“‘Just?’ He was tamping down his pipe, but he looked at me in his sideways fashion.

“‘Just quantity,’ I finished.

“He nodded. ‘Precisely, Miss Haskell. I absolutely agree.’ Then he came round the lilies and stood beside me where I sat, and we talked a little.”

“About what?” I breathed.

But Mama shook her head as if startled to find herself seated before me with the dwindling day around us. “I do not remember.” She shrugged, the memory still light on her face.

“Why did you never tell me that story before?”

“There was always Papa, before.”

I nodded, a lump in my throat.

“But within a month, he had asked for my hand.” She looked up brightly, though tears threatened. “Then he left.”

“Left? Where did he go?”

“To Grange House.”

“Oh!” I said, thoughtfully. This must have been the time Miss Grange had mentioned in her letter. “And for how long was he gone?”

“It seemed ages, though it was but three months.” Mama smiled wearily. “I nearly drove your poor grandparents to distraction, so anxious was I for his return.”

I sank down beside her.

“But then”—her voice hardened—“when he did return at last, I wished him gone again.”

I sat up on my heels. “Why, Mama?”

“He made me frantic … .” She tapped at the arm of her chair.

“Or, I was frantic—now I cannot tell the cause. But once he had returned, he seemed incapable of remaining, needing to dash off here and there on business for the line.”

“Perhaps he grew shy as the wedding date approached.” I warmed to this picture of Papa.

Mama’s eyes rested on me, as though she had only then recalled to whom she spoke. “Perhaps,” she said, and it seemed she meant to halt the conversation just there.

“But you do not think so?” I prodded.

Still she gazed at me, considering. I patted her hand. “There was no wedding date,” she burst out at last. “We could not agree to one. Every date my parents proposed, Ludlow would turn aside with an objection. May was too chill. June was far too ordinary. July too hot, and—” She sank back in her chair.

I took her hand, startled by the vehemence of this recollection, and the evident distress my poor mother had felt. She pressed my hand, then shook her head as if to clear the memory.

“Then all of a sudden the dreadful prelude was done. One bright morning in January he knelt before me with happy tears in his eyes and declared he could wait no more!” Now she smiled. “And two weeks later—we married. I became Mrs. Ludlow Thomas!”

I looked at her for a long minute. “How happy you must have been,” I said fervently.

She flushed. “I was.” Then she reached out and clasped my hand. “As will you be.”