indulgently at Doddsworth’s heir, as if he were already part of their family.
The Reverend Mr. Carlson’s passion, he soon told Forde, besides the Church and the wife and daughter he left with young Doddsworth, was cricket. Despite his playing the Tulip, Roland played a mean game. Did his lordship enjoy the sport?
“Not since my university days, I fear,” Forde said, watching the door for Mrs. Cole’s return. The squire was watching, too, he noted. Doddsworth seemed more interested in her announcement that dinner was served than he was in rushing to her side to escort her to the table. That favor was extended to the vicar, while Roland took in the two young ladies. Doddsworth escorted the vicar’s wife, and Forde was delegated to help old Lady Martindale into the dining room, along with her shawls and cane and reticule and fan.
He was given the place of honor at the head of the table, as far away from Mrs. Cole as possible. The dowager was at his right hand and kept him busy answering questions about mutual acquaintances in Town and the latest on dits . Mrs. Vicar Carlson on his left was frowning, so Forde could not relate some of the more scandalous tidbits, and he tried to direct the conversation elsewhere, such as to their hostess.
The table was not very long—the whole room could have fit into the entry hall of Wellforde House—but Mrs. Cole might have been miles away, separated from his sight, even, by a large urn filled with autumn blooms.
Both of his dinner companions sang her praises, her good sense, her generosity, and her efficient capability, making do with her chickens and music lessons. She served the community just as a good neighbor should, teaching Sunday school, conducting the church choir, and visiting the sick. She did all this while raising a child, and never a hint of scandal about her, the vicar’s wife added, in subtle reprimand to Lady Martindale for indulging in gossip.
A veritable paragon, Mrs. Cole was, Forde learned.
And a thrifty housewife. Dinner consisted of a tasty chicken broth with herbs, followed by chicken fricassee and vegetables. The sweet was an egg custard.
The innkeeper had been right. Forde should have brought the ham over earlier. He could have had his talk with the women, and a more varied dinner menu.
After the meal, the ladies, and Roland, retired to the parlor, leaving the vicar, the squire, and the viscount to their port and cigars. But Forde did not smoke, and much preferred brandy. Besides, what did he, a man about town, have in common with a man of God and a man of the earth? Not much. Forde thought of suggesting they join the ladies, but Mr. Carlson placed his hands together and closed his eyes. The viscount worried they were all supposed to be praying—lud knew he had enough bad habits to ask forgiveness for—but then Mr. Carlson started to snore.
The squire was filling his pipe with tobacco from a pouch. Once he got the thing going, he puffed and probed at the same time. “You aren’t here”—puff—“to stop the wedding, are you?”
Forde sipped at his glass of port, not answering.
“The reason I ask is that you’ll be disappointing half the county, and disrupting my own plans, too. I mean to make the widow an offer, once the chit’s future is settled and she is out of the house.”
“Offer?” Forde thought the squire already had the bargain made.
“Aye, I’ve been biding my time, but it won’t do for Mrs. Cole to be out here all alone. And I want the property for my boy Roland when he weds. Not right that newlyweds should share a house with the groom’s old man and rapscallion brothers.”
“Ah, that kind of offer. You wish to buy Cole Cottage?”
“Buy it?” Puff. “No, I’ll count it as her dowry. Can’t expect much else, and I’d wager whatever widow’s portion she gets will end with the marriage.”
“Marriage?” The glass fell from Forde’s fingers, but luckily it was nearly empty. Even though he did not like the
The Reverend Mr. Carlson’s passion, he soon told Forde, besides the Church and the wife and daughter he left with young Doddsworth, was cricket. Despite his playing the Tulip, Roland played a mean game. Did his lordship enjoy the sport?
“Not since my university days, I fear,” Forde said, watching the door for Mrs. Cole’s return. The squire was watching, too, he noted. Doddsworth seemed more interested in her announcement that dinner was served than he was in rushing to her side to escort her to the table. That favor was extended to the vicar, while Roland took in the two young ladies. Doddsworth escorted the vicar’s wife, and Forde was delegated to help old Lady Martindale into the dining room, along with her shawls and cane and reticule and fan.
He was given the place of honor at the head of the table, as far away from Mrs. Cole as possible. The dowager was at his right hand and kept him busy answering questions about mutual acquaintances in Town and the latest on dits . Mrs. Vicar Carlson on his left was frowning, so Forde could not relate some of the more scandalous tidbits, and he tried to direct the conversation elsewhere, such as to their hostess.
The table was not very long—the whole room could have fit into the entry hall of Wellforde House—but Mrs. Cole might have been miles away, separated from his sight, even, by a large urn filled with autumn blooms.
Both of his dinner companions sang her praises, her good sense, her generosity, and her efficient capability, making do with her chickens and music lessons. She served the community just as a good neighbor should, teaching Sunday school, conducting the church choir, and visiting the sick. She did all this while raising a child, and never a hint of scandal about her, the vicar’s wife added, in subtle reprimand to Lady Martindale for indulging in gossip.
A veritable paragon, Mrs. Cole was, Forde learned.
And a thrifty housewife. Dinner consisted of a tasty chicken broth with herbs, followed by chicken fricassee and vegetables. The sweet was an egg custard.
The innkeeper had been right. Forde should have brought the ham over earlier. He could have had his talk with the women, and a more varied dinner menu.
After the meal, the ladies, and Roland, retired to the parlor, leaving the vicar, the squire, and the viscount to their port and cigars. But Forde did not smoke, and much preferred brandy. Besides, what did he, a man about town, have in common with a man of God and a man of the earth? Not much. Forde thought of suggesting they join the ladies, but Mr. Carlson placed his hands together and closed his eyes. The viscount worried they were all supposed to be praying—lud knew he had enough bad habits to ask forgiveness for—but then Mr. Carlson started to snore.
The squire was filling his pipe with tobacco from a pouch. Once he got the thing going, he puffed and probed at the same time. “You aren’t here”—puff—“to stop the wedding, are you?”
Forde sipped at his glass of port, not answering.
“The reason I ask is that you’ll be disappointing half the county, and disrupting my own plans, too. I mean to make the widow an offer, once the chit’s future is settled and she is out of the house.”
“Offer?” Forde thought the squire already had the bargain made.
“Aye, I’ve been biding my time, but it won’t do for Mrs. Cole to be out here all alone. And I want the property for my boy Roland when he weds. Not right that newlyweds should share a house with the groom’s old man and rapscallion brothers.”
“Ah, that kind of offer. You wish to buy Cole Cottage?”
“Buy it?” Puff. “No, I’ll count it as her dowry. Can’t expect much else, and I’d wager whatever widow’s portion she gets will end with the marriage.”
“Marriage?” The glass fell from Forde’s fingers, but luckily it was nearly empty. Even though he did not like the
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