more of a man. Still –I cannot be reconciled to him. What he has put you through, subjecting you to the scrutiny of an insensitive world– is cruelly unjust.”

“I am a little afraid of the public –and what the gossips have been saying about me,” Kathryn admitted. “But that will die down. I only hope my aunt stops talking of it.”

“Your aunt?” “Yes. They came unexpectedly to dinner last week.” Kathryn paused thoughtfully. “My

uncle said something about you, actually. He told me that you had seen him on a matter of business.”

“A matter of-” Mr. Harrington grinned. “Yes, yes, it could be called that. I did see him at their house not long ago –on business, as you say, and advisement of my own affairs.” Coughing, he wondered if he could he have phrased it in plainer terms. “I liked your uncle very much, Kathryn.”

“As do I. He is, and always has been, good to me.”“And your aunt…” Mr. Harrington let the sentence hang.

“And my aunt is growing to appreciate me, I think, after all these years –or I am growing to appreciate her, I do not know which. Either way, her words do not –cannot– injure me as they used to.” Their walk had ended, and they stopped in front of Worthing’s entrance.

“That is good news.” Neither of them spoke. Mr. Harrington paused but strove on with difficulty. “Kathryn –there is something that I

must-”No, no! He will tell me of this friend –that perhaps he has advised him never to marry,

and that, undoubtedly, will sway his decision, may he love me ever so much- “Oh, good heavens!” she said loudly, surprising both of them. Laughing nervously, Kathryn went on with painful affectation, “I’m sorry –I hadn’t realized we had outstripped the Farrows so famously –it is you, of course, who set the pace –goodness, how strange!”

Mr. Harrington gave her a confused look. “They have two children with them –one of whom, as we can observe now, is readily interested in everything she sees –it is not at all strange. Miss Williamson, are you altogether certain that you are-”

“Of course, how silly of me!” Kathryn interrupted lightly. She did not want to converse about or even skirt around any of the forbidden topics, which he kept bringing up –such as the agitation of Kathryn’s mind or the constant allusions to her. “Why did I not see that? I walked with Rosie, you know, on the way into town. I should have known. Dear Rosie, I’m so fond of her.”

“Yes, but-”“She is such darling child, don’t you think? I am really too glad that the Farrows are

staying with me. What a lucky idea it was that I had on the ship! I shall be spoiling Rosie –and Meredith– infamously for the time they are here at Worthing. All the servants dote on children. Already Rosie is a favorite with Francine, the housemaid. Of course –anyone would be taken with Rosie.”

“Yes –anyone,” said Mr. Harrington, scrutinizing her suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. “It’s fortunate for you to have them here. I suppose sometimes you are lonely?” His eyes lit up in inspiration. “Ah –Miss Williamson, I think I have-”

“And here they come!” said Kathryn, though the Farrows were yet some distance away. She hurried to them –and Mr. Harrington had no choice but to follow. “We’re sorry to have walked so far ahead of you. I don’t think we realized the speed at which we were walking.”

Mr. Farrow and his wife traded glances. “It’s no trouble,” said Mrs. Farrow. “We were quite happy to lag behind-”

“Well –good- let’s go inside, then, perhaps I can have the servants prepare us some tea or something-”

“Miss Williamson,” Mr. Harrington cut in. “Would you take me to the stables for my horse? I’m afraid I don’t know the way well enough.”

“Well –yes –but-” Kathryn, distressed, was not fooled. He knew as well as she did where the stables were. He would be one of those horrible people who are wonderful at finding things after they have seen them just once!

“And I think we can manage finding our way to the door,” said Mr. Farrow sagely. “My dear?” He consulted his wife.

Mrs. Farrow said, gravely, “We’ll try, anyway.” They did not allow Kathryn another word and departed in the direction of Worthing’s entrance.

Stunned, Kathryn could think of nothing more to say. She and Mr. Harrington resumed walking.

Almost instantly, Mr. Harrington began half-angrily, “Miss Williamson –I can’t understand you –what was it that made you unable to let me finish a sentence. There! I’ve done it! I’ve actually said a complete thought. Perhaps now I can die happy.”

“That isn’t fair at all,” answered Kathryn coolly. “I distinctly remember several times in which you came to a full stop without me interrupting you.”

“Oh…” Frustrated, Mr. Harrington kicked a misshapen piece of the road. Kathryn said coldly, “If you’re going to abuse my grounds, I’ll ask you to-”“Miss Williamson, what is wrong with you?” Mr. Harrington turned to face her

indignantly. “This isn’t like you. You’re avoiding questions –changing the subject –acting strangely –if you have something to say, you’d better say it and be done with it.”

“No,” said Kathryn quietly. “I –I have nothing to say.”“Then, for heaven’s sake, what’s wrong?” Mr. Harrington cried, his anger –which had

only masked his worry- vanishing in response to her wearily resigned tone.“I –I,” Kathryn searched her mind –but there was nothing to reference, nothing to divert

him from this most tender and untouchable of subjects which she could never, ever reveal to him. “I can’t –I can’t say it, Mr. Harrington. You would not understand, I don’t think.”

At last recognizing her anxiety, Mr. Harrington said, “I see. And there is nothing- I mean, you are sure that I would not understand –that I cannot –help you?”

“I am,” said Kathryn, sighing unhappily as tears flooded to her eyes. “These are the stables,” she said, strained, as they approached the door of a large wooden building perhaps older than Worthing itself. “The groom should be there with your horse, brushed and fresh.”

“Come in a moment,” urged Mr. Harrington. “I want to see your horse –you do ride, don’t you?”

“Yes –I do ride, though not as often as I would like to, sadly,” Kathryn said, still a little glum, but less with the feeling that any moment she might burst into unexplainable tears. “The grasses of Worthing are not suited for pleasant riding –the ground is too rough in too many spots. It is the gravest flaw of this dear old place.”

“How sad,” Mr. Harrington answered contemplatively. His mind seemed far away as they entered the stables, greeted at once by a pungent smell of hay.

“Will ye be leavin’ with yer ‘orse now?” The groom –a man nearly as old and crusty as the building– asked Mr. Harrington gruffly.

“Yes, sir –in a minute. You can take him outside, I’ll follow soon behind,” promised Mr. Harrington.

He and Kathryn watched the groom lead out a tall and glorious grey horse, whinnying pleasantly, from one of the stalls and through the door which another man, much younger and by every indication his son, held open.

“This is my horse, Prince Albert.” said Kathryn proudly, moving to another stall which held a fine bay chestnut.

“He’s beautiful,” said Mr. Harrington respectfully, offering his hand in a friendly fashion to the whuffling and snorting Prince.

