Page 63 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“Howdareyou!” she cried. “What right have you to judge me?”
“I told you I’d never judge—”
“It matters not what youtellme, vicar,” she snarled. “In my life I’ve learned that I can never trust another soul based on what they tell me—I can only trust what theydo.”
“I’m not judging you, Etty.”
“Then how would you definethis?” She gestured toward him. “Your sanctimonious lecture about the sins of men and how us weak women are to be pitied when we succumb to the need to tempt your sex. And so, you believe the first story you hear about me—from the village busybody—that I am some man’s mistress? Did she perhaps tell you that I’ve established a bawdy house in her precious village?”
“Do you deny that a man visited you?” he asked.
“I deny nothing.”
“And…that he stayed the night?”
Her eyes flashing with outrage, she looked every part the lady of dignity, venting her disappointment at the unworthy soul who’d caused offense.
“I denynothing,” she repeated. The anger had gone from her voice—replaced by cold, hard ice.
“Then who…” He trailed off as she arched an eyebrow in the manner of a disappointed schoolmistress. “I have no right to ask.”
“Onthat, if nothing else, vicar, we are in agreement,” she said. “Nobody has the right to poke their noses into my affairs—not Mrs. Fulford, nor Mrs. Lewis, nor anybody in this accursed village. And especially not you.”
“Etty, I—”
“You have said quite enough, sir,” she said. Then she turned toward the churchyard. “Frances, sweetheart! Are you ready?”
“Yes, ma’am,” a voice called, and shortly after, Frannie appeared, Gabriel at her side. Etty rushed forward and embraced them, and Andrew’s heart ached at the love in her eyes, a love she had for her child, for the girl she’d taken in—and, most likely, for the man with whom he could never compete. Then, without a backward glance, the three of them retreated down the path and through the lychgate. He watched them toil along the road until they disappeared out of sight.
Chapter Seventeen
Could the fateof Loveday Smith get any worse? Not only had her mother died in the night, but Loveday herself had sustained another injury—this time a graze to her side. Yet she continued to blame her clumsiness rather than the real perpetrator.
It was so unfair. The world was sounfair!
Etty’s only consolation was that the poor creature’s brute of a husband was away from home until the end of the harvest—no doubt wielding his thick arms and gruff words at Newford Farm.
With luck he’ll have an unfortunate encounter with a scythe.
Then she checked herself. There was little virtue in lowering herself to Ralph Smith’s level. Hateful as the man may be, it was not up to Etty to ensure he reaped the rewards of his sins. All she could do was protect his wife from further harm as far as she was able.
But were a handful of bandages and a jar of salve sufficient to keep Loveday safe—not to mention those poor children of hers?
Darkness had descended, though it couldn’t have been far past noon, and Etty shivered as the wind penetrated her shawl and clawed at her bonnet, picking up dust from the road, which swirled around before dissipating in the air. The trees seemed to lean at an unnatural angle, their leaves turning to reveal silvery undersides, giving the landscape an eerie glow despite the fading light.
Etty adjusted the basket on her arm and continued along the path, nodding in acknowledgment to Mr. Ham as she passed the Merry Sailor. The innkeeper touched his cap.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Ward. Been to see Mrs. Smith again, have ye?”
“Yes, Mr. Ham,” Etty replied. “Frances has been baking fruitcakes for the fete, and she made one extra. But don’t tell Loveday we made it specifically for her or she’ll insist I take it back.”
“You’re a good lass,” he said, “always visiting Mrs. Smith—and on a day such as this, when there’s a storm coming.”
“A storm?”
“Aye.” He gestured to the trees. “See that? My ma always said that’s the trees givin’ their warning—like a rabbit’s scut.”
“Awhat?”
