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I am a stranger, and they seemed unto him but a few days, for the love he had to her,’” quoted Mrs. Terry peaceably.

Mrs. Dere said nothing to this (presumably because one cannot say, “Fiddlestick!” to the rector’s wife), but she looked her skepticism.

“Come, come, Mrs. Dere,” urged Mrs. Terry, placing a placating hand on her forearm.

“We must let the parties involved decide what they will and will not bear. They have been wise enough, certainly, in choosing to wait for more income before they marry. Not everyone would, you know. And matches made without enough to live on founder on the rocks in greater number. I suppose Mr. Langworthy and Mrs. Sebastian have been as wise as lovers can be.”

“Waiting for income is all very well,” Mrs. Dere conceded. “I applaud that part of it. But waiting is harder on a woman, and Mrs. Sebastian is no girl fresh from the schoolroom.”

No sooner did she make this pronouncement than the parlor door burst open, and Sarah herself appeared. And if she was no girl fresh from the schoolroom, she was a good imitation of one on this occasion, for her eyes and cheeks glowed, and her smile was so wide it displayed every last tooth.

“They—saw action—and he is safe. But he was made commander of a captured sloop and ordered to take it to Plymouth for repairs,” she announced breathlessly.

“He thinks it will be several weeks before it is made properly seaworthy again, so he will be in Iffley as soon as ever he might! He is coming at last!”

A week later, Horace Langworthy climbed down from the London coach at the familiar Angel Inn in Oxford’s High Street. He was stiff and rumpled from travel and his face a trifle more weathered than when he had last appeared there, but he was instantly recognized.

“Mr. Horace Langworthy?” piped a voice.

Turning to inspect the young man who greeted him, his brow creased in puzzlement.

“It’s Brears, sir. I’m a waiter here in the coffee room. Didn’t know if I’d know you, after all this time, but it happens I do.”

“Ah. You have the advantage of me, then.” Lifting a hand he called, “Easy there” to the two coachmen who were lowering his trunk.

“Last time I saw you,” Brears continued, unmoved by his quarry’s disinterest, “you were sitting in the coffee room with a young man in livery. Little fellow. Bright eyes. Eager look.”

Then he had Langworthy’s attention. Warily, he took a longer look at the fellow. Confound it—was Mary Pence’s ghost going to rise up again after all this time to pester him? Whatever this waiter person wanted, Horace had neither time nor interest to delve into it.

“I’ve been paid a sum to meet every London coach and look out for you,” Brears took up again. “And it’s been arranged that as soon as you were to show up, we would drive you out to Iffley.”

“Iffley!” It had to be the baron’s doing, and this was nothing to do with Mary Pence.

Suddenly he was grinning at Brears as if at a long-lost friend.

Digging in his pocket, he fetched up a coin.

“Splendid. Here. Show me where I may spruce myself up, and in ten minutes I’ll be at your service, Brears. ”

He had thought of sending word ahead while he waited at the Angel Inn, but if this watch had been set on his arrival, surely it could be dispensed with? Eager as he was to see Sarah again, he did take long to convince himself.

As was typical of his acts of generosity, however, Lord Dere had made no mention of his arrangements, and so the Barstows were taken completely by surprise.

When the strange gig drew up at the Iffley Cottage gate, Sarah was in the kitchen cutting Bash’s hair with the rest of the household looking on. Now that he was breeched, she thought shorter hair was in order, though her mouth trembled a little to lop off his handsome curls.

“What a little man!” cried Frances, while Maria whooped and clapped her hands.

“I’ve got every last strand, Mrs. Sebastian,” the maid Reed declared, displaying the sweepings, “if you wanted to save some.”

“Birds like hair,” said Bash. “Irving says. To build nests.”

This made them all laugh, and Reed let him poke his fingers into the heap.

“But your hair might be too fine, Bashy,” Frances said, rubbing some strands between her own fingers.

“It’s curly, though,” Gordon pointed out, tossing a little at his nephew. “That will help it stick together, even though it’s fine.”

“It formed knots easily enough on his head,” joked Sarah.