Page 81 of Threads that Remain

There was a small silence.

It was an entirely unremarkable proposal, made in the most natural way in the world, by an aunt who loved her nieces and had the means and the inclination to give them an opportunity that would mark their coming out.

Every person at that table, with one exception, received it exactly as it was meant.

The exception was sitting with his coffee halfway to his mouth, and had stopped there.

Henry set the cup down, rather too carefully, and discovered that his own voice, when he went to use it, required a moment’s notice he had not expected to need.

“For the whole Season?” said he. “Sarah,” he then seemed to include as an afterthought, “and Anne. In London, for the whole Season?”

“That is generally what a Season consists of, Henry,” said Margaret, mildly, “yes.”

He was aware, with the particular sharp clarity that comes to a man only when it is a great deal too late to be of any use to him, of everything this implied, all at once, and none of it comfortable. Sarah, in London, for three months, at balls he would not be attending, dancing with men who had not spent two years learning the difference between a leaking roof and a sound one, and had therefore a great deal more leisure in which to be charming; Sarah, admired, as she could not fail to be admired, by a room full of people who had never once seen her covered in mud, nor watched her manage a nursery of small cousins with a general’s authority, nor understood, as he understood, precisely what was being admired. He had said nothing to her. He had, if he examined the matter honestly, said nothing to himself, in any words he had been willing to use, until the exact moment his aunt proposed to remove the entire question to London for three months without him, with great probability of her meeting someone — else.

“Anne? What do you think?” asked her Mother.

“I would like to go very much,” answered Anne. “And as for Sarah, she and I used to talk of having a season together, though neither of us has mentioned it for some time. I think she would enjoy it a great deal, and I should be very glad to see us have the chance.”

Henry had arrived, by a process he could not afterward have fully accounted for, at a conclusion, and was already halfway to speaking it before he had properly examined whether it was wise.

“Why not make it a family affair? I have the house in Berkeley Square standing very nearly empty for too long. There is room in it for the whole of both families, and to spare. I should be glad — I should be very glad indeed — if you would all of you make use of it.” After a pause he added what seemed an afterthought, “In fact, I believe I would like to extend our reunion and join you in the festivities myself.”

“I think it a wonderful plan,” said Margaret, who had been following the whole exchange with an expression of frank and undisguised delight, and had not the smallest intention of pretending otherwise.

Anne nodded in agreement. “And, if Sarah or I were to receive callers, I think we should like to have our parents there to give their approval. If needed, of course.”

Simon, remembering a conversation he had only yesterday, asked, “What of your plans to spend the next year in Allenham, Henry?”

“Well,” said Henry, with dignity, and colouring very slightly about the ears, “yes, I think in this case a change of plans is in order. After all, Allenham can wait a few months longer. It is run quite smoothly by an excellent steward,” he explained, taking a long sip of his coffee.

Marianne spoke from across the table, with the composure of a woman who had, in fact, noticed exactly what had passed over the face of the young man opposite, and had decided, for the present, to say nothing whatever about it.

“I think it is a sound idea. Thank you, Henry. It would give Anne and Sarah every opportunity a Season is meant to give a young lady, which I understand was rather the point of the scheme to begin with, and I do not see why it should not be accomplished a great deal more comfortably under a roof that already belongs to family.”

“Yes, those are my thoughts exactly, Mamma,” said he, rather fast. “In any case, we must not think of crowding Cecilia’s house past what is comfortable.”

“That is very handsomely thought of,” said the Colonel, from behind his paper, without lowering it. “Very handsomely thought of indeed.”

“It will want a great many new gowns, of course,” said Marianne. “For Anne. And I dare say for Sarah too, since we are to be in town, and one cannot very well dance in one’s day dresses.”

“No,” said Henry, rather too quickly, and then, hearing himself, more carefully. “No, I don’t suppose one cannot.”

“We had better go to the parsonage directly, then, and settle it,” said Anne leaning in the direction of her brother, “before someone changes his mind about opening his house to us all.”

“I shall not change my mind,” said Henry.

“No,” said Marianne, and this time she did not trouble hiding the smile at all. “I did not think you would.”

“Simon, we are going to London.”

“I had gathered as much,” said Mr. Tregarth, mildly, buttering his own toast. “I confess I had gathered it some minutes ago.”

Marianne said, “You are the most obliging man there ever was.”

“That is because I am the most fortunate man there ever was.”

Margaret smiled at her husband appreciatively.