Chapter 9

M IRANDA D UNHAM’S SON WAS BORN AT SIX MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT on April 30, 1813. He was, according to both his mother’s and doctor’s calculations, two and a half weeks early. Nevertheless, he was a lusty, healthy infant. The London season was only two-thirds over, but the current high-waisted fashions had allowed Miranda to be social until her time. In fact it was the doctor’s disapproving opinion that Lady Dunham’s busy life had been responsible for the slightly premature birth.

“Fiddlesticks!” snapped his patient. “Both the boy and I are in excellent condition.”

The doctor had gone his way shaking his head. Young Lady Swynford, he privately declared, was a much better patient than her sister. Although her child was not due until the end of June, she had wisely retired from society at the end of March, a full three months prior to the birth.

Both sisters had giggled behind the good doctor’s back, and to the horror of the wet nurse they had undressed the baby in the middle of his mama’s bed, exclaiming over his perfection. His toes and fingers, the tiny nails, his thick black hair, his miniature genitals all elicited exclamations of delight.

“What are you going to call him?” asked Amanda one day when her nephew was a week old.

“Would you mind if I named him after Papa?” said Miranda.

“Lord, no! Thomas is a Dunham name. Adrian and I have decided if our baby is a boy we shall call him Edward. If it’s a girl, Clarissa. What does Jared say?”

“Jared! Oh! He agrees. The child will be Thomas. I intend asking Adrian to be the baby’s godfather, and Jared’s older brother, Jonathan, will also be godfather. Jared will have to stand in for his brother at the christening, as Jon cannot possibly come here from America. Will you be my Tom’s godmother?”

“Gladly, dearest, and you will be godmama to my child?”

“Of course I will, Mandy,” promised Miranda.

Thomas Jonathan Adrian Dunham was christened in mid-May at the small country church in the village belonging to Swynford Hall. If Lord Palmerston had heard from Jared, he had not communicated any message to Miranda. In fact, he had gone out of his way to avoid her at the social gatherings they attended. Not knowing how much he had told his mistress, Lady Cowper, Miranda could not even beg Emily to intercede for her. The situation was becoming intolerable.

Little Tom’s birth had been a relatively easy one, and yet Miranda was tired suddenly, and felt more alone than she had in months. Jon, of course, had been with her during her ordeal, sitting by her side wiping her wet brow with a cologne-scented handkerchief, allowing her to squeeze his hands until she thought she was going to crush them, giving her strength. When she thought of Jared, and briefly wanted to give up, looking at Jon had helped. Jon understood the way of a woman in childbirth.

What distressed Miranda most of all was the knowledge that Jared didn’t even know there was to be a child. He didn’t know she had borne him a strong and fine son. Lacking any real knowledge of her husband, her imagination played havoc with her postpartum nerves. Jared had not been celibate before their marriage, and now, separated from her, what was to prevent him taking a mistress in St. Petersburg? She alternated between tears and fury as she imagined her Jared with another woman writhing beneath him. Another woman receiving what should rightfully be hers! She would weep with frustration, hating herself for doubting him, hating him for putting patriotism before his wife.

If Jared had but known her thoughts they would have pleased him immensely, for shortly before the new year he had become a guest of the Tzar. His new home was a spacious two-room apartment in the Fortress of St. Peter and St. Paul. He was currently under the Tzar’s protection, and not allowed to leave. He chafed at his imprisonment and another woman was the furthest thing from his mind. The only woman he thought of was Miranda, and he thought of her often. He had made her a woman, his love had given her confidence, and now he imagined her being pursued by every sensible gentleman within the ton, dazzling society with her wit and unusual beauty.

Impotent fury coursed through him. What if that damned royal satyr, Prinny, took it in his head to seduce Miranda? Could she avoid him? Would she want to? Despite his girth, the Prince Regent was a most charming and fascinating man. Jesus! He’d kill the bastard if he had touched Miranda! Oh, Miranda, he thought, for all your intelligence, you are so innocent of the world. You see only what you want to, my darling, and no more. Jared Dunham paced angrily and restlessly back and forth within his quarters, calling himself every kind of a fool for leaving his wife.

