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A voice broke in on their merriment. “I must be in the wrong place. Because for my life I don’t remember such a great big young fellow here before.”

Everyone in the kitchen turned as one, and there was one long moment of incredulity before—“Langworthy!” shouted Gordon, hurling himself at him.

Horace managed to catch him without falling over, but when Mrs. Barstow and Sarah flew after, the whole lot of them went staggering back into the passage, laughing and crying and clamoring.

It was full five minutes before any one person could make himself heard, and everyone had as much to say as if eighteen months’ of correspondence hadn’t made its slow way back and forth, stuffed full with every last mundane detail of life, for how otherwise could you trick yourself into thinking you were together and not missing anything?

They moved en masse to the parlor, Langworthy occupying the sofa so that Sarah could sit next to him, while the others dragged chairs nearer.

Only Bash held himself apart, forgetting his new breeches and trimmed hair and maturity so far as to suck on one of his knuckles, watching his mother weep and smile at the same time beside the dread interloper, so close she was almost against him, and the strange man looking at her as if he had never seen anyone so marvelous in all his born days.

“No,” said Bash at last. (Not that anyone heard him.)

Then, louder: “ No! ”

Rushing forward, he seized the intruder’s hand from where it lay atop his mother’s and flung it with all his might away.

“Bash!” came a chorus of horrified Barstows.

“No, it’s all right,” said Horace. “Of course he doesn’t remember me.” Then he took up his flung-away hand gingerly, as if it were in danger of shattering, and tucked it to his chest, wincing.

The little boy frowned, perplexed, his strength never before having yielded any such result when he attacked his uncle Gordon or even the smaller Peter Dere.

Indeed, the only members of his world he had ever done injury to had been Poppet the dog and Outlaw the cat, but Poppet yelped in pretended pain at everything, and Outlaw always avenged herself by hissing and clawing him.

Bash glanced at his mother to see if she was angry with him for hurting her friend, but she was biting her lip, and there was an odd hum in her voice when she said, “Do forgive him, in any case, for his discourtesy.”

“It’s all right,” the newcomer rasped out. But then he lifted the damaged appendage. “Perhaps if you were to kiss it and make it better?”

With a roar at this renewed outrage, Bash drew his little leg back (not failing to note how satisfying this was to do when one wore breeches, as opposed to a silly gown which always entangled one) and kicked the gentleman in the ankle.

“Bash!” cried one and all again, but not loudly enough to drown the man’s piercing “Ooh!” Forgetting the hurt to his hand, he slid from the sofa to curl on the floor, cradling his booted ankle and rocking slightly. “Ooh!”

“That’s it, Bash,” cried his uncle Gordon, “we’ll show him who the men of the Barstow family are!

” With a whoo-whoop! worthy of a pack of Oxfordshire hunters, he leapt upon the visitor, and the two of them went rolling and grappling and crashing into furniture while the girls screamed and Mrs. Barstow scrambled about, trying to smack her son on the back.

It was safe to say the walls of Iffley Cottage had never contained such riotry before, unless Peter Dere used to wrestle with his father Mr. Markham Dere before the latter’s death, but Sarah could not imagine Mrs. Dere allowing it.

Nor could she imagine Mrs. Dere giving way to helpless laughter, as she and the others did now.

How had they never thought that Gordy might miss the romping and horseplay a father or a brother closer in age would have provided?

If he and Peter or their other Keele’s classmates indulged in it, they did so out of sight of school or their sedate homes.

Gordon escaped the older man’s hold and dodged behind his nephew, scooping him up and shaking him at his fellow contender, so that Bash’s little arms and legs flapped.

When one hit the man, his victim doubled over, huffing out a breath.

Gordon swung him again, Bash’s foot connecting with the man’s shoulder, sending him crumpling to the carpet.

“Mercy!” he pleaded. “Mercy. I surrender.”

Not being an unkind child, and seeing the flushed and delighted faces of his family, Bash gave a solemn nod.

“Hurrah!” cheered Gordon, setting him down again. “Let us celebrate the Peace of Iffley Cottage. Combatants, shake hands.” He extended his own, and when Bash saw how it was done, he imitated the gesture.

Rome was not built in a day, of course, but over the following fortnight foundations were laid.

There were walks in clear weather, Bash carried pickaback when they went as far as Perryfield, and games and reading when it rained.

Just as he had with the other Barstows, Mr. Langworthy told the little boy stories about his father—nothing formal, just little lines or remembrances as they came up.

He treated Bash as if he were another Gordon, and it was not lost on the child that his uncle—nay, every member of his family and all the neighbors—liked Mr. Langworthy tremendously.

Only Mrs. Dere at Perryfield remained aloof, but even at his young age Bash knew she never fawned on anyone but her own son Peter.

Iffley Cottage being so modest in size, the Barstows for the first time made use of the baron’s standing offer to house any guests of theirs, but Lord Dere likewise insisted that, apart from asking that he indulge the Deres with a few calls and several dinners (all to include whichever Barstows he would like), Mr. Langworthy must feel entirely free to be gone as much as he liked, an offer Horace accepted with gratitude.

“You know, my good Langworthy,” the baron took him aside to say at the first opportunity, “I hope you will pardon my audacity in even saying this, and trust you will believe I mean it with the best of intentions, but you know I feel rather smug about your engagement.”

“Do you?” he said with a grin. (He was grinning a lot these days.)

“Certainly. Because, if you will recall, when you first came to Iffley, I hinted at Sarah’s unmarried state and how you might earn an income as a mathematics tutor.”

“I remember,” he answered dryly. “You also alluded to the possibility of her marrying Rearden, but you weren’t so lucky there.”

“No, indeed. But truly I only mentioned the curate to stir you—to open your eyes to the charm of our Sarah.”

“Oh, believe me, sir, my eyes had been opened, whether or not I would admit it.”

“Just so. In any event, feeling I played no mean role in bringing you two together, I cannot help putting my oar in again. You say you have a little more than a fortnight here—suppose you and dear Sarah were to marry now?”

“Now?” he gasped.

“Why not? I know the bishop of Oxford, and our permanent rector Mr. Terry is a friend of long standing. A license could be arranged easily during your stay, if you and Sarah wished.”

“We—I would be lying if I said I did not wish it, sir,” began Horace, his heart beating harder. “Of course, a lieutenant’s pay is not much. Most men wait until they rise to post captain.”

“What about the capture of the sloop Moineau ? That will bring a little prize money in time, and you were its commander, an important step.”

“If—if Sarah were to become in the family way…”

“Then she could not be better cared for than in the bosom of her family. You have waited a year and a half already, and who knows when you will be able to return. It will give you both comfort. I insist on nothing. Only discuss it with her.”