Starting Over

Part XVII

"Are we there yet?" Miranda looked out of the carriage window, trying to determine where they were.

"Not yet," her father said, smiling. "Be patient for another half hour or so, Miranda."

Ever since they had set out from Stratford, Miranda had been eager to get home and had asked where they were almost every ten minutes. Her father, who had come to Stratford to take his daughters home, had told them some neighbourhood news, and there was one very pleasant piece of news among them that Miranda could not wait to discuss, at length, with her friend Judith Wilcox. Apparently, Lady Wilcox had had an argument with Mrs. Delaney, and so Mrs. Delaney and her daughter had left her house in a huff and had returned to Leamington. As far as Mr. Acton could tell, no one really missed them. Rosalind was not surprised.

"Whatever can have provoked Lady Wilcox to do anything as ill-bred as quarrelling with one of her guests?" Beatrice had asked. Lady Wilcox was a model of amiability -- arguing with her was like quarrelling with a newborn kitten -- unheard of.

"I was not at home when Mrs. Jacobs called on your mother, so I do not know the particulars," the Reverend Mr. Acton said, looking quite pleased with the fact. Rosalind was quite in sympathy with him -- no one wished to be there when Mrs. Jacobs called on Mrs. Acton and had some important news to share. Even Mrs. Acton herself usually wished she were somewhere else. "Your mother says it was Mrs. Delaney who provoked the quarrel, and I can readily believe that."

From the Rector of the parish this was harsh judgement for he did not usually criticize his parishioners' characters, but Rosalind agreed with her father. What she had seen of the Delaneys made her inclined to believe they would try the patience of a saint -- and having put up with her visitors for weeks on end did qualify Lady Wilcox for sainthood, certainly. Either that or Bedlam.

Rosalind was not certain if the Delaneys would stay away from Rampton, though. Unless they had achieved their goal and Mr. Irving had made Miss Delaney an offer of marriage, but Rosalind did not quite believe that. She did not doubt that they would find another way to return to Rampton. Mrs. Delaney did not look like the kind of woman who would leave a job only half done, and her job was clearly to get her daughter married to Mr. Irving. Rosalind wondered whether there was any suitable house to be let anywhere near Rampton, but could not think of any at the moment. They would have to find another way to come back into Mr. Irving's neighbourhood then. But Rampton was to have a respite, certainly, and Rosalind was going to make the most of it.

Mrs. Acton received her daughters at the Rectory door when they arrived. There was a great deal of laughs, hugs, and Mrs. Acton let them know that she had ordered all their favourite dishes for dinner in celebration of their return.

"It has been very quiet without you," she admitted. "I am happy to have you back here with me."

She then took her daughters into the parlour, where they spent a cosy half hour exchanging news. Mrs. Acton did not refer to the breach between Lady Wilcox and Mrs. Delaney, however, until Miranda, unable to stop herself, asked her whether she knew what had happened.

"I only know what Mrs. Jacobs told me," Mrs. Acton said dryly, "and that, as you know, must always be taken with a pinch of salt. News is never just news as far as she is concerned. The fact is that Mrs. Delaney and her daughter have returned to Leamington. Officially, Mrs. Delaney let it be known that she had never meant to stay at Effingham Court that long and that she finally means to try what good the Leamington waters will do her."

"Do you believe that this is the reason?" Rosalind asked.

"Not at all," Mrs. Acton said curtly. "But since neither she nor Lady Wilcox have taken me into their confidence, this is what I will say to everyone who asks."

Rosalind nodded. Her mother had never been one to take part in gossip -- and she had never encouraged it in her house. Of course, it sometimes behoved her to listen to gossip in order to avoid offending her husband's parishioners, but unlike other ladies in Rampton Mrs. Acton had never taken pleasure in gossiping. She had always maintained the opinion that there were some things which were just none of her business, and that prying into them was unladylike. Rosalind tended to agree with her mother as far as the subject of gossip was concerned. Miranda did not.

"I must call on Judith as soon as possible," Miranda said. "She will know, don't you think, Mama?"

Mrs. Acton said that she supposed so, and Miranda would have gone off to Effingham Court immediately, had it not been too late already. She did not need to make much of an effort, however, to persuade her sister Beatrice to go there with her first thing the next morning. Rosalind suspected, however, that Beatrice's motive for doing so had nothing to do with either Mrs. Delaney or Lady Wilcox.

"How is Mr. Deane?" Rosalind finally asked her mother. "Have you seen him?"

"I sometimes went to visit him, if your father could not go," Mrs. Acton said. "His condition is very much the same as when you last saw him, I believe. Though Mr. Irving says he makes an effort to communicate. He writes down a great deal on that slate of his -- and he seems to be able to make himself understood. Mr. Irving has become very good at attending to his wishes, I am told, and makes an effort to run the Rampton Manor estate just as Mr. Deane himself would do, if he were still able to."

Rosalind was glad to hear it. One of the greatest fears of Mr. Deane's tenants and neighbours had been that Mr. Deane's heir, who had never shown any interest in the estate while Mr. Deane had been in good health, would let everything come to ruin -- by trying to get a maximum of money out of it with a minimum of investment.

But Mr. Irving had surprised them all. Mr. Deane's steward had been astonished to find that the young man, though he had never had to run a country estate before, had quickly understood the business and had even shown a strong inclination to take the responsibilities upon himself immediately. He had also shown great respect for said gentleman's age and experience and often asked him for advice, which had earned him the good opinion of Mr. Deane's entire household. Mrs. Piggott, Mr. Deane's housekeeper, had told Rosalind that each of Mr. Deane's servants was devoted to Mr. Irving, and that they all hoped to be allowed to remain in the house once Mr. Irving took possession of his inheritance. Which to all intents and purposes he had already done, Rosalind thought, though he still deferred to his uncle's wishes in everything. He did submit to them even though he knew well enough that there was nothing his uncle could do to stop him if he wished to do otherwise. Rosalind admitted to herself that she was pleased to find it was so. Mr. Irving had principles, and she liked a man to have sound principles.

Rosalind found it no longer surprising that her thoughts strayed to Mr. Irving whenever she did not keep a strict guard on her mind. She fondly remembered their leave-taking in Stratford, and hoped to see him again soon. Perhaps he would call on them this evening?

With this possibility in mind, Rosalind took particular care in getting dressed for dinner. She wanted to look her best, just in case, and made up her mind to be particularly welcoming to him if he did come -- as welcoming as she dared, in the presence of her family. Rampton was not Stratford, after all.

Rosalind need not have worried. No one came to call on her or any other member of her family that evening, and so their dinner was a mere family affair. Rosalind's brothers, who had spent the day fishing with Mr. Wilcox, shared their news with their sisters, and Miranda tried to find out more about Lady Wilcox and Mrs. Delaney's quarrel from them. None of them knew any particulars, however, and so Miranda had to be patient until she would see her friend, Miss Wilcox, the next day.

The next day, Rosalind spent an hour in the stillroom, checking on her lavender oil as well as other household remedies she was making. Then she was obliged to join her mother and sisters on their walk to Effingham Court to call on Lady Wilcox. She would have preferred to call on Mr. Deane, but Mrs. Acton told her that it would be rude of her not to accompany her mother and sisters and insisted on her coming with them.

The visit turned out to be more pleasant than Rosalind had expected. While her mother was sitting in Lady Wilcox's drawing room with her hostess, Judith Wilcox took them outside into the garden -- ostentatiously informing them that her mother's rose garden was particularly beautiful at this time of the year, but fooling no one.

While Miranda was walking ahead of them, eagerly listening to Judith Wilcox's minute description of the quarrel her mother had had with Mrs. Delaney, Rosalind and Beatrice were admiring the beauty of Lady Wilcox's garden. They were heading for a summer house, situated in a pleasant grove on the other side of a stream, and happened to meet Mr. Wilcox on their way there. He immediately joined them, and seemed so happy to see Beatrice that he threw his usual retiring manners overboard and, Rosalind thought, seemed at ease with her for the first time ever. Beatrice did give him a great deal of encouragement, one had to admit -- the smile she gave Mr. Wilcox was genuine, and one had to be either blind or a great fool not to recognise the sparkle in her eyes. Rosalind, feeling that her presence was not exactly wanted, allowed them to fall behind and joined Miranda and Judith Wilcox in the summer house.

