"You have quite the imagination, dear," George Foster stood by the window after dinner, a glass of scotch in one hand, a cigar in the other. The cultured yard and woods beyond were muted with twilight. Hattie had been retelling the strange encounter with the shadow. Expression tolerant, her father glanced at her.

"No doubt a vagrant passing through on his way elsewhere."

"Then ought he not have asked for money or some such aid?" Lucille countered worriedly. "Why just stand there, staring?"

Mr Foster eyed her in vague annoyance for siding with Hattie's imaginings rather than being reasonable.

"Believe it or not, some have a little pride in themselves, and dislike being gawked at in their pitiable state."

"But Papa," Hattie stood, intent on making her point. "If that was so, should he have not kept out of sight altogether?"

"My dear girl, how can I know the mind of another man? Especially one fallen on hard times?"

"You just said-"

"Hattie," his tone warned her to stop. "You have come safe. Nothing became of your, I use the term encounter loosely, so put it from your mind."

"Yes, Papa," slightly put out to have been dismissed, she flounced back to the settee, plopping next to her mother. Lucille put a consolatory arm around her shoulders, squeezing affectionately.

"Tush, my dear, your father is right. Think of how dreadful it might have been had anything unfortunate actually come of the encounter."

George spun on her, incredulous, but any hope of stopping the storm before it started was dashed. Hattie's large eyes were full of alarm, the very worst possible scenario already flooding her mind. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Foster silently reminded himself that women would be silly regardless of logic and that his wife and daughter were two prime examples of that fact. It was, he supposed, swallowing an impressive amount of scotch, an ideal thing that he adored them both as much as he did. If not, the animated conversation that lasted until bedtime would have utterly put him out of his wits.

Hattie found it difficult to sleep that night. Over and over, she kept imagining a leering face at her window, peering in on her as she slept. Getting up to see for herself did no good, for dark clouds had gathered overhead, wind blowing wildly among the brush and branches. Resting her forehead against the cold glass, her sigh formed a sphere of mist on the pane.

"Drat...I shall never sleep at this rate." Dragging herself back to bed, she plopped heavily onto the mattress, fluffing the covers up over her head. In that way, she missed the shadow that separated itself from the rest, moving to stare intently through the glass.

A rash of voices and footsteps pried her eyes open at the ungodly hour of quarter past seven the following morning. Sour-tempered, head aching dully, she swung her feet from the bed, swaying as she lurched unsteadily toward the window. The majority of the chaos seemed to be outside her window. Prying the pane open, she leaned out, glaring blearily outside.

"What is the meaning of this noise?" Her voice brought everything to a stark halt. "Have any of you any idea what the time is? I have barely even fallen asleep, and your ruckus prevents any attempt at success!"

"Hattie," her father's voice swung her gaze toward him. "Get back inside at once, girl! You are not properly dressed to be seen!"

In a crisp white nighty, hair tied in knotted curls, barefooted, she ought to have been ashamed. Instead, her curiosity was piqued.

"Whatever is the matter, Papa? Why is the entire staff outside my bedroom window?"

"Hattie!" Lucille's shrill cry spun her around as Mrs. Foster rushed into the room, flying over to yank her from sight. Slamming the window shut, she locked it then swung the curtains closed. Before her daughter could either protest or inquire, she was squeezed in a fierce hug.

"My poor girl! How dreadful!"

"Mamma, what is the meaning of this?" Struggling only tightened the grip, so Hattie went limp instead, resigned to her fate. "What has happened?"

"It is so awful, dear! So awful!"

Fear shoved aside all drowsiness, lending Hattie uncharacteristic strength. Prying herself free, she grabbed her mother's arms.

"What is it? Tell me at once! Is it my dear Forsythe? Has something befallen him?"

"Oh Hattie!" Lucille's wail was not encouraging, and tears began to form in the girl's eyes. "It is simply horrid! I shan't like to even tell you of it!"

"What happened!" Feeling her heart break, the girl stepped away from her mother. "What is it!"

"Prepare yourself, my dear, for it is simply awful,"

Before complete panic ensued, Mr Foster strode in, cheeks red from exertion, eyes hard. Hattie whipped around, flying toward him with a cry.

