Julia London

by The Vicars Widow

  On the street, her father looked up in shock as she came running down the steps. “Kate! What’s happened?”

  “Nothing, Papa. Nothing but the ranting of an impossible old woman!” she cried, and grabbed up the next basket, then marched forward, ahead of her father, so that he would not see the tears of fury glistening in her eyes.

  Whatever the old woman thought she knew, Kate could not believe Montgomery would have talked about them. He’d said such beautiful things, had given her his word he’d protect her virtue. He’d promised! Her heart refused to believe it, but with every step, her doubt weighed heavier. She didn’t want to believe that he’d used her so shamelessly. She didn’t want to believe it. . . .

  She made the rest of her rounds in something of a fog. Papa worried about her; she told him she was feeling a bit ill, so he insisted on carrying in the last three baskets. That afternoon, she went straight to her room and lay down, and stared through tears at the ceiling above her, her mind twisting impossibly with doubts and her desperate attempts to reassure herself.

  That evening, at supper, Papa told her that Lord Montgomery had called, as had Lord Connery, and that he’d informed them both she was indisposed.

  Kate said nothing, merely nodded.

  The next day, she awoke feeling old and used up. But she forced herself out of bed and to wash and comb her hair, as today was the final meeting of the Ladies Auxiliary before the Southbridge Charity Auction Ball, their main event each year. Kate had little heart for it but forced herself to dress in a bright yellow day gown, hoping it might cheer her.

  She left for the church early, to be away from Papa’s prying eyes.

  The ladies began to trickle in shortly before noon. Was it her imagination, or did some of them greet her a little coolly? None of them offered to help her set the table where they would gather, but then again, Kate reminded herself, they rarely did. She was imagining things. Mrs. Biddlesly was an old woman who had several bats in her belfry. No one else believed she was a strumpet.

  So Kate went about her business alone, scarcely hearing the ladies’ chatter and trying to ignore any whispering, even when it seemed so loud as to be deafening to her.

  Mrs. Forsythe and Miss Forsythe were the last to arrive, and Kate smiled as they walked in the door, called her greeting. Mrs. Forsythe did not seem to hear her, even though Kate was only a few feet away.

  It was Miss Forsythe who garnered everyone’s attention, however, with the news apparently making the rounds of the ton. News Kate had not heard.

  “Ah, there she is, the belle of the ball!” Lady Bristol cried happily. “Now don’t be coy, Miss Forsythe, but tell us, will you, if you are considering his offer?”

  Miss Forsythe blushed prettily and looked demurely at her mother.

  “Lady Bristol, we mustn’t speak of any offer, as one has not yet been made,” Mrs. Forsythe said, but a smile was playing at the corners of her thin lips.

  “Honestly, Mrs. Forsythe!” Lady Cheevers scolded her. “You are among friends here! We know no offer has been made, for certainly you would have crowed it like a rooster the moment you walked through the door!”

  That remark prompted a laugh from the other ladies, and even Mrs. Forsythe laughed a little.

  “It’s all about the town,” Lady Cheevers cheerfully continued. “It is a matter of when, not if,” she said authoritatively. “A man in his position would not allow it to go so far as this if it weren’t true.”

  “Oh dear, I can’t be so sure as that,” Miss Forsythe said nervously, and the ladies rushed to assure her that a rumor of this magnitude would not have been repeated were it not true.

  Kate’s heart began to pound. She recalled Darien saying that there was some speculation that he would offer for a debutante, and had dismissed it as if it were ridiculous. Why should she doubt him? But after a few more minutes of the ladies gushing over Miss Forsythe, Kate cleared her throat and interjected shakily, “I beg your pardon, but I’ve not heard. . . . Who is it that seeks your hand, Miss Forsythe?”

  Lady Cheevers and Mrs. Forsythe glared at her. The other ladies looked around the room. One might have thought she’d just announced she was having an illicit affair with the archbishop.

