"And then she invited us for tea!" Hattie's delighted squeal made her father cringe, but George forced a smile despite the ear-splitting sound. "Can you believe it, Papa? We are on an intimate footing with the Marchioness of Aramoor!"

"Now, Hattie,"

"No!" The girl wagged her finger at her mother. "You cannot take away the delight of the experience!"

"As no one should," George interceded calmly. "However, I think you ought to be careful in how loudly you crow of this new development. Lord Benedict is not a man that admires attention, nor does Lady Benedict thrive in the public eye."

"Oh," sinking back into the couch, the girl frowned thoughtfully. "Yes, you are quite right. I will be more guarded in public."

Her parents exchanged patient, knowing looks. Of all the things their dear Hattie was, consistent wasn't one of her more prominent traits. Neither was restraint.

"At any rate," Hattie's bubbly enthusiasm was already sweeping through her again. "Her ladyship insisted we send a servant to collect roses from her hothouse for my bouquet the morning of the wedding, so they might be fresh! Although she regrets that they are already otherwise engaged upon that date, she wants very much to make it a special day! Can you believe that?"

"It was uncommonly generous of her," Lucille conceded, smiling. "We will take care not to put Lady Benedict to any trouble, however. Such offers are always made off the cuff, not in genuine concern."

"I cannot believe that, Mamma!" The girl's objection was strident. "Lady Benedict was most sincere!"

"Either way, we shall not intrude upon her goodwill."

"But what if-?"

Clearing his throat to interrupt the brewing argument, George glanced at the clock.

"It is late, child," he offered. "Shouldn't you be to bed?"

Sky blue eyes flicked to the clock, a small cloud of weariness passing through them.

"I am tired," standing up, she gave a delicate yawn, rubbing her eyes. Darkness had fallen long ago, and her stomach was full of roasted lamb, butter potatoes, and greens from supper. "Goodnight, Papa. Goodnight, Mamma."

"Goodnight, dear," Lucille stood, kissing the girl's cheek before she left the parlour. "I suppose I should retire-"

"A moment." Setting his glass of brandy down, George went to her, taking her hands in his. The affectionate gesture surprised Lucille, alarm flooding her features.

"What's this?"

"I spoke with a few acquaintances about last night. They say they've had several similar happenings. This dark character, whoever he is, has been making the rounds of late."

"George-!"

"Now, now, I tell you this not to upset you." His smile was patient. "I have hired a few of Mr Brimmings' farm dogs to be loose at night so that we will be alerted if an intruder comes near the house. He said I might have them for a fortnight. The constable has been alerted to the situation and will take it in hand. You are not to worry."

"You think he will come back here?"

"I cannot know that my dear, but I take the safety of my family most seriously."

"This frightens me, George."

"I will care for you, my dear." Putting an arm around her shoulders, he smiled, watching a shine of tears glaze her blue eyes. "You are not to worry."

"Silly man, I worry for Hattie, as it seems she is the target of this, this stranger's intentions."

"She is safe," leaning down, he put a chaste peck on her cheek. "I will see to it."

"Very soon she will be married." Lucille hadn't moved away from him, merely tilting her head back to look into his face.

"Yes."

"There are no more after her."

"Of which I am glad, if you'll pardon my saying so." He expected a rebuke but not getting one, Mr Foster studied his wife's expression carefully. "Are you all right, my dear?"

"What shall we do, when it is just you and I in this large house, all of our daughters grown and married?"

"Do you remember," he whispered into her ear. "What we used to do before we had three daughters, and spent much time alone in this large, empty house?"

"George!" She slapped his chest in reprimand, but a merry light was dancing in her eyes. His grin was cheeky.

"So you do remember."

"We are not young anymore," she warned him, masterfully fighting off a smile. "Those memories are sweet but are fixed solidly in the past."

"Is there nothing about them you long for?"

"Certainly not!" She missed the hope fading from his expression as she pushed free, primly turning her back. "I am glad to be done with those anxious days of uncertainty! How stressful raising three daughters with a small dowry proved to be! Had I only given you a son!"

"Of course," moving away, he reached for his glass and the decanter of brandy. "You did marvelously well, my dear."

Taken back by his tone, Lucille glanced over only to find George had given his shoulder on her, leaning against the mantle of the fireplace. A vastly different man than just a moment ago.

"George?"

"No, I am fine, my dear." Swallowing the brandy, he looked at her. "It is rather late. Should I wait for you?"

"Are you going to bed so soon?"

"Indeed." Avoiding her eyes, he moved to the doorway. "Goodnight, dear."

"Goodnight," puzzled, she stared after him, wondering what had changed his mood so drastically. For a brief moment, it had felt as if the years had turned back, and they were a young couple once more, madly in love. Tracing a fingertip over her lips, her expression softened.

"There are some things that I long for, my dearest George..."

Morning found them unreconciled but under their normal flag of tolerant affection. Hattie appeared sometime after eleven, skipping downstairs arrayed in a frock in the shade of sunflowers and spring grass. Her hair was coiffed neatly atop her head with thin ringlets gracing her cheeks and brow.

