A Marriage of Attachment: a sequel to A Contrary Wind (Mansfield Trilogy Book 2)

Thus far, you have made no recourse to the law, which tells me you are too merciful to ruin my reputation with a bill of divorce. But everything is in your power, not mine. Do you wish to continue as we have done—living apart and estranged? Or do you, my dear Edmund—can you propose some solution to this impasse?
I shudder at the thought of entrusting our correspondence to the public post. A line directed to Lady Delingpole will reach me.
Your sorrowful wife,
Mary

Chapter Two
Julia Bertram arose early to work in her garden on the morning after her return to Thornton Lacey from town.
Her mother used to sit in the shade, playing with her pug dog, as the gardeners at Mansfield Park dug and trimmed, and her Aunt Norris flitted about, directing and admonishing. But as there was no army of servants at her command at Edmund’s house, Julia taught herself to weed and plant, and found she rather enjoyed it, for the activity soothed her restless spirit.
Her flower garden was on a sunny slope behind the house, her own private retreat. She was exceedingly proud of her new hedge. At present her yew trees barely reached her waist, but with the mind and eye of a gardener, she saw the day when an imposing green avenue would trace the path of a gravel walkway, leading to the winding stream at the foot of the garden.
As she examined the promising new growth on her rose trellis, Julia indulged in recollections of a warm autumn day two years ago when her cousins William and Susan Price were visiting at Mansfield Park. The three of them went to pick rose hips in the hedgerows. It was the day she knew she was in love with William Price.
Julia closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, summoning up the moment when young Susan, enjoying the freedom of the outdoors, went running on ahead, looking for a better patch of rose bushes, and she was left alone with William. She saw William’s face; the look in his eyes when he took her hand and asked her if she could wait for him. She had whispered ‘yes,’ and his face lit up with joy, and he embraced her. His radiant smile, the feel of his strong arms around her—this was her most precious memory, the most exciting and wonderful moment of her young life.
His pledge of love, and her acceptance, was a promise jointly given and taken with a sweet, lingering kiss. Neither one said another word. There was no need to. They stepped apart before William’s sister Susan returned, and if she suspected, she gave no sign. A few days later, William was gone to resume his duties as a lieutenant with His Majesty’s navy. Julia gave him all the dried rose hips to take with him to Africa.
As far as good intentions spoke for her future conduct, Julia believed she would only marry with her parents’ consent. In the meantime, she lived on the memory of one moment, one kiss. While her father respected William for his talents and industry, she feared he would not be pleased to welcome his nephew as a son-in-law. The Prices were poor and undistinguished.
During her visits to London, Julia had met many highly born, prosperous, eligible young men, and perhaps with a little more enterprise on her part, a greater willingness to please and be pleased, she might have attached one of them. But the lieutenant had conquered her heart.
Julia waited at Thornton Lacey while William sought promotion, prizes, and distinction in the West African Squadron. The lovers agreed to keep their understanding a secret until the day he could step forward as an eligible claimant for Julia’s hand. William would not even correspond with her directly. Instead, he wrote long letters to her brother Edmund, recounting the success of his crew in apprehending slave ships along the African coast. With every ship captured and every slave freed, he was promised his share of prize monies. And the subject of rose hip tea often figured in his correspondence.
“Julia, are you out here?” Her brother’s voice pulled Julia out of her reverie.
“Yes, here I am, Edmund. I was just going to water my peonies.”
Edmund strolled down the path and picked up his sister’s heavy clay garden pot for her. “How well your daffodil cuttings are growing, Julia!”
“Bulbs are grown by division, not cuttings, Edmund.” Julia corrected him, proud of her acquired gardening knowledge.
“Well, at any rate, I remember these daffodils from our old garden. Could you accompany me to Mansfield this Wednesday? Lord Delingpole has sent us a note from Castle Ashby. He asks if we are at leisure to show him around Mansfield Park. I suppose he would rather talk to me than the steward. Could you attend on Lady Delingpole, or would you find it too painful?”
“I’m afraid I might weep, just a little, when I see our familiar old rooms silent and empty. But after all, I am a woman, we sometimes cry for pleasure. Otherwise, we would not speak of ‘having a good cry.’ I will go with you on Wednesday, Edmund.”
If so amiable a young lady as Julia Bertram might be said to have a fault, it was that she tended to think only of herself and her own concerns. But, as she watched her brother absently-mindedly drowning a peony bush with the full contents of the watering jug, she thought to ask: “Edmund? Will you give Lady Delingpole a reply for Mary?”
“Yes, of course, but... I cannot help wondering, Julia, why is Mary writing to me now? Why now? What does she want?”
“What else but to come back to you, Edmund dear?”
“But, shall I take this purely as a compliment to me,” Edmund said drily, “or is there something else? What has occurred, or what has