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“Yes. I felt a little bad for Cherise, since it was she you were supposed to be visiting.”
“I knew as soon as I saw her that I could not marry her. She is too young.”
“But why did you continue to visit?”
“Come, Jane—to visit you, of course. I hoped if you knew me better you might give me another chance. I’m not one to give up so easily.”
“Cherise is a very nice girl. I am sure whoever marries her will count himself a very lucky man.”
“I am sure she is,” agreed Mr Thorne, “but I could not marry a girl so young, whatever her charms. It would make me feel like a dirty old man.”
“There are only six years between us,” returned Jane, still slightly sensitive about her spinsterhood after having two younger sisters marry before her.
“Six years is a lifetime when you are young,” remarked Thorne. “Can you even remember what your thoughts were when you were sixteen?”
Jane pondered for a moment as she sewed. “I was probably remarkably silly,” she conceded.
“I doubt it,” replied Thorne. “But you see what I mean. It seems like I was a totally different person at that age—ambitious, slightly reckless and unwashed—unformed.”
Jane smiled, trying to picture him as a scrubby sailor. “I cannot imagine it,” she said, shaking her head. “Are there any pictures of you when you were younger?”
“One,” he said, heading off to his mother’s rooms and returning with a miniature which he handed to Jane. “Mother asked me for my likeness after I was nearly shipwrecked off Majorca.”
Jane looked to see a youth with brown eyes in a sailor’s cap, his hair drawn back in a queue. She glanced back and forward between the miniature and her husband’s face, comparing the likeness.
“While the artist has flattered me with a beautifully pointed chin rather than the square one I had even then,” said Thorne, “Mother thought he had managed to capture my impertinent eyes—those are her words, not mine.”
“How old were you when it was taken?”
“Twenty-two.”
Jane rather fancied she could fall in love with the handsome young man in the picture. “What do you intend to do with this?”
“Why, I expect it should go to the parish with the rest of Mother’s things. Forgive me for relegating this task to you. Mother did ask me to pass on her things once she was gone but I could not bear to do it myself. The Reverend Jones has asked if he might call upon you on Thursday. He will gladly arrange for things to be picked up. I am sure the parish will make a pretty penny from some of the items.”
“May I have this?” asked Jane.
Thorne was strangely flattered. “Of course.”
Soon they retired to dress for dinner, which was again a good but plain meal. Jane firmly resolved to look at the menus on the morrow. Thorne took nothing of the apple cobbler served for dessert, taking only some cheese and a biscuit with his port.
“Do you not like sweets?” asked Jane as she ate a thin slice of the cobbler with cream.
“Only occasionally,” replied Thorne. “I asked Mrs Bellamy to include sweets for you, but you must direct her as you see fit.” Then he added as an afterthought. “You are sweet enough for me.”
Jane blushed and coughed. “I fear I cannot do it justice,” she said, looking at the largely intact remains of the cobbler.
“Then, they will be dining in style in the servant’s hall tonight,” he joked. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Oh, no! I never drink it at this time of day. It keeps me awake. But please take some if you wish.”
“I would rather go upstairs with you,” he said in a low voice.
Jane blushed prettily and, folding her napkin, nodded her acquiescence.
They stole up the stairs together, hand in hand. Closing the door of Jane’s bedchamber behind them, Thorne took his wife in his arms to kiss her passionately. Jane almost immediately felt weak at the knees.
“Did Mrs Bellamy show you my room during her tour?” Thorne asked huskily as he disengaged to trail tiny kisses across Jane’s forehead.
