Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

T he merrymaking over the new Mr. and Mrs. Peyton was unlike anything their humble town had ever seen before. For while there had been memorable times when the local gentlewomen had married higher-ranking men, there was no joy comparable to the joy of neighbors watching two families they'd long been acquainted with become attached through marriage. Both the bride's parents and the groom's could not cease smiling, and even Mary was able to momentarily forget her recent private struggles in light of her entire family's evident jubilation.

"Oh, we shall miss you, dear," Mama gushed at Fanny while the guests enjoyed the wedding breakfast. Cheers, jokes, and giggles abounded while bright smiles painted the length of the dining table. And in the midst of it all, Fanny bloomed, clearly undaunted by the monumental change that had just befallen her.

Mary almost envied her sister—for the simple, joyful confidence that seemed to brim from little Fanny's entire frame.

The laughter and the unapologetic gluttony continued for a good few hours, with raucous applause for a drunk singing Silas in tow, until Mary found her senses extended so far beyond their usual limits that she had no choice but to retire.

After bestowing a bittersweet parting embrace to her sister and a sincere welcome to her new brother-in-law, Mary slipped out the dining room and turned down the hall—where she came face to face with Captain Hayes.

The way he straightened himself from the wall indicated that he had been waiting, particularly for her, for perhaps an extended amount of time.

She swallowed before she bowed her head. "Captain Hayes."

"Miss Danforth." His bow was deeper, his mien more solemn. She was certain he had joined the festivities earlier, but he must have excused himself some time before she did. His eyes, when they met hers, sported a mixture of eagerness and hesitation. "I hope I am not intruding at an inopportune moment.

Mary pursed her lips for the briefest of moments. "It is of no import."

"I wish to apologize," he spoke, ever frank. His tall frame managed to look open and approachable despite how he loomed over her. "Last night—what I did—what I?—"

Mary held her breath.

"I should not have done what I did," he said.

She allowed the statement to settle, for both their sakes. Then she agreed quietly, "No, you shouldn't have, though if it is raised expectations that you fear, you do not need?—"

"No," he answered, the certainty of his one uttered word hit like a sinking stone in her stomach. His next words tugged it back afloat. "I had no right to act as I had done, especially when my own affairs have not been settled. How can I dare to offer myself when I barely know if I can keep a roof over my own head?"

A slight pang of hope throbbed within her. "I did not think you were offering."

"You did not—" He paused slightly. "Have I not been marked enough in my attentions these weeks then?"

Mary whispered, her every nerve agitated, "You have been very kind, of course, but growing up as I did with my physical limitations—I have always found it best to interpret any kindnesses extended towards me as a matter of charity."

"I am not a charitable man."

"I beg to differ. A lesser man would have long dealt with your brother's wife in a far more selfish matter."

"With regard to that, I am not noble, only cowardly."

"A cowardly captain? I beg to disagree."

"Who else but a coward would engage a woman's affections without making an offer? Who else but a coward would tarry in another man's house while avoiding the one that is rightfully his?"

"Captain—"

"I claim to have been fighting for the happiness of our entire country, and yet here I stand too afraid to reach out to grasp my own."

Mary let the revelations between his words wrap around her. Then she said quietly, "I have long found that happiness may not be about receiving the full measure of one's hopes. To expect to do so is foolish at best, for happiness is what you make of whatever it is you already have before you."

He looked at her thoughtfully, a disconcertingly perceptive angle to his gaze. "But that is not what you do."

"I do not understand you."

"You do not find happiness in what is before you."

"I do," she insisted. "I love my family, and I am thankful for my life. The comforts I enjoy?—"

"You would not be writing otherwise."

His statement, so simply put, shook her to her very core as much as his fleeting brush of a kiss did last night. Mary swallowed. "I write to help."

"You do."

"And that is the extent of it."

"Is it?"

For a quick breath, she almost wished to scold him. How dare a man of such short acquaintance claim to know the reasons behind the one thing that had always been her own? But his eyes whispered that he understood, that he cared—that it mattered to him that she was happy.

Mary inhaled. "There is little else for me."

"You can have more," he answered right away. "You can have more than this family, more than this house—more than a life lived in proxy."

"I do not think?—"

"You can ."

Somehow, in the time they'd been conversing, the captain had managed to draw so close that she had to arch her neck to maintain his gaze. Or, perhaps, it had been she drifting closer. It was difficult to tell.

Her breath quivered. She swallowed to even it. "As can you, Captain."

Instead of appearing offended, he surprised her with a smile.

