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kept underfoot at home,” she added crisply.
    “You did not send me away, Mama.”
    “No, but I had only you to tend.” Her mother sniffed. “No one else to manage or keep content. I did not birth a child a year and then let it roam about disturbing the neighbors as if I had naught to do with it. People who make too many children should accept responsibility for them. It’s not for you to be looking after those little boys all the time, Diana.”
    “I don’t mind it. What else do I have to do, Mama?”
    “Plenty about this house! I can hardly ever find you when I need you these days. Always off in your own world, idly daydreaming.” Her mother added scornfully, “And what worthy literature are you and your friends reading now?”
    When Diana told her the name of their new book, Mrs. Makepiece shook her head and dabbed at her stained shawl with greater fervor.
    “I hear the lady who wrote those books died a spinster, so you can see where it got her. I would have thought you too old for those silly novels.”
    Diana was tempted to warn her mother that in her virulent determination to remove a slight blemish from her precious shawl, she would take all the color out of it too. Instead she stepped down into the pantry and stared at the shelves. There, pushed to the back and gathering dust, her mother kept a few ingredients deemed too luxurious and expensive for everyday use. Exotic spices reserved in case they had a special visitor—a Clarendon, for instance. Years ago Diana had chirped to her mother, “You do know King George isn’t coming to visit Hawcombe Prior, don’t you, Mama?” and received a clip ’round the ear for her trouble.
    Those precious ingredients sat there in readiness, waiting for a chance that may never come.
    She wondered what would happen if she brought some of those jars out into the light. But it was a passing idea, a spark of rebellion soon stamped out. Diana reached for the familiar bottles.
    Perhaps she ought to be beyond her enjoyment of romantic novels, she mused, but Anne Elliot’s story had touched her heart. She understood how persuasion, like a constant drip of water over many years, can eventually make a mark, even in solid rock.

Four
    Nathaniel was surprised to see the Pig in a Poke tavern with shutters closed over its crooked, ivy-fringed windows and the front door bolted. Yet another change to the place he had visited so many times in the past. There was no sign of life within, no smoke billowing from the chimney, no children shrieking or dogs barking. It was as if he had unknowingly died and now walked in an unsettled dream where everything was the same on the surface, but not quite as it should be when one looked closer.
    Then, as he turned his mount to head across the common, he spied a familiar face at last.
    Three ladies walked down the High Street, deep in conversation. They had not yet seen him, but the bright auburn hair of his sister, Rebecca, was unmistakable, even with most of it hidden under a straw bonnet.
    Nathaniel grinned and urged his horse into a canter.
    “Well, if it isn’t my rotten little sister, Rebecca! I thought your husband would keep you under lock and key for his own peace of mind, as well as the general safety of the village.”
    His sister’s astonishment turned quickly to laughter and joy, much to his relief. “Nate! For the love of—why did you not write?”
    He dismounted to greet her. “I didn’t want to give you any warning,” he teased. “But it seems as if someone already knew I was coming, for they boarded up the tavern as a precaution!”
    Rebecca’s hazel eyes shone warmly up at him, springing with tears that were quickly swiped away. “Mrs. Bridges’s mama died and so they are closed for the mourning period.” She reached up, tapping his cheek lightly with her fingers. “How typical that your first visit should be to the local tavern and not your loving family.”
    “It was not a visit of pleasure,” he replied, “but