In the meantime, the cause of Lady Wilcox's falling out with Mrs. Delaney had been thoroughly discussed, and Miss Wilcox was in the middle of a lively description of the row itself.

Apparently, Mrs. Delaney had taken it upon herself to "correct" her friend's way of dealing with her servants, often in the presence of said servants, and had thereby undermined Lady Wilcox's authority within her own household. She had held herself back for long, Judith Wilcox said, but one evening she had had quite enough. So, once the servant in question had left the room, Lady Wilcox had informed her friend that she did not relish any interference with her housekeeping. Mrs. Delaney had told her that she had only meant to advise her, and that she had not meant to meddle.

"She did say she thought my mother was in need of advice," Judith Wilcox said. "My mother! As if!"

Miranda agreed that Lady Wilcox certainly did not need anyone's advice when it came to housekeeping.

"So my mother told Mrs. Delaney. She said she had been mistress of Effingham Court for almost thirty years, and that everything had worked perfectly well so far."

"And what did Mrs. Delaney say then?" Miranda asked her friend.

"She said that she supposed one got used to chaos after a while, and whether my mother had not noticed the servants were taking advantage of her."

"She did not!" Miranda exclaimed.

"She did," Judith Wilcox said. "My mother then said that Mrs. Delaney probably had no fault to find with a chaotic house herself, or why had she been staying so long with us if she did?"

Miranda laughed. "I can hardly imagine Lady Wilcox saying anything so rude!"

"I was dumbfounded, I can tell you," Judith Wilcox said. "I have never heard my mother talk in such a way in my entire life!"

"What did Mrs. Delaney say to that?" Miranda wanted to know.

"She said she would not have stayed for so long, had it not been her earnest wish to be of assistance to my mother."

"The cheek!" Miranda exclaimed. "Insufferable person!"

"It was then that my mother delivered the coup de grace, if you will," Miss Wilcox said. "She drew herself up to her full height, looking like dignity itself, and said, My dear Mrs. Delaney, I do not expect any of my friends to subject themselves to the annoyance of a disordered household for my sake. Feel free to leave any time you wish. Even Mrs. Delaney found nothing to say in reply to that. She kept silent for about a minute or two, and then she said she had obviously outstayed her welcome. My mother did not trouble to contradict her."

"And so they left?"

"Not until the next morning," Judith Wilcox said. "They had to pack their trunks, after all. They were happy to have our disorganised servants' assistance when getting ready for their journey, and the servants were happy to help. You should have seen the grins on everyone's faces by the time the Delaneys had left the house. It was one of the happiest days in my life, certainly. -- Really, I cannot imagine how my mother and that woman could ever be friends! As for the daughter, she is as odious a girl as I have ever met, and I do not care to meet another of her kind."

"Nor do I," Miranda said, and Rosalind silently agreed. But unlike her sister and Miss Wilcox she was by no means convinced that they had seen the last of the Delaneys. They would be back, if only to spite Lady Wilcox.

Back at the Rectory, Rosalind went to the stillroom to check on her household remedies. She wanted to get her work done before setting out to the Manor House to see how Mr. Deane was doing. She made an effort to banish Mr. Irving from her thoughts -- her visits at the Manor were about the uncle, not the nephew. If she started thinking otherwise, she could not blame others to think so as well, and once gossip had started it was hard to stop it. As she was working, her father entered the room as well and watched her silently for a few minutes. It was obvious that he had something to say to her, yet he was hesitating. Her father's uncharacteristic behaviour puzzled Rosalind -- he was not usually one to hold back if there was something he wished to say.

"Is there anything you want me to do, Papa?" she therefore asked, putting a bottle of lavender oil down.

"I had a visitor this morning while you were at Lady Wilcox's," Mr. Acton said gravely.

"Indeed? It must have been a bothersome one -- you do look harassed, Papa." Rosalind smiled brightly, although she was not sure if she had any reason to smile.

"I would not say he was bothersome," Mr. Acton said. "I have always liked Mr. Trent."

"Oh!" Rosalind suddenly understood why her father told her about his morning caller. The visit had no doubt been about her.

"Do you not want to know what his visit was about?"

"I do have a suspicion," Rosalind said with a wan smile.

"He came to ask for my permission to pay his addresses to you," Mr. Acton said.

"This is what I suspected," Rosalind said. "What did you say to him?"

"I gave him my permission, naturally," Mr. Acton said. "There is no reason why I should have refused him, is there?"

"Apart from the fact that I do not want to marry him there is none," Rosalind said dryly.

"But this is what you must tell him, my dear," Mr. Acton said. "I merely allowed him to propose marriage to you. It is up to you to decide whether you will have him or not."

"I do not want to disappoint him," Rosalind said unhappily.

"I know, but this is what you will have to do," her father replied. "Unless you do wish to marry him after all?"

"I do not," Rosalind said.

"In that case I advise you to be definite in your reply," Mr. Acton said. "Do not raise false hopes in him in order to be kind."

"But Papa, is this really necessary? Cannot you tell him that I am not going to accept his proposal?" Rosalind gave her father a desperate look.

Mr. Acton shook his head. "This is something I will not do," he said. "I have always promised myself that my children will speak for themselves in these matters, and so they will. My interference ends with me giving a young man my permission to make you an offer -- or withholding my permission, if need be. But I'd be a fool not to grant a perfectly respectable young man who will no doubt make a good husband and father a chance to try his luck with one of my daughters."

From her father's point of view, this sounded absolutely reasonable, Rosalind thought. Mr. Trent was an eligible candidate for marriage, and she did not even dislike him. It was only that she felt no inclination to become his wife. They would both be happier with someone else, and in Rosalind's case, someone else lived practically next door. Not that she would tell Mr. Trent so -- but it would be foolish just to accept him in case Mr. Irving would not ask.

"So ... when is Mr. Trent coming to speak to me, then?" Rosalind asked, resigning herself to the inevitable.

"I have invited him to dine with us tomorrow," Mr. Acton said, "and said I would give him an opportunity then." He gave Rosalind an encouraging smile. "Plenty of time for you to think of the least offensive wording for your refusal."

"Papa! I surely do not wish to offend Mr. Trent!" Rosalind protested.

"I am afraid he will disapprove of everything you will say," Mr. Acton said. "Except for the words, Of course I will marry you, Mr. Trent, and cannot wait for the day when I do."

"Do not tease me, Papa! This is not at all funny, you know!" Rosalind said indignantly.

"Believe me, I know," Mr. Acton said, and left Rosalind to her work.

After her father's disclosure, Rosalind felt rather depressed. On the one hand she was glad that her father showed so much understanding for her situation, and that he left the decision to Rosalind herself. There were many parents, Rosalind knew, who would jump at the chance to get one of their daughters suitably married and would not even pause to ask for their daughters' opinions in the matter. On the other hand she found it unfair that he did not hint Mr. Trent away. Why did he want to subject her to such an ordeal? If she had gone out of her way to encourage Mr. Trent and had now changed her mind regarding him, it would be a sufficient reason for him to do so, she supposed. But she had never done so -- she could not be blamed for Mr. Trent fancying himself in love with her.

Rosalind packed some bottles of St John's Wort oil into a basket, and set out towards the Manor House. Mr. Deane was not able to help her in her predicament, but at least looking after him would take her mind off Mr. Trent.

Part XVIII

Rosalind found Mr. Deane sitting in an easy chair next to his bedroom window, his slate on his knees. He gave her his lopsided grin that she had, meanwhile, learned to identify as a smile. Mr. Deane looked much frailer than she had remembered him, and for a moment Rosalind felt guilty for having left Rampton in spite of his ill health. The only comfort she had was the fact that her friend and neighbour would not look any different if she had stayed at home, and that he would not have wanted her to stay behind either.

"How are you, Mr. Deane?" she asked, putting up a brave front.

Alive.

"Why, sir, this does not sound very cheerful. Surely this is good news?" Rosalind said cheerfully.

Depends.

"On what does it depend, Mr. Deane?"

Who says so.

"I see." Rosalind did see his point. For someone like Mr. Deane, a man who had been so very active and full of life before his illness, it must be a terrible thing to be confined to his room -- and even his bed, sometimes -- all day long. One could not blame him for thinking that being alive, under these circumstances, was not good news.

"My grandmother sends her best wishes for your recovery, Mr. Deane," she said.

Thank you.

"She has sent you some of her tea cake. She said you used to be so fond of it, it is certain to help you along on your way to health."

