by Liana Lefey
“Mr. Messingham said it’s been months since you last played him,” she reproached. “Perhaps you’ll play him when next we visit?”
Without waiting for an answer, she turned to face the front, smiled beatifically, and again began humming.
By the time they reached Mrs. Mickelby’s, he was all but at the end of his wits—and his leg had begun to hurt in earnest. Never in all his life was he happier to come out of the cold and sit down in a parlor full of lace doilies and china figurines.
…
Mary found it difficult to hide her glee as she sipped her tea and dwelt on their last call while Mrs. Mickelby nattered on with Reverend Wayward.
Without the presence of a fellow male with whom to conspire against her sex, old Messingham had been surprisingly easy to win over. She’d simply gone to the fire with her book, sat down, and started reading silently. After several minutes of being ignored, the old codger had insisted upon conversing with her. Fortunately, he’d approved of the book she’d brought, having read it himself, and thus had begun their discussion—and friendship.
Wayward had lost his prize piece in this little game of theirs. What made it even more delicious was the fact that he knew it. His look of disgruntlement when he’d come in and found them playing was such that she’d been hard put not to laugh aloud.
Check and mate!
She and the reverend entertained Mrs. Mickelby for about half an hour before rising to give regrets, saying they couldn’t tarry, but promised to visit longer the next time.
Next, they visited Mrs. Tidwell and her so-called feline menace, which took an immediate liking to her. The cat spent most of the visit bumping up against her hand to be petted and attempting to crawl into her lap. It did not, however, welcome with any warmth whatsoever the male half of their duo. The good reverend came away from their encounter with a nasty row of deep scratches on the back of his hand.
Justice!
Old Mr. Cotsworth was cordiality incarnate. Generous, too. When they left his house, the good vicar had half a dozen new books of no mean length to read as he convalesced. For a man who purportedly enjoyed reading, she observed that the expression he wore as they were leaving was rather more resigned than enthusiastic.
Mary couldn’t bring herself to sympathize, as she was the one forced to carry them all. She’d been lugging about baskets full of goods all afternoon, and no matter how charitable her motives were, her back was beginning to complain about it. It was hard not to resent Wayward for using her like a pack mule, even though she’d been the one to volunteer her services.
Mrs. Stone welcomed them with gladness, and when the reverend told her of the impending repairs to her home, she sobbed her gratitude on Mary’s shoulder.
Mary’s heart softened toward him. It was hard to stay bitter after such an event, and she resolved to make a fresh start when they left. “You poor dear,” she commented to him as they rounded the last corner before turning toward the vicarage. “Even when you’re well and fit, I don’t know how you manage to make such a circuit every week all on your own. And with your leg, I cannot imagine how tired you must be. Especially after that gate hit it.”
“Oh, come now, Miss Tomblin.” He held her with his eyes as a mischievous smile slanted his lips. “Surely you know by now I’m made of sterner stuff than that?”
Warmth gathered in her cheeks as her toes curled in their boots. “Glad am I to hear it,” she said too brightly. “As for myself, I feel much refreshed by the outing.” How she wished the air would cool her face! But though the breeze was full of winter’s chill, it did naught to ease the heat in her face.
“Wonderful,” he said, the smile broadening. “Then perhaps, since we completed our round of visits so early today, you’d like to assist me in readying the sanctuary for the evening service?”
Her back groaned in protest, but she could hardly decline. “Nothing would delight me more.”
After stopping briefly at the vicarage to leave the horse cart with Tom and drop off the now-empty baskets, he let her into the church. The stillness and silence of the dim sanctuary seemed almost oppressive after being in the brisk, open air and hearing the winter birds twittering their songs in the trees. It would have been a peaceful space but for the riot of feelings she brought into it. Frustrated yearning along with too many others to name, all jumbled up together. Every time he glanced at her, she felt exposed, naked, as if he knew her every motive and the secret whisperings of her heart.
