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One week later, Mr. Allen presented Mary with an elegant, comfortable-looking phaeton.

“It is our anniversary today, and I thought you might find this useful in visiting the tenants and neighbors. It is much faster to get ready than the carriage, because you only need one horse to pull it, and you can drive it yourself, though I would prefer if you took a groomsman or footman with you anyway, just in case.”

“Thank you, Mr. Allen,” Mary said as she stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “That was very thoughtful of you.” She hurried forward to look over her new vehicle.

It was beautiful, painted mostly white with gold accents.

The seat was red leather and looked very comfortable.

It was much higher than a normal chaise, and Mary imagined it might be a bit difficult to get in and out of, but the passenger of such a vehicle would have a lovely view, sitting above the dust kicked up by the horse.

Mr. Allen appeared at her side, once again. “Shall we take it for a drive to see how you like it?”

Mary looked up at the sky. It was a cloudy day, though it hadn’t actually rained yet. She could not tell if the clouds would release their water any time soon. “I don’t know,” she said. “It might rain, and though the phaeton is pretty, it doesn’t have a cover.”

“All will be well,” he responded. “We won’t go far, and even if it does rain a bit, it is a warm day so there will be no real harm done. Why don’t you fetch your pelisse and bonnet while I get a horse hitched up to it.”

Mary did as she was told, and by the time she returned, her new phaeton was ready to go. Mr. Allen helped her up into it, and soon they were off.

The ride was as glorious as she had hoped.

They were perched above the dust, and there was a lovely breeze because of their speed, which added excitement to the already pleasant view.

Mr. Allen showed her a little of how to hold the reins and guide the horse, but she was not yet comfortable with it by the time they felt the first drops of rain.

Mr. Allen took the reins back and turned them toward home, letting the horse go as quickly as it wanted. By the time they arrived at the portico in front of Braydon Manor, they were both soaked, but since Mr. Allen was laughing, Mary found she did not mind so much.

The following day, however, changed Mary’s opinion significantly.

Mr. Allen had developed a cold, and Mary was no longer quite so sanguine about them getting wet the day before.

Mr. Allen, however, waved away her concern and went about his business as usual, the only difference being that he carried many more handkerchiefs with him.

Though Mary did not like to see her husband suffer, she assumed it was a simple cold, and he would recover quickly enough.

Instead, she was quite alarmed when Mr. Allen did not come down for breakfast two days later.

His valet arrived halfway through her meal and told her that his master requested her presence in his room.

Even though they had been married for a year, Mary had never been in Mr. Allen’s room, so she was a bit nervous as she opened the door. As soon as she saw him, however, all her nerves were replaced by fear and worry.

His cheeks were red with fever, and his breathing had a wheezy, whistling sort of sound.

“Henry!” Mary said, as she rushed to his side. “Henry, you need a doctor.”

“Yes, my sweet Mary, I need a doctor,” he answered. At least his voice sounded relatively clear. “Go send one of the servants for the physician in Meryton. Then, please return. There are a few things I want to tell you while we wait.”

She did as she was told and quickly returned. She then sat on the edge of the bed and held her husband’s hand.

“Mary,” he said. “There are some things I need to tell you.” His voice was relatively strong despite his wheezy breathing, and she began to hope that he was not as sick as she had at first thought.

“First, I need you to know that I changed my will last week, just before our anniversary.”

“Why would you need to do that?” Mary asked. “I haven’t been able to give you an heir yet, so there was no need for you to make any changes.” It was the one area where Mary felt she had failed to be a good wife, but her husband had never complained about it for even one moment.

“You have given me an heir,” he said, “one that I am enormously proud of and that I feel entirely comfortable leaving all my wealth with. It’s you. You are my heir, Mary.”

“But…” she tried to object.

He silenced her by squeezing her fingers gently.

“You have learned everything I ever hoped to teach my son, whereas my actual son never learned any of it. I could never get him to listen to anything past the age of fifteen. I trust you, Mary. I trust you to take care of all the people who depend on my wealth, and I trust you to live a wise and useful life.”

Mary desperately wanted to stop him from talking about his will. It was beginning to feel as though he was actually dying, and she could not bear the thought of such a horrifying thing in that moment. “Very well, I accept the responsibility,” she said if only to make him drop the subject.

“You have accepted so much responsibility since you married me,” he said, “and you have asked for nothing in return. You deserve the world, but you are so humble and righteous that you don’t even want it. Choosing you as my bride was the best decision I have ever made, Mary. I love you.”

He squeezed her fingers again affectionately, but Mary could barely feel it, so stunned was she. The one thing she had always known about her husband was that he would never love her. He had declared over and over again that he was not an affectionate man.

“You love me?” she asked.

“Yes. I didn’t think it was possible,” he said.

“In all my fifty-eight years, I have never felt like I truly loved a woman. Attraction? Of course. There was even some small amount of friendly love with my first wife. But you. You have taught me how happy a man can be with his wife. You have blessed my life with light and happiness and have taught me how to love. I only wish that I had met you thirty-five years ago.”

“Mr. Allen, I…” Mary tried to say that she loved him, but the words would not come, for they would be a lie. She did love him, but as a guardian, not as a woman loves a man.

“I know,” he said. “You do not need to say it. You do not need to feel it. Simply by teaching me how to love a woman, you have given me the best gift possible.”

“Stop!” Mary cried out. Mr. Allen started and let go of her hand.

She hastily reached out and grabbed it once again.

“I don’t mean to reject you or for you to stop expressing your feelings,” she explained hastily.

“It is only that you are sounding as if you are on your deathbed, and I can’t bear it. I simply can’t bear it.”

“Very well, Mary,” he said as he gently stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. “I will stop for now. Will you please fetch a book and read to me for a bit while we wait for the physician?”

Mr. Allen fought for his life for almost a week, but he eventually succumbed to the pneumonia that plagued his lungs.

For Mary, it was pure torture to see him struggle more and more simply to draw breath.

She spent as much time as she could by his side, but she had to sleep sometimes, so she employed a couple of nurses to assist her in keeping watch over him twenty-four hours a day.

Despite the pain and discomfort he was in, he frequently smiled when she was nearby.

It seemed as though the professions of his feelings for her had released the more tender emotions he had kept locked away.

It was almost as if, even though he was fighting for his life, he was happier than he had ever been before.

When it became clear that there was no way for him to recover, Mary sent expresses to his six close friends informing them that the end was near. She then steeled herself to do something she had promised herself she would never do.

She entered her husband’s room and dismissed the nurse who was taking her turn with him. She sat on his bed and held his hand in her lap. When his eyes opened, and she knew she had his full attention, she said, “Henry, I love you, too.”

He shook his head with the tiniest movement and the corner of his mouth quirked in the barest hint of a wry smile.

“Of all the times to tell your first lie, someone’s deathbed is not the time to do so,” he said, his voice now whisper soft and weak.

“You do not love me, and that is perfectly acceptable. Even without granting me that most precious gift, you have given me far more than I deserve. Hold onto that gift, and someday you will find a man who is not so foolish as I was, who can see the treasure you are clearly. Then, you can give him your heart if you deem him worthy to receive it.”

It took him a long time to get it all out, because he frequently interrupted himself with harsh coughing fits. In the end, however, it was clear. He wanted her to marry again someday, and this time she needed to marry for love.

She couldn’t imagine such a thing, couldn’t fathom the idea of marrying anyone but Mr. Henry Allen, so she filed the thought away for later contemplation.

Within twelve hours, Henry Allen was gone, and Mary Allen, age seventeen, was a very wealthy widow.