them at a wary distance because they were strangers. In Connor’s experience, the local squire and the minister were the two individuals most responsible for setting a tone of welcome—or otherwise—in small, provincial villages. In the case of Wyckerley, those two were Sebastian Verlaine, the Earl of Moreton, and Christian Morrell, the vicar of All Saints Church, the man Connor had mistaken last week for Sophie Deene’s husband. He heard the names of the vicar and the earl mentioned frequently among the drinkers at the George, and always in affectionate and approving terms.
“Oh, yes, the vicar am a fine, fine fellow,” Tranter Fox opined, and launched into a recitation of the time he’d gotten pinned under a piece of fallen machinery at the seventy level and been given up for a lost cause. Connor, who had heard it six times already, had to listen again to the story of how Reverend Morrell was the only man brave enough to go near Tranter, and how he’d prayed and sung hymns with him until the gallery in which they were trapped collapsed on top of their heads. “Bleedin’
miracle
when the roof caved in on the stamp rod and I were set free. Bloody blinkin’
miracle.
” All the men gathered around the cold hearth in the smoky, low-ceilinged public room nodded and muttered in tired agreement, and Connor suspected they’d heard the story even more often than he had.
“Say, Tranter, why aren’t you at the penny reading this evening?” asked Charles Oldene, one of the tributers at Guelder. “You know who’s reading tonight, don’t you?”
General laughter; Connor was surprised when the little Cornishman ducked his head and stuck his nose in his mug of bittered ale to hide a blush.
“What’s a penny reading?” Jack asked.
“They have ’em at the vicarage on Fridays,” Oldene answered. “’Twas the vicar’s idea, or maybe his wife’s, I forget. Every week somebody reads from a book out loud to those who’ve come to hear.”
“What kind of a book?”
“Oh, any kind. Onct Mrs. Morrell read out one about a fellow stuck in a dungeon for years and years.”
“The Count o Monte Cristo,”
supplied Tranter. “Say, weren’t that a corker?”
“A right cracker,” agreed Oldene, signaling Rose for more ale.
“So who’m reading tonight?” Jack wanted to know.
“’Tis none other than our own Miss Sophie,” said Moony Donne, trying to nudge Tranter in the ribs with his elbow. The miner squirmed away and swore at him, which only made the men laugh again.
“Now, Tranter, don’t go on being bashful. We all know you’ve got your heart set on Miss Deene.”
“I ’ave not. Shut up, Charles, by Jakes, ee’re a bleedin’ nitwit.”
Oldene chortled with glee. “She’s readin’ right now, right this very minute, in that low, soft voice o’ hers. Sends shivers down your arms, don’t it? Eh, don’t it? Why’nt you go and hear ’er, Tranter?”
“Because I don’t care to,” he answered with stiff dignity. “’Tisn’t my kind o’ book, if ee must know. ’Tis all about
faymels
; I heard some faymel even writed it.”
That made sense; the men nodded and puffed on their pipes, in sympathy with Tranter’s decision.
Connor had caught glimpses of Sophie Deene during the week, quick sightings early or late in the day, always from a distance, and with no sign from her that she’d seen him. Except once, when he’d caught her eye and she’d had no choice but to acknowledge him with a brief nod. The memory of that instant of awareness and interest in her face, gone in a second and replaced by studied indifference, had nettled him ever since.
He stood up.
“Not leaving, are you, Jack?” said Jack. The bitter he’d drunk had put color in his sallow cheeks; he looked deceptively healthy.
“Yes, I’m off. Don’t stay much longer,” Connor said lightly, touching his shoulder. “The smoke’s not good for you.”
“Too right. I’ll just have this last and be away,” he
“Oh, yes, the vicar am a fine, fine fellow,” Tranter Fox opined, and launched into a recitation of the time he’d gotten pinned under a piece of fallen machinery at the seventy level and been given up for a lost cause. Connor, who had heard it six times already, had to listen again to the story of how Reverend Morrell was the only man brave enough to go near Tranter, and how he’d prayed and sung hymns with him until the gallery in which they were trapped collapsed on top of their heads. “Bleedin’
miracle
when the roof caved in on the stamp rod and I were set free. Bloody blinkin’
miracle.
” All the men gathered around the cold hearth in the smoky, low-ceilinged public room nodded and muttered in tired agreement, and Connor suspected they’d heard the story even more often than he had.
“Say, Tranter, why aren’t you at the penny reading this evening?” asked Charles Oldene, one of the tributers at Guelder. “You know who’s reading tonight, don’t you?”
General laughter; Connor was surprised when the little Cornishman ducked his head and stuck his nose in his mug of bittered ale to hide a blush.
“What’s a penny reading?” Jack asked.
“They have ’em at the vicarage on Fridays,” Oldene answered. “’Twas the vicar’s idea, or maybe his wife’s, I forget. Every week somebody reads from a book out loud to those who’ve come to hear.”
“What kind of a book?”
“Oh, any kind. Onct Mrs. Morrell read out one about a fellow stuck in a dungeon for years and years.”
“The Count o Monte Cristo,”
supplied Tranter. “Say, weren’t that a corker?”
“A right cracker,” agreed Oldene, signaling Rose for more ale.
“So who’m reading tonight?” Jack wanted to know.
“’Tis none other than our own Miss Sophie,” said Moony Donne, trying to nudge Tranter in the ribs with his elbow. The miner squirmed away and swore at him, which only made the men laugh again.
“Now, Tranter, don’t go on being bashful. We all know you’ve got your heart set on Miss Deene.”
“I ’ave not. Shut up, Charles, by Jakes, ee’re a bleedin’ nitwit.”
Oldene chortled with glee. “She’s readin’ right now, right this very minute, in that low, soft voice o’ hers. Sends shivers down your arms, don’t it? Eh, don’t it? Why’nt you go and hear ’er, Tranter?”
“Because I don’t care to,” he answered with stiff dignity. “’Tisn’t my kind o’ book, if ee must know. ’Tis all about
faymels
; I heard some faymel even writed it.”
That made sense; the men nodded and puffed on their pipes, in sympathy with Tranter’s decision.
Connor had caught glimpses of Sophie Deene during the week, quick sightings early or late in the day, always from a distance, and with no sign from her that she’d seen him. Except once, when he’d caught her eye and she’d had no choice but to acknowledge him with a brief nod. The memory of that instant of awareness and interest in her face, gone in a second and replaced by studied indifference, had nettled him ever since.
He stood up.
“Not leaving, are you, Jack?” said Jack. The bitter he’d drunk had put color in his sallow cheeks; he looked deceptively healthy.
“Yes, I’m off. Don’t stay much longer,” Connor said lightly, touching his shoulder. “The smoke’s not good for you.”
“Too right. I’ll just have this last and be away,” he
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