“Yes, he is,” agreed Kathryn. She put a hand into the saddlebag hanging on the door and brought out an apple, which she handed to Mr. Harrington.

Mr. Harrington chuckled. “My horse’s favorite, as well!” He fed them to Prince Albert, who stamped and whuffled even more energetically. “Well, Miss Williamson-” He stopped, caught by the sight of something at the back of Prince Albert’s stall. “Are those –are those carnations? Isn’t it a bit extravagant to put flowers in your horse’s stall?”

“Carnations?” Kathryn repeated in disbelief as she looked, too. Yes- there they were, all twelve of their bold pink heads (remarkably Prince Albert had not investigated them with his teeth) in a pretty vase on the ledge! “Oh goodness- they are there!” She turned a becoming shade of red, muttering, “she needn’t have taken me so literally. You see,” she explained to an unenlightened Mr. Harrington, “I didn’t want Carl to see those flowers, because he has a mysterious vendetta against carnations. I’m not sure why –but he has made me swear never to plant them in the garden –and he’s such a faithful gardener –and with all his mentions of the Queen being fond of his work– that I probably indulge his whims just a little too much.”

“I pity the person who sent you those flowers!” said Mr. Harrington.Kathryn blushed. “Oh –well- you shouldn’t waste your pity on Charlie Campbell.”“So that’s the unlucky fellow’s name!” he comprehended, amused. “Poor man –what did

he do?”Kathryn said between laughs, “You misunderstand me entirely! You shouldn’t think him

unlucky or think that he did anything –or think me to be so ungenerous… I asked one of my maids to put them in water but someplace obscure, somewhere Carl wouldn’t see them. I made the mistake of telling her –as a joke, of course- to put them in the stables –and I suppose she took me seriously or, as is more likely, wished to prove a point. If Charlie –an old friend from Oxford- had given me any other kind of flower, I would not have been afraid of putting them on display. But those…”

Mr. Harrington shook his head. “Remind me never to send you carnations.”

***As soon as Mr. Harrington left, Kathryn ran up to her room –not stopping to look for the

Farrows; she only needed one moment to herself and shut the doors tightly, gasping and saying to herself, “The carnations, the carnations! Oh, Francine, I should have you crowned queen! You saved the day!”

Kathryn laughed until she cried. Only after she had wiped away the last of her tears did she say to herself in sudden recollection, “The gloves!”

In the tumult of the day’s events she had completely neglected the “negligible errand,” the necessity of which had (unwittingly) precipitated the unforeseen meeting with Mr. Harrington. “Good heavens!” Kathryn said to the ceiling. “What next?”

She would soon see.

Chapter Nine- Preparing for Dinner at Rosewood

Kathryn had but a fuzzy recollection of those next few weeks leading up to the dinner party at Rosewood. She scarcely knew how she passed every day without wilting from waiting, when each time she glimpsed at any of the clocks, none of them had moved even the tiniest of spaces, yet Time seemed to fly by on oiled wings.

Similar paradoxes sprang up in everything for those longest and shortest fifteen days of Kathryn’s life. There were instances and moments of the darkest and most dreary reflections which could spontaneously morph into the happiest and most cheerful. Sometimes Kathryn was certain she meant nothing to Mr. Harrington –at other times, everything.

Mr. Harrington, indeed, was the point around which every paradox orbited. He had unknowingly disrupted the order and way of Worthing Manor. As the day of September Third drew nearer, Kathryn cast off the false garment of deception she had been wearing, that she was

mistress despite the anxieties of her mind and heart, and that she had authority in everything. Mrs. Lands received this privilege again with quiet dignity, and Carl roamed the gardens unfettered.

Kathryn excused herself of this when she was in less sensible frames of mind with the thought that she was being benevolent in letting Mrs. Lands run Worthing and Carl have his way. But in her moments of true and proper sense, she could not avoid the realization that, had she attempted to do anything to which she was normally accustomed –make or review the menus, see that the younger servants behaved as they should, write letters to distant friends, or any of her other regular tasks- she would have gone to pieces.

Even without her responsibilities, Kathryn had difficulty maintaining a Self that would appear just as usual to the Farrows –the logical, calm, complacent Kathryn. This she accomplished with great success when interacting with all members of the family –excepting Mrs. Farrow.

A meticulous and shrewd observer, Mrs. Farrow could well guess what stirrings and agitations Kathryn hid from them all. She noticed that Kathryn, when she thought no one saw or when there was a lapse in the conversation, often took recourse in gazing at her hands, or into the unforeseeable future, with a longing that Mrs. Farrow had once felt within herself and knew intimately. She did not broach the subject with Kathryn, when they chanced to be alone, or even hint at it –but instead talked merrily of the weather and how good the townspeople were and how everything seemed to be working out for the best –at which Kathryn would heave an unconscious sigh and gaze out the window again.

Though Mrs. Farrow never said anything or appeared conscious of Kathryn’s plight, that in itself made Kathryn suspect that her friend knew and saw much more than she let on. But she could no more have squashed her sad sighs or repressed her longing looks than she could have harnessed the moon.

And, somehow, Kathryn survived the torturous two weeks until the evening of the first of September arrived at last. The invitation which Mr. Harrington had given Mrs. Lands –how many times had Kathryn fondled it, and smoothed its invisible wrinkles out with a gentle thumb!- stated to arrive at Rosewood “at or around six-thirty P.M,” and at four fifty-four in her chambers, Sarah and Kathryn looked into the glass together.

“What gown would you like to wear, Miss?” asked Sarah politely.Kathryn thought for a moment. “Well –why don’t you show them to me? I think I should

like to wear something green.”“Green it is then, Miss,” curtsied Sarah. She opened the trunk. After offering an olive

green, a forest green, and a blue-green, Sarah found the perfect gown –the gown which, as Kathryn declared, seemed to suit for the occasion.

If the friend is to be there, I will be sure, at least, to dress impeccably. Kathryn mused triumphantly as she and Sarah looked in the mirror again. The gown, long and of a low-necked cut, was a pale, pale silvery green the color of a calm English sea, and shimmered beguilingly even in the soothing lamplight of the room. Its sleeves –slightly off the shoulder and quite thin- were of sheer silver.

Sarah arranged Kathryn’s hair in chignons with none of her usual chattiness. Only when she had finished did she ask quietly, “Would you like a ribbon in your hair tonight?” She pushed forward the box of them.

The ribbons that Mr. Harrington had given her stood out from the rest. One by one, Kathryn picked them up and slid them slowly through her fingers. The last was the pure and

snowy white ribbon. She pondered for a moment. What if I was to wear this one? Would he notice?