As if to mock his black mood, St. Petersburg was experiencing a rare bright and sunshiny winter’s day. Beyond the ornate twisted bars and glass on the apartment windows, he could see the blue sky and the bright sunshine. The city was white with snow sparkling brightly from the rooftops and onion-domed churches. Below him the Neva was frozen solid, and the aristocracy amused themselved by holding races, their sleighs racing down the river at breakneck speed. He could imagine the thunder of hooves, and the shouts of participants and spectators alike. Up here in his small world the only sounds were those made by himself or Mitchum.

He thought of London, of the social season now just beginning. He wondered if his brother, that staunch New England Yankee Jonathan, was adjusting to being an Anglo-American lord. He chuckled, tickled at the idea of his sensible, plain-living brother forced to wallow in the lap of luxury, as would be expected of Jared Dunham.

Jonathan had actually settled quite comfortably into his role as the wealthy Yankee lordling. He had his club, and he had a pretty mistress, a little opera dancer, in London. While in London he rode daily with Adrian, gamed quite successfully, visited Gentlemen Jackson’s gym to box, and squired his opera dancer to all the places a gentleman might be seen with his light-o’-love. Prior to the Dunhams’ and Swynfords’ departure to Worcester he had bid the lady farewell and gifted her with a showy necklace, earrings, and bracelet of pale-blue Brazilian aquamarines. He did not expect to see her again, and chuckled with glee at the possibility of Jared running into her someday.

Once again they were to spend the summer and autumn seasons at Swynford Hall. The baby, Tom, was housed in cheerful rooms that had been redecorated in anticipation of his cousin’s arrival. They would, Amanda declared, be almost like twins. The nursery staff set about spoiling the new heir to Wyndsong Island, and Miranda hardly saw her child except for a brief time in the morning, and again just before his bedtime.

Jon spent a great deal of time away from her now, and Miranda realized with shock that he genuinely cared for a young widow in the village whom he had met last winter. Mistress Anne Bowen was the daughter of the previous rector of Swynford Church, now deceased. She had been married at eighteen to the younger son of the local squire, but her husband’s family had expected their son to marry an heiress, not the daughter of the local minister, and Robert Bowen was cut off without a penny.

Fortunately, he had been a scholar, and his family had educated him. He opened a small penny school to teach the local children their letters. They lived in the vicarage, for his father-in-law was a widower, and with the blessing of a roof over their heads, the kitchen garden that Anne tended, and his small living as schoolmaster they were comfortable.

In the ten years of their marriage, a boy and a girl were born to them. Then two years before, both the vicar and his son-in-law had been killed when out walking late one fine autumn afternoon. They had been trampled to death when the London-Worcester mail coach had careened around a bend in the road, completely out of control of its drunken driver. Only the shouts of its terrified passengers had managed to stop the driver, who was pulled from his perch and beaten to a pulp by the angry farm laborers who ran from the nearby fields, outraged at the deaths of both their beloved minister and the kindly schoolmaster.

Anne Bowen was, in an instant, bereft of both her father and her husband and reduced to a state of poverty. Had it not been for the kindness of young Lord Swynford, Mistress Bowen would also have found herself homeless and in the workhouse once the new minister arrived. Adrian saw that she was given a stone cottage in good repair on the edge of the village, rent-free. The young lord of the manor could not afford to pension the widow and her two orphans, but he did see that she had butter and milk daily from his creamery. With her vegetable patch and a small flock of chickens, ducks, and geese, Anne Bowen was assured that she and her children would not starve.

The children were growing fast. Young John Robert needed to be educated, as his father had been. He was already eleven, and should have been at Harrow by then. And what would happen to Mary Anne? She was too well bred to marry a farmer, yet there was no dowry. In desperation Anne appealed to her in-laws, and was firmly rebuffed. Anne Bowen loved her children fiercely, and because she did she humbled herself. “I ask nothing for myself,” she pleaded, “only for the children. They are your grandchildren. I can feed and house and clothe them, but I cannot afford to educate the boy or dower the girl. Please help them. They are such good children!”

Brutally they informed her that they did not recognize her alliance with their son, and then she was coldly shown the door. She did not allow herself the luxury of tears until she was near the gates, but then they came, and she stumbled blindly along.

“Pssst! Missus!”

She turned to see a woman in the garb of an upper servant.

“I’m Thatcher, the young missus’s maid. She don’t approve of how the squire and his wife is treating you. She can’t do nothing, but she wanted you to have this.” A handkerchief was stuffed into her hand. “She says she wishes it was more.” The woman turned and hurried back into the bushes along the edge of the drive.