"Oh Papa, is it dreadful? How am I to bear it!"

"What?" Caught off guard, he took her shoulders, holding her at arm's length. "What are you going on about?"

"My Forsythe," lips quivering, she gazed at him forlornly. "What happened to him? How shall I go on?"

"Forsythe," scowling at his wife for having no sense at all, he shook his head. "He is well and good as far as I am aware. The trouble has not to do with him at all."

"It doesn't?" Relieved and aggravated all at once, she spun on her mother. "Why did you tell me it was him?"

"I said nothing of the kind!" Lucille defended, cheeks spotting red. "I only came in to tell you how frightened I was, and how glad I am all is well with my daughter!"

"That is not what you said!"

"Enough!" His shout quieted them, both women looking at him in astonishment. George Foster had raised his voice less than a handful of times in Hattie's entire life. The novel experience was alarming.

"Hattie, what your mother intended to do was alert you to the danger of a prowler at your window last night. The servants discovered footprints in the yard, which led straight to your bedroom window. I was informed a short while ago and was deciphering where they led off to when you woke. Now," Regarding her seriously, he raised his brows. "Did anything happen last night?"

"No," beginning to frown, realizing how urgent the matter was, Hattie forced herself to think. "I couldn't sleep because I kept thinking someone was standing at the window..."

Words trailing off, she stared at her father in horror.

"That was not a dream?"

"I'm afraid not." Seeing her pale, George indicated his wife step in. Lucille gently led Hattie to a chair, setting her on it before hugging her tight. "I am afraid the topic of last night's discussion is not as far-fetched as I imagined."

"What shall we do, Papa?"

"You are not to worry," smiling kindly at her, George hid his fear and doubt. "I shall handle it."

"Yes, dear, your father will take care of everything." Lucille's fervent gaze went to her husband, pleading, trusting. For his part, Mr Foster felt himself to be the greatest hypocrite in existence, for he had no idea what to do. Perhaps Mr Forsythe would have a suggestion.

Hattie took much convincing to dress and eat at home, instead of flying to the vicarage to assure herself Forsythe was indeed unharmed. Her mother's near hysterics had driven her nearly into a fit of her own. Now, feet drumming restlessly, she pushed the bit of sausage around on her plate. A horrid scare, no lamb, the never-ending frantic energy of her mother – it all seemed a bit much for her naturally silly, somewhat naïve personality.

"Hattie," Lucille's voice yanked her forcefully from silent musing, lifting clear eyes. "I think after we finish here, we ought to spend time finishing our errands appointed before your wedding."

"Yes, Mamma." Preventing her expression from going sour, she managed a tight smile. Sensing it, but utterly ignorant to her daughter's vexations, Lucille reached out, patting her hand comfortingly.

"There, there, dear, all will be well. Your father has it well in hand, do you not, George?"

"Certainly." He mimicked Hattie's strained grin, looking forward to having an empty house for a while. "Do not fret."

"See?" Reassured, blissful in her confidence of her family's disposition, Lucille wiggled in her chair, taking a sip of hot tea. "I think we shall start with the florist Hattie. I should like to see what will be in best bloom on your day."

"Yes Mamma," casting her eyes to her father, the pair shared a similar look of patience. Nothing, it would seem, fazed Lucille Foster for very long.

Leaving the house with her mother later that same morning, Hattie had been distracted enough to set her mind on more pleasant things. Planning a wedding was not to be pushed aside by some faceless prowler! In that way, she was ignorantly just like her mother, much to George Foster's relief and amusement. He waved at them through the window of his study, lifting a small glass of sherry to his lips.

On foot, the two had their heads together in conference. Despite her mother's earlier protests, she made a point to see the butcher changed the order for cold cuts to exclude lamb, as painful as the decision would be. Then they determined to visit the bakery to confer about what was in style for wedding cakes this season, choosing a flavour and décor.

"After all," she told her mother primly, letting Edwards tie the ribbon of her bonnet. "It is not every day that a girl gets married!"

"Quite so," Lucille answered with a tolerant smile. Edwards kept her opinion to herself, knowing she was only along to carry whatever parcels the ladies might pick up. The matter of the midnight voyeur was quite forgotten among more joyous affairs.