by Liana Lefey
And it would be warm, too. Mama had made her put on three woolen petticoats in addition to her thickest stockings and high boots. With her heavy cloak and felt-lined gloves, she’d likely never even notice the cold.
Though she’d last week disapproved of her daughter’s ploys to catch the good vicar’s eye, Mama had been cooperative, even genial about it this morning. Her reasoning—that it would be best to have this nonsense over and done before getting down to business in London—was somewhat flawed, in Mary’s opinion, but for now it worked in her favor.
Listening with only half an ear to Reverend Wayward’s sermon, she contemplated a bright future. As a vicar’s wife, she’d always have extra responsibilities, but they’d be nothing compared to what she would receive in return: a real home with a gentle and considerate husband. Sharing a house with him would be no imposition, she was sure.
And as handsome as he is, sharing his bed will be a pleasure rather than a chore.
As if he’d heard the naughty thought, the good vicar looked up from his Bible and caught her eye. Mary bowed her head to hide her guilty blush. The very tips of her ears tingled as she stood and opened her hymnal.
For shame, Mary, and during the sermon, too! Again, she was truly thankful for the Lord’s forgiveness.
In addition to being happy and blessed in her marriage, she’d finally be able to put down some roots and have real friends for a change. Augie would come over for tea every day. They’d share the village gossip—though never with malicious intent, of course. Their children would be raised together and become lifelong friends. Never again would she be considered an interloper or be shunned by other women who feared for their beaux. As the vicar’s wife, she’d be a respected member of the community and loved by all.
“Go in peace to love and serve the Lord,” intoned Reverend Wayward, dismissing the congregation and interrupting her woolgathering.
She fully intended to obey that command, starting right now.
Her parents went out with the rest of the parishioners, leaving her behind in their pew to await the reverend’s leisure. Mary remained seated, unsure what to do with herself. She didn’t have to guess very long. A noise behind made her turn to see Reverend Wayward making his way toward her on his crutches.
“Good morning, Miss Tomblin. Your parents informed me that you’re ready to serve today.”
“Indeed I am.” It was with the greatest effort that she refrained from beaming with pride.
“Good,” he replied with a solemn nod. “If you’ll give me a few minutes in the vestry to prepare, we’ll get started.”
“Of course.” Forcing herself to remain seated, she folded her hands in her lap. “I’ll pray our work today is blessed.” She felt his presence withdraw, and then did indeed bow her head in prayer. Please don’t let me make a fool of myself again! He was wary of her, but he’d forgiven her indiscretion and had offered her another chance. Don’t let me waste it by giving in to any rash impulses…
Today, she would serve alongside him with enthusiasm, no matter how dull or menial the task. If all he wanted was for her to carry a basket of biscuits for him or pour tea while he visited with his parishioners, then so be it. She wouldn’t complain. And there’d be no talk of love. No staring at him with calf eyes, either.
When the vicar rejoined her a few minutes later, he bade her follow him. “We’ll be seeing Mrs. Small first, and then Mr. Messingham, who lives nearby. I’ll need you to carry supplies to and from the cart—nothing too heavy, of course, but it will be an enormous help.”
She marched behind him to the vicarage, curious to see inside.
He took her to the back kitchen entrance and stopped. “I laid out everything we’ll need this morning just inside the door. I’ll hand it out to you.”
Disappointment threatened to cast a shadow over her good mood as he slipped inside and did not invite her in.
It’s only temporary. Soon, he’d forget her undignified behavior. Soon, he’d see she was a woman with self-discipline and poise, a worthy helpmeet. One day, her rash conduct would be nothing more than a fond memory they’d both laugh about as they shared a pot of tea over breakfast.
A large covered basket was thrust out through the doorway a moment later and plunked down on the cobblestone, followed immediately by another. “Just a bit more,” he said, poking his head out and throwing her a quick grin that at once buoyed her flagging spirits. This time, one, then two big, unwieldy bundles appeared. “Now we’re ready,” he said cheerily. “If you’ll just take these to the cart, we’ll be on our way.”