Mr. Deane wheezed -- or laughed, probably. Kind of her. he wrote.

"She will be glad to hear you said so," Rosalind said.

Met Frederick?

"I beg your pardon?"

F went to Stratford.

"I know he did. He ... Mr. Irving called at my grandmother's house with some letters from my parents, and dined at my uncle's house once," Rosalind said, trying to sound indifferent. Mr. Deane gave her an intent look that made her blush. The old gentleman grinned, and Rosalind felt herself blush even more. His illness may have cost him the ability to speak, she thought, but otherwise he was not mentally incapacitated. He could still add two and two and draw his conclusions in the process.

"Would you like me to read to you, sir?" Rosalind asked to get over the awkward moment and to get his mind off a subject she did not wish to discuss with him.

Yes.

Rosalind picked up the book that had been lying on the table, and started to read. After about ten minutes, however, she noticed Mr. Deane's eyes were closed, and stopped reading. After a minute or two, Mr. Deane opened his eyes and smiled weakly.

Sorry. Tired. he wrote onto his slate.

"Never mind, Mr. Deane," Rosalind said. "I will come back tomorrow. What do you say?"

Good idea.

"Is there anything you need, sir?" Rosalind asked, putting the book back onto the table from which she had taken it.

Roses. Mrs. Deane.

"Roses for Mrs. Deane?"

Yes.

"You mean for her grave?"

Yes. Wedding day.

Rosalind wondered for a moment, then she realised that today was Mr. and Mrs. Deane's wedding anniversary. They had always celebrated it with a dinner party and dance at their house, and after Mrs. Deane's death her husband had made sure her grave was always decorated with roses, her favourite flowers, on her wedding anniversary. There were fresh flowers there almost all year round, even in winter, but for some reason or other there were never any roses except on that special day. Funny that she should not have remembered it, Rosalind thought, again feeling guilty at having forgotten about something that seemed so important to Mr. Deane.

"Would you like me to pick some roses in the garden and take them to Mrs. Deane's grave?"

Yes.

"I will, Mr. Deane," Rosalind promised. She took her leave of the old gentleman, and went to the housekeeper's room to ask Mrs. Piggott for a basket and a knife to cut the roses. She was planning to cut the roses, carry them home with her and arrange the bouquet there before taking it to the churchyard and returning the basket to the Manor House. In the rose garden, however, Rosalind chanced to meet Mr. Irving and Mr. Murray, who had just called at the Rectory and had taken the shortcut through the churchyard to return to the Manor.

"Miss Acton!" Mr. Irving seemed delighted to meet Rosalind; he gave her a radiant smile. Mr. Murray bowed and, after they had exchanged some polite greetings, walked along the gravel path towards the house. Mr. Irving stayed.

"I am glad to see you have returned safely, Miss Acton," he said.

"You did not fear for my safety on the road from Stratford to Rampton?" Rosalind asked with a smile.

"Accidents can happen anywhere," Mr. Irving said. "And I do not like the idea of you meeting with one."

"The coachman was a very careful one, I thought," Rosalind said. "We were travelling at a slow pace, since my father does not like to travel fast. Accidents usually happen to those who go fast."

"Or those who get in their way," Mr. Irving said, with a short laugh.

"Sometimes," Rosalind admitted, and turned back to cut some roses.

"May I help you?" Mr. Irving asked.

"Certainly," Rosalind said. Mr. Irving beamed. Probably he remembered another occasion, when she had not accepted his assistance quite so readily.

"Let me cut the roses," he said. "You can put them into the basket. I am taller than you -- I might even be able to reach the roses over there, the large beautiful ones."

Rosalind nodded. "Very well, sir, if you really want to claim the hardest part of the work for yourself."

"The hardest part is arranging a bouquet, Miss Acton, and I shall be quite happy to leave that part of the work to you." He smiled, took the knife from her and walked over to one of the larger rosebushes.

"How about these?" he asked.

"Perfect, Mr. Irving," Rosalind replied. "How come you did not ask me why I was picking roses in here? It is not as if I had any business doing so."

"I am absolutely certain you would not start picking roses in here without an express permission or even a request from my uncle," Mr. Irving said. "The house is his. If he wants all these roses cut down, it is fine with me." He sighed. "Perhaps not quite. The rose garden is one of the most beautiful spots on my uncle's property, and I would hate to see it destroyed."

"It was Mrs. Deane's; she used to love this place. Mr. Deane wanted me to take some roses to Mrs. Deane's grave," Rosalind explained. Mr. Irving had not asked her for an explanation, but she was inclined to give him one nevertheless.

"I see. He did mention his wedding anniversary this morning. So did some of the servants -- apparently there used to be some sort of celebration in the house when my aunt was still alive."

"Yes, Mr. and Mrs. Deane's parties on these occasions used to be very popular," Rosalind said. "Mrs. Deane was very fond of company. So was Mr. Deane, before ... before his illness began."

"I know -- people have told me. There used to be some sort of harvest celebration too, wasn't there?"

"The Harvest Home for Mr. Deane's tenants," Rosalind agreed. "For the entire village, that is. Mr. Deane even kept up the tradition after Mrs. Deane had died. There will not be any this year though, I suppose." Rosalind sighed. The Harvest Home at Rampton Manor had always been a merry event, one that everyone including herself had been looking forward to for weeks.

Mr. Irving handed her some more roses and Rosalind put them into the basket. "In fact, there is going to be one this year too," he said. "My uncle wishes it."

"He does? Do you think it is appropriate to celebrate, considering his state of health?" Rosalind was not sure of that.

"Do you think it is not?" Mr. Irving gave her an anxious look. "I said I would tell Mrs. Piggott to get everything ready for the celebration, but if you think we had better wait until my uncle is feeling better..." He broke off. It had apparently occurred to him that Mr. Deane's health was unlikely to improve.

"Does Mr. Deane really wish it?" Rosalind asked.

"Oh yes, he seemed quite determined. He said - wrote, rather -- that it was an old tradition that he wished to be observed as usual. He even said he was going to take part in the festivity too."

"But he cannot! Remember what happened last time Mr. Deane overtaxed his strength!" Rosalind exclaimed. "You must try to dissuade him, Mr. Irving."

"He seems to be looking forward to it so much -- I did not have the heart to refuse him. He has not had many happy thoughts to hold on to of late, you know." Mr. Irving said. "I realise I should have tried to dissuade him, but I just could not do it."

Rosalind sighed. "I that case, I think you should get on with it by all means, though perhaps you should try to keep him from attending," she said. "Even though I think it will be a sad harvest festival without Mr. Deane."

"So do I, but I will do my best to make it a happy occasion in spite of his absence. The tenants certainly do deserve a festivity -- they have been working so hard these past weeks, they will be looking forward to some amusement."

He gave Rosalind some more roses, and she declared she had quite enough of them to make a beautiful bouquet for Mrs. Deane's grave.

"One more," Mr. Irving said, and walked to another rose bush carrying yellow roses and cut off the most beautiful flower. "Not for Mrs. Deane, though." He gave it to Rosalind.
"For you," he said. "A welcome home present."

Rosalind blushed. "Th ... thank you, Mr. Irving," she stammered. "This is very..."

"Kind?" Mr. Irving asked with a teasing smile.

"I was going to say unexpected," Rosalind said. Mr. Irving looked puzzled.

"Unwelcome, too?" he asked, after a short pause.

"Oh no, no ... certainly not unwelcome!" Rosalind protested. "I like it very much ... it is just that getting flowers from a gentleman is such a rare event for me that I do not know how to react. I hope I have not offended you?" She gave him an anxious look -- the very last thing she wanted to do was hurt his feelings.

"No, you have not," Mr. Irving said, taking Rosalind's hand. "I hope you will not take it amiss if I say so, but something is not quite right. You seem uncommonly upset today. Has anything happened to distress you? If so, is there anything I can do to help?"

"No, there isn't ... I mean, there is nothing you can do to help," Rosalind said, thinking of the unwanted marriage proposal in store for her. Mr. Irving could not do anything about that, when all was said and done. "I can handle it by myself, I think."

"Is this a polite way of telling me to mind my own business?" Mr. Irving asked. "I suppose I should not have been so bold as to inquire into your affairs, but you do seem not quite yourself today, Miss Acton."