“No,” she said wistfully, letting it fall from her fingers into the box. Perhaps one day. “But I will have you put that pearl and silver comb in my hair, and I’ll wear the matching set of pearl earrings and necklace.”

“Yes, Miss.” Sarah said and followed her directions accordingly.In the end, by the time Sarah had put her final touches on Kathryn’s hair and announced

her ready it was almost six –when they were to leave.“Well, Sarah, how do I look?” Kathryn said, eyeing herself critically in the mirror. The

excitement of anticipation had given her cheeks a healthy bloom, and her eyes sparkled in animation.

“I would say you look especially lovely tonight, Miss. He –they’ll all adore you.”Kathryn craned her neck back and looked puzzled. Of all people, she had not expected

Sarah –who had so rarely spoken for the past two weeks– to come even remotely close to guessing what had been bothering her.

Sarah smiled innocently. “Shouldn’t you be going soon, Miss? It’s nearing six o’ clock.”“Yes,” said Kathryn, standing and arranging her shawl around her. “Yes, I should be

going –you are right.” She moved to the doors. “I don’t know when I shall be back.” Kathryn laughed. “Not later than eleven, I think, as the Farrows will want to return with Rosie and Meredith. You needn’t stay up for me, if you do not wish to.”

“I will,” said Sarah. “It’s no trouble, Miss Kathryn –none at all.”“Of course,” smiled Kathryn as she walked out of her chambers and down the staircase.

(There’s a motive behind everything –every word, every action, even servants are not exempt! Sarah hates staying up late, but even she knows about Mr. Harrington, and perhaps has had suspicions –accurate ones!- that he has largely influenced my behavior for the better part of a month –and now she wants to see how everything turns out. Well, she shall!)

The Farrows had just gathered together at the foot of the stairs when Kathryn arrived. “Shall we go?” she suggested. “The carriage and horses are most likely already ready and

waiting outside.”“And we are ready as well –if you are,” said Mr. Farrow accommodatingly.“I am indeed,” Kathryn said, smiling. (But –am I ready? Am I ready to meet the fearsome

friend, whose judgment and opinion, as everyone seems to think, is invaluable to Mr. Harrington? Am I ready to see his family –to wonder if they approve of me? And, most of all, am I ready to see the man himself again? No… no, I do not think I am. But I will, anyway –if not for my sake, then for his.)

The little partly said goodbye to Worthing for the evening and went out the main entrance to find the carriage waiting tolerantly. As soon as they had taken their seats, the footman shut the door –and Kathryn thanked the heavens that she had not done anything insensible like jumping out at the last moment or excusing herself from them all never to reappear. Her nerves had begun to nibble at the edges of her rationality, and such thoughts as those were not uncommon or wholly unattended to.

Hardly any conversation passed between the travelers during the half hour from Worthing to Rosewood. Kathryn was content to gaze out the window at the dimming sunlight and the shadows of the passing road. It would be a few hours before sunset, but the golden twinkle which descended upon the earth and tainted every place it could reach hinted that dusk was not far off.

The country rolled gently by –at times too quickly for Kathryn and at others too unbearably slow. She could not contain the sighs which accompanied the sight of the green fields and the merry forests as they drove further and further from the seaside, for in each she saw a reflection of a memory of Mr. Harrington…that first day of introduction at the Town Hall… when they danced on the Lucania… the many conversations they had had in New York which had convinced her, if she had not been convinced already, that she loved him… their sudden meeting in town…

She had just finished constructing an imaginary and miserable conversation between herself and Mr. Harrington’s friend (in which her lack of talent in the areas of needlework and drawing were discovered and dwelt upon with abject disapproval and she could only reply, meekly, that perhaps one-and-twenty years had not been enough to make her into a lady, after all) when they came into view of Rosewood. Even before the driver had called out, muffled by the insulation of the carriage, that they had arrived at their appointed destination– Kathryn knew, imagined conversations forgotten.

She knew because she felt almost as if –but that was silly, was it not?– almost as if she belonged there, at Rosewood. It was an old country manor, perhaps one of the oldest in the area, and breathtakingly beautiful with its grey stone walls and sweeping drive. A crop of trees flanked each side, but the lawn remained crisp and free. The landscapers had known their business, in choosing not to detract from the beauty and immenseness of the house itself by placing anything so superfluous as fountains or bushes on the front lawn.

The trees seemed to call to her, and the lawn asked her to dance upon it, and the building itself, even in its imposing impressiveness, even in the frightening and sobering knowledge that generations upon generations of Harringtons had entered it –had lived and married and died within its hallowed halls– threw a friendly air over her, as if to say, “Come, you belong here –with us.”

Kathryn knew that –Rosewood knew that –but did Mr. Harrington himself know? Kathryn could not answer that most important question, and she began to feel as nervous as ever.

Chapter Ten- Mr. Harrington’s Friend

Kathryn and the Farrows stepped out of the carriage as it stopped in front of the entrance of Rosewood.

“A fine house, is it not, my dear?” approved Mr. Farrow, addressing his wife.She agreed, “Very fine indeed! What do you think, Miss Williamson?” She glanced in

her young friend’s direction.“I like it very much,” Kathryn hazarded. She suddenly turned to Mrs. Farrow and said in

a whisper, “Oh, Mrs. Farrow! I am not sure –perhaps it would be better if I proclaimed myself-”“Miss Williamson.” Mrs. Farrow looked directly at the other. “All will be well. I have no

doubt of that!”In another moment Mr. Harrington came bounding out of the doors to greet them. “How

do you do –how do you do? Welcome to my humble abode!” he cried to the Farrows. “My housekeeper –Mrs. Ford– is just there to help you inside.” He motioned to a rather severe and chronically displeased old lady standing in the open doorway. Kathryn feared her at once. Perhaps she could call the carriage again? Perhaps she could faint? Perhaps she could –perhaps she could-?

“Hello, Miss Williamson,” Mr. Harrington said, turning to her at last. “How do you like the view?”

“It’s lovely –very lovely,” praised Kathryn.“I’d rather hoped you would like it,” he said. “You –you look lovely tonight yourself –

that is you always do –but-”“Thank you, Mr. Harrington,” said Kathryn, blushing.“Yes –well - come –come- I’m neglecting my other guests shamefully, and my mother’s

here to reprove me for it –come, I want you to meet my family –and friend.”Oh good heavens, thought Kathryn, have I fortified myself enough for this moment –the

meeting of this friend?Mr. Harrington took her arm and showed her into the main hallway. “I won’t introduce

you to my friend until later in the evening –when you see him, you will understand why,” he continued.

