Page 73

His Brandon family also came, usually with all three of them together, and they more frequently exchanged letters.

Two years passed thus; a very hard two years, and he was, upon the whole, glad of it.

He judged that his time was best spent at Fernley, with Mr. Pettigrew’s clerk riding beside him and a great ledger growing fatter every month; and he learned, in that time, a quantity of things that no tutor at Cambridge had thought to teach him. He learned what a drain costs, and how much less it costs to mend one in June than to rebuild a cottage in January. He learned to tell, by the smell of a barn, whether the roof had been sound for five years or five weeks. He learned the names of every tenant on both estates, and the names of their children, and, in a good many cases, the particular complaint that had been nursed against the family for two generations and wanted only a fair hearing to be laid to rest; and he learned, most usefully of all, to hold his tongue in a room full of older men who supposed that such a young landlord could be talked round, and to prove them wrong without once raising his voice.

At last he finished bringing Fernley up to standard. It was satisfying to make a final tour of the property and see all that had been accomplished in two years. He knew the London property was not likely to need much in the way of repairs but thought he had better put eyes on it before he journeyed to Delaford. He was very pleased to find it running smoothly and only gave instructions for a few changes to be made. He spent time with Charles, who was at Cambridge now, and he enjoyed himself immensely.

The letter arrived during his second week in London, in Marianne’s unmistakable hand, three sheets close-written and a fourth begun and abandoned in the margin for want of room.

My dear Henry, it began, in the manner of a woman who has a great deal of news and does not intend to be economical with it, you are to sit down before you read the rest of this, for I have a piece of intelligence that I do not think you are prepared for, though I own I am not perfectly sure why you should not be, since the whole neighbourhood has seen it coming almost since the gentleman first entered the county, and I begin to suspect that you are the only person in three counties who has not. Mary is to be married.

Henry read this twice, put down his coffee, and read it a third time.

He is a widower, Marianne’s letter went on, of about thirty, a Mr. Philip Marsh, who has taken the lease of Ashgrove now that the Aylmers are quite settled in town and have given it up; a sensible, quiet, well-looking man, with a very good little estate in Wiltshire that he has let in order to be nearer his late wife’s family, and a small son, Georgie, not yet four, whose mother died in bringing him into the world. He came to us first, if you can credit it, over a matter of drains, having heard that the Colonel was the person to ask about such things in this part of the country; and Mary, who was in the room copying out a sermon for your uncle, was asked her opinion of a particular ditch, and gave it, at some length, and with such evident good sense that Mr. Marsh, by his own later confession, fell in love with her before he had properly taken off his hat.

For his part it was entirely settled within the fortnight, Marianne continued, though he was far too well-bred to say so above once a week for the first two months. Mary took a good deal longer about it, as you might suppose; she told Elinor that it surprised her to meet a man who asked her opinion so often and then appeared actually to want it, and that she found she could not immediately account for how agreeable this was, having had no previous occasion to discover it. I believe the boy did the rest. She has been excessively fond of children her whole life, and Georgie took to her from the first, and used, for some weeks, to walk about after her holding on to her skirt and calling her Miss Fewwars, and her whole face lights up every time he says it. She owns, now, that she thinks Mr. Marsh handsome, and that she has never in her life had so much steady, particular attention paid her, and that she does not at all dislike it, which from Mary is a very great deal to own indeed.

They are to be married in the third week of February, at Delaford, and you are to come, Henry. I mean that quite as an instruction and not a request. You have not been to us in years, and I will not have my niece married without you seeing it, whatever the state of your drains.

Yours, Mamma

He left London in plenty of time to first stop at Combe Magna, sharing the news about Mary and informing them that he planned to be back in Dorsetshire for some time. On his departure, Sophia had a crate carried and loaded onto the carriage, a gift to bring the newlyweds.

The closer he got to Delaford, with all its childhood familiarity, his excitement began to build. The carriage could not travel fast enough on the final day. Five years since he had left home at eighteen, all restless limbs and ambition, convinced that the world beyond the estate was waiting to be conquered. Five years of London, university, the never ending, yet satisfying, work at Fernley! When finally, the rolling fields and the family house came into view, he tidied himself and could not contain the smile that was growing wide in anticipation.

He stepped down from the carriage. Cool country air touched his face, carrying the scent of damp earth and clipping yew. He handed his gloves to the waiting footman.

“Welcome home, sir.”

Henry managed a faint smile.

“Thank you.”

He had scarcely taken three steps toward the house when a familiar voice crossed the lawn.

“Henry!”

He turned.

A young woman was coming toward him, walking quickly, her skirts gathered neatly in one hand and her bonnet swinging from the other. Her dark hair had been arranged with remarkable precision, though the breeze had teased a few strands loose around her temples. She carried herself with the easy confidence of someone accustomed to being observed and entirely untroubled by it.

She was smiling. Not politely. Not demurely. The smile was bright, open, and unmistakably familiar.

Henry stared.

The young woman stopped several feet before him.

“Well?”

He blinked.

“I beg your pardon?”

Her smile widened.

“You truly do not know me.” There was something familiar in the tilt of her head, in the bright challenge of her eyes, as if some instinct had already begun to stir beneath his surprise.

Then recognition struck.