Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

T he subtle breeze outside the Hayes homestead was warmer than that at Greybrook, a fact that Mary considered very much a blessing. She leaned against the nearby tree stump, allowing the air to soothe her. The conversation with Mrs. Hayes had proven to be a more genial experience than anyone had anticipated, and Mary now had the pleasure of waiting for the captain to join her after he formalized the agreements they had made with his sister-in-law.

Who knew that a lifetime spent pacifying agitated relatives could become such a deciding factor in her own happiness? Mary reflected on how the widowed Mrs. Hayes had softened from her combative stance mere moments into their first encounter. The woman was, at the end of the day, a mother hoping to ensure the future of her child. Could anyone truly blame her for such a desire?

Accustomed to waiting, Mary spent her time observing the gentle fields around her. The captain's home was no impressive, grand rolling property. Nor was it in any sort of way unique amidst the countless country homes in England. But it was beautiful, and it was ordinary, and it brimmed with the promise of home.

She'd overheard the captain mention something about them being as good as betrothed when appealing for the curricle this morning. And, truly, their embraces after the wedding breakfast might intimate as much. But could she presume enough to allow herself to imagine a future here?

The sound of firm, male footsteps approached. Warm arms braced around her shoulders before she could turn to face the man in whose hands she would gladly entrust her future. It was a future she had never before considered possible, but the reality of his touch, of the kiss he now brushed against her brow, compelled her to start believing otherwise.

"I hope all is well?" she whispered.

"Very well." The contentment in his voice was evident, even under the sound of the wind. "You, my dear, disarmed her completely when I could not. And the promise of a stipend for a London life with her sister seemed just the thing to placate her."

"I do not know whether to remind you or not that it was your inheritance I was promising away. I did not think a man would take so lightly the idea of a woman promising away his money without asking him beforehand."

"But it is to be our money, is it not?"

He turned her around gently as she took in a deep, stabilizing breath. The face that hovered over hers was no longer that of a stranger—severe and solemn, perched to the side of the room away from the rest of the crowd. This was a face whose every line and angle had grown dear to her, his private smile a promise of something deeper and more meaningful between them.

"I was not aware that you had bequeathed me anything," she said with a soft, teasing smile.

"Is it the custom for a man yet living to bequeath anything to his wife?"

"Wife? I don't think I recall you asking, Captain."

The look of joy that spread across his features was not the sort of frivolous grin that Silas and his ilk liked to display—the kind of flirtatious look that Siegfried tried so desperately to emulate. This smile looked far more genuine, far more abiding, and far more precious for how hard-earned it had been.

Slowly, he pulled away and lowered himself to one knee. Mary felt her heart soar.

"My dearest Mary," he said, his low voice barely audible over the sounds of nature and the throbbing in her own ears. "I am not the sort of man many might consider a catch. I have no great fortune, no great home, no grand future to offer."

"William—"

"But I offer myself." He pressed her hands. "And whatever humble existence you have seen for your own eyes today."

A warmth that had little to do with her surroundings grew within her and spread throughout her entire being.

"I hope that is enough."

She sniffed, her hopes and dreams colliding in a whirlwind of emotions.

"Will you marry me?"

"Yes." She smiled.

And she was in his arms before either could say another word.

My dearest husband,

I miss you heartily, and I do not know whether to hope that you have missed me just as much or not. To hope that you equal me in my longing would be selfish, for I would not wish to inflict such difficulty upon anyone else, particularly to someone I love. To hope that you miss me less than I miss you, however, would be to question the sincerity of your last letter—and I am far too kind of a wife to do so.

Fanny gave birth last night, and it was difficult for me to hide the news of our own impending parenthood while everyone around me was expressing their delight over the safe arrival of the latest Danforth grandchild. Silas, competitive as ever, declared that he and Philomena would bear the next one—and in doing so made it thrice as difficult for me to hide our news. If only you had not been required to claim your reward in London on such short notice, I would at least have a tall frame to hide behind whenever I feared my face betrayed our little secret. I can only hope years of repressing my feelings equipped me well for such a time as this.

You need not worry over my health either, for our daily exercise around our house has done wonders for my constitution. And I do retire early still, for I seem incapable of functioning without sleeping at least half the day away. My family's expressed concern is due mostly to their lack of knowledge over my condition.

Tomorrow, Siegfried marries, and my eldest brother has already moved back to Greybrook in preparation. Mama cannot seem to stop weeping over one sentiment or another. Shall I be just as fragile when the time comes for our own child to wed? I would like to think that I would be more sensible than this. But I suppose there are deeper emotions involved when a woman marries off all seven of her children.

I hope the new Mrs. Jansen is doing well. It was very gracious of her to excuse us from having to continue supplying the stipend after her new marriage, but I suppose the amount must feel a trifle to her now that she is to marry such a prosperous man. The fact that her son can be apprenticed to him is a double blessing to be cherished indeed.

I miss you dearly, darling, and cannot wait to be reunited with you in a week's time. Do remember to warm the counterpane before you sleep. It allows you such better rest when you do. It is a mundane request, perhaps, but I'd like to think that your wife is the one person with every right to nag you about the mundane.

I love you.

Always,

Mary