Rosalind sighed. "Believe me, Mr. Irving, the matter is not ... I am not in trouble, if this is what you think. There is something I need to do -- and I am the one who must do it -- and I do not exactly look forward to doing it, this is all. Do not distress yourself on my account, I beg you."

Mr. Irving gave her an earnest look. "I hope you know you can count on me, Miss Acton."

"I do. I really do, Mr. Irving." Rosalind gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. Only then she realised he had been holding her hand for several minutes, and she had not even thought of withdrawing it from him. Surely he must be aware of that too, she thought. Even now that Rosalind had become aware of it she made no attempt to withdraw her hand from his. Holding hands with a man might be improper, but it was also very pleasant, she thought, at least it was when the man in question was Mr. Irving.

"I am sorry I did not call on your family yesterday," Mr. Irving finally said. "I wanted to, but something or other always got into the way -- in the evening I was quite vexed for not being able to see you. Being a landowner or, in my case, a landowner's heir is hard work, I can tell you."

Rosalind laughed. "I know. Mr. Deane used to be a very busy man, too. He will expect no less of you, I suppose."

"Quite so, Miss Acton, he does. I believe he wishes to teach me how to go about the business of managing his estate before he has to go. It must be hard for him to sit by and watch."

Rosalind sighed. "His health has got worse since I left," she said sadly.

Mr. Irving nodded. "He is a stubborn old gentleman though," he said. "I think he may linger for yet a while, Miss Acton."

"I hope so," Rosalind said. "Even though it is terribly sad to see him decline, it is even worse to imagine that he will be gone completely one day."

"I hope he will stay around for long enough to see some of the changes I am planning for the Manor," Mr. Irving said.

"Changes?"

"There is ... one big change I am contemplating," Mr. Irving said. "One that I know will please my uncle." The look he gave her was affectionate, but searching.

There was no way of mistaking his meaning. Rosalind blushed and decided she had stayed for long enough.

"I will have to go and get the bouquet for Mrs. Deane's grave ready," she said hurriedly.

"Do, Miss Acton," Mr. Irving said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "Will you come and see us tomorrow?"

"I will come and see Mr. Deane, certainly," Rosalind said. "But I daresay you will be busy, Mr. Irving."

"One never knows," Mr. Irving said, and held the porch to the churchyard open for her. "Good evening, Miss Acton."

"Good evening, sir," Rosalind said, and left. She wondered what might have happened, had she encouraged Mr. Irving to elaborate on his plans for the Manor -- the plans that would please Mr. Deane. The way Mr. Irving had looked at her when he had mentioned them had led her to believe that he meant to offer for her, just as her grandmother had predicted.

A new mistress would indeed be a big change for the household at the Manor House - and Rosalind knew that Mr. Deane liked her and would be delighted if she were to live there permanently. She knew that Mr. Irving could look higher for a bride, and that many of his friends would think he had married beneath him ... what was she thinking? For all she knew, Mr. Irving might merely want to add another wing to the building, or have the kitchens modernised. It would not do for her to indulge in fantasies of any kind -- she had done so before, and had been disappointed. First of all she would have to refuse Mr. Trent's offer, then she could go on to encourage Mr. Irving in whatever it was he wished to do. Rosalind did hope she was not mistaken in her assumptions, though. She could think of nothing better than becoming Mr. Irving's wife.

It took Rosalind some time to realise that someone was knocking on the front door of the Rectory. It was late at night, and she could not have slept for long when the noise finally roused her. She sat up in her bed and listened. There was a knock, sure enough.

Rosalind got out of bed and put on her slippers and dressing gown. She did not light a candle, for the full moon was shining and there was enough light coming in through her window once she had pulled the curtains open.

Her sisters in the room next to hers were fast asleep. Rosalind tiptoed past their beds, and went down the stairs. As she reached the downstairs hallway, Polly, the maid, came down the stairs as well.

"Let me answer the door, Miss," she said. With a nod, Rosalind stepped aside for Polly to open the door. "I do wonder who needs the Rector, at this late hour," Polly said. "Why, it's past eleven o'clock!"

It was Mr. Deane's valet, and in the light of Polly's lamp Rosalind could see that he was in great distress.

"Has anything happened at the Manor House, Mr. Philips?" she asked immediately. "Is something wrong with Mr. Deane?"

"I am afraid so, Miss Acton," Philips said. "Mr. Deane has suffered another stroke, and the doctor said he will not last the night."

"Oh no!" Rosalind exclaimed. "But ... but why? He seemed rather well when I saw him this afternoon!"

"The doctor says it was inevitable," Philips said. "Mr. Irving has sent me to ask the Rector to come and see him. He said Mr. Deane could do with some comfort, and Mr. Acton has always been a friend of Mr. Deane's..."

"I will wake him immediately," Rosalind said. It was not an uncommon occurrence that Mr. Acton was asked to attend to dying members of his parish, but this was rarely that Rosalind felt truly affected by the event. She ran up the stairs and knocked at her father's door.

"Papa?" she cried. "Papa, are you awake?"

"I am now," she heard her father's sleepy voice behind the door. "What is it, Rosie?"

"Papa, Mr. Deane is dying," Rosalind cried. "Philips has come to ask you to come to the Manor House."

Rosalind heard a bump, and an expression that was not quite in keeping with her father's profession. Apparently he had knocked against the bedpost while searching for his clothes.

"Tell him to go back, will you?" Mr. Acton said. "I will come over as quickly as I can."

Rosalind went back downstairs to deliver her father's message to Philips, and then went back to her bedroom to get dressed. As she went down the stairs, her father was at the door and turned towards her.

"What do you think you are doing?" he asked her.

"I am going to come with you," Rosalind said. "I want to say goodbye to Mr. Deane."

"You won't." Mr. Acton said sternly. "I will not have you run around the village in the middle of the night."

"But Papa, Mr. Deane..." Rosalind began.

"Where he is going he will not need you any more," Mr. Acton said. "Believe me, Rosie, you had better stay at home. Mr. Deane knows you did not let him down. If he had wanted you to be there, he'd have sent for you as well as me."

"But he cannot talk," Rosalind said stubbornly. "He may wish me to be there but may not be able to ask for me to come. Maybe Mr. Irving just did not think of telling Philips to ask me to come too!"

"Or maybe Mr. Deane was somehow able to convey to Mr. Irving that he did not want you to see him die," Mr. Acton said. "People sometimes do that, you know. Even with the ones they love most -- taking leave of one's loved ones makes matters so much more difficult for them, my dear. Do me the favour and stay here, Rosie -- if only until I have tried to find out whether Mr. Deane wants you there or not. If he does, I will send someone to fetch you. What do you say?"

Rosalind nodded. This was fair. Perhaps her father was right -- he had attended many deathbeds in the course of his career, and had some experience with the situation. Perhaps Mr. Deane really did not want her there, and who was she to ignore a dying gentleman's wish?

When her father left the Rectory, Rosalind went to the parlour, lit a candle and tried to read to pass the time. Soon she put the book aside, realising that she was unable to concentrate. Instead, she thought of the many happy memories she had with Mr. Deane, and those memories brought tears to her eyes.

Mr. Acton was not gone long. He returned an hour later, and seeing the light in the parlour he came in, looking tired and grave.

"What about Mr. Deane, Papa?" Rosalind asked anxiously. "Is he ... is he dead?"

Mr. Acton nodded. "He was unconscious when I arrived, Rosie, and did not regain consciousness until the end. This is why I did not send for you -- he would not have noticed you were there anyway, and there was nothing you could have done for him. Mr. Bates was with him, and Mr. Irving, and Philips, and myself. The room was rather crowded as it was."

"What about Mr. Irving? How did he cope with the situation?" Rosalind asked.

"He was calm, but very sorry that he had not had the chance to get to know the old gentleman better," Mr. Acton said. "He seems to have grown rather fond of him, and did everything to make him feel more comfortable. It was Mr. Irving who sent Philips to fetch me. He thought Mr. Deane might want to have a friend with him, not just a great-nephew he barely knew."

Tears were running down Rosalind's face. It was just like Mr. Irving to keep in mind that his presence might not be as soothing to his great-uncle as that of an old friend might be. He was the most considerate man she had ever met -- apart from the one occasion in London, that was.

"Mr. Irving said something that made a great deal of sense to me," Mr. Acton said thoughtfully. "He told me Mr. Deane had been very unhappy recently."