Nonsense! He’s a man, not a mind reader. “How may these hands best serve you, Reverend?”
He stiffened, pausing in the act of rummaging through a large wooden chest by the rear door. When he slowly straightened a moment later, he wore a decidedly cool expression. Clutched in one large hand was a basket containing a wad of rags and two earthenware jars. Using just one crutch, he hobbled over and plunked it down in front of her. “I’ve the perfect task for idle hands: the pews could do with a good polishing.”
She glanced at the one beside her. The wood shone like glass.
“Not these. Those.” He pointed to the back. “The men often come in straight from tending their animals. Thus, the rear pews’ handrails are quite filthy.” Lifting a wry brow, he glanced down at her hands. “I assume you know how to polish?”
“Of course, b—”
“Good. Then you may start on the last row and work your way forward.” Turning, he hobbled back to retrieve his other crutch, leaving her standing there in openmouthed astonishment instead of offering to polish alongside her, which he most certainly could have done even with his injured leg.
Of all the—! She contemplated flinging the jars at his head and walking out, but didn’t. Glaring at his retreating back, she instead snatched up the implements and took herself off to the back to make war on wood.
The pews in the rear were indeed deeply soiled by the dirt and sweat of working men’s palms. Stroke after vicious stroke, through the liberal and vigorous application of lemon oil, beeswax, and elbow grease, she scoured off the layers of grime to reveal the wood beneath, and then polished until it gleamed.
While she took out her vexation on the pews, the vicar took his time draping the altar and setting out fresh candles. Silently, she fumed over the inequity of their tasks, but kept on polishing. After about twenty minutes, her arm grew weary. After half an hour, it ached. Glowering at the vicar, who was now slowly setting out hymnals, she switched hands, determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing her give up and quit.
Finally, after what had to be at least an hour, he deigned to survey her progress. Continuing her work, she acted as though she didn’t notice him. She’d restored the handrails of six long pews to their original color.
“Impressive, Miss Tomblin,” he said, at last acknowledging her and calling her efforts to a halt. “Truly, I don’t think I’ve ever seen them so clean. I shall have to have a word with the acolytes and show them your fine example.”
Standing proudly, she regarded him with a gimlet stare. “It was my pleasure, Reverend.” She couldn’t resist. “I can return on the morrow and work on the rest, if you like.” Wicked mirth welled up inside her at the flicker of alarm in his eyes. “I would remain and finish the job now, but I really must be getting home.”
“Thank you, I’ll have the acolytes finish the rest, with your shining example to aspire to. Come, I’ll have Tom bring around the cart and I’ll drive you home.”
For a moment, she wanted to tell him to walk off the edge of a tall cliff. Her arms ached abominably, her fingers were rough and red, and she smelled to high heaven of lemon. Honey catches more vicars than vinegar, Mary. “Thank you,” she said sweetly.
She marked the stiffness of his manner—and his pained expression as he donned his coat and gloves. His leg must really be smarting from the hit it took today.
Good! Serves him right, and I hope it aches for t
he next week. She let him help drape her cloak about her shoulders. “I do hope the heavy snow holds off until after Mr. Farley can make the repairs to Mrs. Stone’s roof,” she said as they left the warm sanctuary behind for the chill of the outdoors. “It looked quite ready to fall in near the back.”
“Mr. Farley said the same thing when I spoke with him Friday. He’s to start work on it tomorrow. His son will be helping.”
“Happy news,” she said with a genuine smile as they approached the stable. “Tell me, do your rounds include those of the parish who live farther away than Mr. Messingham? I don’t wish to deprive them of a visit, and I fear you’ve kept close to the village for my sake.”
“I do, but on horseback only, as some of the paths are too narrow for the cart.” He cast about for a moment, then nodded at Tom, who poked his head out of the stable at their approach before quickly ducking back in. “I fear those folk will have to wait until I fully recover before I darken their doorsteps.”
