by Jane Arbor
Daniel laughed. ‘I will say your mother missed her vocation when she didn’t take up a career in diplomacy! By the way, she tells me she’s hoping to rent a house in the village. But do you think she’s going to mind moving even so far from Clere?’
‘No. She’s happy about it. It’s that white cottage, “Mostyns”, at the corner of the Green. She and Father always hoped it might be vacant when they retired, and now it is.’
They had not moved since Ira left them, but now they turned to retrace their steps, Daniel’s arm about Verity, holding her close.
‘And when are we going to ask your—our mother—to move out?’ he said. ‘At half-term, perhaps?’
Verity drew a sharp breath. ‘You mean—get married at half-term? But we’ve only just—Hardly anyone knows yet, and we ought to be engaged longer than that, if only to give School the chance to get used to the idea of me as “Mrs. High”!’
‘And by half-term, how long shall we have been engaged?’
‘Why, give or take a few days, only about six weeks.’
Daniel shook his head. ‘Not by my reckoning. According to that, we’re nearing the end of a silver engagement already.’
A silver engagement?’
‘Reference—silver wedding. You’re twenty-five now, aren’t you, and haven’t we been formally betrothed since you were in your cradle?’
A bubble of laughter rose in Verity’s throat. ‘Oh, Daniel, you—you fox! All right. Half-term.’
She turned within his arms, halting them again.
Daniel murmured indistinctly, ‘Ah, my woman’—and as they kissed, the moon raced cloud to etch in mass against the wintry sky the turrets and gables of Clere which were their future and their home.