"So he was," Rosalind admitted. "I noticed it too."

"It's hardly surprising," Mr. Acton said. "Considering what he was before his illness. -- Anyway, Mr. Irving said it was a strange coincidence that Mr. Deane should die on his wedding anniversary. It was almost as if they were to be reunited, he said."

"This does make sense," Rosalind said with a tearful smile. "I like the idea of Mrs. Deane waiting for her husband to join her in Heaven -- and that he would do so on their wedding day seems appropriate."

"So do I," Mr. Acton admitted. "Come, Rosie, go back to bed and try to get some sleep. It is going to be a busy day tomorrow."

Rosalind nodded, and went up the stairs when suddenly a thought struck her.

"Papa," she said, turning round to her father who was walking behind her. "What are we going to do about Mr. Trent? I know you invited him for tomorrow evening, and you wanted me to listen to his proposal but ... cannot we postpone that dinner? I cannot face him -- not so soon after Mr. Deane ..."

Mr. Acton nodded. "I believe Mr. Trent will understand that, due to these circumstances, we are not going to have a dinner party tomorrow," he said. "But you will have to face him some time, Rosie. I promised him you would."

"I know," Rosalind said unhappily and went to her room, where she cried herself to sleep.

Part XIX

Rosalind awoke late the next morning. Her mother, who had been greeted with the news of Mr. Deane's death the moment she had risen from her bed, had decided to let Rosalind sleep to recover from the anxious night she had had.

Before noon, the whole village knew that Mr. Deane was gone, and there was a constant stream of visitors approaching the Manor House. Rosalind did not go there. She knew that, with Mr. Deane gone, she could not visit the place any more. Young ladies did not call on single young gentlemen in their homes, not even on visits of condolence. The next day being a Sunday, though, Rosalind knew she would meet Mr. Irving in church. She would be able to talk to him there, and that thought gave her a little comfort.

She met Mr. Irving earlier than that, though. In the late afternoon, once his visitors had left, he came to the Rectory to discuss the details of his uncle's funeral with Mr. Acton. He looked pale, Rosalind thought, and grave, and there was no trace of his customary good humour in his voice when he spoke. Having settled his business with the Rector, he came into Mrs. Acton's parlour for a couple of minutes to receive her and her daughters' condolences. He answered each of Mrs. Acton's questions readily, and so Rosalind found out exactly what had happened the previous evening. Even though she did not ask him any questions, she felt that his account was directed at her especially -- that for some reason he needed to tell her most of all.

Mr. Deane had dined at six o'clock as usual, and his nephew and Mr. Murray had paid him a visit later in the evening, after they had had their dinner. They had discussed the Harvest Home -- Mr. Deane had been quite adamant that it should take place in spite of his poor health -- and Mr. Deane had seemed to be in excellent spirits. At one point, though, he had slumped and, upon inquiry, had managed to convey to them that he was feeling unwell -- though with great difficulty. Mr. Irving had sent for the doctor immediately, but by the time Mr. Bates had arrived Mr. Deane had been barely conscious. Mr. Bates had diagnosed another stroke, worse than the two previous ones, and had, in a whisper, informed Mr. Irving that Mr. Deane was unlikely to live into the next day. It was then that Mr. Irving had decided to ask Mr. Acton to come to the Manor House, in case Mr. Deane was really dying. He had not actually believed that his uncle was about to die, though, and had still hoped his condition would improve.

By the time Mr. Acton had arrived at the Manor House, this hope had diminished. It had become clear even to the most optimistic of people that Mr. Deane would not last the night, and after Mr. Bates had outlined the possible consequences of the stroke no one had really wanted him to.

"We all know that he was extremely unhappy with the way things were," Mr. Irving said. "And he was comparatively well all that time. Now he would have been truly unable to leave his bed ever again, and most likely unable to communicate too -- imagine how horrible this would have been for him."

Rosalind nodded. She knew that what Mr. Irving said was true, but the truth of it did nothing to diminish the huge sense of loss she felt.

"How about the Harvest Home, then?" Miranda asked, encountering a reproving glare from her mother and both her sisters for her pains.

"Not this year, I am afraid, Miss Miranda," Mr. Irving said with a faint smile. "Next year, I promise."

"When is the funeral going to take place?" Beatrice asked.

"Tuesday morning," Mr. Irving said. "I have asked Mr. Acton to assist me with the arrangements -- I know there are different traditions in every parish, and I want to make sure everything is just as it should be, according to local customs. I owe my uncle no less."

"At least he did not leave his affairs in a tangle, as often happens," Mrs. Acton said.

"No, my uncle was a very conscientious man," Mr. Irving said. "Mr. Jacobs has assured me that my uncle always took great care to pay his bills the moment he received them, not wishing to be beholden to anyone. He says there will be no surprises when the Will is read, though why he felt it necessary to reassure me on that head I do not know."

Rosalind began to understand why Mr. Deane must have disliked the elder Mr. Irving so much. From what she knew of him, which was admittedly not very much, she assumed that he had hardly ever taken the trouble to pay any bills. It must have pained the old gentleman a great deal to see his niece married to such a man. The thought of Mr. Irving's parents brought another idea to Rosalind's mind, and she was unsure what to think of it.

"Will Mrs. Irving come here?" she asked cautiously.

"I have no idea," Mr. Irving said. "I posted an express to her first thing this morning, so we will see."

He did not sound particularly keen to have his mother with him, Rosalind thought.

"I think she should come," Miranda said. "You cannot stay in this huge house all by yourself."

Mr. Irving laughed. "Do you think I will be afraid all on my own, Miss Miranda? You forget my cousin is still staying with me."

"Of course," Miranda said. "Mr. Murray will make things easier for you, I daresay."

"He is trying, certainly," Mr. Irving said. "Just as a good friend should."

Mr. Irving then took his leave and walked back to the Manor House, taking the path Rosalind had walked so often -- across the churchyard and through the porch into the rose garden.

Rosalind decided she needed to do something to take her mind off Mr. Deane and went to the kitchen for a bucket and soap. The church should be gleaming on the day Mr. Deane was laid to rest.

By the time Rosalind had finished her work in the church it was almost six o'clock, and Rosalind realised she would be late for dinner if she did not hurry up. She was just about to gather her bucket and brush and walk home again when the church door opened and Mr. Trent came in. To say that Rosalind was surprised to see him was an understatement. He was the very last person she would have expected here, especially since she knew for certain that her father had cancelled Mr. Trent's invitation for the evening and had asked him to defer his marriage proposal until Rosalind had come to terms with her grief. Yet there he was, striding purposefully towards her.

"Good ... good evening, Mr. Trent," Rosalind said, hoping she sounded calm.

"Good evening, Miss Acton," he said. "I saw the vestry door was open and thought I might find your father here."

"I am afraid he is not here, Mr. Trent," Rosalind said. "It is only me, giving the church a thorough cleaning."

"Haven't you got maids who can do this kind of work?" Mr. Trent asked.

"We have maids, but I am afraid they are busy today," Rosalind said. "I often clean the church; you must agree that it is a very beneficial exercise both for the body and the mind. It teaches us humility."

"I never thought you needed lessons in humility, Miss Acton," Mr. Trent said with a smile. "In fact I have always admired you for being such a modest, unassuming person."

"Please, Mr. Trent," Rosalind said, trying to prevent him from going on in that vein.

"You see? You do not even like to be praised," Mr. Trent said. He was not going to stop singing her praises, it seemed.

"Perhaps this is only my way of extracting even more praise from people?" Rosalind asked.

"From someone else, this would sound believable, but not from you, Miss Acton," Mr. Trent said.

"You will find my father in the Rectory," Rosalind said, cutting the discussion short. She felt no inclination to discuss her virtues with Mr. Trent, and the sooner she got rid of him the better it was. What was he doing here anyway? "I must hurry, sir, or I will be late for dinner, which is something my mother does not tolerate."

She hurried towards the vestry. Mr. Trent followed closely on her heels. "One moment, Miss Acton -- please."

Rosalind stopped, and looked at Mr. Trent. Was it possible that he disregarded her wishes and had come here to propose to her?

"Miss Acton," he said, "you can be in no doubt as to my feelings for you. I hold you in the greatest respect and affection, and have come here to give you comfort."

"This is very kind of you, sir, but not at all necessary. My family and friends provide a great deal of consolation, I assure you."

