Page 21 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
He might be a vicar, having delivered extraordinary sermons that spoke of a moreliberalnature. He might have delivered a pretty speech with his strong, yet equally gentle voice, his warm brown eyes that threatened to claim her heart. Yet those same eyes had cast their judgmental gaze on her that very morning, and he’d assumed the worst when he saw her with the rose in the churchyard.
She was done being judged by others, and she was done trusting those who only sought to take advantage.
And, for all his pretty speeches, the vicar was a man. And men were not to be trusted.
Except perhaps Papa—but, even then, all Etty’s father had ever given her was his disappointment.
The vicar’s eyes narrowed, then he nodded, as if in resignation. Still cradling Gabriel in his arms, he stroked the boy’s hair gently, his body athletic and powerful, yet tender and caring at the same time.
Gabriel’s own father would refuse to acknowledge his existence, and no man in Society would want to take on a sullied creature such as herself, not to mention another man’s bastard. Even Papa had hesitated to show any affection for the boy, unable to hide the flicker of dislike in his eyes—dislike for the lecherous man who’d sired him, and disappointment in the daughter who’d ruined herself.
Yet the man standing before her—who, given his vocation, was the most likely to cast judgment on her—cradled her son in his arms as if the task came naturally, with the easy affection of one who did not judge, but who merely loved.
“He likes you, Mr. Staines,” she said.
He smiled over the top of Gabriel’s head. “He’s a delightful little boy, and a credit to his mother,” he replied. “But I’ll wagerhe can be something of a handful. I can see a resoluteness about him. But perhaps that is to be expected when his mother is resolved not to accept the help of others.”
“Are you here to remark on my character, vicar?” she asked.
“I’m here to offer help,” he replied. “And to apologize.”
“Apologize? What for?”
“For misjudging you this morning, after the service,” he said. “In the churchyard. I fear I disapproved of you without cause and made my disapproval known. And for that, I am sincerely sorry.”
Could he read her thoughts?
“You see,” he continued, “I care a great deal for the Gadd family. Their daughter Freda’s passing was a great loss.”
“And you think I’d be insensitive to the grief of others merely because I’m a stranger?”
“I have no wish to excuse my conduct,” he said, “merely to present you with a reason, though that reason be unjustified. And, of course, you will have known grief yourself.”
“I?”
“Your late husband.”
She nodded, then turned away from his gaze. “Would you like some tea?” she asked. “I’m sure it’s expected when the vicar calls. I-I think I have some in the kitchen, if you could mind Gabriel for a while.”
“Perhaps another time, when you are less busy,” he said. “And I meant what I said—I have the very person in mind who can help you.”
“Are you about to foist a village busybody on me?” she asked.
He let out a laugh. “No, a young girl in need of work. She’s old enough to be sent into service. Her family need the money, but they would be heartbroken if she were to leave Sandcombe. So, you see, you’d be doing them a favor, and gaining a helpmate and companion in return.”
Etty shook her head. “I relish the quiet too much, vicar, and wouldn’t want a stranger in my home. Please understand—I am not one to welcome prying eyes.”
“Yet you admitted me.”
“Only because you threatened to erode my defenses.”
He laughed again, and her heart tightened at the natural mirth in his voice—not a laugh given by a suitor desperate to ingratiate himself with the prettiest debutante in town, but the genuine laugh of an honest man.
“You are at liberty to refuse, of course,” he said, “but the person I have in mind is Frannie Gadd.”
“James’s sister?” Etty shook her head. “She’s just a child. How old is she—fourteen, at most?”
“She’s twelve,” he said, “and therefore old enough to go into service.”
