Love was not practical. What a woman wanted was a pleasant man with whom she could live peaceably. He must be reasonably attractive, and have his own wealth, for she would certainly not share hers. That she would keep for her children. They would have their children at reasonable intervals. Two. A son to inherit his father's estate, and a daughter to inherit Maguire's Ford. It was the sensible thing to do. She hoped she would like Ireland, but even if she didn't, she would remain there. An estate of some three thousand acres was not to be sniffed at, and her mother's gift to her upon her marriage would make her not simply wealthy, but very, very wealthy. Wealth, she had observed, was far more preferable than bleak poverty.

"Are you thinking of William Devers?" her mother asked, coming to Fortune's side to look out over the water at the nearing land.

"I keep forgetting his name," Fortune chuckled. "William is not a name that is familiar to me, Mama."

"You have a cousin William," Jasmine answered. "My Aunt Willow's youngest son. He is the cousin who has taken holy orders in the Anglican church. I don't think you ever met him, poppet. A nice young man, as I recall. A bit younger than I." Jasmine's eyes were thoughtful with her concern. Fortune was her privy child. She was never really certain what Fortune was thinking. "If you do not like this young man, poppet, you do not have to wed him," she told her daughter for what must surely be the twentieth time. God! She didn't want Rowan's youngest daughter unhappy. It had been a near enough thing with India.

"If he is presentable, Mama, and kind, I'm sure he will suit me well," Fortune replied, patting her mother's hand in a gesture of comfort. "I am not adventurous like you and India, or the rest of the women in this family for that matter. I want an orderly and peaceful life."