"Has your father informed you about ... about the purpose of the visit I was planning for today?" Mr. Trent asked.

"He did, sir."

"I see. I was not certain he had," Mr. Trent said.

"Surely he would ask me for my opinion in such an important matter," Rosalind said.

"Naturally he would," Mr. Trent hurried to agree. "I know your father asked me not to mention the subject to you today, since you are greatly distressed at the loss of a dear family friend, but I cannot keep silent any longer. I love you, Miss Acton, and you would make me very happy if you consented to be my wife."

The speech sounded rehearsed, Rosalind thought, though perhaps this was only because she was annoyed that he actually dared make her an offer at a time when she had clearly wished him not to. There was one good thing about it, though -- his lack of consideration for her feelings made it much easier for her to refuse him.

"Mr. Trent, your offer honours me greatly," she began. "But I cannot accept it. I am sorry."

Mr. Trent had clearly not expected such an answer from her. Perhaps he had thought she would be so astonished at the offer that she would jump at the chance to be married.

"Why not?" he asked, sounding angry rather than disappointed.

"There are several reasons," Rosalind said. "First and foremost, I do not love you. I respect you as a friend, but it is my opinion that it takes more to build a marriage upon than mere friendship. When I do marry someone, I wish to be a good wife, and I feel I cannot be a good wife to you. Secondly, and I hope you will pardon my saying so, your feelings for me appear to be of a very selfish nature."

"Selfish? Me?"

"Yes, you, Mr. Trent. You never once considered my feelings -- you could not, or you would not be here today. A wife must be able to believe that her husband will grant her reasonable requests -- and you cannot deny that my request not to force a marriage proposal on me at such a moment was a reasonable one."

"So this is it? You take exception to the fact that I asked you today, instead of waiting for another week or two?"

"No, that was just the final straw. I knew before that I did not want to marry you. Your behaviour today has merely strengthened my resolve."

She picked up her bucket. "And now I have to go, Mr. Trent. As I said, you will find my father at the Rectory. If you make haste, you will be able to speak to him before we sit down to dinner."

With these words, she passed through the vestry and left the church, not caring whether Mr. Trent followed her or not. She hurried across the churchyard, entered the Rectory through the back door to the kitchens, left the bucket, rags and brushes there and hurried upstairs to her room to wash and get dressed for dinner.

The general sentiment in the neighbourhood was that Mr. Deane's funeral was exactly what it should be. Mr. Irving had avoided no cost to make his uncle's memorial service one that was worthy of his person. Had he not won the neighbourhood's approval already, this would have been the point deciding in his favour. While Mr. Deane had been alive, Mr. Irving had had to act according to his wishes, but now he was free to do whatever he liked. Still he took great care to carry out what everyone knew must have been Mr. Deane's plans.

Mr. Deane was to be buried next to his wife. Mr. Acton had told his family as much, and also that Mr. Irving planned to have a new memorial made for them both. Mrs. Piggott and the maids at the Manor House had spent the past few days cleaning the house from attics to cellars, as if it had never been cleaned before. She would not have it said that the house was not in the best order, Mrs. Piggott had announced. The cook had been busy in the kitchen, preparing food for the mourners who were to assemble there after the funeral service. Judging by the amount of food prepared, Cook expected about half a million guests, and very hungry ones too.

Rosalind and her mother and sisters did not attend the funeral service. It was not usual for ladies to do so. So when Rosalind's father and brothers walked to the church, Mrs. Acton and her daughters as well as Lady Wilcox and her daughter, who had come over for the purpose, went to the parlour, where Mrs. Acton read the funeral service from her husband's prayer book and they said their prayers for Mr. Deane. Afterwards, Mrs. Acton ordered refreshment for her guests, and they spent some time talking about Mr. Deane and planning a charity concert for Christmas.

"The Bazaar was such a success," Lady Wilcox said. "I am sure the concert will be a triumph as well. I have already mentioned the matter to Mrs. Fletcher, and she says she and her school children will naturally take part. She says there are some very talented singers among them."

"This sounds promising," Rosalind said, sitting in the window seat and looking outside to see if her father and brothers were coming back. They were not. "Are they going to sing Christmas carols?"

"Something of the sort," Lady Wilcox said. "Though Mrs. Fletcher said she was not certain yet."

"And where do you think the concert will take place, Lady Wilcox?" Beatrice asked. "In the church, or the school, or in your own house? I do not make the suggestion of holding it here; there is not much room for a concert in the Rectory."

"We could use the school room again, I am sure," Lady Wilcox said. "I was going to suggest the Gallery in my house, but I am not certain whether it is not very much out of everyone's way. The church is beautiful, of course, but it can be rather cold in December, which can certainly keep people from going there for a mere concert."

Mrs. Acton agreed.

December, Rosalind thought. It was not even September yet, and still December would come soon. Life went on. Though what it was going to be like, now, with Mr. Deane gone, she did not know.

"Excuse me for a moment," Rosalind said and went upstairs to her room, where she sat down on the window seat and stared at the Manor House which she could see very well from here.
Where will I be in December, she wondered. Mr. Irving had hinted at his plans -- plans that he knew would please his uncle. She thought she had understood what he had meant to say, and for a moment she was almost as angry with Mr. Irving for not proposing as she was with Mr. Trent for doing just that. She assumed she was just hard to please.

Mr. Irving had other things on his mind, quite naturally. A death in one's family tended to push everything else aside, she had often observed that. What she needed now was patience. Mr. Irving would come to her, once he felt it was the right moment to do so. For now, she would have to wait, and to show him that she did not resent having to do so.

Seeing that several gentlemen emerged from the Manor House, she got up and went back downstairs. It was difficult to tell at such a distance, especially with everyone wearing the same colours, but it was quite possible that her father and brothers were among the gentlemen who had just left the Manor, and she wanted to hear their account of the funeral service in general and Mr. Irving in particular.

Her brothers and Mr. Wilcox were among the mourners who had left the Manor House, but Mr. Acton and Sir Leonard Wilcox had been asked to stay -- Mr. Jacobs was about to read Mr. Deane's Will.

"Why does it concern them," Judith Wilcox asked.

"I do not know about Sir Leonard," Mrs. Acton said, "but I do know that Mr. Deane asked Mr. Acton whether he objected to being named executor of his Will, and in that case the Will would naturally concern him."

Lady Wilcox nodded. "He asked my husband the same," she said. "Well, we will soon know all about it, I presume."

Mrs. Acton then turned to her sons and Mr. Wilcox and asked them whether they were hungry, a question which all of them answered in the negative. Mr. Deane's -- that was, Mr. Irving's -cook had done her best to fatten the entire congregation.

"I do not believe any of us will need any food until next week," Rosalind's brother Henry laughed.

"Were there many people at the service?" Rosalind asked.

"Oh yes," her brother William replied. "Almost everyone in the village, apart from Tom Smith, who is laid up with the influenza, I have been told. But each of Mr. Deane's tenants was there, and people came here from as far as Birmingham to attend. Mr. Deane had many friends, as you know."

Everyone agreed; still it seemed quite amazing that people would brave the journey from Birmingham to Rampton in order to attend Mr. Deane's funeral.

"Who were those people from Birmingham," Lady Wilcox asked.

"A friend of Mrs. Deane's, I understand. The fellow is married to a school friend of hers."

"Oh! It must have been Mr. Thwaite, then," Lady Wilcox said. "I remember the Thwaites staying at the Manor House several times, a very amiable couple; he must be about the same age as Mr. Deane though."

"He did not look it," William said. "But his name was Thwaite, so I suppose it was him."

"Fancy a gentleman at his age undertaking such a journey just to pay his last respects to a friend," Lady Wilcox said.

"That certainly makes him sound like a very good sort of man," Mrs. Acton said.

An hour later, Mr. Acton and Sir Leonard Wilcox arrived at the Rectory. While Sir Leonard only came inside for a few moments to take his family with him and to thank Mrs. Acton for her kind hospitality, Mr. Acton sat down in the parlour with a sigh and waited until the guests were gone.

"You have had a very long day, my dear," Mrs. Acton remarked. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"No, thank you," the rector said, with a smile. "I have been well provided for over at the Manor House."

"William did say that Cook had outdone herself," Mrs. Acton remarked. "Did Mr. Deane make you the executor of his Will?"

"Yes, he did -- Sir Leonard, Mr. Jacobs and me, that is."