Slowly Anne Bowen undid the linen square, and found within two gold sovereigns. The kindness of her unknown sister-in-law caused the tears to flow faster during the seven-mile walk back to Swynford village. The next day she let it be known that she was available as a seamstress, and those wishing more elegant garb than they could make themselves availed of her services.

Two years passed. She was so busy keeping her little family that she did not realize how lonely she was. And then one day Mary Anne’s new kitten got itself stuck in the apple tree. The kitten was but another mouth to feed, she had thought when her daughter brought it home. But seeing the desperate look in the child’s eyes, she sighed and agreed that, yes, the kitten would be a valuable asset to the household. Poor Mary Anne had so little.

“Damnation!” she said softly, staring up at the little gray and white animal. How on earth was she to get him down? Mary Anne wept beside her.

“May I be of some assistance?” Anne whirled around and saw an elegant gentleman dismounting from his horse.

Recognizing Lord Swynford’s brother-in-law, she curtseyed. “You are most kind, m’lord, but I would not have you soil your clothes.”

“Nonsense!” he replied, swinging into the tree and handing the kitten down to Mary Anne. “There, youngster, keep that imp safe now.”

Mary Anne’s tears vanished, and she scampered away, the kitten clutched to her little chest.

Jon leaped lightly down from the tree, brushing himself off, and Anne Bowen smiled shyly. “Thank you, m’lord. My daughter would have been devastated if anything had happened to the kitten.”

“No trouble at all, ma’am.” He inclined his head then mounted his horse and rode off.

For several Sundays he bowed, tipped his hat, and said “Your servant, ma’am,” as they left church. His wife had been with him every Sunday and Anne thought how beautiful Lady Dunham was. She envied her the fashionable clothes.

One day, several weeks after their first meeting, he had stopped at the cottage to inquire after the kitten’s health. After that he took to coming by at least twice a week, and Anne Bowen found herself looking forward to his visits.

Occasionally he brought sweetmeats for the children who, never having money for such luxuries, devoured them in a twinkling. Then late one afternoon he had appeared with a rabbit, skinned and ready for the pot. She politely asked him to supper, fully expecting him to decline her humble invitation, and was quite surprised when he accepted. She had never entertained in the cottage. Her neighbors held her in awe, for though she was far poorer than they, she was still “vicar’s lass.” Only occasionally would they even venture over her doorsill.

He sat by the fire in the one good chair, and watched her set the table. She drew from the linen chest a lovely snow-white Irish cloth, which she spread over the oval table. From the Welsh dresser came her mother’s bone china, and pale-green glass goblets. The utensils were well polished steel with bone handles, and the candlesticks were pewter. The children brought some greens from the garden to decorate the table. The rabbit stew bubbled, sending a savory odor through the cottage.

The children were ecstatic. They saw meat only rarely. Anne nearly cried at their delight in the fluffy dumplings she made from her precious hoard of white flour. She added a dish of new lettuce and, for dessert, baked an apple tart thankful that Lord Swynford’s generosity made heavy cream possible. Jon noted everything, the children’s eagerness over the rabbit stew, Anne’s quiet pride and soft flushed cheeks. He realized that they did not usually eat this well, silently cursing himself for having accepted her invitation and depriving the children of an extra meal.

She was a marvelous cook, and he couldn’t help but eat ravenously, which brought a smile to her lovely face. “It’s good to see a man eat again,” she said quietly.

“I’ll bring you another rabbit tomorrow,” he promised, “and I’ll not ask to stay to dinner this time.”

“You really mustn’t. You have been too generous already.”

“There are too many rabbits on the estate as it is. After all, my offer is an honest one. I’m not poaching.”

“I didn’t mean … Oh ” She blushed, realizing he was teasing her. Regaining her composure, she said, “I’d be very pleased to accept another rabbit, m’lord.”

The children had gone outside to play, and he offered to help her clear the dishes away, but she refused. “You must go, m’lord, while it is still light enough to see you.”

“Why?”

She blushed again. “If the neighbors do not see you leave, they will assume you did not. Forgive my presumption and indelicacy, m’lord, but I must think of my children.”

