Page 8 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“Has the new tenant taken residence?” Mrs. Lewis asked.
“I believe so,” Lady Fulford said. “Mrs. Gadd said she’d received an order for a hindquarter of pork to be delivered to the cottage on Saturday, and young Thomas Ham told our stable boy that he saw a carriage outside there last night.”
“Whoever it is must be someone of means if they can afford a carriage,” Mrs. Lewis said.
“Perhaps it’s a family,” Caroline said, pouring tea into Andrew’s cup.
“A family? In a hovel that’s barely large enough to house one?” Lady Fulford exclaimed. “Don’t talk nonsense, child! A family of means would never stoop to live in such a place!”
“Then perhaps it’s a young man on vacation, Mama,” the eldest Miss Fulford said, pulling a face at her sister.
“A single man,” Sarah Fulford added.
“What doyouthink, vicar?” Mrs. Lewis asked.
“My hopes are pinned firmly on the newcomer being a young man,” Andrew said.
Preferably one in search of a wife. Perhaps then the attention of Lady Fulford and her unmarried daughters might turn toward that unfortunate fellow—another poor carcass for the crows to pick over.
“The place is hardly fit to be lived in,” Mrs. Lewis said. “The garden is overgrown with weeds. There’s nobody to tend to it since Mrs. Legge’s father passed, God rest his soul.”
“The garden didn’t seem so badly overgrown this morning,” Andrew said.
Five pairs of eyes focused on him.
“You’ve been to the cottage, vicar?” Mrs. Lewis asked.
“I passed it on my morning walk.”
“And did you see the tenant?” Lady Fulford’s thin-lipped mouth curved into a smile. “Vicar, you’ve been teasing us, have you not? Have you called on him? Is he a man of means?”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but no,” Andrew said. “The cottage looked unoccupied.”
And it had, save for the shadow he’d seen at the window. And he could have sworn he’d heard a cry—high pitched, like that of an animal, at which point the shadow had moved, then disappeared. He’d dismissed it as an animal—a fox, perhaps, seeking refuge from Mr. Fulford and his hunting dogs.
But what fox stood tall enough to look out of a window?
Perhaps the apparition he’d seen at the cliff top hadn’t been a ghost.
Chapter Five
What could bemore uplifting for a weary soul than a song? And though Etty had always preferred the Italian airs heard in London’s drawing rooms to a hymn, the enthusiasm of the congregation as they sang the chorus in unison couldn’t fail to lift her spirits.
Even if their enthusiasm could not always be matched by their ability. The family standing across the aisle, well turned out in their Sunday best—clothes that were ill fitting and eliciting discomfort in their expressions—were tolerably talented. The man had a rich, deep voice, his wife a clear alto. Their children sang more softly while they clutched their hymn books, and Etty recognized their son as the polite young man who’d delivered the joint of pork yesterday. A family of pig farmers would never be welcomed into Society, but had they been gentlefolk, their singing talents would have made them the toast of London’s drawing rooms.
Etty glanced about the church. The building was smaller than the churches she’d been used to in London, but its size rendered it less imposing. Light filtered through the windows, dotting the interior with jewels of color, and she let her gaze wander, following the beam of light that stretched along the church.
At the very front sat a family of five—a gray-haired couple and three daughters who looked to be of a similar age to Etty. With their stiff backs and elegantly tailored attire, they mustbe the principal inhabitants of Sandcombe. The local squire, Mr. Stockton had said so. They had arrived late for the service that morning, while the rest of the congregation remained standing. After casting a cursory glance at Etty, at which point the matriarch wrinkled her nose in a sneer, they’d glided along the aisle, issuing the occasional nod to the congregation, in the manner of royalty acknowledging the subjects they despised.
They now stood, clutching their hymn books, stiffened bodies exuding arrogance and self-importance.
Two years ago, Etty had been exactly like them.
Except perhaps in respect of their singing talents. The man’s voice was tolerable, but the woman reminded her of a gang of laborers sawing wood in unison. The daughters were no better. A flock of angry seagulls fighting for fish scraps would earn greater applause, and cause less pain to the ears. But, doubtless, no creature in the village—perhaps not even the squire himself—would dare give an honest opinion regarding the quality of their voices.
Etty smiled to herself. Perhaps there was one benefit to her ruination—that she’d never again be invited to the sort of dinner party where she was required to endure the caterwauling of some conceited debutante or her mama, and applaud their “singing.”
Stop it!a voice inside her mind admonished her. How many times had Papa warned her of the sins of spite?