"This is hardly surprising," Mrs. Acton said. "You used to be his closest friends. I do not expect there will be a great deal of trouble attached to the task, though."

"No, it does not look like it," Mr. Acton agreed. "Everything seems in perfect order, and there were no surprises in the document. Some legacies for old friends, and annuities for those of his servants who are too old to find a position in another household. Everything else goes to Mr. Irving, as we knew beforehand."

"What about Mr. Irving's mother?" Rosalind asked. She wondered whether Mr. Deane had made any provisions for her.

"She is to get her aunt's jewellery, nothing else," Mr. Acton said. "Though when I think of the jewels Mrs. Deane often wore, that in itself is a generous bequest. She has nothing to complain about, considering her attitude towards her uncle. -- Speaking of Mrs. Irving, Mr. Irving had a letter from her this morning, telling him she would arrive here some time this week."

Rosalind was not certain whether this was good news or not -- what she had heard of Mrs. Irving had not really made her look like an agreeable sort of woman, but on the other hand she was Mr. Irving's mother and Rosalind felt she ought to make an effort to like her. Rosalind decided to wait and see -- there was not much she could do about it, anyway.

"Oh, and one thing that concerns us -- Rosalind, that is." Mr. Acton said. "Mr. Deane has left you two of his valuable books on herbs, Rosie. I wanted to take them along with me, but Mr. Irving said he would bring them over first thing tomorrow morning."

This was a surprise. Rosalind had never expected anything from Mr. Deane, nothing but his friendship, and he had always been very generous with that. That he would have put so much thought into what he was going to leave her to remind her of him was touching, and the thought brought tears to Rosalind's eyes.

"Mr. Deane was such a lovely, generous man," she murmured.

"He was," Mr. Acton said gravely. "However, I think his nephew is well on his way to becoming a worthy successor."

Rosalind silently agreed.

Part XX

Rosalind met Mr. Irving in the graveyard the next morning. She had picked some flowers in the Rectory garden and had just put them on Mr. Deane's grave, when the porch in the Manor garden wall opened and Mr. Irving walked through, carrying three books.

"Miss Acton," he cried, and came up to her. "Good morning!" His tone of voice indicated considerable surprise at seeing her in this place. According to his smile, it was a pleasant one, too.

"Good morning, Mr. Irving," Rosalind replied.

"I was just on my way to the Rectory to see you," Mr. Irving explained unnecessarily. "My uncle left you these books ... but I suppose your father told you that."

"He did," Rosalind said, smiling.

Mr. Irving stepped towards the grave. "Did you bring these flowers, Miss Acton?" he asked, pointing at the bouquet Rosalind had put onto the grave. "They were not here yesterday."

Rosalind nodded. "I felt like it," she said quietly.

"My uncle's death distresses you greatly, doesn't it?" Mr. Irving said quietly.

"More than I can say," Rosalind agreed. "I am only beginning to realise that he is gone forever -- foolish, isn't it? I knew this was going to happen, and one might think I had had enough time to get accustomed to the thought, but still..." She broke off, unable to go on. If she continued talking in this vein, she thought, she would burst into tears in a moment, and this was the last thing she wanted to happen in Mr. Irving's presence. She was not a child after all; she was supposed to have a certain amount of self control.

Mr. Irving had enough delicacy of feeling to let her recover from her emotions in peace and quiet and did not make any remark.

"Shall we go to the Rectory then?" she asked, after having regained her composure. It would not do to leave Mr. Irving standing there, carrying those books, and the sooner she got away from that grave the better it would be.

"Certainly," Mr. Irving said, offering her his free arm.

"My mother and sisters have gone to call on Lady Wilcox," Rosalind said as they entered the Rectory through the front door. "My father has gone out too -- he was asked to attend to old Mrs. Smith, who seemed rather poorly of late."

"I do not wonder at it. The old lady must be close to a hundred years old, isn't she?" Mr. Irving asked. "If you ask me, it is almost a miracle that she has been so well for such a long time." He held the parlour door open for Rosalind to pass through.

Rosalind sat down on the sofa and invited Mr. Irving to take a seat as well. For a while, their conversation did not touch the reason for Mr. Irving's visit. They talked of the weather, their neighbours, and the harvest, anything but those three books Mr. Irving had brought her or Mr. Deane. But finally, Mr. Irving turned the conversation to the reason for his visit.

He got up, went to the table where he had deposited the books upon his arrival, and took them.

"My great-uncle was very grateful for your friendship," he said. "In his Will, he said he wished you to have these three books from his library because he knew they would be of some use to you. I am inclined to agree with him -- they deal with your principal interest, and from what I have heard you often borrowed them from my uncle."

He handed the volumes to Rosalind, and she opened the first one. It was indeed a book on herbs that she had often found invaluable. The next one contained beautiful, hand-coloured plates and descriptions of plants, and described their effects on the human body. The third book was a volume on gardening, but it had a much-valued section on medicinal herbs as well. Rosalind was no longer able to hold back her tears. Mr. Deane had chosen the very books in his collection that he had known would be the most use to her -- the ones he had known she would use again and again to look up things she wanted to know, the ones most likely not to gather dust in some bookshelf but to be consulted, and appreciated. Books that would indeed make her remember him very often. Mr. Deane had known her very well, and had put a great deal of thought into her present.

She turned away from Mr. Irving, hoping that he would not see her tears, but two half-choked sobs escaped her, much as she had tried to hold them back.

"Miss Acton," Mr. Irving said, sounding genuinely worried. "What is the matter? Is there anything I can do for you?"

Rosalind shook her head, sniffling and vainly searching her pockets for a handkerchief. "I'm fine," she sobbed.

Suddenly, Rosalind found herself in Mr. Irving's arms, crying on his shoulder. She knew she should not have allowed him to take such liberties with her, but it felt so comforting to be held so close that she decided to let him get away with it for once.

After a while, she had calmed herself sufficiently to dry her tears and looked up to Mr. Irving, smiling bashfully at him.

"I am sorry," she said. "I'm none of those lachrymose females, normally."

He smiled down at her, but did not seem inclined to let her go. "No need to be sorry," he said. "You gave me one good excuse for doing what I have been meaning to do for ages, so I'd be the last one to complain. It may not be the right moment to propose to you, Rosalind, so I won't do it just yet, but I could not sit there watching you cry without offering you some comfort."

"It is rather presumptuous of you to think that all you needed to do to comfort me was take me into your arms."

"I was not sure it would work," Mr. Irving admitted. "But it was worth a try. I had a feeling it would not be altogether unwelcome."

Rosalind blushed. "Next you will accuse me of having embraced you," she said, and took a step away from him. He immediately let her go, making no attempt to keep her in his arms.

"No, I'm not as presumptuous as that," he merely said. "I am sorry if my embrace was so distasteful to you."

"I didn't say it was," Rosalind burst out. A moment later she realised what she had said, and could not believe the testimony of her own ears. She had, in fact, just admitted that she had enjoyed being in his arms.

By Mr. Irving's grin she could tell that he, too, had seen through her façade of outraged virtue and that her desperate attempts to keep her dignity greatly amused him.

"I knew, of course, that you can be quite ruthless in your dealings with ladies," she added, trying to keep the damage as low as possible.

"I must protest, ma'am," Mr. Irving retorted. "If I were ruthless, I'd have behaved in a very different fashion. Do you want me to demonstrate?"

"You would not dare," Rosalind said. "Not in my father's house, I am sure."

"I wouldn't be so certain of that if I were you," he said, laughingly. "If you keep provoking me the way you are, I will kiss you, and never mind the consequences." He saw her stricken look, and stopped laughing. "Do you still doubt the sincerity of my feelings?" he asked.

"No," Rosalind said. "No, it is not that. I do think you are sincere."

"But you are afraid I will go too far?"

"Actually, I fear that I have gone too far," Rosalind said. "As I did in London."

"Do try to forget that abominable episode, Rosalind," he said pleadingly. "Things are very different now, you know. I love you with all my heart and I wouldn't even think of hurting you."

This was the first time Mr. Irving had openly talked of love -- and he had called her "Rosalind", too. Happy though she was that she had not been blinded by her own wishes, Rosalind wondered where things would lead from here. He was right of course; this was not the right moment for a proposal. But when would the right moment come?

"I won't kiss you just yet," he said, taking both her hands. "I will wait until we are properly betrothed."

