Page 18 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“Granted, my sex gives me no right to speak from experience,” he replied, “but many of my parishioners are women on their own, and I strive to understand their plight and help where I can.”
“And why should I entrust you to help me?”
“A vicar is a most tenacious of visitors,” he said. “He’ll not take refusal lightly, and will always insist on visiting his parishioners, even those who do not welcome his visits. In that respect, he’s akin to a village busybody.”
“The village busybody?”
“Yes,” he said. “We all know her—she considers the residents of the village to be her subordinates and will push herself into their homes, uninvited or not, to exhaust their defenses until she’s persuaded them to help her with the village fete, her latest charitable drive for the needy, or the collection for the church roof, for which she will take all the credit herself.”
“Is that not what a vicar does?”
“Certainly not,” he said. “Unlike the busybody, the vicar only wishes to serve, notbeserved.”
Her expression softened and the air of hostility diminished as she let out a sigh, most likely of resignation. Then she stepped back and gestured inside.
“Very well,” she said. “There’s little point in exhausting my defenses if you’re going to admit yourself anyway.”
He let out a laugh. “That’s the most honest invitation I’ve had since my ordination. I daresay most of my parishioners consider me a necessary evil rather than someone to be welcomed into their home.”
“Then why do you do it?” she asked. “Because it’s the right thing to do?”
“No,” he replied. “It’s because it’s thegoodthing to do.”
The corner of her mouth twitched.
“Ah!” he cried. “Do I see the beginnings of a smile?”
Another wail.
“What can I do to help?” he asked.
“I don’t need—”
“I didn’t ask whether you needed anything, Mrs. Ward,” he said. “I asked what I could do.”
She led him through the hallway and into a parlor overlooking the sea. The room looked as he remembered it when he’d visited Eleanor, except for the dust on the windows and the cobwebs clinging to the ceiling…
…and the crib in the center, where a toddler stood, clinging to the sides, mouth open, wailing.
As Andrew entered the room, the child paused, sea-blue eyes widening as they focused on him.
“Sweetheart, we have a visitor,” his mother said.
The child stared at Andrew, then resumed attention on its mother, opened its mouth, and let out another wail.
“Gabriel, no!” She rushed toward the cot and lifted the child into her arms.
“And who might this be?” Andrew said brightly.
“My son,” she said. “Gabriel Leonard.” She kissed the top of the child’s head and sighed. “Gabriel, because he’s my angel.”
“And Leonard? Is that Mr. Ward’s name?”
“No,” she said sharply, and the boy let out another cry as she tightened her hold on him. “It’s after my father.”
“I apologize. I meant no offense,” Andrew said.
She blinked and another tear splashed onto her cheek. “It matters not.”
