shot’s distance ahead. The man rode a black horse, and judging from the size, it was likely a mare. Mayhap he’d know the rectory’s location. Was it worth the risk to ask for directions?
Horse and rider veered right, disappearing from Ethan’s line of vision. Disappointment rumbled in his belly. So much for the directions opportunity—
But where the rider turned, a cloven oak stood, marking a worn trail that forked off the main road. Why had he not seen it when he’d passed by earlier? A pox on those coughing attacks!
He entered an archway of trees, following the lane until it opened onto a field. A wider path led to a grey stone church planted atop a knoll. The other wound to the right, leading to a brick-faced building, three stories high. In front, the black mare stamped as her rider secured the reins to a post. Even from this distance, Ethan could see the fancy cut of the man’s coat and high-brimmed hat would allow him entrance to the rectory before his own shabby self.
Until now, he’d never given a thought to how he would approach Will’s sister. He could not simply waltz up to the front door and expect admission while looking like a ragamuffin. He’d be relegated to the back door, if that.
So … why not start there?
Miri paused atop the stairs at the sound of men’s voices. Surely it could not be the squire again. He’d called that morning with the magistrate, Mr. Buckle, in tow, inquiring where the vicar had been the last two Sundays. Neither Miri nor Mrs. Makin could tell him, and Roland had been out.
Cocking her head, she strained to listen. One voice sounded deep and commanding, almost dictatorial. Roland. The other was over-sweet with manipulative undertones. Witherskim. If she had taken milk with her tea, it would have curdled in her stomach.
What a dreadful close to a tiring day. With the prospect of filling her vacant time, Miri had encouraged Mrs. Makin to visit her ailing sister for a day or two. The cook had been reluctant to agree, especially with Old Joe taken abed by the rheum. After much coaxing and placating, Mrs. Makin agreed. Miri had prepared and served a cold dinner and cleaned up afterward. She’d not minded the work, but she could have done without Roland’s perpetual cataloging of her shortfalls.
And now this. She pinched the bridge of her nose, hopeful of warding off the headache that was sure to come.
Laughter rang out as the front door closed, echoing up the staircase from the foyer. Miri ground her teeth at the prospect of spending the entire evening listening to Witherskim’s cackles. A foxhound baying at its quarry was more pleasant to the ear. Retreating to her room was out of the question. Roland would hunt her down and likely thrill at the chase. No, hiding would not work.
She must disappear.
The voices grew muffled as the men moved into the sitting room. Now or never, then. Miri padded softly down the stairs. With one hand, she gathered the extra fabric of her skirt lest the muslin swish overloud. If Roland reappeared at this point, he’d pin her like a beetle to a display board—with Witherskim a willing observer.
She held her breath as she left the last step and prepared to pass by the open study door. If they’d keep talking, she just might make it.
Roland’s voice rumbled from within. “Of course Miriall will be delighted to receive you.”
Her jaw clenched. She’d sooner welcome death.
“Naturally.” Witherskim’s trademark snicker followed. “I would expect the same from any of the fairer sex in Deverell Downs.”
Oh vomit.
“I assure you, Miriall comes from fine stock.”
Fine and mad, more like it.
“Excellent. Witherskim lineage is also impeccable, a name harvested from generations of good breeding. It’s a duty to my forefathers that I should plant seed in only the finest of soils.”
Enough!
She dashed down the corridor, fighting the urge to rip her ears from her head. Slipping through the kitchen door, she slowed.
Horse and rider veered right, disappearing from Ethan’s line of vision. Disappointment rumbled in his belly. So much for the directions opportunity—
But where the rider turned, a cloven oak stood, marking a worn trail that forked off the main road. Why had he not seen it when he’d passed by earlier? A pox on those coughing attacks!
He entered an archway of trees, following the lane until it opened onto a field. A wider path led to a grey stone church planted atop a knoll. The other wound to the right, leading to a brick-faced building, three stories high. In front, the black mare stamped as her rider secured the reins to a post. Even from this distance, Ethan could see the fancy cut of the man’s coat and high-brimmed hat would allow him entrance to the rectory before his own shabby self.
Until now, he’d never given a thought to how he would approach Will’s sister. He could not simply waltz up to the front door and expect admission while looking like a ragamuffin. He’d be relegated to the back door, if that.
So … why not start there?
Miri paused atop the stairs at the sound of men’s voices. Surely it could not be the squire again. He’d called that morning with the magistrate, Mr. Buckle, in tow, inquiring where the vicar had been the last two Sundays. Neither Miri nor Mrs. Makin could tell him, and Roland had been out.
Cocking her head, she strained to listen. One voice sounded deep and commanding, almost dictatorial. Roland. The other was over-sweet with manipulative undertones. Witherskim. If she had taken milk with her tea, it would have curdled in her stomach.
What a dreadful close to a tiring day. With the prospect of filling her vacant time, Miri had encouraged Mrs. Makin to visit her ailing sister for a day or two. The cook had been reluctant to agree, especially with Old Joe taken abed by the rheum. After much coaxing and placating, Mrs. Makin agreed. Miri had prepared and served a cold dinner and cleaned up afterward. She’d not minded the work, but she could have done without Roland’s perpetual cataloging of her shortfalls.
And now this. She pinched the bridge of her nose, hopeful of warding off the headache that was sure to come.
Laughter rang out as the front door closed, echoing up the staircase from the foyer. Miri ground her teeth at the prospect of spending the entire evening listening to Witherskim’s cackles. A foxhound baying at its quarry was more pleasant to the ear. Retreating to her room was out of the question. Roland would hunt her down and likely thrill at the chase. No, hiding would not work.
She must disappear.
The voices grew muffled as the men moved into the sitting room. Now or never, then. Miri padded softly down the stairs. With one hand, she gathered the extra fabric of her skirt lest the muslin swish overloud. If Roland reappeared at this point, he’d pin her like a beetle to a display board—with Witherskim a willing observer.
She held her breath as she left the last step and prepared to pass by the open study door. If they’d keep talking, she just might make it.
Roland’s voice rumbled from within. “Of course Miriall will be delighted to receive you.”
Her jaw clenched. She’d sooner welcome death.
“Naturally.” Witherskim’s trademark snicker followed. “I would expect the same from any of the fairer sex in Deverell Downs.”
Oh vomit.
“I assure you, Miriall comes from fine stock.”
Fine and mad, more like it.
“Excellent. Witherskim lineage is also impeccable, a name harvested from generations of good breeding. It’s a duty to my forefathers that I should plant seed in only the finest of soils.”
Enough!
She dashed down the corridor, fighting the urge to rip her ears from her head. Slipping through the kitchen door, she slowed.
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