"Cousin Mary!" She shut her book and stood.

"Sir Danvers," she said a smile creeping into her words. He looked wan still, and walked with the assistance of a formidable cane. But his tall, proud bearing and glowing face were as of the time before he fell ill, a full three weeks before.

"Obeisance is not necessary, cousin," he joked. She bit her lips.

"Not obeisance, sir, but old habit. I jump when I've received a fright." He laughed and felt for the chair besides hers.

"I can't possibly scare you anymore, Mary. You have seen me so low."

"And now recovered, sir," she reminded him. He shook his hand in a gesture she knew to mean, "Yes, perhaps."

"Were it not for your patience and devotion, it might be otherwise. I feel as though I have already passed through the grave. But I might not have returned to tell about it without you. Although," he said with mock suspicion, "you come and go so quickly that you yourself may be Charon, for all I know." She blushed. Mrs. Bollinger had ordered her away from Sir Danvers' bedside once Dr. Drummond had arrived, the morning the master had come to. It would be better for his valet to attend him now, she had reasoned with Mary, as Mary was Sir Danvers' companion, and not his caretaker.

He seemed to sense her discomfort at the comparison. "No, no," he said, by way of retraction, "the historical record makes no mention of Charon having so exquisite a singing voice."

"I was concerned I annoyed you, sir," she said.

He guffawed. "Everything annoyed me before, Mary. Everything. Except that. And thank goodness. In your singing, I heard something of my own story and my own feelings. For the first time in a long time, I could exercise my imagination. I thought about you."

"Me?"

"Yes. And when Mrs. Bollinger had said you were gone, the night before I fell ill, I felt sadness at the thought that I had not cared enough to think of you and your suffering until you had already flown away."

She began weeping at once, even while still trying to explain that she had not intended to deceive him, only to encourage in him a realization. She was on her knees before him. Gently, he took hold of her wrists and soothed her, guiding her back to her seat, wiping away her tears.

"You misunderstand me. I am not blaming you for anything. You had nothing to do with my illness. I'm glad of falling ill now." She was silent, stunned. "Have you ever had a dire illness, Mary?" he asked by way of explanation. She shook her head. He continued, "I've been seriously ill at various periods in my life. Before, I always thought of them as something to rage against, to conquer. But this time was different. This illness humbled me. Forced me to admit that it had the power to remove me from the premises, if I didn't show it proper respect. It made me realize how truly beautiful life had been before, when I had only thought of all I had that I had lost over time.

"It was new, and it was strange, and it was tender. I couldn't think of myself too much for it seemed to bruise me. But then that intensity of thought subsided. Then I thought mostly of you. I could feel you were with me while I was unresponsive – I thought perhaps bodily, but at least essentially. I wondered what could have really brought you to me – what made you stay, what made you bear my eccentricities and mania with your reservedness" – he turned rueful here – "I figured it must be a need for money, or a need to recover from public disgrace."

"Sir!" she hissed. He laughed.

"What can I say, cousin? I had a lot of time to think and only one lovely subject to think on. I was prepared to resign the whole thing to a fevered dream. But I entered this room and found you again, and I've blathered all my feelings and secrets like a boy. Are you angry with me?"

She straightened her spine. "I believe you must be feverish still," she said. She raised a hand to his brow; it was cool. She sighed. "We have both passed through graves of sorts, Sir Danvers. It is refreshing. The opportunity to care for you – forgive me, I know you dislike being cared for – made me step outside of myself for the first time in many months. I could think and feel for another again. You may not like doing that, but it's necessary, to keep from going mad. The human heart needs all sorts of checks and balances against it, lest it be hounded by phantasms, or deadened. We have found a sort of stillness now. But I don't know what to make of it" – she sucked in her cheeks – "I'm not used to meeting you as a civilized man."

He smiled, and she was glad to know they could keep each other entertained. It boded well for her prospects of staying. A comfortable silence enveloped them.

