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It was a watercolour set of a kind Anne had never seen before — not the children’s paint-box with its six cracked cakes of colour that she had outgrown two years since, but a cabinet-maker’s case in polished walnut, fitted with three dozen pans of pigment in colours she had no names for yet, sable brushes graduated from a fine point to a soft full wash, a water tin with its own lid, and a little ivory palette that folded away into the lid when not wanted. It was, in truth, a finer set than most grown painters of the Colonel’s acquaintance possessed, and he had gone to no small trouble, nor spared any expense, in procuring it.

She said nothing now, either, for a moment — only looked at the case, and the ranked colours within it, and touched one fingertip, very lightly, to a pan of blue so deep and clear it might have been a piece of the evening sky pressed flat and dried.

Then she looked up at her father, and her whole quiet face came alight at once, in the sudden, complete way that quiet faces have of catching fire when they do finally catch it — and she was out of her chair and across the room and had both arms round his neck before he had quite finished straightening up from the table.

“Papa. Papa, it is the most beautiful thing I have ever had in my whole life.”

“I am very glad you like it, my sweet girl.” The Colonel, who was not a demonstrative man by habit, held his daughter a good deal more tightly, and a good deal longer, and said nothing further for a moment himself, because he found that he did not immediately trust his voice to be perfectly steady. “I have watched you at it since you were scarcely big enough to hold the pencil the right way round; I wanted you to have the proper means to do it well, since you mean to go on doing it regardless of what means you are given. A thing loved so plainly ought not to be managed on cracked paint and a boy’s old brush.”

“I shall take the very greatest care of it,” said Anne, still with her arms about him, “and I shall paint you something every week, whether you ask for it or not.”

“I do not think that day is very likely to come when I shall not ask for it,” said the Colonel, and kissed the top of her head, and privately thought, as he had thought a hundred times before and would think a hundred times again before she was grown, that there were a great many things a man might spend his fortune on in this world, and that he had never yet found one that answered half so well as the look presently on his daughter’s face.

For Henry he had two books. One was a stout, plain, heavy volume in dark calf, with a thin gilt line upon the spine, and a bookplate that Henry had never seen before; and the boy turned it over, in the light of the lamp.

“Popular Tales,” said the Colonel. “I have not read it. I bought it, I confess, at a stall in the market, for eleven shillings, because it seemed to me a thing that you would want.” He hesitated. “I should not like you to think that I wish you to be anything in particular. I have no ambition for you but that you should be happy, and useful, and good. But you spoke of helping others; and I thought that if a man means to, it should be encouraged. And this one,” said he, handing over a book with a plain cover, “is somewhat newer, Mansfield Park. The man in the market highly recommended it.”

“Papa,” said Henry.

“It is nothing.”

“It is not nothing. I shall read it. I shall read them both,” said Henry. “Do you know, when Mr. Palmer was last at Barton Cottage, he was reading the Statute of Uses. I asked him what the advantages were of being a man of Parliament. He said he ran to elevate his status and spend time away from Mrs. Palmer and the children while he takes care of election business. I believe reading your book choices would be of much more benefit.”

The Colonel laughed quietly, while Marianne laughed freely. Brandon soon forgot all else as his eyes focused on his wife. Her laugh was perhaps her most captivating feature—not delicate or carefully restrained, but warm, bright, and utterly infectious. It escaped her like birdsong, a soft peal that seemed to make the candlelit drawing-room feel suddenly lighter.

Her eyes sparkled with mischief, her cheeks flushed like rose petals, and a few loose curls trembled against her temples. She would sometimes try to hide her smile behind her fan, though the effort only made her more charming. There was something wonderfully unguarded about it. Brandon’s heart swelled.

“Brandon, it is now your turn,” said Marianne excitedly, as she pulled out a small, beautifully wrapped gift from its hiding place under a piece of embroidery in her sewing basket.

It was a very small portrait of herself on a thin sheet of delicate ivory. “I painted it myself. It is not perfect, obviously, but Elinor said she thought it was a very good likeness of me. I hope you like it,” Marianne said with hesitation and hopefulness in her voice.

“It could not be more perfect,” Brandon said softly as he held it in his hands and could not take his eyes off it. “I have never seen its equal.”

Marianne clapped and was completely delighted by his response. “Oh, I am glad you like it! I had it framed in gold to match your watch. Look, there is a small loop on top, so you might attach it to your fob.”

Brandon was speechless as he continued to stare at it in amazement. “You are a wonder, my dear.” Then he took out his watch fob and attached the miniature to it. He took his wife’s hand in his and kissed it. “I shall always wear it beside my father’s watch and seal.”

After a minute of everyone declaring it the most handsome ornament they had ever seen, Brandon suddenly remembered he had yet to give his wife her gift.

“I believe there is also something for the most beautiful and talented woman in all of the world,” said he eagerly, as he reached in his pocket and brought out a small box, and handed it to his wife.

Marianne took the box from his hand and opened it.

It was an ornate ring in a flower cluster design. A small centre sapphire stone was surrounded by petals of other gems. Beginning at the top there was an amethyst, a diamond, an opal, a ruby, and an emerald. The gold work surrounding the stones and down the sides of the band was incredibly intricate wirework resembling fine lace in 18-carat gold.

“Brandon! You are too good to us,” exclaimed Marianne. “This is a thing of beauty!”

The children came over and declared it the most beautiful thing they had ever seen. Then they exchanged looks and ran to retrieve their own gifts for their parents.

Anne produced a picture she had drawn of their family’s home, Delaford, with all the flowers in bloom, which she had meticulously worked on for weeks to get it just right. Aunt Elinor had helped her find a frame.

Henry brought out from behind his back a wooden spill-holder with the distinctive letter B, for Brandon, on the outside, explaining that Uncle Edward helped him carve it.

Brandon and Marianne praised both gifts excessively and presently they all went and put each in their rightful places, both on the fireplace mantelpiece in Brandon and Marianne’s bedchamber where they would daily be seen and appreciated.

“Now I believe it is time for cake,” said Brandon, as they all went to the drawing-room to have a very fine tea.

Later, after everyone had retired for the night, Brandon watched Marianne admiring the ring. “When I hold it under the candle, it produces a soft, deep glow. It is very romantic, my love. Wherever did you find it? Certainly not in a stall at the market.”