She stared in dismay at it all for an instant, but then squared her shoulders. One basket was surprisingly light. The scent of bread wafted from beneath its cloth covering. The other basket, though smaller, was decidedly less light. She opted to load them one at a time so she could carry each with both hands.
“It’s not too heavy for you, is it?” called the vicar.
“No, not at all,” she lied brightly, lugging the heavier one over the lip of the cart and depositing it. A few minutes later, she hauled the last bundle over the side and was beginning to perspire in spite of the chilly weather. By the time she was done, he’d hauled himself up into the driver’s seat with his crutches propped up beside him…leaving no room for her.
She stared askance at him, confused, until he jerked his chin over his shoulder.
“There are blankets in the back for you,” he said with another sunny smile. “Diana adjured me to be mindful of your comfort.”
“Oh, how thoughtful of her.” It was hard not to scowl as she clambered onto the sideboard and stepped in. Her arse had hardly touched the folded blanket before he snapped the reins and the cart lurched into motion, threatening to pitch her over headfirst. Scooting around carefully amid the rolling bundles and shifting baskets, she faced the front…and was given a perfect view of his back. That, along with the occasional glimpse of his profile as he looked from side to side at crossroads, was all she saw of him for a long while.
They didn’t speak. Instead of engaging her in lively conversation as expected, the man seemed inclined to whistle—which would have been fine, pleasant even, had he followed any sort of melody. After listening to his tuneless meanderings for what seemed an eternity, she finally gave up hope and gloomily watched the trees and fields pass.
Time, which she’d anticipated flying by in all the excitement of being with him, dragged interminably on the longest, slowest cart ride in history.
“Not much farther now,” called Reverend Wayward over his shoulder just as she was starting to nod off to the gentle swaying of the cart. A few moments later, he drew to a halt beside a side path.
Thank heaven! Careful of her skirts, she climbed down, intending to assist him, but was waved back by the tip of a crutch.
“Fetch out one of the loaves and a pot of jam,” he said, nodding toward the back of the cart. “Be sure to keep the bread wrapped up so it stays warm. Inside one of those bundles is a quilt. Bring them with you.”
Steeling her spine against his brusque demeanor, she quickly did as told, stuffing the pot of jam into the rolled-up quilt so she could carry it all. By the time she was done, he’d managed to get himself down and was already on his way. She hurried to catch up.
The path led to a rusty wicket propped open by overgrown brambles. As she brushed past him, she again felt her insides tighten. He was so close that, had she a free hand, she could have reached up and touched his cheek to feel its texture.
“This way,” he rasped.
Something in his voice sounded different—tense. His manner was stiff as he moved to the fore again, his bad leg swinging between the crutches. The path was rife with stones and weeds, forcing her to have a care where she put her feet. She didn’t know how he was able to navigate it without falling, but he somehow managed.
As they rounded a bend and the trees grew
sparser, she spied a tiny cottage with a thatched roof from which poked a crooked chimney. A thin stream of smoke issued from it, letting them know the house’s occupant was home.
The vicar clambered his way up to the door and knocked. “Mrs. Small? It’s Reverend Wayward.”
There was a sound of someone moving about inside, and then the scrape of wood against wood. The door cracked an inch, and a wizened face peered out. “I thought I told ye I needed none o’ your charity?” groused the old woman, clearly annoyed at having been disturbed. “Why do ye keep coming ’round for?”
“Because it is my holy charge to care for the people of this parish, madam,” he said, giving her an easy smile. “May we come in?”
Mrs. Small’s frown deepened, but the door opened wide nonetheless. “Don’t see why ye have to keep coming ’round here bothering the likes o’ me an’ all. I was quite happy in front o’ me hearth. Wakened me from me nap, ye did, to have to stir me old bones an’ let in the cold an’ all when I could still be—lawks, man!” she exclaimed on seeing his leg. “What on earth happened to ye?”