“Will I?” said Kathryn with such hopeless melancholy that Mr. Harrington turned to her, concerned, and his tone switched from one that was cheerfully engaging to one of worry.

“I beg your pardon, but you seem as affected as you were when last we met. You are not ill, I hope?”

“No –no– I am very well,” she could say honestly, and willed her cheeks return to their normal shade and her hands to stop shaking. A bubble of laughter escaped her throat. “It wouldn’t do to faint before your mother, would it? She who has such a strong constitution –after all, she’s borne with you all these years.” She added, a mischievous glint making her eyes bright.

“Hold a moment,” grinned Mr. Harrington. “Hold a moment, Miss Williamson!”“Yes?” said Kathryn innocently.He was about to reply when Mr. Bradley appeared down the hallway and ran towards

them. “Come, what are you talking of?” he said. “You must tell me, you know.”“Bradley is incorrigible,” apologized Mr. Harrington. “But he means no harm.”“Harrington, Harrington –you scoundrel! Keeping the prettiest girl to yourself –is that

fair? No, no, don’t reintroduce me, I’ll do it. You remember me, don’t you, from a few weeks ago?” said the man with a sweeping bow.

“Oh, yes,” said Kathryn, confused.Mr. Bradley bowed again, “How delightful! How charming! We must become better

acquainted.”Something about his careless manner bothered her and Kathryn said coolly. “Yes –

certainly, we must.” “Well –well – I like a bit of pertness in a lady. We’ll be friends in time!”“Oh?” Kathryn raised an expressive eyebrow.“Don’t be offended, Miss Williamson,” Mr. Harrington leaned down and whispered

quickly in her ear. “Don’t be offended –it’s abominable, I know –but it’s his way –you know, familiarity before it is necessary.”

“Yes,” Mr. Bradley persisted, “we’ll be wonderful friends- you’ll see.”Kathryn did not reply.Still confounded by her disinterest, Mr. Bradley said, “Well –Harrington– everyone’s in

the drawing room just now, anxious for dinner, are you going to dawdle about here or will you be coming with your Miss Williamson?”

“We’re coming, Bradley,” said Mr. Harrington with a slight frown.

They went with Mr. Bradley down another hall with a large number of portraits –of Mr. Harrington’s long-dead relatives, Kathryn assumed– and into the drawing room where the Farrows were seated talking with Mr. Harrington’s family.

“I’ve brought them!” said Mr. Bradley proudly, taking a seat on the sofa and sprawling himself out.

“Thank you, Mr. Bradley,” said Mr. Harrington’s mother in a dry voice. She stood and went straight to Kathryn, her husband moving closely behind her. “You must be Miss Williamson. How do you do, my dear? I am Mr. Harrington’s mother, of course –Margaret Harrington. And this is my husband, Hugh. Our two daughters, Rebecca and Lara, are sitting over there.” She pointed to two very pretty light-haired girls already listening with rapt attention to Rosie’s long and colorful account of the journey over.

“How do you do?” Hugh Harrington bowed.Kathryn curtsied. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Harrington.”“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Williamson. We’ve heard so much about you,” said

Margaret as she brought Kathryn to one of the sofas. Kathryn glanced at Mr. Harrington in mild surprise. “I’m –pleased. I’ve heard much

about you, too.”“Anything about me?” Mr. Bradley broke in.“Not a word, I’m afraid,” said Kathryn with a sweet smile. “Mr. Harrington,” said the butler as he opened the doors, “dinner is served in the dining

hall, sir.”“Thank you,” Mr. Harrington said. He gestured to the rest of the party. “Shall we adjourn

to the hall, then?”“Yes, let’s go,” chuckled the elder Mr. Harrington. “I’m as starved as a bear.”Mr. Harrington smiled. “Of course, Father.”Everyone stood and moved in the direction of the doors.“A moment of your time, Harrington,” said Mr. Bradley, who was last to file out. Mr.

Harrington paused. “Yes? Now –wait –before you say anything else, if it’s about Miss Williamson… I know

she’s bruised your pride and hurt your self-confidence, but you really are a-”George held up his hand. “Before you begin insulting me again -don’t trouble yourself,

please. I like her very much. In fact,” he stroked his chin, “if you change your mind about her –or have any doubts or the slightest reservation about the whole thing –I’ll be happy to-”

“No,” Mr. Harrington said with a short laugh, “no, there is absolutely no danger of that happening. Sorry, friend.” He smiled.

But his eyes were not amused.***

After an excellent dinner –one of the best, Kathryn noted to herself, that she had ever had –perhaps even better than what Worthing’s renowned kitchen had to offer, which was near heresy even to think– Mr. Harrington proposed a tour of the house for all who had not seen it. He had, as he explained, been away from home so often as of late that he could not entertain –or show the house- as he had many times wished to.

Everybody seemed eager for a tour around Rosewood –except Mrs. Farrow, who expressed interest but begged to sit down with Meredith who had fallen asleep –and Mrs. Harrington, who said she loved babies, and Mr. Hugh Harrington who, as he facetiously

remarked, liked to keep an eye on his wife, and Mr. Harrington’s sisters who had claimed to have “looked the house over several times before.”

Mr. Harrington, looking to escort Kathryn, was attacked instead by Mr. Farrow and Rosie with zealous inquiries about the specific dates and significance of family heirlooms –and Kathryn, to her consternation, was left to the dubious care of Mr. Bradley who, though he loudly complained about having seen the house a hundred times or more over, still chose to accompany them.

He and Kathryn walked along the many corridors and rooms –each more beautiful and wondrous to inspect than the last, Kathryn thought- for some time in silence until Mr. Bradley said, “You know, I’m determined to make you like me, Miss Williamson.”

“Are you?” said Kathryn, only half-listening as she strained to hear what Mr. Harrington was describing about the age of the chandeliers hanging above them.

“I am,” the other said stoutly. “You’re not aware, Miss Williamson, of my stubbornness.”“Nor are you aware of mine.”“You’re determined against me, then?” Mr. Bradley sounded hopeful. He enjoyed a

challenge. “No, certainly not,” Kathryn declared. “I am just waiting for you to prove yourself.” She

moved closer to the small party ahead of them.“And here,” Mr. Harrington was saying, with a particular glance in Kathryn’s direction,

“is the music room.” The group halted a few minutes under the archway.“What a beautiful piano!” breathed Kathryn, her disagreeable companion forgotten.Mr. Harrington had, impossibly, heard her. He looked gratified and pleased at her words.

