Mary’s face had fallen, and there seemed something more in her look than could be explained by the play. There was something in her eye that reminded me of a caged bird.

‘I will not marry,’ she said.

‘You mean to say, you will not fall in love,’ I said, moving closer to her.

‘Oh no!’ She looked abashed, then said with great sweetness and simplicity, ‘I am in love.’

‘Are in love!’ How I wished it could be so.

‘And with...’ Fanny said.

‘And with the Count? ’ I asked.

‘I wish I was.’

‘Why so? ’ I asked her tenderly.

‘Because he would, perhaps, love me again.’

‘Who is there that would not? ’ I asked, bending closer.

She leaned in towards me and said, ‘Would you? ’

I forgot my lines, and fell silent.

‘Ay, I see how it is,’ she went on. ‘You have no inclination to experience with me “the good part of matrimony”: I am not the female with whom you would like to go “hand in hand up hills, and through labyrinths”; with whom you would like to “root up thorns; and with whom you would delight to plant lilies and roses.” No, you had rather call out, “O liberty, dear liberty.” ’

‘Why do you force from me, what it is villainous to own?’ I cried. ‘I love you more than life. Oh, Amelia! had we lived in those golden times, which the poet’s picture, no one but you.’

No one but you. That is what I thought as I looked at her, with her eyes so bright. No one but you.

She seemed to feel it, too, for she could not go on until Fanny prompted her, and then made but an indifferent effort at the rest of the scene. My own efforts were no better, for I could think only, No one but you.

Fanny was kind. She said that, although we had missed some lines, our performance did us credit, and I found myself looking forward to a repetition of it when we should rehearse with the others in the evening.

The evening, however, brought a blow. Dr Grant was ill. It was not serious, but Mrs. Grant had to remain at home, which left us without a Cottager’s Wife. Everyone looked to Fanny, for we could not rehearse without Cottager’s Wife.

‘If Miss Price would read the part?’ said Yates.

‘Certainly, you would only have to read it, Fanny,’ said Crawford. ‘You would not need to act at all.’

‘And I do believe she can say every word of it,’ added Maria encouragingly, ‘for she could put Mrs. Grant right the other day in twenty places. Fanny, I am sure you know the part.’

Fanny was sweet and obliging, and although she did not like to act, she took the part so that the rehearsal might go ahead. I knew what it had cost her, and I thanked her for it warmly, and then it was time to begin.

Maria had got her lines by heart and needed no prompting. Crawford, too, knew his part well, and imbued it with a great deal of feeling, his voice carrying around the room. We had just got to the part where he seized Maria’s hand when the door was thrown open and we all turned towards it in surprise.

Julia stood there, with a face all aghast, exclaiming, ‘My father is come! He is in the hall at this moment.’

We looked at each other in stunned amazement! Our father? But he was not due back for another month! Then Tom, Maria, Julia and I, recovering ourselves, went to pay our respects to him in the drawing-room. And there he was, looking thinner, and burned by the sun, and tired after his journey, but pleased to be home.

We had hardly all greeted each other when he said, ‘But where is Fanny? Why do not I see my little Fanny?’ in such a kindly way that I loved him all the more. His stateliness had sometimes frightened her in the past, but his mood was so affectionate that I knew his notice would delight her.

Fanny stepped forward, and he embraced her, saying how much she had grown, and taking her over to the light so that he might see her better.

‘I have no need to ask after your health, for I have never seen you more blooming,’ he said.

‘And how are your family?’

‘Well, sir, I thank you.’

‘And how is William?’

‘He is well, sir.’

‘Has he been made Captain?’ he asked her with a smile.

‘No, sir,’ she said, adding, ‘not yet.’

He laughed, glad to see her so bold, for she did not have the courage to say two words to him before he went away.

He bade us all sit by the fire and then told us of his adventures: his perils on the voyage, with storms and calms, and his business in Antigua, which had at last prospered. He broke off now and then to say how lucky he was to find us all at home.

‘You must have something to eat, Sir Thomas,’ said my aunt. ‘I will ring for some dinner at once.’

‘No, no, I do not want to eat. I will wait for the tea to be brought in.’