"What were you doing when I came in?" he asked.

"Reading."

"You aren't one for handicrafts, are you, cousin?"

She said, "When I wish to let my mind wander over pleasant thoughts, I am sufficiently crafty. But when I wish to stop ruminating over troubles, I must fill my head with another world."

"Were you ruminating?" He was again taking a different line of inquiry than the one she expected.

"Yes," she said.

"What on?"

"You. My place here."

He hesitated. "Whose world did you prefer to think on, if not mine?"

She flipped over the heavy book. "Tolstoy," she said. "War and Peace."

"Ho Hoy! Well, appropriate enough I'd say."

Mary explained, "A gift from my uncle. It arrived just as you came to."

He seemed puzzled. "Your uncle sent it?"

"Yes. Does that trouble you?" He shifted in his seat.

"It makes me wonder," he said.

"There's nothing I won't tell you, sir, if only you would ask. I have done nothing to be ashamed of."

"Those are two statements I could not make and be truthful," he admitted, and then quite suddenly said, "Dr. Drummond has advised me to take a short walk out today. He volunteered to accompany me, but I told him I keep a dear cousin on retainer for just that purpose. Might we go out, Mary? We can continue this line of inquiry out there; whatever you would like."

"Gladly," she said, and they both rose to leave.

"My thinking is muddled, Mary, save for one topic," Sir Danvers admitted.

"And which is that?" she asked.

"We will arrive at that, I am sure, after enough wandering of the feet and minds." The crisp afternoon wind blew. Sir Danvers' arm was wrapped around Mary's, and she led them down the southern border of his property. It was the path most protected from the glare of the afternoon light, but not so concealed as to be immodest. The smooth, flat descent would be easy on Sir Danvers, who was just getting used to being on his legs. And not one hundred yards in front of them was a low stone wall overlooking the sea, where they could sit and speak.

For a moment the air was filled only with birdsong, the measure of Sir Danvers' cane hitting the soft grass, and the rustling wind. "You have no need to think just now, Sir Danvers," Mary said. "Allow your mind to be at rest."

"Mr. Melvin could find out nothing about Mary Carson," he said, ignoring her. She finished his thought.

"Although he found plenty, I am sure, about Mary Poppins." He turned to her.

"So that is your name. Well, from what he uncovered, you had no cause to change it."

"No," she said, "save for sorrow and self-pity. I was quite out of sorts. I felt a clean break with the past was needed."

He exhaled. "Sounds just like a young lady who's had her heart broken by her first love."

They stopped, and the thrumming of the cane stopped, too. "Did you find anything about him? Where is he?"

But Sir Danvers could supply nothing. "Mr. Melvin found no connection to any man or gentleman. Only that you were a nanny of very high standing, living with a widowed uncle. If any trace of the gentleman is to be known, you must supply the information. You may do as you please."

"I feel as though you would like me better if I were some sort of fallen woman. More interesting, perhaps. But my story is more pitiful than wrathful. He left me. Just left and disappeared. Perhaps six months ago. There was nothing improper in it. We had loved each other, from a distance, for many years. He saved my life. And he kissed me goodnight – our first kiss – in the parlor at home. I went up to bed, and he stayed to speak with my Uncle, who gave him permission to take my hand. But I woke up to find a note, a goodbye. No explanation; merely, 'Love does its duty before it fades away.' He could not be found."

"What do you make of it?" Sir Danvers asked.

"I can hardly think on it. I just feel it. My mother left suddenly when I was a little girl – she died by fire. My father raged at her loss and disappeared, leaving me to my dear uncle's care. I never saw my father again. And then, the man I loved did the same disappearing act. Of course I blame myself."

"Nonsense," he said. "You cannot control what people do. Only how you react to it. You were smart. You found yourself a new opportunity. That proves you know you have value. And you've found a new life in the process, should you want it."

Mary flinched, not in pain, but as if in awakening. "For an addle-brained man, Sir Danvers, you have cut me to the quick," she said.