  “I can’t say as anyone seeks my hand, really,” Miss Forsythe said kindly. “It’s all a bit of speculation. But I suppose there are a few signs that would indicate—”

  “A few signs?” Lady Bristol cackled. “My dear Miss Forsythe, a gentleman does not seek your particular company in a public park, or at a public church meeting, or certainly not at a public ball, and then tend to you as carefully as he did when you fainted, if it’s merely speculation. The viscount intends very well to offer for you!”

  “Not to mention the things he has said to her,” Mrs. Forsythe said proudly. “Privately, that is.”

  A viscount. Now Kate’s heart was in her throat. She managed a smile for Miss Forsythe, who was looking at her curiously. Kate nervously tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “How wonderful for you, Miss Forsythe,” she managed to say. “Pray tell, which fortunate gentleman holds you in such high esteem?”

  Miss Forsythe gave her a strange, ugly little smile, and said, “Have you truly not heard, Mrs. Becket? It’s been remarked for a fortnight now. It’s Lord Montgomery.”

  It felt as if the ground buckled beneath her feet. Kate reached for a chair and slid into it while she tried to keep smiling and tried to keep from sobbing or gasping or crying out to the heavens. “How marvelous for him,” she said unevenly. “He’d have quite a catch, were he to offer.”

  “Yes,” Miss Forsythe said, taking a step toward her. “Wouldn’t he?” But then she whirled around to the other ladies. “I mean to say, it would be marvelous if he truly esteemed me in that way.”

  Once again, they all hastened to assure her that he did, and that his imminent offer would certainly come at the Southbridge Charity Auction Ball. One of them vowed that Lady Southbridge had said, in fact, that she had it on very good authority that was precisely where he intended to make his offer, in grand fashion, just as they used to do in the olden days.

  How Kate managed to endure that luncheon was quite beyond her comprehension. She could not look at the fair Miss Forsythe and not see that it was true. Of course he would offer for her—it made perfect sense. The girl came with a respectable dowry, was properly credentialed in the eyes of the ton, was the perfect wife in every way for a man of his stature. She was a vicar’s poor widow. And when he’d said he should always keep her near, he meant something entirely different than a legitimate offer of marriage.

  How pathetically foolish she had been to believe otherwise! He’d wanted beneath her skirts, that was all! He’d seen a widow and had acted upon his male instincts, just as Lord Connery hoped to do. And even though she could believe that Montgomery did indeed esteem her in some way, it was clear to her that he’d never intended to have more than what she had so freely given him, and more the bloody fool that made her, for she was not a young miss. She understood the way of men and women, yet had chosen to believe her silly, childish fantasies!

  Her bloody heart felt as if it had been crushed to tiny pieces.

  At the end of the Ladies Auxiliary meeting, Emily watched Mrs. Becket clear the cake plates. She moved lethargically, as if she had been dealt a tremendous blow. It was strange, Emily thought, as she gathered her gloves and reticule, that it did not bring her the pleasure she had imagined. It seemed as if the woman had been mortally wounded, and she imagined how the vicar might find her Sunday morning, sprawled in the church’s kitchen, an arrow through her heart, the very life bled out of her.

  The image was so strong that as she walked down the street, lost in thought, her mother mistook her silence for fretting, and put her arm around Emily, drawing her in close to her side. “You mustn’t fret, Daughter,” she whispered reassuringly. “Lady Cheevers is quite right. The rumor never would have carried so far if there were not some truth to it. It was obvious to all
in attendance at the May Day Ball that he held you in highest esteem. Lady Southbridge said he looked after you quite lovingly.”

  Only because she had told Lady Southbridge that he had.

  “Now when your father returns from the country, he’ll pay a call to Montgomery and determine what he’s about.”

  A knot formed in her belly; Emily looked down at her feet.

  “There, now,” her mother said again. “Your father is quite adept at this sort of thing. I’d wager by the time he leaves Lord Montgomery’s study, his lordship will wonder why he waited so long to make an offer for the fair Emily Forsythe, mark me.”

  Unless, of course, his esteem of her had been manufactured and planted in her mother’s head, just as it had been deviously planted in every feminine head among the ton.