"When will that be?" Rosalind asked, smiling. It could do no harm to ask, she felt.

"As soon as I have gained your parents' consent -- and my mother's, I suppose, and yours, naturally." He smiled. "So, if you do not want me to propose -- say, some time next week --you've only got to say the word. Now."

When Rosalind remained silent, his smile grew broader. "No objection?" he asked. "Excellent. That's settled, then."

Rosalind laughed. "You are absurd," she said.

"Maybe I am. Do you think you can live with an absurd man? Or do my absurdities rather put you off?"

"No, I find them quite amusing," Rosalind said.

"Then there is some reason to hope you will grow accustomed to them," he said, and kissed both her hands. "I need to be off -- my mother is due to arrive any moment; and I had better be at home when she does."

Rosalind accompanied him to the front door, feeling radiantly happy. She was practically betrothed to him now -- though he had not put the actual question to her yet, he had left her in no doubt as to his intentions. She returned to the parlour and was now able to peruse the books that Mr. Deane had left her with no more than a slightly wistful feeling. The knowledge that her love for Mr. Irving was requited had been enough to drive her sadness away.

Mrs. Irving did indeed arrive in the late afternoon of that very day. One of the Actons' servants, who had delivered a message from Rosalind's father to Mrs. Fletcher, had encountered her carriage on his way back to the Rectory and could give a first-hand account of what the lady had looked like.

"She seems rather Friday-faced to me," he said. "Though naturally, with her uncle just dead, she's bound not to look cheerful, it wouldn't be proper."

Miranda, carefully looking around before asking her question to see whether her mother was somewhere within earshot, said, "What did she wear?"

That question, had Mrs. Acton overheard it, would surely have got her youngest daughter into trouble, but since she was not, Miranda could indulge in her penchant for gossip.

"Lord, I've no idea," the unfortunate boy exclaimed. He had no notion of the current ladies' fashions -- or any ladies' fashions, that was. His mother usually wore a plain cotton gown, sturdy shoes, an apron and a cap. Anything else was dismissed as unnecessary and downright sinful in that formidable lady's eyes.

"Her gear looked very expensive though, what with those feathers on her bonnet and the fur round her neck," he added hopefully. He liked Miss Miranda, so he took pains to oblige her.

This did not bode well, Rosalind thought. A lady addicted to finery would hardly approve of a daughter-in-law who had no interest in it at all, and who could not have afforded to buy any expensive gowns, even if her taste had run into that direction. It was highly likely, of course, that Rosalind's lack of fortune would be a much more difficult problem to deal with than her lack of fashionable garments. Mrs. Irving herself had been a lady with a considerable fortune, and would probably expect her son to marry a young lady from the same order and not a chit from a Warwickshire parsonage. Rosalind strongly suspected she already knew the candidate of Mrs. Irving's choice.

The next morning, the inescapable Mrs. Jacobs came to the Rectory to visit her dear friend, Mrs. Acton, and to share her knowledge of the new arrival with her. Mrs. Jacobs herself was not acquainted with the lady yet, but she had it on the best authority -- Mrs. Fisher, who, as everyone knew, was Mrs. Piggott's nephew's sister-in-law and therefore knew about everything that happened in the Manor House before anyone else in Rampton did -- that Mrs. Irving had not exactly made a hit with the inhabitants of Rampton Manor.

Mrs. Acton, too polite to tell her guest that there were things that interested her more than servants' gossip, nodded.

"Of course the house has been without a mistress for a very long time," Mrs. Jacobs said. "That may account for it. Mr. Deane gave Mrs. Piggott free rein to keep house as she liked when Mrs. Deane died; he never cared for household matters. Nor does Mr. Irving, I am sure -- men having no notion of such things, of course. But the moment she arrived Mrs. Irving made complaints about the way the household was run, and how she was going to change a few things now that she was there. I'm sure Mrs. Piggott did not like that. Mrs. Fisher said she was quite furious. One has to say though that Mrs. Piggott is a very good housekeeper, and that she probably feels she has every reason to resent that kind of behaviour from one who hasn't set foot in the house for decades."

"I have always thought that Mrs. Piggott was an excellent housekeeper," Mrs. Acton merely said, not commenting on Mrs. Irving's supposedly odious behaviour upon her arrival.

Rosalind wondered how much of the tale was true, and if there was any truth in it, whether Mrs. Irving had really uttered her suggestions with malicious intent. Perhaps she had merely commented on the furnishings at the Manor House, which were admittedly out of fashion, and had suggested a few changes. Rosalind was willing to give the lady a chance -- if only for Mr. Irving's sake.

"We will have to call on Mrs. Irving to welcome her in the neighbourhood," Mrs. Acton said to her daughters that evening. "I thought it better to let her rest for a day; the journey from London must have been a long and fatiguing one, but we really should visit her tomorrow. I had rather not be remiss in any attention due to her. Since Mr. Irving is not married, she is likely to become the new mistress of the Manor House, and will soon play an important part in the parish. It might be a good idea to win her favour early; she might lend her support to one or two of our charity projects."

Her husband agreed with her, and so during the next morning, Mrs. Acton and her daughters made their way to the Manor House -- for once not across the graveyard and through the rose garden, as they had always done before, but approaching the house using the gravelled driveway. Mr. Deane's -- Mr. Irving's butler opened the door, and admitted them to the house. He assured them that Mrs. Irving was at home to visitors, and led them to the saloon where, in earlier days, Mrs. Deane had received her callers. There they found Lady Wilcox and her daughter, who had come on the same errand as the Acton ladies, and Mrs. Irving.

Rosalind became conscious of being scrutinised very closely when the butler announced her family -- so it was very likely that Mr. Irving had already spoken to his mother about his plans, and that she meant to form an opinion of her as quickly as possible. Well, it was no wonder. As his mother, Mrs. Irving was naturally entitled to be one of the first to know of her son's matrimonial prospects, and also to submitting his bride-to-be to some sort of inspection to see what kind of girl she was.

Whatever the conclusion she had come to, Mrs. Irving's countenance gave nothing away. She was like most of the practiced society hostesses Rosalind had met during her short stay in London -- scrupulously polite to her visitors, and careful to keep her guard up at any time. Rosalind remembered what Mr. Irving had told her about his mother. It was not much, but it had given her the impression of a woman taking great pains to keep up a flawless picture towards the outside world, no matter what was happening in her family. If she disapproved of her son's choice, she was not going to demonstrate her dislike in front of witnesses. But neither did she approve of it, Rosalind thought. While she treated Rosalind and her family with perfect civility, there was no sign of good-will in Mrs. Irving's conduct.

She did join a general discussion of Rampton and Mrs. Acton and Lady Wilcox's charity projects, though, and assured them that she would certainly assist with their Christmas concert, should she still be in Rampton at that time.

"I do not know whether my son means to stay here permanently," she remarked. "But if he does, I will naturally stay with him to keep house for him. This place is in need of a mistress."

"Certainly," Lady Wilcox agreed politely. "It makes such a difference to a place if there is a lady living there."

"Yes, the servants positively run wild when there is no one to keep an eye on them," Mrs. Irving said. "I could not let my son down and leave him to the mercy of the likes of Mrs. Piggott. -- Lady Wilcox, I have just had the most charming idea for your concert. I have some very close friends I could invite to stay with us for Christmas, the Delaneys. Miss Delaney is such an accomplished young lady, and I am almost certain I could persuade her to perform at the concert. What do you say?"

Mrs. Irving had made her position very clear, Rosalind thought upon hearing that, and her heart sank. A lady who took so much trouble to throw her friend's daughter into her son's way could hardly be brought to countenance his marriage to another woman.

"This sounds like an excellent idea," Mrs. Acton said, thereby making it unnecessary for Lady Wilcox to reply. "We would consider ourselves very fortunate if Miss Delaney could be prevailed upon to play for us."

"I am sure she will," Mrs. Irving said. "She is such a sweet creature; she will do anything to oblige me!"

Rosalind wondered whether there was another Miss Delaney whose acquaintance she had not yet made. Who knew, Patience Delaney might keep an amiable sister locked up somewhere.

All in all, Rosalind and her sisters agreed as they walked back to the Rectory, Mrs. Irving could not really be seen as a fortunate addition to Rampton. They felt her to be supercilious and insincere, and Rosalind anticipated a great deal of opposition from that quarter. She only hoped that Mr. Irving would be able to deal with it.

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