Weed and I look at each other, amazed. Father clasps both hands behind his back and explains. “A week ago today, I left this house with a mind to go to London. Returning only a few hours later, I discovered that in my absence there had been a transgression. We need not speak the details of it again.” Father holds up a hand to secure our silence. “Please, let me finish. In the days since, I have reflected on this incident a great deal. I am sure you have as well. Now, let there be no mistake: My direct orders were disobeyed. For this there is no excuse; but you have repented, and I wish you to know that I forgive you.”

“Father, you are too good—” I exclaim.

“Patience, Jessamine. A moment ago I called you children, but I think we have seen—the transgression itself offered proof, as it were—that you are no longer children; far from it. I pride myself on my powers of observation, but sometimes a father is the last to see what is right before his eyes. The path ahead is clear: Jessamine, you must embrace the future that has already laid claim to you.” He looks first at me, then at Weed. “It is my sincere wish, and my joyous expectation, that the two of you are betrothed at once.”

Betrothed? To Weed?

Has my father gone mad? Or is he mocking us? This is my first thought. But no; he beams at the two of us, his hands outstretched in benediction. Kindness and forgiveness are written all over his face—he is like a stranger to me; I cannot remember ever seeing him like this.

Hot tears spill from my eyes. Tears of joy, tears of shock—tears of grief, too, for now I can never know if Weed would have asked me to be his wife without Father’s prompting. Yet I must be grateful, for is this not what I wanted?

With this tumult of emotions whirling inside me, I look to my future husband for some clue as to the content of his heart. Weed’s face remains inscrutable. After a moment he gives a small half bow.

“Thank you. I am glad you find me suitable.”

Father nods. “I had hoped you would feel that way. As for Jessamine—I suppose I need not ask how she feels about the notion of marrying you; the answer is written on her face.”

“Thank you, Father.” My voice is scarcely more than a whisper. Suddenly shy, I wish nothing more than to run upstairs to the safety of my room. How I wish it were Weed himself who proposed! Then I could accept him with an open heart.