by M C Beaton
The vicar sighed but did not press the point. He told Lord Sylvester about the betting book and how Minerva had been tricked, and then sent his lordship off to find her. ‘Minerva should by now be walking home from the village,’ he said.
Minerva was walking slowly along the narrow lane which led from the village of Hopeworth to the vicarage. Her heart had felt heavy since her father had told her how someone had tricked her by altering one letter in the betting book. She remembered every word of that horrible letter she had written and knew that with it she had effectively slammed the door in Lord Sylvester’s face. No man would forgive her for a letter like that.
Her back ached from weariness. She had been assiduous in her parish duties, doing more work than she should. But it seemed infinitely preferable to fall into an exhausted sleep at night than to lie awake dreaming of a pair of green eyes and a beautifully sculptured mouth.
The day was very still, the sky above leaden, and unmelted frost glittered on the grass and sparkled on the bare branches of the tall hedges on either side of the road.
Her father had certainly consoled her by pointing out that her visit to London had prompted Lord Sylvester’s generosity, and, thanks to his lordship and the Marquess of Brabington, the twins were now comfortably established in the King’s Road, London, cramming for their entrance exams to Eton.
Ice crackled under the hard ring on the soles of her pattens. Winter was already settling down on the countryside. London, Lady Godolphin, her seven courtiers, the parties, the balls and the routs seemed at times as if they had never existed. Only Lord Sylvester remained real. Try as she would to forget him, she found she could remember every word he had said, every caress.
Perhaps she might see him again one day. His friend, the Marquess of Brabington, had seemed attracted to Annabelle when he had called to tell papa that they need not worry about money any more. But he had not called again, so perhaps he had considered Annabelle too young. But for a while she had nourished dreams that Annabelle would marry the Marquess and somehow that way she would see Lord Sylvester again, if only at her sister’s wedding.
She gave a little sigh and hitched her heavy work basket higher up on her arm. The light was beginning to fade.
Twilight plays strange tricks and at first Minerva thought she was imagining the tall figure who was standing so still in the middle of the lane, looking at her intently.
He removed his curly brimmed beaver with a flourish and swept her a low bow.
‘Miss Armitage. Your very humble servant,’ he said.
Minerva stopped and stared, and stared again.
‘Sylvester!’ she screamed, and flew straight into his arms, as the lid of her work basket flew open and bobbins and silks and wool went flying over the frosty road.
Crying and laughing, she threw her arms around him, lips raised for his kiss.
He held her a little away from him, and she looked up into his eyes suddenly anxious.
‘I love you, Minerva,’ he said in a husky voice. ‘Will you do me the very great honour of giving me your hand in marriage?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the vicar’s daughter, kissing him so passionately that he staggered slightly, and then wrapped his arms more tightly around her so that he could give back as good as he was getting.
‘Minerva,’ he said thickly, freeing his mouth at last. ‘We must be married very soon. I cannot wait.’
‘Why wait?’ laughed Minerva.
‘You are an abandoned hussy. A veritable jade. We shall behave like the respectable people we are and go home and tell your family the good news before I misbehave myself in this freezing lane. Kiss me again!’
It was quite half an hour before they walked dreamily into the vicarage to be welcomed by screams and exclamations from the girls. Mrs Armitage was so overjoyed she forgot to have a Spasm.
Annabelle alone stood quietly in a corner of the room, watching Lord Sylvester, watching the love and laughter in his eyes and the beautiful curve of his mouth. The Marquess of Brabington turned from congratulating his friend and saw Annabelle, and a shadow crossed his face.
Soon they were all seated around the table in the vicarage dining room. London society would have been hard put to recognize the haughty Lord Sylvester as that gentleman sat with little Frederica on his knee, his face transfigured with happiness.
‘I will always cherish that letter, my love,’ he said, smiling at Minerva over Frederica’s curls.
‘Oh, that terrible letter!’ cried Minerva.
‘Not that one,’ he teased. ‘The beautiful one that brought me here.’
Minerva’s eyes opened wide. She opened her mouth. ‘More wine, my dear,’ said her father at her shoulder. She twisted her head and looked up at the vicar. His left eyelid drooped in a wink.
‘Well, whatever brought my future son-in-law here, I am sure it was the work of God,’ said the vicar piously. ‘Don’t you think so, Minerva?’
‘Oh, y-yes, papa,’ faltered Minerva. ‘Of course.’
And when she turned and saw the glowing love in Lord Sylvester’s face, she forgot about everything else.
She did not even notice that Annabelle had left the room or that the handsome Marquess was staring sombrely into the depths of his wine glass.
Upstairs Annabelle threw herself on her bed and groaned into the pillow.
‘It should have been me,’ she moaned. ‘How could he even look at a stuck-up prissy girl like Minerva with me in the room. Oh, I’m being awful … dreadful.
‘Oh, I’m a wicked girl.
‘But I want you, Sylvester. I want you for myself.
‘And Minerva is not married … yet!’