“Yes –isn’t it gorgeous? As I understand, my great aunt Mary was a very accomplished player. This was once her favorite room.”

They continued on and Mr. Bradley attempted to converse again. “Do you play, Miss Williamson?”

“A little, yes,” admitted Kathryn modestly.“And I suppose you sing, too! What else can you do –fly?”“Really, Mr. Bradley,” said Kathryn, “I have not been discussing my accomplishments

with you in such detail as to merit that remark!”“No, you haven’t.” He cleared his throat significantly.Half-afraid of his implications, Kathryn was silent.“You are in possession of the estate Worthing Manor, so I hear,” said Mr. Bradley.At last! A regular topic of inquiry! Kathryn quickly thawed. “Yes, I am. It’s actually not

far from here –no more than seven miles, I think, of good road.”“Hmmm –that isn’t far,” Mr. Bradley concurred, thinking. “And it’s so strange that you

and Mr. Harrington never met –so close in distance- moving in similar circles –the same mutual acquaintances…”

“I was too occupied at Oxford to be in society much,” said Kathryn with a tinge of ruefulness.

“Were you?” reflected Mr. Bradley. “Well –that accounts for it –and of course, Harrington’s not overly fond of society either, poor man –unless it’s the right society. I’ve been trying to get him to go out more, and have fun, but he won’t budge more often than not. He likes to stay at Rosewood, he says, and tend to business and look after the land –all incredibly boring, I think, but the man himself seems to find it maddeningly absorbing.”

The subject of Mr. Harrington was one on which Kathryn thought herself too proficient and not proficient enough to discuss in digression. “Does he indeed?” she said with interest.

“Yes –he’s a regular homebody. But he’s so gentlemanly and seems to enjoy society so –and travels so often!- that you would never expect it of him.”

“Quite,” was all with which Kathryn could safely come up.Mr. Harrington announced just then that he had finished showcasing the greater part of

the house, and that they could go back to the drawing room. But, before they returned, with a smile for Rosie and a look for Kathryn that she did not understand, he said, “First, however, I have to introduce you to my dearest friend.”

Green and curious jealousy overcame Kathryn, and she stepped forth eagerly. She had just been mulling over that friend, surprised at his peculiarity of habits –to avoid the guests at a place which must seem practically his own, without a word of apology or excuse. Presently Mr. Harrington threw open a set of heavy doors dramatically, into a room of overstuffed furniture and good, medieval lighting –a room of homely comfort, as befits the happy home of countless volumes of stories and histories –and a room in which, laying contentedly on a Persian rug, was an amiable Irish setter.

Rosie was not surprised. She ran to the dog immediately and began to pet its great, shaggy head, while the long tail thumped gratifyingly. Mr. Farrow was not surprised. He soon followed his daughter, and bent to the dog with a few words of happy delight, for London did not do for hounds. Mr. Bradley was certainly not surprised, half in on the secret, and ambled around the room with a grin as he took up and tossed one book for another after every turn.

Kathryn, however, was beyond surprise. At first, she looked for the bent head burrowed deep within the pages of a book (a wonderful reason for not attending better to guests) –but she had looked in vain. The only living thing in the room had, up until their arrival, been the dog.

Her astonishment must have shown plainly on her face, for Mr. Harrington asked her, not without a discernible chuckle, if she had at all guessed that the friend and confidant on whom he relied so much also liked to bother cats and fetch twigs.

“This is –this is –” Kathryn could not contain herself. She had been so worried that his friend would find fault with her –and had at last come up against the kind of friend who finds fault with nobody. Was this the happy end to all her anxieties? Had she really spent so long fretting over –a dog?

Mr. Farrow and Rosie suddenly had need of Mr. Bradley’s assistance for Rosie wanted to know and talk to the gentleman who “always had something to say,” and they walked purposefully out of the room talking loudly.

“Come, Lord Alfred,” commanded Mr. Harrington and, whining and wagging in pleasure, the dog loped over to his master, hesitated, and then turned to Kathryn with appealing soft brown eyes.

“Oh –he’s darling,” said Kathryn gently. Quite overcome, she could hardly speak for tears as she scratched behind his ears and under his chin, even burying her face into his coat so that Mr. Harrington would not see her cry.

“You do like him, then?” “Like him?” cried Kathryn. “Who could do anything but love him?”Mr. Harrington smiled.

***After a few more minutes of socializing with Lord Alfred, Kathryn and Mr. Harrington

continued back to the drawing room.

“I do hope Bradley didn’t disgust you or bore you or anything terrible like that while you were in company together,” Mr. Harrington said suddenly.

“Oh, no,” said Kathryn, smiling. There was a warmth and friendliness in Mr. Bradley’s manner which was hard to positively and intentionally dislike. “I certainly found him… interesting.”

“Interesting isn’t always a good word, as you well know, I think,” laughed Mr. Harrington. “But that, at any rate, is something. You will have to excuse his conduct –though I cannot. He takes rather unusual liberties with everyone, particularly people he has just met.”

“Yes,” Kathryn colored. “I gathered that.”They continued on in silence for a few moments.“Miss Williamson-” Mr. Harrington said, his tone abruptly changing. “I wonder if –if we

could get away from the others –that is- I wonder if you would like to see the gardens –with me.”He had touched an object near to her heart. “I would love to!” Her eyes lit up. “You know

how I love my flowers.”“Yes –although as it is September, I cannot promise anything grand. And Miss

Williamson… there is something particular that I would like to speak to you about.”

Chapter Eleven- The Eternal Duet

They could not immediately escape to the gardens after returning to the drawing room. His Rebecca and Lara had been expressing to the others a strong desire to open the pianoforte therein, and display their newly-acquired talents. Entreated by all to do so, Rebecca played and sang first –and then Lara followed. Each had a sweet voice and natural taste in spite of the lack of practice (they were at ages when dancing and card-playing for petty stakes was a vast deal more agreeable than working on the newest piano piece) and the listeners clapped as heartily after their performances as ever any audience did when kept spellbound by Liszt’s playing himself.

Then –surprise to crown surprises!- Kathryn found herself pressed and prodded and pulled into playing and singing something. A trifle panicked –she never sang for an audience larger than Francine and her impatient broom, and Mr. Bradley was the loudest of those pressuring her to play- who but Mr. Harrington stepped in and kindly offered to sing with her in a duet! “I’m a bad canary, I’m afraid, and I won’t do your voice or your playing justice,” said he, “but I’ll sing as loud as any man who actually can.”

