them would soon enough. So remaining incognito was out of the question.
Then again, perhaps this was all for the good. Because now she had an opportunity to do what she seemed to do best, at least whether it was on the stage at the Green Apple theater, or Covent Garden, or captivating just the right man: win people over.
But she would need an ally. Someone who could be a liaison between her and the women of the village.
Perhaps even someone who had their rapt attention every Sunday morning.
Perhaps someone who was in likely duty-bound by his role in life to be compassionate and diplomatic toward his parishioners, regardless of whether they shrieked incomplete insults at him in a long-dormant Irish accent.
Someone, in other words, who was missing a cravat.
She hesitated only a moment before reaching for a sheet of foolscap. But he would need winning, too.
She dipped the quill and set out to do just that.
Chapter 5
“OH, REVEREND. YOU’VE returned from Lady Fennimore’s house.” His housekeeper, Mrs. Dalrymple, all long face and tremulous mouth and enormous woebegone eyes, hovered in the doorway. He heard the warning in his housekeeper’s voice even before she said her next words. “You’ve … a visitor … waiting in the parlor.”
Wave upon wave of meaning and portent rippled out from the way she said “visitor.”
“Does my … visitor … perhaps have a name?” he coaxed.
“She did not give it.” A slight meaningful emphasis was given to “she.”
Mrs. Dalrymple knew better than to allow female interlopers in to trouble the vicar. She was the soul of discretion and discernment, a deceptively powerful impediment to female attempts to infiltrate his haven. She could stop an army with her passivity.
He sighed. “Thank you. I shall be in directly. You’ve made—”
“Tea. Yes, sir. The silver service, sir.”
So it was the sort of visitor Mrs. Dalrymple considered worthy of tea in the silver service.
Despite his weariness, he began to feel curious.
“You are a wonder, Mrs. Dalrymple.”
“I do me best, sir,” she said placidly.
HE STOPPED BY the mirror, smoothed his hair, gave his armpit a sniff since he’d been walking hard all day, decided he wasn’t terribly offensive, and was momentarily startled again by the absence of his cravat, and when he remembered how this came to be, his thoughts tugged at their tether—they wanted to surround the countess again. He frowned the thought away.
He would do well enough for a visitor, whoever she might be.
It proved to be the very nearly the last person he expected to find. He stopped in the doorway, saw a beautiful young woman dressed in heavy blue silk, the veil she’d likely worn as a disguise pushed up to rest on the top of her head
“Lady Ardmay. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Until very recently, Lady Redmond been known as Miss Violet Redmond. Otherwise, that Redmond chit, as Lady Fennimore called her. Speak of the devil.
“Good afternoon, Reverend Sylvaine. I am not here, you understand. You’ve never seen me at the vicarage.”
He understood. “I do not engage in gossip, nor do I ever reveal a confidence, if that’s your concern.”
She gave him a slightly conciliatory smile. “Forgive me. I did not mean to imply that you ever would. It’s just … no one knows I am here. I took certain pains to ensure I wasn’t seen entering the vicarage. It may not surprise you to learn that I’ve never consulted with a member of the clergy. I’ve come on a matter of some sensitivity.”
This was rather implied, given the drama of the veil and the refusal to give her name to the housekeeper. As if the housekeeper wouldn’t recognize Violet Redmond by voice or stature or sheer sense of entitlement.
“Perhaps you’d do the honor of pouring for the both of us?” He gestured to the tea.
She did, and they sipped a moment, and sugar was stirred into cups with little clinking sounds, before she spoke.
“I am with
Then again, perhaps this was all for the good. Because now she had an opportunity to do what she seemed to do best, at least whether it was on the stage at the Green Apple theater, or Covent Garden, or captivating just the right man: win people over.
But she would need an ally. Someone who could be a liaison between her and the women of the village.
Perhaps even someone who had their rapt attention every Sunday morning.
Perhaps someone who was in likely duty-bound by his role in life to be compassionate and diplomatic toward his parishioners, regardless of whether they shrieked incomplete insults at him in a long-dormant Irish accent.
Someone, in other words, who was missing a cravat.
She hesitated only a moment before reaching for a sheet of foolscap. But he would need winning, too.
She dipped the quill and set out to do just that.
Chapter 5
“OH, REVEREND. YOU’VE returned from Lady Fennimore’s house.” His housekeeper, Mrs. Dalrymple, all long face and tremulous mouth and enormous woebegone eyes, hovered in the doorway. He heard the warning in his housekeeper’s voice even before she said her next words. “You’ve … a visitor … waiting in the parlor.”
Wave upon wave of meaning and portent rippled out from the way she said “visitor.”
“Does my … visitor … perhaps have a name?” he coaxed.
“She did not give it.” A slight meaningful emphasis was given to “she.”
Mrs. Dalrymple knew better than to allow female interlopers in to trouble the vicar. She was the soul of discretion and discernment, a deceptively powerful impediment to female attempts to infiltrate his haven. She could stop an army with her passivity.
He sighed. “Thank you. I shall be in directly. You’ve made—”
“Tea. Yes, sir. The silver service, sir.”
So it was the sort of visitor Mrs. Dalrymple considered worthy of tea in the silver service.
Despite his weariness, he began to feel curious.
“You are a wonder, Mrs. Dalrymple.”
“I do me best, sir,” she said placidly.
HE STOPPED BY the mirror, smoothed his hair, gave his armpit a sniff since he’d been walking hard all day, decided he wasn’t terribly offensive, and was momentarily startled again by the absence of his cravat, and when he remembered how this came to be, his thoughts tugged at their tether—they wanted to surround the countess again. He frowned the thought away.
He would do well enough for a visitor, whoever she might be.
It proved to be the very nearly the last person he expected to find. He stopped in the doorway, saw a beautiful young woman dressed in heavy blue silk, the veil she’d likely worn as a disguise pushed up to rest on the top of her head
“Lady Ardmay. To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Until very recently, Lady Redmond been known as Miss Violet Redmond. Otherwise, that Redmond chit, as Lady Fennimore called her. Speak of the devil.
“Good afternoon, Reverend Sylvaine. I am not here, you understand. You’ve never seen me at the vicarage.”
He understood. “I do not engage in gossip, nor do I ever reveal a confidence, if that’s your concern.”
She gave him a slightly conciliatory smile. “Forgive me. I did not mean to imply that you ever would. It’s just … no one knows I am here. I took certain pains to ensure I wasn’t seen entering the vicarage. It may not surprise you to learn that I’ve never consulted with a member of the clergy. I’ve come on a matter of some sensitivity.”
This was rather implied, given the drama of the veil and the refusal to give her name to the housekeeper. As if the housekeeper wouldn’t recognize Violet Redmond by voice or stature or sheer sense of entitlement.
“Perhaps you’d do the honor of pouring for the both of us?” He gestured to the tea.
She did, and they sipped a moment, and sugar was stirred into cups with little clinking sounds, before she spoke.
“I am with
Similar Books
