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Henry’s morning walks began to include the running of errands with increasing regularity, therefore extending his time with Sarah, always with a reason which was plausible enough to satisfy Edward and transparent enough to satisfy Elinor.

He had to search for a book for Marianne.

He had remembered someone had mentioned wanting treats that required a lengthy walk to a certain shop.

The last excuse was, by some considerable margin, the most successful.

For Henry had discovered that Sarah was never so pleased to see him as when he suggested searching out something which reminded her of a conversation they had once had.

A book concerning improvements to village schools.

A little volume of poetry which she had mentioned having read as a child.

And, on one memorable afternoon, a small brass compass which he had found in a shop off Bond Street.

Sarah turned it over in her hand.

“You remembered.”

“I remember a great many things you said.”

She smiled.

Ned, sitting three chairs away, said without looking up from his book, “He remembers everything you say.”

Henry stared at him.

Sarah closed her eyes.

Edward looked over his newspaper.

“Ned. You are not to listen to private conversations.”

Ned looked up, perfectly untroubled. “It was not private. We were all in the same room. I cannot help it if I am blessed with excellent hearing.”

“Ned.”

“Yes, Father?”

“Go and do something else.”

Ned considered. “Very well.” He stood and walked toward the door, then stopped beside Henry.

“Do you know,” said he conversationally, “that Sarah has kept every letter you sent while you were away?”

Sarah went scarlet.

Henry became very still.

“Ned!” Sarah stared at him.

The boy smiled. “I thought he ought to know.” Then he left.

Elinor was looking at her daughter.

Sarah met her eyes.

There was something in Elinor’s expression which made her mother’s meaning perfectly clear: I have known for some time.