He had intended to lift her spirits and calm her nerves, and he did just that. Kathryn smiled, relaxed, and, guided by his arm, sat at the instrument very meekly without another word of protest. Mr. Harrington stood beside her. For several moments they debated quietly over which piece to sing –finally choosing one known to both of them and doubtless familiar to the rest of the company.

“Oh! A duet –I love duets!” cried Mrs. Margaret Harrington delightedly. “This is a treat,” she whispered loudly to the others. “David rarely sings. This must be the first time in years!”

They began the song, a Scottish air –happy in melody but not in content. Belying his modesty on the subject, Mr. Harrington sang with a strong and clear voice and a good ear, and Kathryn, despite her protests to the contrary, could also sing very well. Together –they sounded enchanting, their voices threading and weaving in and out along the lines of the music.

Once they had finished singing about the country lad and the wealthy lass forever separated by a cruel sea (little comforting Kathryn’s churning emotions, as Mr. Harrington

seemed perfectly able to sing all the parts about “ne’er-ending loss” and “ne’er more ta’ meet again” as blithely as if he sang about flowers dancing in the sunshine,) his father suggested that everyone play a game of cards.

Mr. Harrington begged that he and Kathryn be excused –he had promised Kathryn he would show her the gardens, as he explained, and time was of the essence for it would soon grow dark. Hesitatingly, too, he asked if anyone else was so curious as to come and see as well.

But no –no one liked gardens as well as Kathryn, and Mr. Bradley was too fond of cards and too knowledgeable of Mr. Harrington’s character (and too conscious of the scowling looks his friend persisted in sending) to say anything.

“We’ll be fine in here, David dear,” said his mother for them all. “You and Miss Williamson go ahead.”

It was exactly the response for which Mr. Harrington had been hoping. “Thank you, Mother,” said he. “We won’t be gone long.”

He and Kathryn walked out of the drawing room, through a maze of several hallways (puzzling Kathryn in their complicatedness) and at last out into the coolness of approaching night- and the gardens.

“They’re a bit shabby,” said Mr. Harrington as Kathryn strolled eagerly forward to explore. “I’m sorry for that –but the gardener I have now isn’t much help. I think he’s offended that I don’t know anything about flowers and so thinks he can get away with doing practically nothing. I wonder if he’s even touched the place.”

“Oh –but it’s lovely!” said Kathryn happily, looking all about her. She touched a few leaves experimentally. “It’s just as if it’s –enchanted and under a spell –and needs a little water and care to break it.”

Kathryn did not exaggerate. Though wild and a bit overgrown, the garden still looked gloriously breathtaking. The weeds had not choked the beauty of the flowers, and wild, provocative asters sprouted where the ground had once been bare. The golden gleam of dusk settled gently on the leaves –and on the tips of the petals and the glitter in a small puddle lingering from the rain –and on the gold in Kathryn’s hair.

Mr. Harrington saw nothing but the sheen of the latter, smiling to himself at the golden gleam’s curious magic. It reminded him of the first time he had seen her in the Town Hall, as she regarded a glass of punch with a slight scowl. How little had he known then how much she would impact him, and how precious she would become! Yet, even then –even so early– he had wanted to know her –she had awakened something in him–something which manifested itself first in the simple, fervent desire to make her scowl disappear, and forever work as hard as he could to prevent its return.

Neither of them said anything for several minutes. Kathryn was too intent on the flowers and the fragrant lavender –flitting from bush to bush and plant to plant in blissful contentment, busily planning in her head how everything could be improved without losing its old-world charm. Mr. Harrington remained happy to watch her, silently thoughtful.

At last, however, he spoke. “Miss Williamson,” said Mr. Harrington, moving to her side and gazing where she did, to the emerald-green of the grasses and the persuasive murmur of the trees on the fringes of the garden. He spoke contemplatively, with a trace of wistfulness tainting his voice. “We have not known each other for very long, have we?”

Kathryn considered. “No,” said she slowly, “no, I suppose we have not. And yet –and yet-” she felt she could not continue without betraying herself.

Fortunately Mr. Harrington knew exactly how to finish her sentiment. “And yet it feels as if I do know you rather well.” He smiled easily. “Of course, that could be an awful presumption of mine –I make many of those, as my mother tells me. What do you think of my mother, by the way, and the rest of the family –now that you’ve met them?”

Kathryn cried impulsively, and with more feeling than prudence, “Oh –I love them all already!”

“Do you?” Mr. Harrington cleared his throat peculiarly.Misunderstanding his shy manner as skeptical, Kathryn hastily added, “That is not to say

–well- of course one oughtn’t to make judgments right away –but I felt safer in settling my opinions because you told me earlier –that is-” she stopped, confused, and abandoned her explanation entirely to pursue a spontaneous topic. “Your sisters’ playing is very lovely.”

“As is yours,” said Mr. Harrington. “And I had had no notion before that you sang so beautifully, either.”

“You certainly should have no notion of it now!” Kathryn rejoined lightly. “For I don’t.” Demurely, she murmured, “Thank you for saving me from humiliating myself in front of your family. I am, you know, generally unused to audiences.”

Mr. Harrington bowed in medieval fashion, sweeping his hand in a gesture which seemed to offer her homage. “It was my pleasure, truly, milady.”

Too afraid that (though the fast-fading glimmers of light would do a little to remedy it) she would reveal more conscious emotion than she wished, Kathryn laughed playfully. “Well I, sir, was astonished that one such as you who once professed to have no musical talent whatsoever could carry a tune, I must say, very well.”

“Only with your accompaniment,” said Mr. Harrington stubbornly.“Indeed!” Kathryn huffed. “I believe not.” She turned her eyes from his (which, though

sparkling in humor, followed her every expression too intently to relieve her unsteady emotions) and walked a little ways beyond the edge of the gardens so that she could see the verdure of his forests and the azure horizon of his grounds. A little white-and-grey fence, quaint and obstinate, ran along the divide between the shelter of the gardens and the openness of the wild and rich countryside. She put her hands to her cheeks, sighing deeply and inhaling the many clean and fresh scents which blew all around. “It’s so –so beautiful here,” said she dreamily.

Catching her tone, Mr. Harrington asked, “Are you happy now, Miss Williamson?”“Happy?” The question surprised her. She thought of her fluttered spirits and painful and

acute sensations which reminded her of the other’s presence and the greatly dramatized and mismanaged business of his friend, Lord Alfred the Dog –and then looked again at the drowsiness of the land beyond. A peaceful spell had settled over Rosewood, and despite the many weights upon her heart, she answered sincerely when she said, quietly, “Yes, I am very happy.”

