Page 12 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“Aye, they’re that,” Mr. Gadd said. “But they’re good lads, really—just like our Jimmy. They’ll grow into fine young men. Children are a blessing, Peggy, love—I’m sure Mary Ham would sooner have them than not. I…”
His voice wavered, and he tightened his hold on his daughter’s hand.
“I understand,” Andrew said, quietly, before resuming his attention on the girl. “You’re lucky to have one of Mrs. Ham’scakes, Frances,” he said. “They always win at the village festival, and no matter how often my cook asks, Mrs. Ham won’t reveal the recipe.”
“Would you like to come for tea and have some cake, vicar?” the girl asked.
Andrew shook his head. “I’d love to, but I think today’s a day for your family. You’ll not want me intruding on your day.”
“Do come,” Mr. Gadd said, “unless you’ve other parishioners to visit—we wouldn’t want to take you away from your duties now. There’s that new lass at Shore Cottage—Mrs. Ward, her name be, the one with the young ’un who, I daresay, is needing a spot of help. She seemed distressed during the service today, and she’s all on her own, at least from what I can see. And Shore Cottage is so out of the way, there’s no folk nearby to call on.”
“She might like it that way, William,” Mrs. Gadd said. “Not everyone wants to surround themselves with folk. I’ll admit it’s hard with a little one even if you’re not on your own. But she seems pleasant enough. A widow, or so I heard—her husband passed before their son was born. But he’s left her a stipend to live on.”
“Have you called on her, Mrs. Gadd?” Andrew asked.
She shook her head. “I only know what Mrs. Ham told me. Our Jimmy took over a hindquarter of pork yesterday. Paid in advance, it was, too. Said she had the voice of a lady, didn’t you, Jim? All airs and graces, you said. But for all that, she was very civil.”
The lad shrugged. “She thanked me, that’s all.”
Which, if she had a genteel background, made her stand head and shoulders above the likes of Lady Fulford, who Andrew had yet to hear utter a word of thanks to anyone. In fact, ladies rarely thanked anyone they considered beneath them.
Which made the mysterious woman all the more intriguing.
“We shouldn’t be keeping you, vicar,” Mr. Gadd said. “We’re taking Frannie to Skegness today—after we’ve visited our Freda, of course. We should be back at the farm around six if you’re wanting a spot of tea. It’d be a great comfort to us if you visited, wouldn’t it, Peg?”
His wife nodded. She opened her mouth to speak, then she closed it again, and a tear splashed onto her cheek. Their son drew her close, and she let out a soft sob.
“Perhaps I’ll visit later, then,” Andrew said, then he touched her arm. “She’s in a better place, Mrs. Gadd,” he said quietly.
“Aye,” she whispered. “B-but I’d rather she were…”
“I know,” he replied. “Some wounds can never completely heal, no matter the passage of time, whether a year has passed or twelve.”
He spotted Mrs. Lewis approaching, a determined look on her face, and sighed to himself. No doubt she had some demand to make, or some ill-thought-out idea that only served to create more work for him—work for which she would claim the entirety of the credit herself.
Oh dear—that’s another sinful thought to ask the Almighty to forgive in my prayers tonight.
“Mrs. Lewis,” he said, forcing a brightness into his voice. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Mr. Gadd took his wife’s arm. “Come on, Peg, love—Freda won’t wait for us forever.”
A funny turn of phrase, particularly given that Freda would be waiting for eternity, but nevertheless, Mrs. Gadd gave him a watery smile, and the family set off through the churchyard. Mrs. Lewis glanced in their direction and wrinkled her nose into the sneer always adopted by women of her class when they set eyes upon individuals who worked for a living.
“Now, vicar,” Mrs. Lewis said before he could draw breath, “I had one or two ideas about the flowers for the harvest festivalI’d like to share with you. I know it’s some weeks off yet, but one cannot begin planning these things too early, particularly if we want the church to look its best. I won’t have it said hereabouts that Sandcombe is shabbily turned out compared to Havens Heath. My sister was boasting only last week that…”
He let her rattle on, nodding and smiling at the appropriate places so as not to cause offense, silently praying that a nod was not taken as a declaration of commitment to whatever scheme she had planned to outdo her sister and the ladies of Havens Heath via competitive floristry. At length she finished, and, seemingly satisfied—though most likely more with herself than anything he’d said—she strode out of the churchyard, leaving Andrew to return to the church building to join his curate.
After pausing at the door to glance toward the spot at the far end of the churchyard where the Gadd family had gathered, Andrew returned inside. His gaze wandered to the back pew where the mysterious woman had sat. The woman with a child, an expensive silk shawl, the voice of a lady, and a stipend from her late husband.
He closed his eyes, relishing the image of her face in his mind’s eye. She was exquisitely beautiful with her delicate features, soft blonde hair, and expressive blue eyes. If she were a lady, she’d be the toast of theton, with men like his brother vying for the opportunity to court her.
Why in the name of the Almighty had she chosen to live on the outskirts of a country village, among strangers? And though, as vicar, he had every right to call on her, she may not welcome the intrusion.
And then there was the temptation—the merest thought of her set his pulse racing, as if he feared that her presence would tempt him into sin.
But oh, what pleasure might he find in such sin!
Next week. He’d summon the courage to speak to her next week, after the service. Perhaps by then he’d have conquered the unfathomable need that ignited deep within him when he first caught sight of her on the cliff top. But if not…