“I have a mount of my own, you know,” she said as their feet crunched through the thin layer of melting snow that remained on the ground in patches. “Some years ago, Papa gifted me with a lovely filly named Dawn Wind. She’s my darling, and I hardly ever get to ride her.”
“Why not?”
“Our last house was in the country rather than in town, and I used to take her across the fields surrounding it,” she answered as Tom led the horse back out and began hitching him to the cart. “I would take her to the downs here, but Papa has not the time to accompany me, and Augie does not enjoy riding as I do. Perhaps I could accompany you once or twice a week to visit those of your flock who live farther away? Dawn and I could carry some things for you—she’d benefit from the exercise, and I would get to see the countryside.”
“I would be afraid to take you too far out if the weather turned ugly.” Once again, he wore the look of something hunted.
“Perhaps this spring, then?” she said, keeping her tone light. “I imagine the wildflowers here are quite a sight to behold in the warm weather.”
“Indeed they are. Harper’s Grove is picturesque in any season, but especially so in the spring. There is no place as beautiful, in my opinion.”
There was a soft light in his eyes as he spoke. It made her yearn to belong here, to be part of it, really part of it, all the more. “You must truly love it here.”
…
“Indeed, I do.” The sincerity with which he’d uttered these words greatly surprised Devlin. London’s bustling streets and constant noise were his preferred environs, not this sleepy little village in which nothing exciting ever happened.
Except for Mary Tomblin, his mind corrected.
Smiling, Miss Tomblin paused to flick a long, thin icicle off a low-hanging branch. “It’s rare to meet a person content to remain in one place their entire life. Most people seek fulfillment away from the place of their birth. Either their ambitions take them far afield, as is the case with my father, or they leave in order to escape some unpleasantness.”
Escape, indeed. When Devlin had declined to accept ordination, his family, with the singular exception of Daniel, had been wroth. He’d run away from their disappointment and censure. But he hadn’t escaped. Not really.
Only Daniel had, eventually, understood his decision and supported him. Devlin wasn’t suited to a life of piety, labor, and self-denial—the life of a clergyman. To this day, he had yet to feel any urge or “calling” to be anything other than what he was: a gambler and a sybarite. The only reason he’d even gone to seminary was to remain close to his twin. It had worked until graduation. Then their paths had diverged.
Irrevocably.
Daniel. Everyone thought him the weaker twin, but Devlin knew better. Daniel possessed the will to resist temptation, to do the right thing no matter how it pained him, to sacrifice his own comfort and pleasure for others’ sake.
I am not that man. Altruism was a quality possessed by other people. As for being content in Harper’s Grove… Ha! What does this plot of earth boast to hold any man, let alone one accustomed to London’s innumerable diversions? Unbidden, his eyes traced Miss Tomblin’s profile, caressing the elegant curve of her cheek, fascinated by the curling sweep of her thick lashes. Fool. That road leads straight to ruin—for all.
But he couldn’t look away. His hedonist nature wanted nothing more than to give the lady what she so clearly wanted—in part, at least. He wasn’t the marrying sort, but one didn’t have to be wed to a woman to enjoy her charms. All it would take was a look, a few soft words, and she’d be warming his bed.
Unfortunately, the pesky conscience he’d recently acquired wouldn’t allow it. Not only for his brother’s sake, but for hers. To his growing astonishment, Devlin realized he wanted Miss Tomblin to be happy. And he was the last man in the world capable of bringing her joy.
A wave of something that felt dangerously like melancholy swept through him.
Conscience? Sentiment? Regret? What the devil is the matter with me? One cannot mourn what one has not lost—and she has never belonged to me. And, despite an increasingly alarming desire for it to be otherwise, it was highly unlikely she ever would.
Even if he wanted to consider settling down, he couldn’t. Not here, and certainly not with Miss Tomblin. She thought him someone else. And, too, he had a life of his own back in London—one he hoped wasn’t being shoveled straight into the sewer the way he was threatening to do with his brother’s.