  But then again, Emily thought brightly, perhaps the gems of gossip she had left behind in all those drawing rooms might somehow work together to convince Lord Montgomery that he did, in fact, esteem her as he ought. Perhaps, when her father called, he’d be begin to see it, and if not, her father would help him to see it. She imagined Montgomery imagining her walking through a field of flowers, a garland in her hair, and resisting the urge to run to wherever she might be at that moment.

  She lifted her head, smiled at her mother.

  “Ah, there’s my darling! The world is a much brighter place when you smile, Emily. I am quite certain that Lord Montgomery noticed it instantly the night you came out. I recall that he watched you very closely the entire evening of your debut,” she said, and seemed firmly convinced of it.

  Perhaps, then, Emily thought as she marched alongside her mother, her plan wasn’t so very far-flung after all. Perhaps she had only aided the inevitable.

  Chapter Ten

  By the time Sunday morning rolled around, Darien was feeling a bit frantic. He’d not been successful at seeing Kate since the day of the picnic. His calls to her house were rebuffed by her father, who said she was, alternately, ill, indisposed, then ill, then indisposed.

  He could not begin to understand why she might be avoiding him. The afternoon they had spent in the old boathouse had been the most blissful of all his days on this earth, and he was at a loss to understand how she couldn’t feel at least a bit of that, too.

  Naturally, he imagined all manner of things—she regretted their lovemaking (but what living, breathing adult could regret that fantastic experience?); she had been found out by her father (but the chap seemed rather cheerful, all in all); or that she was truly ill (but she had been the picture of health).

  Nothing made sense.

  One thing Darien knew in all certainty—she’d not miss church services, and that morning, he donned his finest clothes and strode to church quite early. So early, in fact, he arrived before the vicar.

  As the other parishioners began to arrive, he stood on the church steps, watching closely for Kate, greeting friends and acquaintances rather gruffly so that he’d not be engaged in some lengthy conversation and miss her slipping by.

  His best friend, Freddie, found his behavior insupportable. “I’m not in the habit of remarking on your bad manners, my lord,” he said with a sniff, “but that was the prime minister you just cut.”

  “I have no doubt that the prime minister will recover from any perceived slights,” Darien said, scanning the crowd.

  “What in the devil has you so wrought?” Freddie demanded. “I’ve not seen you this way in all the years we’ve known each other!”

  Darien said nothing but managed more of a smile for the Forsythes as they climbed the church steps toward him.

  Freddie followed the direction of his smile and laughed. “Aha! I should have known that the rumors are true, eh, Montgomery? You’ve set your heart on a female, have you?”

  “W-what?” Darien stammered and jerked his gaze to Freddie; his first awful thought that Freddie somehow knew about Kate. “What did you say?”

  Freddie laughed again and clapped him soundly on the shoulder. “You needn’t be coy with me, my friend. You are, after all, quite human, and therefore, it stands to reason that even you, a confirmed and steadfast bachelor, might find happiness with a budding debutante. I daresay you’ve chosen one of the comelier ones. Dear God, there were some frightfully ugly ones in this year’s crop, but I’ve quite admired this one myself.”

  It took a moment for Darien to understand what Freddie was saying, then found it incredulous that his oldest and dearest friend could possibly believe that a man of his years and experience would be smitten by a mere child such as Miss Forsythe.

  “My lord!” Mr. Forsythe called.

  Darien forced himself to turn and greet the Forsythes cordially, and as he did so, he couldn’t help but look long and hard at Miss Forsythe. He supposed she was pleasant enough, but she could not have been more than seventeen, perhaps eighteen years of age. She blushed furiously when he looked at her, and clasped her hands tightly together while her beaming mother proudly looked on, and her father herded the family inside.

  Freddie chuckled again. “Rather shy, ain’t she?”

  Darien frowned at Freddie. “I’ve not the slightest interest in her,” he said sternly. “Anyone who says I do is quite mistaken.”

  “Not me,” Freddie said, throwing up his hands. “I’ve only heard it. Lady Southbridge told me at tea just yesterday.”