“You don’t know,” Mr. Harrington began with warmth, “how glad that makes me, to hear you say that. The last few times we have met you have not been at all happy.”

“Haven’t I?” Kathryn cocked her head, thinking, though she heard the truth of his statement immediately.

“I think –I think that I may presume to know why –though I won’t pretend to possess any sort of special knowledge or insight into the female mind.”

“That would be entertaining,” Kathryn said dryly to hide her own turmoil and uncertainty. What would he say?

Softly, Mr. Harrington asked, “It is Mr. Randall Gleason, isn’t it?”

“Mr. Gleason?” Kathryn did not bother to keep the incredulity from her voice. “And why on earth would it be him?”

“Well, logically speaking-” continued Mr. Harrington before Kathryn cut him off with a cry of triumph.

“Ah! There is your mistake –attempting to use logic on us. It shan’t work, it shan’t, and it never will! Women are rational creatures bent on repressing any part of that rationality. So, you see, reason has no effect on a woman, especially as it regards emotion.”

Mr. Harrington looked bewildered. “But surely, as you are still in love with that man-”“Oh, for heaven’s sake, why does everyone think I am or was ever in love with Mr.

Gleason?” She interrupted heatedly.He was taken aback. “Well –aren’t you- or weren’t you?”“No,” said Kathryn emphatically. “Never –not in the least. I did not have any –any

feelings for him beyond friendship. I thought I did, once, but I was wrong, utterly and completely wrong, about him, about—”

“But Miss Williamson,” this revelation had shaken him, thoroughly, and he struggled to control the tide of emotion rushing in, “if you didn’t love him –why did you agree to marry him? You certainly are not a woman, I should think, to marry someone because of-”

“You –you do not understand.” Kathryn sighed and walked a few steps in distress. She had not wanted to talk about Randall or admit her lack of perception. “I thought I did.” Hoping this would be sufficient information, she left off there.

Mr. Harrington folded his arms and said, a smile flickering across his lips, “I do apologize, but I am being particularly slow to-day. What do you mean?”

Kathryn hated acknowledging weakness and so she scowled, glanced around for distraction, and then said brightly, “You know, I do not think I have ever seen such beautiful wildflowers as are just there over the hill, especially for this time of year. Carl would, certainly, go mad with –”

Swiftly, Mr. Harrington crossed the distance between them and said, in a gentle voice which communicated that he saw through her, “At this moment, Carl’s insanity over my wildflowers is the least of my concerns. Now, I would very much appreciate it if you told me, Miss Williamson. It may be important.”

Kathryn did not pretend to comprehend this and, cheeks burning, she gave in. “I suppose you might have already known –or guessed. It was –a matter simply of circumstances. We met through his brother at a dinner. He, doubtless, at first thought it amusing that I intended to go through the full courses at Somerville and ‘graduate’ without actually receiving a diploma. In his opinion, without the accompanying honors it was more or less a waste of time. I had even heard him derail the whole institution as half-witted and hardly likely to last. Still, we had common interests in academia. He flattered my vanity and I- well, I fooled myself into believing I loved him. We got along well. Before I had a chance to really understand myself, he proposed. It wasn’t until-” she blushed deeper, “well –until we met Miss Bradford that I realized what a catastrophe it might have been, had we married after all. Oh, perhaps it might have worked! We would have coped –people do, you know– survive in the situations in which they are thrust. But all the same, now I see of course that it wouldn’t have been an ideal marriage at all.”

“It is ironic, then, that his folly saved yours.”“My folly?” For a moment Kathryn’s tone was defiant. But then she laughed. “Oh –there

is no other name for it, anyway. Yes, that is true. I was foolish.”

“Have I been too forward again?” ventured Mr. Harrington, and abruptly turned away –but not before Kathryn saw his quick, curved half-smile.

“No –of course not –never too forward. Those who think so would undoubtedly need your candidness the most, as I did just now. I shall never dislike your forwardness, Mr. Harrington –for you especially know how I have suffered from unnecessary tact.”

Mr. Harrington did not respond. He frowned, he paced; he gripped the old fence testily, shifting his gaze towards the woods in apparent deliberation. Kathryn eyed this display curiously. Mr. Harrington –so naturally easy and assured in everything he did– seemed to be warring within himself. “Mr. Harrington?” said she, hesitantly, and let her hands rest on the fence a respectable distance beside his. She glanced at their two pairs of hands –his, large and tanned and strong- and hers, small and slender. How well they would fit together! She thought, longingly, and wished that it might be.

“Miss Williamson,” Mr. Harrington said finally, “may I be absolutely frank with you –heaven help the consequences which may result?”

“Of course,” she answered.Then he said, casually, as if they had been discussing the state of the roads or the

possibility of inclement weather, “It would gratify my most sacred wish if you consented to becoming Mrs. Harrington.”

Kathryn stared. “I-I beg your pardon?” she asked, uncomprehending, as her heart galloped. In a frenzied, irrational manner, she glanced about and around and behind her, wondering if he had begun to address someone else.

“In plainer terms, then –will you marry me?” He bent on one knee, down in the dewy grass among a cluster of untamed lavender-colored flowers.

“You can’t –you can’t be serious,” said Kathryn, staring at him blankly and, to soothe her agitated spirits with mundane musings, she forced herself to hope that the dew from the grass would not forever stain the knee of his trousers. This did little good, and a sudden threat of tears assailed her. She valiantly held them off.

Mr. Harrington seemed mildly amused for one overwrought with nervousness. “I can –and I am in deadly earnest. A man, I should hope, does not ask a lady to marry him without being entirely and completely sure of himself.”

“I –I don’t believe it,” Kathryn quaked. The tears were clogging her throat. Such happiness as now accosted her could not be real –and therefore it was not. “No –I see how it will all go –you ask because I am pretty and genteel and because you laugh at me on occasion or I laugh at you- your ‘witticisms’ and because I can make intelligent conversation and-”

“You’re not making very intelligent conversation now,” said Mr. Harrington as he rose to his feet, frustrated yet smiling. He took her hands in his.

“Well- still- no –no -,” Kathryn turned in real distress, muttering the word “no” to herself again and again –but did not want him to let go of her hands and continued steadfastly, “You will think –you do think –that all these qualities are enough –but then you’ll fall in love, really in love- and then it will all be for naught, except for the fact that, this time, my feelings on the subject are quite-”

“Miss Williamson,” said Mr. Harrington firmly. “This is probably one of the silliest speeches I have ever heard you make. What on earth are you talking of?”

It was then that Kathryn had to admit, blushingly, that she had not the faintest idea.

