Page 31 of Harpy of the Ton
The bank shifted beneath her, mud and stones loosening under her grip. She scrambled to maintain her hold, but continued to fall. Then the bite of cold assaulted her body as she slid into the water. She drew in a sharp breath, and the world disappeared as the water swallowed her completely. She kicked out against the assault and surfaced, gasping for air, before the water claimed her again. The current swirled around her legs, entangling them with her gown and binding them together to prevent her escape.
Fighting for her life, she kicked out and resurfaced, her lungs bursting with pain. She sucked in the blessed air, looking around, seeking something—anything—to cling to.
The river pulled her along, then widened out. Ahead, a low branch stretched across the surface. If she could reach it, she’d be safe. Then she would deal with Dunton and his cowardice. Reputation and propriety—and Aunt Kathleen—be damned. She wouldnevermarry him.
“You hear that, Dunton?” she screamed. “I’ll never marry you!”
But there was no answer.
She raised her arms. The branch—and safety—was only a few feet away.
Then she saw it—a rock jutting out from the surface. Sharp and angular, like the blade of a flint knife, it filled her vision as the current pulled her toward it. She opened her mouth to scream but choked as water poured into her mouth. Then the water dashed her against the rock as if she were a rag doll. Pain exploded in the side of her head and plunged her into oblivion.
Chapter Ten
There was nothingso satisfying as an honest day’s work with a fair wage at the end.
Lawrence drove the hoe into the ground, then stretched and surveyed his handiwork.
To the untrained eye, the vicarage garden merely looked a little neater. The weeds—particularly the ground elder, which had taken a stranglehold on the borders, its roots spreading beneath the surface to smother every other living thing—had finally surrendered to his tenacity and were now smoking on the bonfire.
Next year, the garden would be ablaze with color. The new plants in the borders would bloom throughout spring and summer—a myriad of colors in a carefully planned pattern, yet still retaining the appearance of wildness, as if Mother Nature, though unwilling to be fully tamed, had embraced a little order in her world.
The vicar’s wife approached, carrying a pitcher and glass. With mild features, soft brown eyes, and a kind smile, she was the antithesis of the last woman who’d employed him.
“Mr. Baxter, I thought you’d like something to drink,” she said, “seeing as you’ve been working so hard.”
Lawrence eyed the pitcher. “Is that…?”
“Fresh lemonade,” she said. “I thought you’d prefer it to tea, as it’s such a hot day. Not like yesterday with that dreadful storm. Were you caught out in it?”
“I don’t mind the rain, Mrs. Gleeson.”
“No, I suppose a man of your trade is more resilient than most. Mr. Gleeson detests the rain, and he got caught in the downpour on his way to visiting Mrs. Richards. Do you know her?”
“The widow next door to the inn?”
“That’s her. You’d have seen her at church on Sunday, but when you’re new to a village such as ours, it must feel very overwhelming.”
“Overwhelming?”
“Aye.” She nodded. “Everyone knowseveryonehere in Brackens Hill—and Mrs. Richards knows more than most. She likes to keep appraised of local news.”
Which was the polite way for saying that she was a gossip. But Mrs. Richards was harmless enough—a congenial woman of a certain age who loved company. She had already seen her best days, and, as she was widowed with no children, her prospects were never going to improve. But she maintained a cheerful disposition.
Unlike that haughty harpy.
Lawrence sighed. Why did his thoughts always turn toher? Doubtless she’d have forgotten about him and turned her attention to her trousseau—or whatever a spoiled heiress concerned herself with before her wedding.
“I hope you don’t find Mrs. Richards too tiresome,” Mrs. Gleeson said, returning him to the present. “She does rattle on—she forgets that we’ve heard her stories several times. I swear she’s told me the tale of the chicken that escaped and made its way into her bathtub at least six times.”
“No, I like her,” Lawrence replied. “She told me about the chicken when I visited her. I even met the culprit, but I doubt her feathered friend will repeat the escapade now the coop’s secure. There was a hole at the back.”
“And you fixed it? There’s kind! Ned Ryman said you were a goodhearted young man. And hardworking too, I can see.”
She placed her hand on his arm. “Forgive me for being forward, but Ned told me you’d suffered misfortune and loss, though he wouldn’t say what—and I wouldn’t dream of asking. But we’ll look out for you—you’re one of us, now you’re here.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Gleeson,” Lawrence said. “And I appreciate the work you’re giving me.”
