alive? Is he in Sussex? Where is he?”
His voice was still steady. But the questions were quick, and they were demands, and when Adam demanded something, he invariably got it.
He fixed her with an unblinking stare, neither sympathetic nor judgmental. It willed the answer from her even as it drove her nervously to her feet.
His manners reflexive, he stood, too.
“I can tell you truthfully: I don’t know,” she said. She was in a hurry to be gone, he could see.
They watched each other warily.
“Please keep it, Reverend. I leave you to decide whether she ought to have it. She doesn’t seem happy, does she? And she’ll only get older and older. Then again, who can say whether she doesn’t deserve whatever penance she’s now paying?”
A faint hint of bitterness. Whatever had happened had cost her a brother.
“Thank you for entrusting me with it,” was all he said.
AFTER THE DAY he’d had, Adam thought he could be forgiven for thinking the door of the Pig & Thistle looked like the entrance to Heaven. His cousin Colin hailed him—he was sharing one of the sturdy, battered wooden tables with his brother Ian—Adam sank into a chair across from them. They were watching Jonathan Redmond thunk darts into the board with exquisite precision.
“Which Eversea do you think he pictures when he hits it?” Colin asked idly.
Ian snorted.
Adam said nothing at all by way of greeting. He stretched out his legs, leaned back, and closed his eyes, and for a blissful minute felt only the warmth of the fire and pub, heard only the buzz of conversation, felt the wood of the chair beneath him, all of it allegedly carved from Ashdown forest trees. He allowed himself the luxury of experiencing only his senses. Every conversation he’d had today, everything he’d experienced, had reminded them they’d been too long denied.
When he opened them, Polly Hawthorne, Ned’s daughter, was standing next to him.
He smiled at her.
She flushed scarlet to her scalp. “I enjoyed your sermon about loving thy neighbor, Reverend Sylvaine.”
“I’m so happy to hear it, Polly.”
“I do, you know. Love my neighbor.” Her big dark eyes drank him in worshipfully.
“Ah. Well. Very good,” he said cautiously.
His cousins were fighting smiles. Polly, who might be all of sixteen or seventeen, had long nurtured a tendre for Colin (indulged but not returned) and still hadn’t forgiven him for marrying Madeline, and had been as darkly unbending as a de Medici about it. Out of habit, she refused to acknowledge his existence. Ian always needed to give the ale orders. But Adam seemed to have supplanted him in her passions.
“Bring Adam a pint of the dark, won’t you, Polly?” Ian intervened in Polly’s reverie, when it seemed Polly would never speak again. She gave a start and flashed a brilliant smile and slipped through the pub crowd with the grace of a selkie.
“I enjoyed your sermon today, too, Reverend,” Colin said solemnly. “I positively felt stains lifting from my soul as I listened.”
Adam yawned. “Splendid. At that rate, your entrance to Heaven will be assured a few thousand sermons from now.”
Ian laughed. “Sooo, Vicar … why so weary? Thinking about your notorious new parishioner and all the excitement she’s bound to cause?”
More surprises. “I’ve a notorious new parishioner?”
“I thought you met today. She was in church today, so I heard. I didn’t see her. She’s taken Damask Manor. Inherited, that is, I believe, from her late husband. A servant knows a servant who told … somebody. You know how it is. Seems the whole of Pennyroyal Green knew by noon today.”
“Oh. Of course. The Countess of Wareham. I did meet her.” In his weakened state, the thought of her rushed to his head like the Pig & thistle’s dark: complex and bitter and silky.
“What did you think of her?” Colin took a sip of his ale.
“Mmm.” He tipped his head back. “Funny, but she reminded me a bit of … oh, a wild
His voice was still steady. But the questions were quick, and they were demands, and when Adam demanded something, he invariably got it.
He fixed her with an unblinking stare, neither sympathetic nor judgmental. It willed the answer from her even as it drove her nervously to her feet.
His manners reflexive, he stood, too.
“I can tell you truthfully: I don’t know,” she said. She was in a hurry to be gone, he could see.
They watched each other warily.
“Please keep it, Reverend. I leave you to decide whether she ought to have it. She doesn’t seem happy, does she? And she’ll only get older and older. Then again, who can say whether she doesn’t deserve whatever penance she’s now paying?”
A faint hint of bitterness. Whatever had happened had cost her a brother.
“Thank you for entrusting me with it,” was all he said.
AFTER THE DAY he’d had, Adam thought he could be forgiven for thinking the door of the Pig & Thistle looked like the entrance to Heaven. His cousin Colin hailed him—he was sharing one of the sturdy, battered wooden tables with his brother Ian—Adam sank into a chair across from them. They were watching Jonathan Redmond thunk darts into the board with exquisite precision.
“Which Eversea do you think he pictures when he hits it?” Colin asked idly.
Ian snorted.
Adam said nothing at all by way of greeting. He stretched out his legs, leaned back, and closed his eyes, and for a blissful minute felt only the warmth of the fire and pub, heard only the buzz of conversation, felt the wood of the chair beneath him, all of it allegedly carved from Ashdown forest trees. He allowed himself the luxury of experiencing only his senses. Every conversation he’d had today, everything he’d experienced, had reminded them they’d been too long denied.
When he opened them, Polly Hawthorne, Ned’s daughter, was standing next to him.
He smiled at her.
She flushed scarlet to her scalp. “I enjoyed your sermon about loving thy neighbor, Reverend Sylvaine.”
“I’m so happy to hear it, Polly.”
“I do, you know. Love my neighbor.” Her big dark eyes drank him in worshipfully.
“Ah. Well. Very good,” he said cautiously.
His cousins were fighting smiles. Polly, who might be all of sixteen or seventeen, had long nurtured a tendre for Colin (indulged but not returned) and still hadn’t forgiven him for marrying Madeline, and had been as darkly unbending as a de Medici about it. Out of habit, she refused to acknowledge his existence. Ian always needed to give the ale orders. But Adam seemed to have supplanted him in her passions.
“Bring Adam a pint of the dark, won’t you, Polly?” Ian intervened in Polly’s reverie, when it seemed Polly would never speak again. She gave a start and flashed a brilliant smile and slipped through the pub crowd with the grace of a selkie.
“I enjoyed your sermon today, too, Reverend,” Colin said solemnly. “I positively felt stains lifting from my soul as I listened.”
Adam yawned. “Splendid. At that rate, your entrance to Heaven will be assured a few thousand sermons from now.”
Ian laughed. “Sooo, Vicar … why so weary? Thinking about your notorious new parishioner and all the excitement she’s bound to cause?”
More surprises. “I’ve a notorious new parishioner?”
“I thought you met today. She was in church today, so I heard. I didn’t see her. She’s taken Damask Manor. Inherited, that is, I believe, from her late husband. A servant knows a servant who told … somebody. You know how it is. Seems the whole of Pennyroyal Green knew by noon today.”
“Oh. Of course. The Countess of Wareham. I did meet her.” In his weakened state, the thought of her rushed to his head like the Pig & thistle’s dark: complex and bitter and silky.
“What did you think of her?” Colin took a sip of his ale.
“Mmm.” He tipped his head back. “Funny, but she reminded me a bit of … oh, a wild
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