The Arrangement by Mary Balogh

Vincent said. “Yes, I believe the servants may be right about that. I shall tread with great care during the coming days. In particular, if I should happen to hear the fateful words
I understand
and
I do not mind
come from Miss March’s lips, I shall flee to the tip of Land’s End.”
    “You had better have a boat with you,” Martin said. “That might not be far enough.”
    They were home already. What a very strange day it had been. He had arrived here before dawn with the happy idea of relaxing quietly for a few days and doing some serious thinking before going back home to Middlebury Park to take command of the rest of his life. And then—
    He laughed as Handry set down the steps of the carriage and he climbed down outside his front door without assistance.
    “Miss Waddell and her welcoming committees,” he said.
    “I was upset you did not invite me to come and listen to the vicar’s welcome,” Martin said.
    They both snorted with laughter.
    “Actually, you know,” Vincent said as he made his way up the steps to the front door, “it was touching. They were all so much a part of the fabric of our childhood, Martin. And kindlier, more well-meaning people one could not hope to encounter. It is unkind of us to laugh at them, except that our laughter is well meant too. We were fortunate to grow up here.”
    “That we were,” Martin agreed cheerfully. “There are some of Mam’s cakes left, sir. Would you like one or two with a drink?”
    “Hot milk, if there is some, please, Martin,” Vincent said, making his way to the sitting room. “And one cake, please. Your mother has certainly not lost her touch, has she? One of her cakes is worth four of anyone else’s.”
    Goodness, he must be feeling nostalgic. What had he just asked for?
Hot milk?
    He was actually glad he had been discovered here. He had been a bit ashamed or embarrassed or … or
something
to be seen blind like this when these people had known him as he used to be. But that had been foolish of him. His morning visitors had been kind and, solicitous though they had been over his blindness, they had still treated him as a thinking, functioning adult. They had been happy to reminisce about the past, when his father was schoolmaster here and his mother was active in the church and the community and Vincent and his sisters had been growing up with all the other village children and getting into all sorts of mischief with them. Vincent too had been happy to remember and had joined in the conversation with some enthusiasm.
    He sighed as he sat back in his chair by the fireplace. Dash it, but he was tired. Tired without having even exercised today. That, no doubt, was part of the problem.
    And tomorrow evening there was to be an assembly at the Foaming Tankard. Vincent grinned as he remembered the petition Miss Waddell had coaxed eleven people to sign protesting the name of the inn when it changed hands—Vincent must have been about six at the time. The inn had once been the respectably named Rose and Crown.
    An assembly.
    In his honor.
    He tipped back his head and laughed aloud. Who but the citizens of Barton Coombs would put on a dance for a blind man?
    He must not relax too much into this unexpectedly pleasant interlude, though, he thought as Martin brought in his milk and cake. For Sir Clarence March had made it perfectly clear that his daughter would welcome a marriage proposal from him, and Lady March had extolled her daughter’s virtues and accomplishments. Miss March herself had simpered. They all meant to have him, and what the Marches wanted, they often got, though they had obviously failed miserably with a few dozen dukes and marquesses and earls—were there that many in existence, even if one included the married ones?
    He was going to have to watch himself.
    Henrietta March had been exquisitely pretty as a girl and had shown promise of extraordinary beauty when Vincent last saw her. She must have been about fifteen at the time. She was