"Good morning!" Bright, and cheery, she plopped onto the couch while reaching for a muffin on the tea tray. "I slept marvellously!"

"Good morning, dear," her father answered absently from behind his paper. "Glad to hear it."

"Don't sit like that," Lucille corrected gently. "Both feet on the floor, back straight."

"Mamma!" Thudding her heels on the floor, the girl stuck her lower lip out in defiant annoyance. "Give me a moment of peace before you begin chastising me!"

It struck Lucille's heart just at the wrong time, and she sucked in a hurt breath, tears shining in her eyes. During the heavy silence that followed Hattie ignorantly enjoyed her muffin while George slowly lowered the corner of his newspaper. His wife sat stiffly, gaze locked on the blue sky and puffy clouds beyond the window. Feeling the need to defend her, he slanted a gaze at his youngest child.

"Harriet! Mind your mother! She is raising you to be a dignified member of society, not a slouch!" His sharp tone stung as the girl instantly went upright, staring at him wide-eyed. Never did he raise his voice, and the girl could not recall a time he'd called her by her full Christian name. Lips quivering at the perceived unprovoked assault, tears flooded her eyes.

"Papa..." grabbing for a napkin to dab her tears, Hattie sniffled pitiably. "I'm sorry, I..."

Abruptly tired, George snapped his paper closed and stood up.

"I shall be in my study. Do not disturb me."

The two Foster ladies watched him leave but kept their thoughts about it to themselves. Hattie was the first to break the tension.

"I am sorry, Mamma. I ought not to have spoken to you like that."

"Thank you, dear," Lucille smiled, but her heart wasn't in it. "Shall we write the invitations today?"

"Yes," picking up a cup of flavorful orange tea, Hattie took a delicate sip. "That will give me something productive to do until supper."

"Indeed."

They retired to another room for the task, with a table large enough for the wide spread of invitations and envelopes. Engaging in idle gossip helped the time go by, although it quickly turned to the frustration of having to compete with Franny Blumfeld over the wedding reception.

"Do you think she chose her date simply to spite me, Mamma?"

"I doubt that child, for why should a woman waste such effort on a special day that has enough of its own trials?"

"It is rather odd, though, you must admit." Tossing a finished card aside, Hattie tapped a blank one with her fingertip. "To choose almost the exact day, and my favourite cakes and flowers! I hope it rains."

"Darling," Lucille sighed with a soft laugh. "If it does, the ground will be wet for your own wedding and feast. Is that what you want?"

"I had not thought of that." Pouting, Hattie swiftly filled out the next invitation before moving it over into the finished pile. "I suppose I ought to hope it warm and sunny."

"Yes, you should." Smiling, Lucille studied her youngest affectionately. "Everything will be beautiful, Hattie. You will see."

For his part, Jonathon Forsythe was a tightly wound bundle of nerves. He had not the activity to divert his attention, or the company to occupy his thoughts in idle times. Worrying over the possible danger to his beloved Hattie was costing him sleepless nights and little appetite. A distinct pallor formed beneath his naturally tanned complexion, which the rector noted on his visit to confirm the details of the upcoming ceremony.

"Are you taking this well, Jonathon? You look pale."

"I am fine," the vicar was quick to dismiss it, afraid to hint at anything connected to his past. "All this disquiet about some prowler in our community has me frequently restless over Miss Foster's welfare."

"Dreadful business," rector Simmons was sympathetic. "That one of our fine, upstanding young ladies would be the target of any kind of intruder... dreadful."

"Yes." Simmons' comment hadn't aided Forsythe's worries, so the younger man changed the subject. "Is all in line for the ceremony?"

"About that," tugging a pair of spectacles from his inner pocket, the old man balanced them on the bridge of his nose while unsheathing an impressive stack of folded papers from another roomy pocket. "I require your signature on these for official records, after which I shall visit your intended for her signature. They will be filed with the church after the ceremony."

"What are they?" Quick eyes flicked over the papers, then froze, going back to blank lines indicating dates. Slowly his gaze lifted to Simmons. "For what purpose?"

"It must be above board, my dear boy," the rector shook his head with a faint shrug. "I cannot lie to the church on your behalf, and they want more information than what was provided when I recommended you for this position."

"If I tell them where I was...what I was doing back then, my life here is over." Forsythe held himself absolutely still, staring directly at the older man. "If this was ever to become an issue, why wait until now?"

"An unmarried man's past is of little concern, Jonathon, but once you take a wife, you are considered established. They want to know your full background."

"I cannot tell them the truth. Only you, I, and His Grace know what happened aboard Hannibal Newton's ship. If it becomes known... I shall be ostracized from decent society, forced to abandon my home here."

"Then we are at an impasse, my boy, for you cannot put a lie on those papers, and I will not condone any such act. To do so will end with a strict dismissal from the parish for both of us."

"Blast him." Rubbing his face, Jonathon scowled. "Blast me for ever seeking out adventure."