He rose. “No, Mistress Bowen, it is I who should ask your pardon for being so thoughtless. I have enjoyed myself today as I have not in many months. It would ill repay your hospitality if I were to cast doubt upon your reputation.” He bowed his way out the door. “Your servant, ma’am.”

She stood watching him ride down the road, sighing. If only some good man like that one would come along for her to marry! Anne Bowen knew she would have to remarry if she possibly could. Lord Swynford had been very kind, and the little sewing she could get kept them from starvation, but John Robert must not be allowed to grow up ignorant and Mary Anne must one day make a decent match. Unless some good fairy left her a pot of gold it would be an impossibility for her to do without a man, but who was she likely to meet here in Swynford village? And to leave here would mean the workhouse for certain.

Riding back to the hall in the rose-mauve dusk, Jonathan Dunham found himself unable to get her out of his mind. She was so lovely, and so brave. She reminded him of Charity, and yet she wasn’t at all like Charity. Charity had been a big, buxom Cape Cod girl with laughing eyes and bouncing ash-brown curls whose complexion was usually tanned because of the amount of time she spent outdoors. She was a strong, practical, sensible, wholesome example of American womanhood. Anne Bowen was an English rose, of medium height, slender with a pale complexion. She had lovely gray eyes and soft, copper curls. She gave the impression of great delicacy although her great strength was obvious. The only true likeness between the two women was in their devotion to their children.

He had been attracted to her from the very beginning. All he heard of her from others and all he saw increased his admiration.

He could not keep himself from seeing her, and soon he came after dark, and to the back door of the cottage. But they remained chaste with each other. He and the family had gone to London after the new year, and it was not until May that he saw Anne again. He had sent the children gifts from London and arranged with Lord Swynford that the Bowen children be allowed to ride the Swynford horses. “Good Lord, Adrian,” he chided, “these children are gentry impoverished, but gentry nonetheless. Until the vicar and their father died they had their own horses. Besides, with both our ladies enceinte, there’s no one but the stableboys to exercise the horses. The children would be doing you a favor.”

“You’ve taken a deep interest in the Bowens, Jared. Is the pretty young widow consoling you for Miranda’s loss,” teased Adrian, and then stepped back at the look of fury on Lord Dunham’s face. “Good Lord, Jared! What did I say?”

“Mistress Bowen is not my mistress, Adrian, if that’s what you were implying. I am franky appalled that you would assume such a thing of a lady like Anne Bowen.”

Adrian, Lord Swynford, looked at his brother-in-law strangely, but said nothing else. Miranda seemed perfectly happy with her husband, and it was not his place to interfere.

Jonathan saw Anne Bowen again on the first Sunday he was back at Swynford Hall. As he left the church he saw her on the arm of Peter Rogers, the innkeeper. “I thought the innkeeper had a wife,” he murmured to Adrian.

“The bailiff tells me Mistress Rogers died last winter, and Peter’s been seen in Mistress Bowen’s company quite a bit in the last month. He’s not such a bad fellow, and she’s got to marry again because of the children.”

As Jonathan looked at the innkeeper he felt a terrible rage welling up. The man gazed at Anne as if she were a strawberry tart he was going to devour. His small eyes kept darting looks at her full bosom, and each time he did so he licked his lips. Jonathan wanted to smash the man’s face. All the rest of that day he thought of Peter Rogers … Peter Rogers and Anne. By dusk he could stand no more. He rode to her cottage.

Her eyes were wary when she answered his impatient knock. “M’lord?”

“Are you alone?”

“Yes, m’lord.”

“The children?”

“Long abed, m’lord. Please come in, for you’re quite visible in the light from the door.”

He stepped across her threshold and, closing the door behind him, demanded, “Are you going to marry Peter Rogers?”

“If he asks me,” she replied quietly.

“Why?”

“M’lord, I have two children. It is difficult at best for a woman alone. I have no money and no family left, and my late husband’s family will do nothing to help me. I know that for a certainty because I humbled myself and begged them to help their grandchildren. I must remarry, but no one in the village is my social equal, so what am I to do? Mr. Rogers is an ambitious man. If he asks me I will accept him providing he agrees to send my John away to school and to dower Mary Anne.”

“You will sell yourself to that swine for money?” He was outraged. “If it’s money you want I’ll pay more,” he snarled. Pulling her roughly against him, he kissed her, kissed her passionately until she stopped struggling, stopped and became a soft, pliant, moaning armful. He picked her up and carried her into her small bedroom. He made love to her, slowly and tenderly, with a gentleness as great as his anger had been great.

