Page 110 of Threads that Remain

“If it concerns marriage, I believe we have covered the subject.”

“It concerns my sister’s character.”

“Oh, good heavens,” Sarah muttered.

“You have been away for so long I hope you have not forgotten that she can be disagreeable.”

Henry looked from Sarah to Ned, then back again.

“I seem to remember it is only when she is provoked.”

Sarah’s expression softened as she smiled sweetly up at Henry.

Ned considered the answer. “And do you intend to provoke her?”

“Not deliberately.”

“Very wise. She throws things.”

“I do not!” Sarah cried.

“You threw a slipper at me yesterday.”

“You had put a frog in my workbasket! It was huge, and alive!”

“And quite harmless.”

“Ned,” said Edward.

“I am only keeping a proper watch, which somebody plainly ought to be doing, since you yourself have twice now stopped to admire a dog.”

“One was a brindle greyhound. I have never seen one like it and I am sure you have not either.”

“It may have been the finest dog in London, but it is still not the business we are here for.” Ned drew himself up another half inch, which was, these days, a thing he could apparently do almost at will, and resumed his post.

They walked on for another quarter hour when Henry manoeuvred them both to a bench half-screened by a stand of young limes, and had got no further than taking Sarah’s gloved hand in his own and remarking, with real feeling, that he did not think he had ever in his life been so happy as he was at this present moment, before Ned materialised on the bench’s other end, wedging himself into the narrow remaining space with the cheerful confidence of a boy entirely unaware — or, as Sarah knew very well, very thoroughly aware and enjoying himself immensely regardless — that he had interrupted anything at all.

“This is a very comfortable bench,” he observed, settling in as though he meant to stay the afternoon. “I do not think I have sat on a better one in the whole of the Park. What were you both discussing? I shall tell you directly if I think it unsuitable.”

“I believe,” said Henry, mildly, from Sarah’s other side, “that we were having a conversation before you joined it.”

“You may go on having it. I shall simply sit here as well, in case any part of it requires a third opinion.” Ned sat up very straight and clasped his hands on his lap in close imitation of his father’s own posture, and gazed straight ahead with magnificent unconcern, as though his sudden arrival at the far end of the bench were the most natural thing in the world and not, in fact, a manoeuvre he had been quietly rehearsing in his head for the better part of a quarter mile.

Chapter XLIX.

Anne, tired from the emotions of the day, retired soon after dinner, but lay awake in contemplation.

The difficulties remained, and she knew that tomorrow would bring no magical certainty. She would still have to speak to Matthew, and there would be much to discuss before either of them could look confidently toward marriage.

But she no longer felt that she must choose between a happy life and an unhappy one.

She recalled the many small kindnesses she had come to depend upon: the way he listened when she spoke, never appearing impatient with her opinions; the way he could make her laugh; the quiet respect with which he treated her. He did not merely admire her when she was agreeable. He seemed genuinely interested in the person she was.

And she had begun, without quite acknowledging it, to imagine the person she might become beside him.

Not with the heedless certainty of a girl who believed affection sufficient to overcome every hardship, but with a growing understanding of the man himself.

She decided to wait until Matthew called again to give him her answer, while continuing to consider the matter that consumed her thoughts.