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When the story ended, Elizabeth returned to English and considered both her parents with the expression she generally wore when she suspected that they had withheld the most interesting part. "Papa, you have told me how you met Mama, but you always stop when the doctor comes back into the room. How did you persuade her to come to England?"

"I did not persuade her," Henry said. "She made that decision herself, and was considerably firmer about it than anyone who advised her. At first I could do no more than visit Doctor Reuter when my duties allowed it."

Minna put aside her sewing. "You also sent the most immoderate letters. One contained three pages about a disagreeable lieutenant, a drawing of an unhappy codfish, and no fewer than six questions about the books I was reading."

"I was attempting to interest a lady in my profession," Henry protested. "The codfish was essential to the enterprise."

"And then your ship sailed," Elizabeth said, more seriously. "Were you afraid you would never see her again?"

"Very much," Henry answered. "Doctor Reuter promised to keep her safely in his household, and a respectable widow who was his cousin stayed with her when his work called him away. I wrote to them both. By the time I obtained leave to return, your mother had been studying English with far more diligence than I had ever applied to German."

Minna smiled at the recollection. "The doctor wished to make inquiries about my family once more. I could bear the thought of honest questions by then, but not of being sent to strangers who claimed me without proof. Henry asked what I wanted, and waited for my answer."

"Which was?" Elizabeth asked.

"To go where I could begin again without being afraid," Minna answered. "An English merchant and his wife were returning home, and they agreed that I might travel in their company. Your father met us when his leave permitted him to follow. We were not married the instant I set foot on English soil, as he sometimes makes it sound. There were many walks in a rather ugly garden, visits in a rather cold drawing room, and a great many perfectly ordinary conversations."

"There was also a question of what name to put in the register," Henry said. "The doctor had known your mother as Minna, and she had used his surname for correspondence when no other could be established. The clergyman was told the truth of it. After we had lived in the parish long enough for the banns to be properly called, she married me as Minna Reuter, the name by which she was then known."

"Were you unhappy to have no other name?" Elizabeth asked her mother.

"Sometimes I was sad for the things I could not remember," Minna answered. "But I knew quite well whom I was marrying. I chose your father, Liebchen. That is the part of the story I never forgot."

Henry took his wife’s hand. "A fortunate thing for me. Your mother has never had the least difficulty remembering when I behave foolishly."

"Such occasions are numerous," Minna agreed, and Elizabeth laughed to see her father kiss the hand he held.

It was in such ordinary happiness that Elizabeth had learned what marriage might be: her mother's hand resting upon her father's shoulder as she passed his chair, a shared glance when the cook offered a particularly dreadful pudding, the habit of speaking frankly without fearing that affection would be withdrawn. Their disagreements were real enough. Minna wished Henry would save more of his pay; Henry believed she ought to purchase a new gown instead of altering an old one yet again. But he listened when she spoke, and she could laugh at his mistakes without making him small.

A letter from Thomas Bennet arrived near the end of the month, describing Jane's latest accomplishment at the pianoforte and Mary's determination to read whatever her father read, however unsuitable the subject. Elizabeth begged to visit her cousins when the weather improved. Henry promised they would consider it after his next duty was concluded.

"Would Aunt Fanny like me?" she asked.

"Your aunt has a great many opinions," Henry answered. "I am certain she will have one about you. But your uncle has loved me since I was born, even after he discovered how troublesome I could be. I cannot imagine him doing less for my daughter."

Minna watched them over the rim of her teacup. When Elizabeth had gone to bed, she stood beside Henry at the window, listening to the small sounds of the household settling for the night. "I envy you sometimes," she said. "You speak of your brother, your parents, and the rooms in which you grew up as though you could walk into yesterday whenever you chose. I have a handful of faces in dreams, and cannot even tell whether they belong to people who loved me."

"I wish I could give her as many names to belong to," Minna said. "Perhaps somewhere there are people who remember me with affection."

"Then I hope one day we shall find them," Henry answered. "Until then, she has every name and every kindness we can give her."

Minna laid her cheek against his shoulder. For that evening, it was enough.

A fortnight after his return, Henry developed a fever.

At first he dismissed it. He had endured worse discomfort at sea, he insisted, and would endure this as well. But the fever rose. By the third day he could no longer sit at the breakfast table, and a physician had been summoned. Elizabeth was sent to the garden or the nursery while voices passed in the corridor and hot water was carried upstairs.

Minna seldom left his room. When she did, she looked as though she had forgotten the ordinary business of walking and speaking.

One afternoon Elizabeth found her mother standing at the parlour window with a letter in her hand.

"Is Papa better?" Elizabeth asked.

Minna knelt beside her. "Not yet, mein Herz. The doctor is doing all he can."

"Papa says doctors are very expensive gentlemen who tell him not to drink cold water."

"Your papa says many things he ought not to say." Minna tried to smile, and failed.