"Can I?" he whispered, his lips a mere hair's breadth from hers.

Her heartbeat raged in her ears. Her lungs trembled. But she could hear her own smile in her answer, "Yes."

His reply was of a far more demonstrative variety.

The sun shone bright the next morning as the sights of the English countryside rolled away around her. To her side, the captain sat ramrod straight in his seat, a military man through and through.

Mary had listened with no small degree of fascination this morning as the captain had tried to bargain for the curricle for their little visit—a vehicle that would have required the two of them to make this journey unchaperoned. Papa insisted clearly on the need for a maid and a groom, however, despite the short distance to the captain's homestead, and so they traveled as they did in the Danforths' spacious barouche.

Mary bit back a smile. It was almost odd to be chauffeured around by the family servants, as she herself had never needed such services before. What would a daughter who spent the majority of her time alone in her room need chaperones for?

The captain did not seem to like the way things unfolded, but he at least seemed to bear it with manly fortitude. He even seemed to act every bit the proper gentleman, at least until the maid, no doubt exhausted from her early morning chores, dozed off. Then his hand closed over hers, making the conveyance feel smaller all of a sudden. "Are you well?"

The smile that crept over Mary's lips was both gradual and thorough. The way his arms had felt around her yesterday, strong and unyielding, had rendered even the familiar Greybrook hallway dreamy and wonderful. She did not know what to expect of today's little trip, but she rather liked embracing what was promising to be an entirely new chapter of her otherwise mundane life.

"I am well." She smiled up at him. "Are you ?"

He tensed slightly before relaxing once more. "I question myself every single moment if it was too selfish of me to invite you along," he whispered. "I cannot promise that my sister-in-law shall act in a civil manner."

"She is only looking out for her son."

"Rightfully—or otherwise."

"Or otherwise."

The reminder of the purpose of their visit today sobered them both, and they remained mostly quiet for another few minutes. A part of Mary wished to drink in the fresh air and new sights with wonder—but the stakes of their upcoming errand kept her securely tethered to earth.

Just how hostile was this other Mrs. Hayes? The law might not be her ally, but Mary knew how fiercely a mother might choose to defend what she believed to be in the best interests of her child.

"Have I scared you?" William asked, as they closed in another mile.

"No," she answered truthfully. Mary tugged on her shawl. It was funny how she hardly felt the need for it today—not between the rush of the ride and the warmth of the captain's company. "It is only that I wonder how things might look to her ."

"My brother's wife?"

Mary nodded. Just over the last full bend, a fuller view of the modest country home crested on the horizon. Mary observed the two-story home with a heart's worth of mixed emotions. Could she—she who had never considered the possibility of ever residing anywhere except Greybrook Manor—possibly be the mistress of a such a place one day? Yet her heart clenched for someone else. Because the thought that another woman, another Mrs. Hayes, was facing the possibility of losing this home in favor of whomever the captain married struck a compassionate nerve within her.

"Does she know we are coming?" asked Mary, as the barouche began to slow.

"Perhaps."

"Does she know I am coming?"

"I am afraid not."

"Then she must think me the enemy."

"Mary, please—you are the kindest soul I know. No one could possibly?—"

"But she can." Mary turned to meet his eye. He held her gaze briefly before looking down at their joint hands.

"I suppose if one were in her position, one could possibly construe things as such."

"She is afraid for her future—like I was."

"And are you?"

"Not with you." Mary looked up with all the trust she felt for the man beside her. "I know you will care. I know you will provide."

"And what do you suggest I do about it?"

Mary smiled at the trust conveyed in that question. She glanced at the emerging house. A short, stocky, gently bred woman with a determined look on her face stood near the entrance, a young boy clinging to her side. The ride had indeed proven even shorter than the captain told her father this morning.

Mrs. Hayes was neither young nor old. In fact, she was likely Mary's own age. It was almost heartbreaking to think of the burden and uncertainty a woman in her predicament would have to bear. Was it possible to persuade with compassion where insistence had failed before?

It was, by Mary's humble estimation, worth a try.

"May I talk to her?" asked Mary, before they drew fully within earshot.

"To my sister-in-law?"

"Yes."

His tone sounded unsure, but his words rang true. "By all means."

Mary nodded. She waited patiently until they drew to a stop. And as soon as the captain handed her down, Mary rushed forward, an unexpected urgency to her steps. And, likely surprising everybody else present, she gathered the woman's hands in her own and said, "Mrs. Hayes, I am Miss Mary Danforth—and we are here to ensure that you and your son will have a home to stay in for the rest of your life."