“Surely it was obvious, from the way I acted around you (sometimes unguarded, I will freely and shamefully concede) that I would hardly ever have viewed our marriage from a practical point of view, were it to ever to be realized, the event of which for most of our acquaintance I had very little, if no, hope.”

The revelation that struck Kathryn immediately following his words was that Mr. Harrington –that he –if he had entertained thoughts –his unguarded actions –had she misread his coolness –was it possible that it arose from a very different source? “But you can’t –I mean you don’t-” She stopped, unsure. “No, you do not-”

“There is one more thing which needs to be cleared up,” interrupted Mr. Harrington with another of his gentle smiles, though his patience was wearing. “Just now you made the erroneous –entirely erroneous– assumption that I haven’t –that I’m not in love. Well, I do happen to be, you goose, as I’ve been trying unsuccessfully to tell you this half hour. It seems impossible to me that you could have missed it –I was certain that you saw through me at once- for I am in love with you!”

Kathryn said in a very small voice as she scrutinized her shoes, “With me?”“How could you not have known?” said Mr. Harrington with disbelief. “It’s been so

dreadfully plain to everyone else! You don’t know how many people –people I barely know and people I know too well- have mentioned something on the subject since our return from America!”

“Really?” Kathryn was truly horrified.“I am afraid it is so.” Mr. Harrington pulled her slowly and tenderly into his arms. “Miss

Williamson –dearest, I have loved you ever since I met you –ever since you spoke of poor Romeo and Juliet with such spirited and refreshing disdain! It was then that I knew it must be you or no other for me. But from our first meeting I knew, too, that you did not –could not belong to me. Since then –and you’ve really no knowledge of this?” he broke off briefly, and Kathryn, heroically only letting one tiny tear slip out onto her cheek, could just barely give him the proof that no, she had not known, “Since then, I’ve been tortured and anguished thinking that you should be mine, that I wanted it so, more than anything I had ever wanted.

“From the beginning it was a hard struggle. I nearly lost –that day on the ship, and soon after I told you we should never meet alone –or talk as in confidence. I was aware of the impropriety –but I was more aware of my own passions and feelings.” He spoke solemnly. “And I knew then, that for once in my life I could not trust myself. Miss Williamson –may I call you Kathryn now? if you knew what I have been through…”

He smiled, shook his head in the remembrance which had once been severely torturous to a sensible, rational mind as his, unaccustomed to violent feeling –and could say no more, choosing instead to kiss her resoundingly.

Kathryn had yet to speak coherently. “Oh, dear,” she began –the tears almost overflowing- and stopped.

“So, dearest Kathryn,” Mr. Harrington said, touching a strand of her hair with his hand, “what is it to be? I do not know if you will enjoy knowing that I have suffered unspeakably by every word and every look you ever gave me. But, for now, you need only know that I am eternally in love with you,” he paused, “and I ask you once again –for you did not answer me the first time- Miss Kathryn Williamson, will you marry me?”

Kathryn finally found her voice, and said shakily, “What a nonsensical question even to ask. Of course I will!”

And as he held her tightly to him, she burst into joyful tears.

Epilogue

The wedding of David Harrington and Kathryn Williamson the following May was a highly talked-about event –perhaps the highlight of the year– in Kathryn’s Cambrien and all the surrounding towns as well. Mrs. Brinston (née Anders) and Mrs. Frawley spread the news excitedly to all their unfortunate friends who were not able to attend the wedding (both contending that they had arranged the couples’ courtship from beginning to end.) And Mrs. Ada Williamson –who had heard from Mrs. Baker that Mr. Harrington had very agreeable connections and family in Parliament as well as being the wealthiest man in that part of England– praised and crowed about the match as much as if she herself had made it –all the while delineating the man who had once been her favorite pet.

That man, returning but lately after an extensive trip abroad with his wife, Mrs. Randall Gleason, was invited to the wedding as a matter of course (Mrs. Harrington and Mrs. Williamson had joined forces to create the invitation list of the most fashionable and haute couture people in English society;) but they made their polite excuses. (Mrs. Celia Gleason did, however, send a handsome wedding present –and Kathryn civilly sent a generous reply back, which Mr. Harrington, after pouring over its contents, said was far too nice to be remotely just, but as he was far too much in love with Kathryn to puzzle over such matters, he even endeavored to send them his compliments as well.)

The Farrows came to the wedding, of course, and could not stop thanking Kathryn profusely for selling them Worthing –to which she replied, every time, with an unimaginably happy sigh, that Mr. Harrington was the one responsible for that. From Worthing Kathryn only took Sarah as a personal maid and Carl the gardener. The first thing Carl did as head gardener of Rosewood was to tear out each carnation and its roots, one by one in malicious satisfaction. The soil at Rosewood was much more fertile and suited to Carl’s taste than that at Worthing, and sometimes he worked for hours without as much as an ill-tempered grumble.

The actual day of the wedding burst out warm and golden, a welcome breeze flowing through the air. The guests –hundreds of them– flocked to the chapel in the parish of Rosewood and packed the pews full. Everyone of importance in that English countryside who was invited and who could possibly have come, came to see, as the newspapers termed it, “the union of the year.” They were not disappointed.

Decorated impeccably, the chapel –already an ancient and venerable building- shone with additional grace, as if it recognized the sacred and inalterable vows that Mr. Harrington and Kathryn would take. But even the magnificence of the chapel could not outshine what every guest trained his eyes on –the bride and groom.

Kathryn, on the arm of her uncle, floated into the chapel, glowing and beautiful in iridescent happiness as she walked down the aisle. Her gloved hands clasped a bouquet of white roses. She looked up and around –first at the smiling –and some tearful- faces of the sea of guests –the elegant wedding drapery fastened to the pews- the high windows of the old-fashioned church –and at last to her groom.

At the sight of Mr. Harrington, Kathryn forgot to memorize any more details of the day. She had never seen him more handsome –and he, who had not looked anywhere else the moment she had entered, had never seen her more lovely.

Kathryn kissed her uncle softly on the cheek as they approached the front, and the bridegroom, taking her hand, led her up. The vicar began, his voice resonating with those tried

and true words to mark the commencement of the ceremony, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony…”

Before Kathryn quite knew what was happening, they had exchanged their vows and heard with a thrill of unparalleled delight the vicar announce that he was “presenting the new Mr. and Mrs. David George Harrington.”

And as they turned toward the crowd of joyful attendees, hand-in-hand, faces glowing in realized Fidelia, the light filtering through the windows peculiarly illuminated a sparkle of something in Kathryn’s hair –the snowy white ribbon Mr. Harrington had given her. She wore it at last.

FINISThe End