Page 32 of Harpy of the Ton
“It’s I who should appreciateyou, Mr. Baxter. I could never keep that border so tidy, not with my rheumatics. It’s too much for one person, and Mr. Gleeson’s too busy tending to his flock. We might consider a kitchen garden round the back if you’re wanting a bit more work?”
“I can’t take charity, Mrs. Gleeson.”
She rolled her eyes. “The pride of the male sex!” She let out a huff, then laughed good naturedly, and he smiled at the memory of Millie’s exact words. “You’ll be doing me a favor. I’ve always wanted a little kitchen garden, but I seem to have the knack for killing every plant I touch. My sister gave me a beautiful houseplant when she visited over Christmas, and it lasted less than a fortnight, even though I watered it every day.”
“Then it would be my pleasure, Mrs. Gleeson, though I cannot accept payment.”
“Yes, you can,” she said. “If not for yourself, take it for your little ones.” She cocked her head to one side and gave a wry smile. “Are they settling in here?”
Lawrence grimaced. Bobby had already been sent home twice from school for misbehavior. Her twin was no better—Mr. Colt had come knocking on his door two nights ago, dragging ared-faced Billy by the scruff of the neck, with a tale of how the boy had been caught drinking the dregs of the tankards in the bar. As for Jonathan, Lawrence’s youngest poked his tongue at every adult he came into contact with.
“They’re taking time to settle,” Lawrence said. But instead of dipping her head and glowering at him over her glasses—like Mrs. Chantry from the school—the vicar’s wife merely smiled, understanding in her eyes.
“Poor little things,” she said. “Torn from their home—and their mother…?” She raised her eyebrows.
“She’s not here,” he said. “She didn’t come with us to Brackens Hill.”
The last thing he wanted was sympathy over being a widower—or a suggestion that he console himself by courting one of the girls in the village.
She sighed. “That’s a shame, you poor man. Well—perhaps if you’re finished, you’d prefer to take your lemonade inside? Mr. Gleeson should be home soon—he’s visiting the vicar in the next parish. Mr. Coles, his name is—a very pleasant man, if a little young. He was curate before the previous vicar took a chill during the winter and passed, and he’s finding the responsibility as vicar a little overwhelming. He’s come to rely on Mr. Gleeson for guidance. Not that Mr. Gleeson minds, of course.”
She rattled on, scarcely drawing breath. Mrs. Richards had a rival for the title of the most talkative woman in the village. But an invitation to share good-natured, if inane, chatter was balm to the soul, for it bore the marks of friendship and acceptance.
“Ah!” she cried. “Here he is now. My love—we’re in the garden!”
The vicar approached, raising his hand in greeting. “Mr. Baxter, how goes the garden? I trust you’re not too wearied from the work—or my wife’s chatter.”
“Simon!” Mrs. Gleeson scolded. The vicar drew her into an embrace.
“Forgive me, my love,” he said. “You know how I like to tease.”
Lawrence’s heart tightened at the obvious affection between the couple, nurtured through years of a happy union. With Elizabeth, he’d never had the chance to nurture affection, much less love. He’d liked her, but marriage with the burden of responsibility was different to courtship. They’d had to scrape a living, their difficulties only increasing when the twins were born. Then she’d fallen pregnant again and been taken from him in childbirth, leaving him widowed, in debt, with three children to feed.
Now, to his shame, when he tried to picture his wife, he was unable to recall her.
Perhaps it was for the best they hadn’t had the time to grow to love each other. Perhaps those pampered fools in Society had the right idea. Marry for practicality and comfort—not for love. For with love came heartbreak and despair.
And with trust came betrayal.
“What news from Drovers Heath?” Mrs. Gleeson asked.
“A mysterious young woman has been found,” the vicar replied.
“What woman?”
“Nobody knows,” the vicar said. “She was seen floating in the river. Were it not for the keen eyes of a lad from Drovers Farm, she might never have been found. You know what the river’s like.”
“Good grief!” Mrs. Gleeson’s eyes widened, and she placed her hand over her breast. “You mean abody’sbeen found? Lord have mercy!”
“Heavens no,” the vicar said. “She’s alive. The boy’s been lauded a hero—he dived in and fished her out. But the youngwoman has lost her memory—she cannot even recall her name. Dr. Carter’s taking care of her until it can be decided what to do with her.”
“She’s not a stray dog, Simon.”
“Very well—until her family comes to claim her.”
“Assuming she has a family, poor lamb.”
“I’d spare your sympathy,” the vicar said. “I’ve never seen such a foul-tempered creature! If she has family, they ought to be pitied.”