“I’m so sorry for waking you, Mrs. Small,” he said, setting down his bundles inside the door and standing aside for Mary. “It’s nothing, really. I’m fine. And, as you can see, I have help today.”
The sight that greeted Mary’s eyes was one of complete chaos. Things—there was no better term for them—were laid about everywhere, suspended by pieces of yarn, string, and twine from the rafters, cluttering every available surface. It was at once apparent that the old woman was a collector of cast-off odds and ends. What she wanted with it all was anybody’s guess.
As she stepped farther inside, a fusty smell assailed her nostrils, making her nose wrinkle involuntarily. Unfortunately, before she could master herself, the reverend noticed and shot her a reproachful look that made her burn with shame. Ducking her head to hide her mortification, she determined to do better. By the time he got around to introducing her, she was smiling sweetly at their hostess.
“Miss Tomblin is accompanying me today and kindly providing assistance,” explained the reverend. “We’ve brought some bread and preserves for you to enjoy, and a new quilt for your bed.” He glanced at Mary and said pointedly, “Now the snows have started, the long nights have become bitter and the days hardly any warmer. Even as cozy as yours is, every home is susceptible to the odd draft, and fires sometimes burn themselves out in the night.”
Again, Mary felt the sting of his subtle recrimination even as comprehension dawned. The old woman could hardly air out her rooms in such weather. Not only would it be hard on her health to let the cold in, but it would eat up her supply of firewood to reheat the rooms afterward. For the poor, conserving heat was a higher priority than making one’s home smell pleasant.
Despite having given them a chilly reception, the old woman didn’t object as Mary handed her the gifts. “Ooh. ’Tis quite nice, that,” she said, shaking out the quilt. “Is it eiderdown?”
“It is,” he answered.
“Not that I need it, mind,” the crone said proudly, her glare softening a little as she draped it across her shoulders. “But ’tis nice to have summat new every now and again.”
“Miss Tomblin, if you would be so kind as to lay out the loaf and preserves for Mrs. Small?”
“Of course.” Mary moved to do so at once. It was so crowded in the rooms that it was impossible to keep from brushing against the woman’s dust-coated furnishings—if they could be called such—as she made her way through the tiny cottage to the kitchen in search of a plate. This time, however, she managed to refrain from showing distaste.
Even her mother’s warnings about what she might encounter on these visits to the rural poor hadn’t prepared her for the reality. The squalor in which Mrs. Small lived was quite simply appalling. She couldn’t for the life of her understand why the old crone had reacted to the reverend’s greeting in so haughty a manner when she so clearly had nothing to boast about!
Unless, of course, one counted the number of cobwebs present in the house. She surmised there must be scores of rodents in the place, too. Steeling herself, she jerked open the cupboard with every expectation of seeing beady little eyes staring back out at her. To her immense relief, however, it was devoid of any living creatures.
Gathering what she needed, she brought the loaded plate to Reverend Wayward, hoping he wouldn’t ask her to make tea. There was a kettle on the hob, but damned if she knew where to look for tea or cups in this place. Not that she’d want to drink anything made here. In fact, she could hardly wait to leave.
“Thank you, Miss Tomblin,” he said, taking it.
Their fingers brushed in the exchange, sending lightning sensations racing along every nerve on its way up her arm and down into the pit of her stomach.
Feeling rather unsteady, she avoided his eyes and took a seat as Mrs. Small attacked the loaf and preserves with near-childlike anticipation.
The look on her face as she sank her few remaining teeth into the soft, white bread and sweet strawberries a moment later was one of utter bliss.
Mary blinked suddenly smarting eyes and chastised herself for her earlier thoughts. This woman had once been someone’s daughter, someone’s sweetheart, someone’s wife. Perhaps she was someone’s mother or grandmother. And here she was out at the edge of town, all by herself with no one to care for her or help her keep house, and no one but herself for company.