He watched Miss Tomblin break off another long icicle and twirl it between her fingers. She’s no different from any other woman. But even as he thought it, he knew it for a lie. Distance yourself from her, before it’s too late and this unfortunate sentiment grows into something more serious than a passing fancy.
“If I had a choice, I’d never leave here,” she murmured wistfully, tossing aside the sparkling shard. Her soft, grey gaze pierced him. “Of all the places I’ve lived, Harper’s Grove has become the dearest.”
With the way she was looking at him, he knew part of the reason why. Damn. For her own sake as well as Daniel’s, he had to make her understand that his idiot twin couldn’t be any part of what held her to this place.
He must make her dislike him—Daniel. “While I consider myself truly blessed to have been planted so near my family, I see little in Harper’s Grove to appeal to any stranger,” he said, deliberately glib. “Having grown up here, I can personally attest that it’s entirely devoid of excitement. Surely you must look forward to London’s attractions?”
“Not at all.” She frowned, but the expression was tempered by a disbelieving chuckle. “And how can you call this place unexciting? I cannot imagine a livelier village.”
“Oh, indeed? You must have lived in some very dull places to think so.”
Her laugh was a brook’s melody. “Quite likely. But really, how can you think it at all boring? The constant machinations of the sisters Ellington are a source of daily cheer. And what of Lady Pompton and her many fortune-seeking suitors? As well, don’t forget Mr. Childs and his six daughters—their mother’s ceaseless efforts at matchmaking provide endless entertainment.”
“You seem to know everything about everyone in our drowsy little village,” he responded after a moment. Distance yourself. “Are your neighbors aware that such a busybody lives in their midst? Beware, Miss Tomblin. Words have the power to cause people grievous injury when misused in idle gossip.”
Color rushed into her face, but he soon discovered it wasn’t shame that brought the pink to her cheeks. “I am no gossip, sir,” she said with heat. “I spoke only of things generally known within our community—and without malicious intent. I would not deign to share truly personal information about any of my neighbors save under circumstances of direst need and in strictest confidence.”
“So many a gossip has claimed,” he shot back, hating himself.
Her eyes becam
e twin flints. “Having been a newcomer many times throughout my life, I’ve often found myself the subject of fanciful speculation. As such, I would sooner have my tongue cut out than spread an ill rumor that might result in another person’s undeserved pain. My trust is not given easily, Reverend. When I speak in confidence, it is only because the listener has proven worthy of it. Your slight against my character is undeserved.”
All conversation was cut off then as Tom brought the cart over. They boarded it in frosty silence and began the short trek to her house.
Yet again, Devlin felt the unfamiliar, unpleasant sting of guilt. And no small amount of respect for the direct manner in which she’d rebutted his accusation. Once more, his palate was forced to adjust to the bitter taste of crow. “Please forgive my unwarranted censure, madam,” he said, breaking the silence. “If I appear to be sensitive to the matter, it is only because I’ve observed that longstanding familiarity with one’s neighbors often results in unguarded speech concerning them. Such speech can give terrible, sometimes irreparable, wounds to the subject and, indeed, can divide an entire community.”
Some, but not all, of the hostility left her countenance as she replied, “Would that I could boast of such longstanding familiarity with my neighbors. But until Papa deigns to retire from his labors, which I do not foresee happening any time soon, I’m doomed to roam the earth at his side.”
Opportunity knocks. He hated himself for it, but it had to be said: “Unless, of course, you find a suitable groom while in London. I’m certain you’ll find your husband’s home every bit as appealing as Harper’s Grove. Perhaps even more so, once you grow accustomed to it and get to know your neighbors. I trust you will thrive wherever you are planted, Miss Tomblin.”
The last spark of hope faded from her beautiful gray eyes, leaving them dull with resignation. “I’m sure I shall,” she said woodenly, averting her gaze. “I should, of course, prefer to marry someone with whom I share a mutual affection and respect, but an alliance with a stranger is more likely to be my lot.”