"Forgive me," he said, sounding more contrite than ever to her ears, "I did not mean to be so reductive."

"But now that you have, I almost feel better." They reached the wall and sat.

"You lie. I've offended you," he insisted.

"No, no. You've stunned me is all. I have carried that heart sickness around for months. I thought I'd carry it around my whole life. But after just a few words from you, it's dissipated."

"Perspective, Mary," he said.

"One cannot discover another's perspective without trust. I thought that would stay away along time, too." She worried she had been too forward. "But tell me," she said, "you did not want a sop to wring out as you choose, did you?

"I did not want anyone at all," he said. "But that doesn't mean I'm not glad that you are here now. Once you arrived, Mary, it was my firm belief that I could better get the measure of you by being away from you than by being with you. My sight being what it is, I can't interpret your reactions to me better than I can interpret your reaction to others. I may not have spent a moment with you for weeks, but I gathered all the news of you from everywhere. Now you surely think I am a terrible villain."

She tilted her head, laid her hand again upon his arm. "No. That is the very same tack I took to learn about you, sir. By beginning to know the children of Goat Fell, I earned the companionship of their parents. I have found that they honor and respect you. They told me of your stewardship, your fairness. I have found calm and health here. I came to respect you not for your treatment of me, but for your treatment of this place. I don't know most of what's happened to you. You are a gentleman and a titan of industry blighted by society life. I don't need to know, really. But I see well enough that whatever love you have left in life is rooted here. How can I but wonder why I am allowed to stay? You would not let me stay if somehow I had not earned a small portion of your estimation. "

He took her hand. "Mary, will you stay with me? That you care for me is beyond doubt. I want to return the same to you, freely and openly. The world is about to erupt, Mary."

"Sir?"

"The war. All of the world will soon be at war. I shudder to think how it will all play out. But as safe as anyone can be made, I will make you. Mary, will you take my name? Will you be Lady Lightstone?"

When she could speak again she asked. "Did you design this from the first?"

"No, Mary. I have come to cherish you, and I can see how well we are suited to each other. I pledge to you a lasting devotion and constancy that you have never before known. It is small repayment for the selflessness and compassion I have received from you, which I have never known before. We will support each other as the world crumbles around us. And as mistress of Goat Fell, you will always have this place as your true home, even when I am gone. But before then we will have many years to figure out the mysteries of who we are, and who are we are to each other."

The wisdom of his words struck her immediately. He had not made a declaration of love, but she could not deny there was love in his words. He did not ask to be keeper of her heart, and truly, giving him possession of it would take time, as another still occupied it. He had made a gentleman's declaration. Their love would grow over time, if ever; it would not show up all at once.

"What is to happen next, if I answer either way?"

"That is entirely up to you as well. You may leave. You may stay here as my cousin. You may stay here as my wife. It has been a long time since I have had much to hope for, but I feel very strongly that I would prefer your taking the third option."

"Sir Danvers, I cherish a strong affection for you that I am certain would develop into honorable love. But I worry that my youth and naivety, the lowness of my station, will disappoint you." He took her hand.

"Will my deficiencies - I am twice your age, you know - disappoint you?" he asked.

She raised a hand to his face. "Perish the thought. I don't pity you, Sir Danvers. If anything, I marvel at how you have cast aside your suffering. At your strength. We are perhaps two points on the same arc, complementary and balanced." He laid his hand on top of hers.

"I agree, Mary. You are intelligent, gifted in a way that only the innocent can be. My highest duty will be to nurture that. Will you accept me?"

"Let us have a quiet courtship, Sir Danvers, through the autumn, as your heart and mind strengthen," she said.

"They strengthen in your presence, Mary," he said.

"This time will be ours, Sir Danvers. And then, yes, I will marry you." He picked up her hand and kissed it, raised it to his face.

"The last, my dearest Mary, until I am your husband." She kissed his cheek. "The last," she said, "until I am your wife."