Mary had felt like an outsider at times, but she’d always had her family. And now she had Augie and other friends. And she had the excuse of actually being from somewhere else to account for her being treated like an outsider. Mrs. Small was far more alone, yet all her life she’d lived here, in the Harper’s Grove Mary so coveted for herself.
Never again will I pity myself.
“Mrs. Small?” she ventured, speaking up for the first time. “May I offer my help? Tell me what needs doing, and I’ll be happy to do it.”
The old woman paused in her chewing and looked at her as if she’d spoken in a foreign tongue.
So did Reverend Wayward, she noted with gratification.
“Well, I suppose ye could give a hand with me washing.” She nodded up at the clothes hung over lines strung between hooks in the wooden beams that held up the roof of the cottage.
“Of course,” Mary responded, moving at once. As she took down the threadbare garments and folded them, she noticed that many of the items she’d taken for “junk” lying about the place were merely old and worn, but still useful.
Once all were folded, she quietly went to the kitchen basin and began washing the few dishes in it, laying them on the sideboard to dry. Without bothering to ask, she then went about sweeping the ashes from the hearth and unobtrusively straightening things here and there as her hostess and the reverend talked. Among these was a small portrait of a man, a woman, and two children, both girls. The woman in the painting was beautiful. After a moment, Mary recognized her as Mrs. Small—she had the same face, only without so very many lines in it.
The little girls must be her daughters. She wiped the dust off the frame and set it gently back in its place.
“They’re all gone now,” said Mrs. Small, her voice wistful. “Me husband, me girls. I’m the only one left. Just waiting for the angels to come for me.”
Mary then noticed that Reverend Wayward was gone. “Tell me about your family,” she said, coming to sit on the tattered hassock beside Mrs. Small’s chair. In the silence that followed her request, she heard voices outside the cottage—his and someone else’s—and the dull thud of an axe smiting wood.
“Not much to tell,” responded the old woman softly. “I was once like ye, young and full o’ life. Lived that life, I did. I’ve loved, I’ve had me children and watched them have theirs. I’ve buried all but two o’ me family, and those two—me granddaughters—are off living their own lives—as they should b
e.”
“Do they not come and visit you?”
Mrs. Small pulled a face. “Why should they be troubled by an old woman they’ve met only once or twice when they were babes? They’ve gone and made families o’ their own. I’ve no wish to burden them.”
Mary wondered if they even knew she was still alive but felt it too rude a question to ask. “Well, I’m here. And you’re no burden to me.” She picked at the moth-eaten doily draped over the arm of the chair, neatening it. “I never knew my grandparents. My parents are both orphans. Papa was raised by the church. Mama was taken in by relatives, but I’ve never met them. They sent her to a girls’ school almost as soon as she arrived, and the only time she ever saw them after that was on holidays.”
“Poor mite,” said Mrs. Small, shaking her head. “’Tis a shame, that. Me family might have been poor, but we always ate well—and we had love. I miss them, I do. Ye remind me o’ me youngest, Anna. She was a sweet thing, too. Always loved to sit at me side and listen to me tales while I knitted pretties for the market days.”
The smile that curved Mary’s mouth was genuine. “My mother is not one for telling tales.”
Rheumy green eyes lit. “Would ye like to hear me Anna’s favorite?”
Chapter Five
Content that Mrs. Small now had enough wood to keep her cottage warm for at least a week, Devlin made his slow way back. For a few pennies, he’d managed to have one of the local boys meet him here to split the kindling, since he couldn’t do it himself. Tomorrow, he’d send that boy back out with a jar of lamp oil for her, as it had looked like she was running low, and another loaf of bread. Daniel had told him the townsfolk all took turns keeping her fed, sending their older children out with extra portions to leave on her doorstep, so he knew she had enough to eat, but it wouldn’t hurt. He still had a surplus of food gifted to his brother by the townsfolk.