  “Good morning!” Mr. Anglesey called out as he passed them with his aging mother.

  “Morning,” Darien and Freddie echoed, and as he passed, Freddie nudged Darien. “There’s another one,” he said low.

  “Another what?”

  “Another bachelor who has called on the vicar’s widow of late. Had that at tea, too, you know. Seems rather a string of them have been calling, hoping to find the same success as Connery.”

  Darien glared at Freddie. “The same success?”

  Freddie chuckled. “You’re intent on slaying the messenger, are you, my lord? Just another bit of gossip from Lady Southbridge. It would seem the widow has removed her widow’s weeds and embraced life,” he said with a wink.

  “I shan’t allow you to speak of Mrs. Becket thus, Frederick,” Darien said icily. “Hasn’t the lady suffered enough without the entire ton speaking ill of her?”

  Freddie’s eyes rounded wide. “My, my, Lord Montgomery. I had no idea you were the defender of widows and the suitor of young girls. And here I believed I knew you well.”

  “You know me well enough,” Darien snapped as the church bells began to toll for the final call to services. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I should join my sister and her family.”

  Freddie very sarcastically extended one leg and bowed long over it as Darien passed by on his way inside. He didn’t care in the least; his mind was churning with what Freddie had said.

  He took his customary seat next to his sister and glanced to the left, to the place Kate always sat, her eyes keen on the vicar, her sweet voice rising above the others in song. She was not there. For the first time since he could remember, save the Sunday following her husband’s death, Kate had not come to church services.

  That was when the panic sank its tentacles firmly in him, twining around his heart and all but squeezing the very life from him. Something was horribly, terribly wrong.

  The Southbridge Charity Auction Ball was to be held Friday evening, and it was the last place Darien hoped to speak with Kate before resorting to more drastic measures, of which he had not yet divined—so unaccustomed was he to this particular game of the heart—but that he would divine before he let her slip through his fingers.

  In fact, it was the more drastic measures he was mulling over a very cold and wet afternoon, not unlike the afternoon that reminded him of the one he’d spent with Kate. That day was indelibly scored in his mind, a day he could not stop thinking about, could not stop reliving, every moment, every snippet of conversation, looking for a clue.

  He was sitting before the fire in his study, a glass of whiskey dangling between two fi
ngers, his legs stretched negligently before him when Kiefer entered to announce a caller. “Mr. John Forsythe,” he said as he presented the man’s card.

  Bloody hell. Darien didn’t bother to pick it up—he imagined the man’s wife had put him up to it, if not the girl. “Show him in, will you, Kiefer?”

  Kiefer returned a moment later with Mr. Forsythe in tow.

  Darien managed, in his lethargy, to come to his feet and extend his hand in greeting. “Mr. Forsythe,” he intoned. “Frightful weather to be out and about.”

  “Indeed it is, my lord. But I felt it imperative that I speak with you.”

  “Imperative?” Darien asked, cocking a brow as he gestured for Forsythe to sit. “We’ve no business that I am aware.”

  Forsythe laughed nervously, and flipping the tails of his coat, sat where Darien had indicated. Darien sat, too, picked up his whiskey. “A bit of whiskey to warm you, Forsythe?”

  “Please, my lord.”

  Darien nodded at Kiefer, who poured the man a generous amount before leaving the study and pulling the door shut quietly behind him. Darien waited for Forsythe to taste the whiskey, then lazily lifted his glass to him before downing the rest of his. “Very well, then, Forsythe. What business have we?”

  Forsythe laughed again and cleared his throat. “I recognize that this might be a bit premature, my lord, but what with all the rumors going about, I thought it was prudent of me to have a chat, man to man, about . . . about what the future may hold.”

  “And are you privy to what the future holds, sir? If you are, I’d very much like to know.”

  That seemed to rattle Forsythe a bit; he cleared his throat again, put the whiskey glass down, and fidgeted nervously with his neckcloth. “Surely, my lord, you are aware that rumors continue to circulate about the ton as to your intentions.”