Sighing at her interruption, Mr. Gimble laid down his quill, but he was not proof against her sunny smile. "I shall make it a point to ask God about that when I see Him."

The idea of her grandfather dying made Alexandra instantly somber, but the sound of a carriage drawing up before the cottage caused her to leap to her feet, running to the open window. "It's Papa!" she burst out joyously. "Papa has come from London at last!"

"And about time it is, too," Mr. Gimble grumbled, but Alex didn't hear. Clad in her favorite garb of breeches and peasant shirt, she was racing through the doorway and hurtling herself into her father's reluctant arms.

"How are you, little gypsy?" he said without much interest.

Mr. Gimble arose and went to the window, watching with a frown as the handsome Londoner helped his daughter up into his fancy new carriage. Fancy carriage, fancy clothes, but his morals were not fancy at all, thought Mr. Gimble angrily, recalling how his daughter, Felicia, had been blinded by the man's looks and suavity from the moment he had arrived at their cottage one afternoon, his carriage broken down in the road in front of it. Mr. Gimble had offered to let the man spend the night and, late in the afternoon, against his better judgment, he had yielded to Felicia's pleading and allowed her to walk out with him so she might "show him the pretty view from the hill above the stream."

When darkness fell and they had not returned, Mr. Gimble struck out after them, finding his way easily by the light of the full moon. He discovered them at the foot of the hill, beside the stream, naked in each other's arms. It had taken George Lawrence less than four hours to convince Felicia to abandon the precepts of a lifetime and to seduce her.

Rage beyond anything he had ever known had boiled up inside Mr. Gimble and, without a sound, he had left the scene. When he returned to the cottage two hours later, he was accompanied by his good friend the local vicar. The vicar was carrying the book from which he would read the marriage ceremony.

Mr. Gimble was carrying a rifle to make certain his daughter's seducer participated in the ceremony.

It was the first time in his life he had ever held a weapon.

And what had his righteous fury gotten for Felicia? The question darkened Mr. Gimble's features. George Lawrence had bought her a large, run-down house that had been vacant for a decade, provided her with servants, and for nine months following their marriage, he had reluctantly lived with her here in the remote little shire where she had been born. At the end of that time Alexandra arrived, and soon afterward George Lawrence went back to London, where he stayed, returning to Morsham only twice each year for two or three weeks.

"He is earning a living in the best way he knows how," Felicia had explained to Mr. Gimble, obviously repeating what her husband had told her. "He's a gentlemen and therefore cannot be expected to work for a living like ordinary men. In London, his breeding and connections enable him to mingle with all the right people, and from them he picks up hints now and then about good investments on the 'Change, and which horses to bet on at the races. It's the only way he can support us. Naturally, he would like to have us with him in London, but it is dreadfully expensive in the city, and he would not dream of subjecting us to the sort of cramped, dingy lodgings he must live in there. He comes to us as often as he can."

Mr. Gimble was dubious about George Lawrence's explanation for preferring to remain in London, but he had no doubt why the man returned to Morsham twice each year. He did so because Mr. Gimble had promised to seek him out in London—with his borrowed rifle—if he did not return at least that often to see his wife and daughter. Nevertheless, there was no point in wounding Felicia with the truth, for she was happy. Unlike the other women in the tiny shire—Felicia was married to "a true gentleman" and that was all that counted in her foolish estimation. It gave her status, and she walked among her neighbors with a queenly air of superiority.

Like Felicia, Alexandra worshiped George Lawrence, and he basked in their unquestioning adoration during his brief visits. Felicia fussed over him, and Alex tried valiantly to be both son and daughter to him—worrying about her lack of feminine beauty at the same time she wore breeches and practiced fencing so she could fence with him whenever he came.

Standing in the window, Mr. Gimble glowered at the shiny conveyance drawn by four sleek, prancing horses. For a man who could spare little money for his wife and daughter, George Lawrence drove a very expensive carriage and team.

"How long can you stay this time, Papa?" Alexandra said, already beginning to dread the inevitable time when he would leave again.

"Only a week. I'm off to the Landsdowne's place in Kent."

"Why must you be gone so much?" Alexandra asked, unable to hide her disappointment even though she knew he, too, hated to be away from her and her mother.

"Because I must," he said, and when she started to protest, he shook his head and reached into his pocket, extracting a small box. "Here, I've brought you a little present for your birthday, Alex."

Alexandra gazed at him with adoration and pleasure, despite the fact that her birthday had come and gone months before, without so much as a letter from him. Her aquamarine eyes were shining as she opened the box and removed a small, silver-colored locket shaped like a heart. Although it was made of tin and not particularly pretty, she held it in her palm as if it were infinitely precious. "I shall wear it every single day of my life, Papa," she whispered, then she put her arms around him in a fierce hug. "I love you so much!"

As they passed through the tiny sleepy village, the horses sent puffs of dust up into the air, and Alexandra waved at the people who saw her, eager for them to know that her wonderful, handsome papa had returned.

She needn't have bothered to call their attention to him. By evening, everyone in the village would be discussing not only his return, but the color of his coat, and a dozen other details, for the Village of Morsham was as it had been for hundreds of years—sleepy, undisturbed, forgotten in its remote valley. Its inhabitants were simple, unimaginative, hard-working folk who took immeasurable pleasure in recounting any tiny event that occurred to alleviate the endless sameness of their existence. They were still talking about the day, three months ago, when a carriage came through with a city fellow wearing a coat of not just one cape but eight. Now they would have George Lawrence's wondrous carriage and team to discuss for the next six months.

To an outsider, Morsham might seem a dull place populated by gossipy peasants, but to thirteen-year-old Alexandra, the village and its inhabitants were beautiful.