“It is strange,” Anne said, “that you know all these things about me. I have known nothing about your lives. I did not even know of the existence of any of my nephews and nieces.”

“I thought it best, Anne,” her mother said. “I thought you would pine.”

“I need to ask you all,” Anne said, “if the fact that I have come through these years rather well makes you feel better about turning your backs on me.”

“Oh, Anne.” Sarah’s voice was high with distress.

But it was her father who gave a lengthier reply.

“No,” he said abruptly. “No better at all. It was easier to believe that you had brought your suffering on yourself and then to feel relieved that you were coping on your own. It was easier to believe that you were better off where you were, away from the gossiping tongues of our neighbors. You did suffer and you did cope, and perhaps it really was good that you avoided the gossip. But no, I for one do not feel better about my treatment of you. I never have felt good about it. And now today, now that I have to look you in the eye, I feel worse-as I deserve to do. Don’t blame your mother. She would have come to you at the start, but I would not countenance it.”

“I ought at least to have written to you, Anne,” Matthew said.

“If it had not been for my extravagances at Oxford, you would not even have had to take a position as governess.”

“Sarah has always been miserable about the whole thing,” Henry said quietly. “So have I.”

“Well,” Anne said, getting to her feet, “if I was not tired before I am exhausted now. I will avail myself of the suggestion that I withdraw until dinnertime. I am sure Sydnam is weary too. Ancient history is a dreadful thing when it is one’s own, is it not? It cannot be changed. None of us can go back and do things differently. We can only go forward and hope that the past has at least taught us some wisdom to take with us. I have stayed away in more recent years because I bore a grudge, because I hoped you were all suffering, because I could feed my bitterness, which somehow seemed my right. But here I am. And though I will doubtless weep when I get upstairs, I am glad I came. For what it is worth, I forgive you all-and hope you will forgive me for what I have contributed to your unhappiness.”

They were all on their feet and all hovering. The scene could degenerate into high sentimental drama at any moment, Anne thought. But no one moved to hug her, and she did not move to hug anyone.

It was too soon yet.

But the time would come, she believed. They were all very much in need of pardon and peace. And, when all was said and done, they were family. And they had come today.

Sydnam was at her side and offering her his arm. She linked her own arm through it, half smiled about at the room’s occupants, and followed her mother from the parlor and up the broad wooden stairs, past her old room, and on to the room that had always been kept for such special guests that in effect it had almost never been used.

They had been deemed very special guests, then, had they?

After she had stepped inside the room, Anne turned to look at her mother, who was hovering in the doorway, looking anxious.

“I am glad you have come home, Anne,” she said. “I am glad you have brought David. And I am glad you have married Mr. Butler.”

“Sydnam, if you please, ma’am,” he said.

“Sydnam.” She smiled nervously at him.

Anne stepped forward without a word and wrapped her arms about her mother’s stout form. Her mother hugged her back tightly and wordlessly.

“Rest now,” she said when Anne stepped back.

“Yes.” Anne nodded. “Mama.”

And then the door closed and she was alone with Sydnam.

“Excuse me,” she said, “but I think I am going to weep.”

“Anne,” he said, and he was laughing softly as his arm came about her and his hand drew her head down to rest on his shoulder. “Of course you are.”

“Was painting again this difficult for you?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said with conviction, kissing the top of her head. “And there is much anguish to come. I have only just begun, and the first effort really was quite abysmal. But I am not going to stop. I have begun and I will continue-to failure or to success. But failure does not matter because it will only spur me on to try harder as it always used to do. And even if I never succeed, at least I will know that I tried, that I did not hide from life.”

“At last,” she said, “I have stopped hiding too.”

“Yes,” he said, laughing softly again. “You surely have.”

The tears came at last.


Both the younger Jewells and the Arnolds remained at the manor for longer than the one night they had planned.