“I’ll do that with you,” said Godwin. “I have the whole afternoon to do anything you wish.”

Godwin didn’t look like a man who enjoyed playing games with children, but he wanted to be of some use, to show that he could, and would, do whatever was needed. Mary tilted her head and smiled at him. How little time they’d had these past few days to be alone.

Godwin turned to the midwife. “You ought to get some rest, Mrs. B, while you can. Marguerite’s doing the same.”

“I got a few winks in the night, sir. ’S all I need. But a little walk round the garden might be good for the soul, if you don’t mind.”

“I planted it myself, Mrs. B,” said Mary.

“Before bookcases, or pictures hung!” added Godwin, taking his wife’s hand in his. “She insisted on it.”

“It’s got hollyhocks and foxglove, and the most wonderful love-in-idleness, but you have to look for it.”

“Mary granted me one little stone bench. Turns out it’s my favorite place to read in the whole house,” said Godwin, with a light squeeze of her hand. “But I didn’t know it until now.”

It was a penny’s worth of back-and-forth, but to Mrs. B, said so many things.

“I wonder if Fanny would like to show me the way?”

Mrs. Blenkinsop couldn’t remember the last time she’d held a child’s hand in hers. For a woman who’d helped birth as many babies as she had, she rarely got to watch them grow. She was struck how much affection lived in so small a grasp, and that it was offered without a thought, informal and natural, just like Mary’s garden out back. It was humble in size, but she’d made every inch of earth count. Herbs and flowers, enjoying their first full summer of life, spilled their colors, mingled and flopped over the walkway, the little gate. The midwife was glad to let Fanny lead her along the narrow, meandering path, to feel plants brush against her ankles. At the end of it sat Godwin’s bench, not much more than two rough plinths and an old sandstone slab that looked like it might’ve been pulled from a nearby field and pressed into service. It had an inviting carpet of mosses in greens and silvery grays, and a book resting open on its stomach.