Anne could not believe what was happening to her. It had always been pleasant with Robert, but it had never been like this. This was a hot passion that filled her with the most extraordinary feeling she had ever known, and when it was over and she lay spent in his arms, she wept, convinced that anything so wonderful could not be good.

He held her against him, allowing the warm tears to soak his chest. Finally when her sobs became little hiccoughs that gradually died away he said quietly, “If I were free to marry you, would you be my wife, Anne?”

“B-but you are not,” she sighed.

“You have not answered my question, love. If I were free, would you marry me?”

“Yes, of course.”

He smiled in the darkness. “Don’t accept Mr. Rogers, Anne. Everything will work out, I promise you. Will you trust me?”

“Are you offering me a carte blanche?” she asked him.

“Good Lord, no!” he whispered fiercely. “I hold you in greater esteem than that.”

She didn’t understand, but she was far too happy to care. She loved him. She had loved him from the moment she met him. He had not said the words, but she knew that he loved her, too.

He left just before first light, slipping out the back door of the cottage and riding home across the misty fields in the gray world of predawn. At nine that morning Miranda received Jonathan in her bedroom. Sitting up in bed, a rose pink silk bedjacket about her shoulders, her hair in a neat braid, she was an extremely fetching morsel, he thought. He kissed the hand she extended. “Madam.”

“Good morning, m’lord. For a gentleman who spent the entire night out, you’re looking quite well.”

“You’re mighty well informed for so early in the morning,” he teased.

“Ah,” she chuckled, “the stable boy saw you come in and he told the dairymaid who told the kitchenmaid when she brought in the eggs this morning. The kitchenmaid naturally passed it on to the cook who mentioned it to my maid when Perky went for my breakfast tray, and Perky told me. She’s quite indignant that you’re neglecting me.” Here, Miranda skillfully mimicked her loyal servant, “It whats you can expect from a gentleman once he’s got what he wants, m’lady.”

Jonathan laughed. “I’m delighted to know that I live up to Perky’s ideal of a gentleman.”

“You’re troubled,” she said, “I can see it in your eyes. Is there any way in which I can help?”

“I’m not sure,” he answered. “You see, I’ve fallen in love, Miranda. I want to marry, and because I must be Jared, and not Jon, I cannot even tender the lady a respectable offer. And I want to, Miranda. I don’t want Anne believing my love a shallow thing. I want to tell her who I really am, but I don’t know if I dare. I cannot endanger Jared.”

Miranda was thoughtful for a few moments, then she said, “First you must tell me who the lady is, Jon.”

“Mistress Anne Bowen.”

“A quiet and discreet lady, I have heard. Are you sure she would accept you if you asked?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot see that Mistress Bowen’s knowledge of our secret would harm Jared,” said Miranda slowly. “Surely he will soon be home, and this masquerade can be ended. We are far enough from London, and this is not a fashionable enough place to draw the ton. I would not put Mistress Bowen under a painful strain believing that she is involved in an adulterous situation. I think you had best tell her the truth, Jon. Do you think, however, that she will believe you? This is a rather unusual situation.”

“She will believe me if you come with me when I tell her.”

Miranda’s mind began to churn. She had been considering a plan and now she saw that if Jon were occupied with Mistress Bowen she would be free to go her way. “All right, Jon, I will attest to your honesty with Mistress Bowen.”

Elated, he kissed her hand again and left the room whistling. Miranda smiled to herself. She was glad to see him happy, and with Mistress Bowen to soothe him, he should not be too distressed when she disappeared.

She had decided to go to Russia to find Jared. He had been gone almost ten months. Just before they had left London, she had managed to corner Lord Palmerston. The British Secretary of War had been abrupt. “When I know, you’ll know, madam,” he said.

“He has been gone months, my lord, and I have been allowed no word. I have just borne my child alone. Can you give me no hope? No word at all?”

“I repeat, madam, when I know, you’ll know. Your servant, m’lady.” He smiled cordially and bowed.

It was all Miranda could do to keep from screaming. Lord Palmerston was the most arrogant man she had ever met, and he was being terribly unfair. She was through with waiting. She could stand no more. If Jared could not come to her, she would go to him.

