“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.

David was in heaven. Though he dragged Sydnam off one morning to paint, taking Amanda with them, he was content to spend almost all the rest of his time with his cousins, particularly Charles Arnold, who was only a few months younger than he.

Sydnam went out riding a few times with the men after they discovered-through David-that he could ride. He found them all very willing to make his acquaintance. He had been prepared to dislike them-the elder Mr. Jewell no less than Henry Arnold, but though he had seethed with rage while listening to what they had to say to Anne on the first day, he discovered on closer acquaintance that they were just ordinary, basically amiable gentlemen with whose views on life and justice he could occasionally disagree.

Anne spent most of her days with her mother and sister and sister-in-law, and her evenings with everyone. They all appeared to be making a concerted effort to be a family together again.

It would take time, Sydnam guessed, remembering how it had taken a while for him and Kit to feel thoroughly comfortable with each other again after their lengthy estrangement following his return from the Peninsula. But it seemed to him that Anne and her family had been restored to one another and that the last of the dark shadows had been lifted from her life.

She seemed happy.

And he? Well, he could not forget one thing Anne had said to Arnold in the parlor that first afternoon-If I had married you, I would not have been able to marry Sydnam. And so I would have lost my chance for a lifetime of happiness.

How much of that was the truth and how much had been spoken entirely for the benefit of the man who had rejected her and promptly married her sister, Sydnam was not sure. But he thought he knew.

Yes, he was happy too.

They had intended to stay for a few days if they were made welcome, less if they were not. But Anne seemed in no hurry to leave now that she had found her family again, and Sydnam was content to give her time. They stayed even after Matthew and his family returned to the vicarage where they lived and Henry Arnold took his family home-bearing David with them for a couple of days.

Mrs. Jewell, who was clearly beside herself with delight to have her elder daughter at home, planned a whole series of visits to neighbors and teas and dinners for various guests. And the younger Jewells and the Arnolds were eager to entertain them in their own homes.

And so the planned few days stretched into a week.

And then on the eighth day a letter arrived for Anne. Mr. Jewell brought it to the breakfast table one morning and set it down beside her plate.

“It is from Bath,” she said, picking it up to examine it. “But it is not Claudia’s handwriting or Susanna’s. I have seen it before, though. I should know it.”

“There is one way of finding out,” her father said dryly.

She laughed and broke the seal with her thumb.

“Lady Potford,” she said, looking first to the signature. “Yes, of course, I have seen her hand before.”

“Lady Potford?” Sydnam asked.

“Joshua’s grandmother,” she explained. “She lives in Bath. I have visited her several times.”

She read the letter while her mother plied Sydnam with more toast and then watched as he chased it around his plate with the butter knife.

“Oh, Sydnam,” Anne said, looking up, “Lady Potford is quite hurt over the fact that I did not inform her of our nuptials. She would have come, she writes here, and she would have arranged a wedding breakfast for us. Is that not kind?”