I am blunt with her aunt and ask her what vexes her niece. I ask if she has ever left home before, what she can tell me of her fiancé? It is wicked of me, but if Miss Walker will not tell me herself, I shall find out. Her aunt does not give much away at first, though I construct my questions as those from a most innocent and concerned friend. What she reveals makes it sound as though she should warn me away from her niece rather than the other way around. I tell her that I did not know about her fiancé until just recently so was unaware of her grief when we first met. I gush that I would never have pursued her for such happy walks and company had I known she was so grieved. Her aunt seems to let me into her confidence and tells me of her little niece’s bouts of melancholia and a bad back which pains her all the time. I tell her, honestly, that she seems much more confident since our acquaintance and has joined me on walks, a little farther each time and, before long, the old judgemental gossip cannot but agree that I have been of benefit to her niece.

As I approach Crow Nest, I wish for a moment that I lived in one of the grand Walker properties. Such a funny name, Crow Nest, like a pirate ship; but I can see why she likes it, with its high ceilings and opulence, marble instead of wood, high carved fireplaces and servants for your every need. It makes Shibden seem less grand, despite its ancestry. This new house is angled correctly, everything so square. I am lured by its architecture into feeling more highborn than I am. Would I wish to be the owner of this house, instead of Shibden? But Shibden is hundreds of years old, its beams have seen generations!