Of Moths and Butterflies by V. R. Christensen

she imagined. And the women, their eyes narrowed, examining her face, comparing her manner of dress to theirs and mentally weighing—and perhaps with some difficulty—in what manner they should regard her. Or if they should regard her at all. She felt the weight of their oppressive scrutiny. And shrunk from it.
    As the hymn ended, she turned to look toward the door, to evaluate the possibility of an early escape. It was just possible, if… But the door was suddenly blocked from her view. As if from nowhere, a well-dressed gentleman appeared quite unexpectedly at her side.
    She sat down.
    “May I?” he asked, gesturing toward her pew.
    Uncertain what to say, she nodded.
    There yet being ample room on the bench, there was little need for him to sit so close to her as he did. She made more room.
    “You’re sure it’s not an imposition?” he consequently asked.
    “Yes, of course,” she answered, meeting his gaze for an instant before turning back to the parson.
    It seemed she had no choice now but to stay, and so determined to listen to the sermon, shutting all other distractions out. The gentleman’s apparent preoccupation with her, however, proved an insurmountable obstacle.
    “He’s new.” He said it almost as if it were a question.
    In return, she offered the simplest answer she could think of. “Oh?” And only considered afterward that he might take it as encouragement to continue the conversation.
    “That is, I believe so. It’s been some time since I was last here.”
    She acknowledged his statement by a glance only, not intending to encourage him further but neither wishing to be rude. She no longer felt quite so awkward as she had a moment ago. The heads that turned in her direction now did so in consideration of her companion as well. He returned these gestures with a polite nod and an expression that bespoke both kindness and dignity, and too, something of a challenging air, as though he meant to defend her from the judgments they had moments ago been prepared to cast upon her.
    When their privacy had been somewhat restored, he turned to her again. “The congregation has grown as well, though it’s perhaps a bit of a lopsided one.”
    She gave him a puzzled look, and he answered her unspoken question as though he’d intended to induce it. Likely he had.
    “There are considerably more young ladies in attendance this morning than I remember there ever having been when old Parson Bailey had the living.” His gaze swept around to present his proof and then landed on the parson as the cause.
    She laughed and then blushed at the irreverence of his statement, and of her own reaction, but she was quick to recover and quicker still to observe that they were not the only ones distracted in conversation. In fact, a significant amount of tittering could be heard in the adjacent rows, providing further proof of the accuracy of his statement.
    “It’s not his oratorical expertise that has brought them, surely.”
    “I wouldn’t know,” she answered, indicating that she had not come for the purpose he had suggested, and, at the same time, pointing out that she was hardly being allowed the opportunity to decide if his supposed powers had any merit.
    “Forgive me,” he said, and squared himself in his seat. He remained silent for many minutes before he cleared his throat to speak again. “You are a stranger here.”
    “Yes.”
    “You have come to visit family, perhaps?”
    “No.”
    “Friends?”
    She shook her head.
    “Then what, may I venture to ask, has brought you here?”
    He seemed truly curious to know. And he was charming. Too charming. She felt a surge of that old vanity rise up as if to challenge her newly formed resolve. She answered him as honestly as she knew how. Yet, and almost as though it were beyond her control, that lilt of former flirtatiousness carried in her voice and wove itself within her simply chosen words.
    “I’ve come, sir, to hear a sermon. Is that not what has brought