Page 130 of Oddity of the Ton
“That’s because a service has structure and certainty. Everyone knows what to do and say—when to speak up, and when to be silent. It’s a time to reflect—not a social occasion.”
“And there’s me thinking you attended because of my sermons.”
“Ido,” she replied. “I find them fascinating—they lack the pomposity of the sermons I was subjected to as a child.”
“There’s no place for pomposity in the modern age,” he said. “Now I have a living of my own, I can write my own sermons in the manner I see fit.”
“You couldn’t before?”
“No.” He smiled, his brown eyes radiating warmth. “When I held a curacy, I was under strict instructions from Reverend Frogmore—who lived in the parish before he passed last year—not to deviate from his ideal of what a vicar should be.”
“Which was?”
“A man responsible for striking fear into the hearts of the souls in his care, by warning them of fire and brimstone if they strayed from the path of righteousness.”
“Heavens!” She let out a laugh. “I would hope you wouldn’t place such a burden onyourcurate.”
“Of course not,” he said. “Far too many vicars leave their curates to undertake all the work, while they drink port and wallow in the self-righteousness. Have you never wondered why so many members of the clergy suffer from gout?”
“You don’t paint a very flattering portrait of your vocation, Mr. Staines.”
“Too few see it as a vocation, Mrs. Riley,” he said. “Instead, they consider the clergy as a profession—a means for financial, not spiritual, enrichment.”
“And yourself?”
“My father wanted me to go into the army. Every second son in our family—dating, no doubt, back to the first Earl Staines—purchased a commission in the militia. But I lack the temperament, and have no desire to distinguish myself.”
“There are ways to distinguish oneself other than leading an army into battle,” Eleanor said.
“How right you are,” he said. “If it’s not too forward of me to say it, I’m glad you are come to Sandcombe—even if it was under such tragic circumstances.”
Eleanor’s gut twisted in apprehension—did he know how she came to be here?
“T-tragic?” They reached the lych gate, and she leaned against it.
“Oh, forgive me!” he exclaimed. “I’ve no right to make reference to the late Mr. Riley, when you’re only recently out of mourning.”
Relief flooded through her, and she suppressed the urge to laugh.
“Of course you cannot be expected to attend parties,” he said. “You must think me an awful cad for asking.”
“It’s not that. I—” Eleanor began, but Harriet placed a hand on her arm.
“Forgive us, reverend, but Mrs. Riley needs her rest. She finds company tiring, don’t you, miss?”
The reverend tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes, his gaze shifting from Harriet to Eleanor. Then he nodded and smiled.
“Of course, Miss—Mrs.Riley,” he said. “Please enjoy the rest of your evening.”
“Reverend!” a sharp voice cried. “Reverend Staines!”
He winced, then turned back toward the church. “Mrs. Fulford—how may I be of assistance?”
“I wanted to speak to you about the flowers again.”
He leaned toward Eleanor and winked. “Duty calls—at least duty to my patron’s wife.” He bowed, then returned to the church.
“I’m sure he suspects something,” Eleanor said.
