Page 17 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
Even little Frannie Gadd would soon have to learn the rules of survival. At twelve years, she was old enough to be sent out into the world to earn a living. But it was the way of the world, both among the highborn and the low. Sons inherited estates, or worked the farms, or sought professions of their own, and daughters were sent into service—as wives or maids.
Perhaps he should consider that as material for his next sermon—rouse the women of Sandcombe to take charge of their lives and resist their husbands and parents. The bishop would justlovethat.
But the world could be changed with small steps. And if he could not change the world for everybody, then at least he could change it where it was within his power.
Andrew approached the door and another wail came from within, followed by sobbing.
What had driven the woman inside the cottage to come to Sandcombe? What hadshesurvived?
He knocked on the door, and her sobbing stopped. The child’s wails continued, and Andrew knocked again.
“Mrs. Ward?” he called out. “It’s Mr. Staines.”
More wailing.
“The vicar,” he added.
“Oh!” a voice cried, and footsteps approached. Then the door opened and she stood before him.
His heart skittered at the sight of her—as it had done only that morning after the service, when he’d come upon her in the graveyard.
From a distance, she was beautiful. At close quarters, she was breathtaking.
Her delicate, perfectly proportioned features were reminiscent of the angels he’d seen in portraits—porcelain skin giving her an almost ethereal quality. Honey-blonde hair framed her face in soft waves, the curls coming loose about her shoulders only serving to soften her beauty. As for her eyes, he’d never seen a blue so vivid, the unshed tears enhancing their color, as if he stood before an exotic ocean into which he longed to dive.
But what clawed at his heart was the raw anguish in their expression—as if she’d surrendered her defenses until her soul was laid bare for him, exposing her desperation.
“Mrs. Ward…”
“How do you know my name?” she asked, her eyes widening. “Wh-why are you here?”
“It’s my duty to visit all my parishioners,” he said, “to tend to those in need…”
She drew in a sharp breath, and the expression in her eyes hardened. “I have no need of charity, vicar.”
“Mr. Staines, please,” Andrew said. “And I apologize if I gave offense.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can, Mrs. Ward, but there’s no shame in accepting a little help.”
“I’m in no need of any—”
“Service, then,” he said. “Not charity. A vicar exists to serve his congregation, and, as you have attended church since your arrival at Sandcombe, I consider you one of my flock.” He extended his hand. “May I offer my service, if nothing else?”
She glanced at his hand, then another wail rose from within the cottage. She slumped against the doorframe and closed her eyes. When she opened them, a tear splashed onto her cheek.
“Let me at least assist you with your child,” he said.
“I’m in need of no—”
“I beg to differ, Mrs. Ward,” he replied, smiling. “Let me help—for the sake of your ears, if nothing else.”
She frowned at his weak little joke.
“A child can be hard work,” he added. “Especially if you’re on your own.”
“How wouldyouknow?” she snapped, her body stiffening with hostility.