‘And how was your passage to England, sir?’ asked Tom.

‘Ah, now that was not such plain sailing,’ he said. ‘We had any number of storms, but worse was to come. We saw a sail on the horizon, and suddenly the ship sprang into action, for she was a French privateer. As she drew closer... ’

‘Sure, my dear Sir Thomas, a basin of soup would be a much better thing for you than tea,’ broke in my aunt. ‘Do have a basin of soup.’

‘Still the same anxiety for everybody’s comfort, my dear Mrs. Norris,’ said my father indulgently.

‘But indeed I would rather have nothing but tea.’

Mama rang for tea directly, and my father continued with his tale.

‘We could see her colors, and it looked for a moment as though we might not outrun her, but then the wind filled our sails and off we sped, leaving her behind us.’

‘But how are you with us so soon?’ Mama asked.

‘I came directly from Liverpool. I had an opportunity of sailing in a private vessel, rather than waiting for the packet, for I saw one of my old friends in Liverpool who offered me passage on his yacht — and what a remarkable piece of good fortune it was to find you all there!’ he said again, smiling at us all.

‘It could not be too soon for me,’ said Mama, watching him with love. He looked around. ‘How glad I am to find you all here, for I have come among you unexpectedly, and much sooner than looked for. And how lucky to find you here, too, Rushworth, ’ he said, for he did not forget Maria’s fiancé.

‘How do you think the young people have been amusing themselves lately, Sir Thomas?’ said Mama. ‘They have been acting. We have been all alive with acting.’

‘Indeed! and what have you been acting?’

‘Oh! They will tell you all about it.’

‘The all will soon be told,’ cried Tom hastily, and with affected unconcern; ‘but it is not worthwhile to bore my father with it now. You will hear enough of it tomorrow, sir. We have just been trying, by way of doing something, and amusing my mother, just within the last week, to get up a few scenes, a mere trifle. We have had such incessant rains almost since October began, that we have been nearly confined to the house for days together. I have hardly taken out a gun since the third. Tolerable sport the first three days, but there has been no attempting anything since.’

Tea was brought in, but afterwards, my father would not be still, and said he would just go on a tour of the house. As soon as he left the room I knew something must be done. Tom went after Yates and I imagined my father’s face when he found his own room was no longer recognizable, with an air of confusion in the furniture, the removal of the bookcase, and the door leading through to the theatre. And what a theatre! Not the discreet affair I had hoped to encourage, but, under Tom’s fresh orders, an extravagant construction of timber, with stage and wings and scenery, complete with festooned curtains in yards of green baize. It was not long before my father, Tom and Yates returned to the drawing-room. My father’s good breeding prevented him from saying anything very much, though I could tell he was put out. Yates, entirely misjudging my father’s silence, would not let the matter go, however, and rattled on about the play in a most ill-conceived manner. As he spelt out the history of the affair, I felt my father’s eyes on me, as if to say, ‘On your good sense, Edmund, I depended; what have you been about?’

I felt anew all the impropriety of having spent his money and used his house in such a way in his absence.

The conversation turned to the Crawfords and Tom pronounced Henry to be a most pleasant, gentlemanlike man, with Mary being a sweet, pretty, elegant, lively girl.

‘I do not say he is not gentlemanlike, considering,’ burst out Rushworth, surprising us all; ‘but you should tell your father he is not above five feet eight, or he will be expecting a well-looking man. If I must say what I think, in my opinion it is very disagreeable to be always rehearsing. It is having too much of a good thing. I am not so fond of acting as I was at first. I think we are a great deal better employed, sitting comfortably here among ourselves, and doing nothing.’

It seemed he had noticed Maria and Crawford’s behavior after all, though why he had not said something at the time I could not imagine.

‘I am happy to find our sentiments on this subject so much the same,’ said my father. After which, mercifully, the evening came to an end.

I was glad to return to my room, my mind in a whirl with the events of the day. Mary — what did her looks, her smiles, mean, as she spoke to me of love and marriage?

My father — what must he think of me for using his house so ill in his absence?

I could not sleep — I still cannot. First thing in the morning I must go to my father and explain the whole, for until I have apologized I will not be easy.