stuff, he wished for more. “You mean to offer Mrs. Cole a ring?”
“Can’t wed without one, can I? I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, what with my wife gone these five years and more. A house needs a woman’s touch, don’t you know, and so does a man. A fellow gets lonely, and the gals at the inn . . . well, you can’t bring them home with you, not without causing a stir in the neighborhood. Bad example for my sons, besides, don’t you know. The boys all adore Mrs. Cole, and they listen to her, too. And she is a fine-looking woman, what?”
What, indeed? Mrs. Cole was more than fine, for a nearly middle-aged mistress. “She is an attractive female,” he agreed, thinking of her green eyes and creamy skin, “but a wife?”
“You ain’t thinking of anything disrespectful, are you?” Doddsworth set down his pipe and scowled through the smoky haze.
“Heavens, no.” And Forde hoped the vicar was not listening or he’d rot in hell for the lie. “She is a devilishly attractive woman, as you say. I am just surprised. A man your age, a woman her age . . .”
“I don’t need any more heirs, if that is what you are thinking. Got three already,” the squire bragged, making Forde feel less of a man for producing only the one son. “Although that’s not to say it couldn’t happen, with Mrs. Cole not yet forty. She suits me to a cow’s thumb. And she is a real lady,” he added, in case Forde still harbored doubts.
He relit the pipe, then noticed Forde’s raised eyebrows. “Oh, I know the dead sailor had no title. But I met Mrs. Cole when she first came here almost twenty summers ago. Adjoining properties, and all that. My wife took pity on her, alone and breeding, without kin or friends in sight, don’t you know. We saw a good deal of her, introducing her around, showing her the sights. We wouldn’t have done so much if she weren’t a real lady. Both the missus and I knew right away that the widow was a gentlewoman, with her London gowns and fine manners and hands that had never held a broom or a mixing spoon. She came from a good family, I’d swear, although she won’t speak of them.”
The vicar woke up and added his opinion. “But she never put on airs, our Mrs. Cole, not at all. We were happy to have such an upstanding young woman come among us, to help with the choir and the children. She always gives to the poor box, even though she has to raise chickens to put food on her own table.”
“That is admirable, I am sure.” Forde was not sure of anything anymore. If Katherine Cole was not the squire’s ladybird, a fallen woman, then just maybe she was a lady fallen on hard times, and maybe he had no cause to stop the wedding. For a poor, virtuous widow, Mrs. Cole had done well for herself, and raised a lovely daughter, by all estimates. Her neighbors universally admired her, so she must not be the greedy, grasping female Gerald’s mother suspected. Gerald was still too young, and his bride was still too poor, but those were not sufficient reasons for the viscount to go back on his word. He had already given his approval of the match, albeit grudgingly. He could leave on the morrow and come back for the ceremony.
Still, doubts nagged at him. There was something smoky about the widow, or else she would have spoken to him sooner, alone. Her green eyes nagged at him, too. If this had been a cozy dinner for the two of them, who knew what could happen after?
Nothing. He was forgetting about the daughter, Gerald’s betrothed. He couldn’t go making advances to his nephew’s prospective mother-in-law, could he? No, not with the girl in the house. Squire was right: Mrs. Cole might be more amenable to an offer after the wedding. An offer of carte blanche, that was.
When the men reentered the parlor, Mrs. Cole stopped playing the pianoforte and stood up from the bench.
“No, no, please continue,” the vicar insisted. “Your playing is far more soothing to the digestion than cigars or
“Can’t wed without one, can I? I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, what with my wife gone these five years and more. A house needs a woman’s touch, don’t you know, and so does a man. A fellow gets lonely, and the gals at the inn . . . well, you can’t bring them home with you, not without causing a stir in the neighborhood. Bad example for my sons, besides, don’t you know. The boys all adore Mrs. Cole, and they listen to her, too. And she is a fine-looking woman, what?”
What, indeed? Mrs. Cole was more than fine, for a nearly middle-aged mistress. “She is an attractive female,” he agreed, thinking of her green eyes and creamy skin, “but a wife?”
“You ain’t thinking of anything disrespectful, are you?” Doddsworth set down his pipe and scowled through the smoky haze.
“Heavens, no.” And Forde hoped the vicar was not listening or he’d rot in hell for the lie. “She is a devilishly attractive woman, as you say. I am just surprised. A man your age, a woman her age . . .”
“I don’t need any more heirs, if that is what you are thinking. Got three already,” the squire bragged, making Forde feel less of a man for producing only the one son. “Although that’s not to say it couldn’t happen, with Mrs. Cole not yet forty. She suits me to a cow’s thumb. And she is a real lady,” he added, in case Forde still harbored doubts.
He relit the pipe, then noticed Forde’s raised eyebrows. “Oh, I know the dead sailor had no title. But I met Mrs. Cole when she first came here almost twenty summers ago. Adjoining properties, and all that. My wife took pity on her, alone and breeding, without kin or friends in sight, don’t you know. We saw a good deal of her, introducing her around, showing her the sights. We wouldn’t have done so much if she weren’t a real lady. Both the missus and I knew right away that the widow was a gentlewoman, with her London gowns and fine manners and hands that had never held a broom or a mixing spoon. She came from a good family, I’d swear, although she won’t speak of them.”
The vicar woke up and added his opinion. “But she never put on airs, our Mrs. Cole, not at all. We were happy to have such an upstanding young woman come among us, to help with the choir and the children. She always gives to the poor box, even though she has to raise chickens to put food on her own table.”
“That is admirable, I am sure.” Forde was not sure of anything anymore. If Katherine Cole was not the squire’s ladybird, a fallen woman, then just maybe she was a lady fallen on hard times, and maybe he had no cause to stop the wedding. For a poor, virtuous widow, Mrs. Cole had done well for herself, and raised a lovely daughter, by all estimates. Her neighbors universally admired her, so she must not be the greedy, grasping female Gerald’s mother suspected. Gerald was still too young, and his bride was still too poor, but those were not sufficient reasons for the viscount to go back on his word. He had already given his approval of the match, albeit grudgingly. He could leave on the morrow and come back for the ceremony.
Still, doubts nagged at him. There was something smoky about the widow, or else she would have spoken to him sooner, alone. Her green eyes nagged at him, too. If this had been a cozy dinner for the two of them, who knew what could happen after?
Nothing. He was forgetting about the daughter, Gerald’s betrothed. He couldn’t go making advances to his nephew’s prospective mother-in-law, could he? No, not with the girl in the house. Squire was right: Mrs. Cole might be more amenable to an offer after the wedding. An offer of carte blanche, that was.
When the men reentered the parlor, Mrs. Cole stopped playing the pianoforte and stood up from the bench.
“No, no, please continue,” the vicar insisted. “Your playing is far more soothing to the digestion than cigars or
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