Of course, she could not discuss this with anyone. She had consulted a map in Adrian’s library, and saw that it was well over a hundred miles to the small village on the piece of English coast known as The Wash where Jared’s yacht, Dream Witch , was moored. She would need a coach, for she could not use a Swynford vehicle. Most of all, she would need help, but whom could she rely on?

Then it came to her that she would have her own coach brought up from London! Amanda and Adrian had insisted it wasn’t necessary that they have their own coach here in the country when the Swynford carriage house boasted so many vehicles. She would now need that coach, and Perky could help. Her flirtatious maid was currently enamored of the undercoachman.

Brushing her mistress’s hair that evening, Perky sighed quite audibly. Miranda quickly took the advantage. “Poor Perky! That’s a lonely lover’s sigh if I ever heard one. I imagine you miss your young man.”

“Yes, m’lady, I do. He’s asked me to marry him, and we thought we’d have this summer to do it in, and be together. Then m’lord left the coach in town.”

“Oh, Perky, why didn’t you tell me!” Miranda was all sympathy. “We will simply have to get your young man … what is his name?”

“Martin, m’lady.”

“We will have to find a way to get Martin to Swynford!”

“Oh, m’lady, if you only could!”

Miranda plotted. Adrian and Jon had been invited by Lord Stewart to go fishing on his estates in Scotland. Both she and Amanda had insisted that they go even though the invitation was set for a date immediately after the birth of Amanda’s baby.

“I should feel so guilty if I denied Adrian his summer pleasures,” said Amanda. “Besides, the christening will not be until Michaelmas. Newborn babies look so odd not at all at their best, whereas an infant of three months is quite handsome.”

“Upon what do you base this conclusion?” teased Miranda gently.

“Old Lady Swynford has assured me it is so. You know, Miranda, I misjudged Adrian’s mama. She is quite an amiable female, and we both want what is best for Adrian. I am amazed at how similar many of our opinions are. And she admitted to me only last week that she had been mistaken in her opinion of me. She says that I am the perfect wife for Adrian!”

“How fortunate for you both that you have become friends,” remarked Miranda drily. More than likely, Adrian’s mama realized that the less she tolerated Amanda, the less she would see of her grandchild, thought Miranda. Well, at least Mandy would not be friendless once she was gone.

Once Jonathan and Adrian were gone off to Scotland, the coach would arrive from London. She had debated what to tell her sister, and finally decided that the truth was best. Poor Jon would be hard pressed to explain her absence to an outraged Amanda and her spouse. Best Mandy know that the man she believed to be Jared Dunham was in reality his brother Jonathan. Better she understand that the reason Miranda must leave her child was to go in search of her husband. But Amanda could not be told until the last minute. She would be horrified and frightened by what Miranda intended to do. No. Amanda should not know until the last minute.

Her own coach, driven by Martin, would take her to the little village of Welland Beach. She would be accompanied by Perky, for no respectable woman would travel without her maid. She would see that Perky and Martin were married before they left. They would wait in Welland Beach with the carriage until Miranda returned with her husband. It was a very sensible plan.

The days passed and spring became early summer. One afternoon Jonathan asked Miranda if she would accompany him in the high perch phaeton. As they drove down the drive he remarked, “You are looking quite fetching today, my dear.” Miranda smiled prettily at him. She was wearing a pink muslin dress sprigged in small white apple blossoms with pale green leaves. The dress had short puffed sleeves, and although the back of it was high, the neck was low. Beneath the bustline, the gown was tied with green and white silk ribbons. Miranda wore long green gloves that reached her elbow. Her high-crowned hat was of straw, and tied with ribbons that matched the ones on her gown. As the horses reached the open highway Miranda opened her pink parasol to keep her complexion safe from the sun.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“I have arranged for us to meet Anne at an inn ten miles from here,” he said. “We could hardly meet openly in Swynford village without causing comment, and I want this settled as quickly as possible. I cannot allow Anne to go on believing that I am a married man.”

“Ah,” she teased him, “it is Anne now, and no longer Mistress Bowen.”

“I love her, Miranda!” he said intensely. “She is the dearest, sweetest woman alive, and I want her for my wife. She believes she has gone against everything she believes for love of me. Although she says nothing, I know it hurts her terribly.”

“Then why don’t you marry her, Jon?”

“What?”