exactly is the problem?”
She moved an inch closer; her soft voice dropped a note lower. “Mother”—she made an infinitesimal movement of her head—“has just invited Mayor Vanstone and Miss Vanstone to join us!”
“Oh?”
“Now I’m not sure what to do. Miss Pine and Mrs. Thoroughgood would stay away if I asked them, but I don’t like to.”
“No, of course not.” Miss Pine and Mrs. Thoroughgood were her two best friends. Christy frowned, at a loss. He bent over her solicitously. “And so—?”
“It’s just—it’s just that—oh, I’m afraid there’s not going to be enough to eat,” she blurted out in a rush.
He had to stop himself from smiling; he’d expected a much worse catastrophe than this. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”
“If it were anyone but Miss Vanstone, I wouldn’t be concerned. But you know what she’s like, she’s always—” She broke off, mortified. “Oh, goodness—I didn’t mean that unkindly, I do assure you! Why, I’ve nothing but the highest regard for Miss Vanstone, a woman of great substance and rectitude, really quite an asset to any gathering, and certainly a most honored guest in my mother’s house at any time—”
He took pity on her and interrupted, even though he was interested in knowing how many more virtues the good Miss Weedie, given her head, would have attributed to Honoria Vanstone. “Set your mind at rest,” he said consolingly. “I promise I won’t eat a thing—”
“Oh,
no
—”
“—because Mrs. Ludd will make me a nice sandwich while I’m changing clothes. I’ll have it just before I leave for your house.”
“Oh, dear, oh, dear . . .”
“And if things get really sticky, we’ll tell Lady D’Aubrey to lay off the sponge cake. A
joke
,” he said hastily when Miss Weedie went white. “Don’t worry,” he repeated, patting her arm, “your party will be a great success, I’m sure. How could it fail to be with two such kind and cordial hostesses?”
She smiled with pleasure—it was pathetically easy to please Miss Weedie—and pressed her fingers over his in a quick, grateful squeeze. “Bless you, Reverend. I know I’m a silly old woman.” He opened his mouth to deny it, but she said, “I’d better go,” and started to turn away. “Before Mother invites anyone else,” she threw over her shoulder softly. Christy looked for a sign that she was teasing, but couldn’t see one.
***
Residents of Wyckerley liked to boast that no two houses in the village looked alike. Certainly the cottages in Hobby Lane, where the Weedies lived, bore only a passing resemblance to each other. Some were granite, a few were brick; some had slate roofs, others were colorfully thatched with Dartmoor heather. Many were of sturdy Devon cob but varied widely—some might say wildly—in the color the householder had chosen: buff-washed, blinding white, pink, pale green, gray-blue. Primrose Cottage, the Weedies’ little house, had been painted crocus yellow in 1834, the last year of the late Mr. Weedie’s life. In the intervening twenty years it had dimmed and mellowed through stages of saffron, lemon, and flax, and now it glowed a soft, creamy shade of dusty gold, as faded and gentle as the two ladies who lived inside its flaking walls.
Christy turned in at the gap in the trim hedges and started up the cinder path to the door. Bees buzzed among the columbine and blue forget-me-nots in the carefully tended garden, and the mild air was sweet with the odor of wallflowers. Violets and primroses tumbled from window boxes and clay pots set back from the path. The old thatch on the gables and jutting eaves of the cottage roof sprouted reeds and emerald-green mosses, and draped the upstairs dormer windows in graceful curves, like a woman’s bonnet. Christy heard voices through the open front door; they broke off when he entered, ducking his head in the low doorway.
“Reverend Morrell!” Miss Weedie hurried toward him, both
She moved an inch closer; her soft voice dropped a note lower. “Mother”—she made an infinitesimal movement of her head—“has just invited Mayor Vanstone and Miss Vanstone to join us!”
“Oh?”
“Now I’m not sure what to do. Miss Pine and Mrs. Thoroughgood would stay away if I asked them, but I don’t like to.”
“No, of course not.” Miss Pine and Mrs. Thoroughgood were her two best friends. Christy frowned, at a loss. He bent over her solicitously. “And so—?”
“It’s just—it’s just that—oh, I’m afraid there’s not going to be enough to eat,” she blurted out in a rush.
He had to stop himself from smiling; he’d expected a much worse catastrophe than this. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”
“If it were anyone but Miss Vanstone, I wouldn’t be concerned. But you know what she’s like, she’s always—” She broke off, mortified. “Oh, goodness—I didn’t mean that unkindly, I do assure you! Why, I’ve nothing but the highest regard for Miss Vanstone, a woman of great substance and rectitude, really quite an asset to any gathering, and certainly a most honored guest in my mother’s house at any time—”
He took pity on her and interrupted, even though he was interested in knowing how many more virtues the good Miss Weedie, given her head, would have attributed to Honoria Vanstone. “Set your mind at rest,” he said consolingly. “I promise I won’t eat a thing—”
“Oh,
no
—”
“—because Mrs. Ludd will make me a nice sandwich while I’m changing clothes. I’ll have it just before I leave for your house.”
“Oh, dear, oh, dear . . .”
“And if things get really sticky, we’ll tell Lady D’Aubrey to lay off the sponge cake. A
joke
,” he said hastily when Miss Weedie went white. “Don’t worry,” he repeated, patting her arm, “your party will be a great success, I’m sure. How could it fail to be with two such kind and cordial hostesses?”
She smiled with pleasure—it was pathetically easy to please Miss Weedie—and pressed her fingers over his in a quick, grateful squeeze. “Bless you, Reverend. I know I’m a silly old woman.” He opened his mouth to deny it, but she said, “I’d better go,” and started to turn away. “Before Mother invites anyone else,” she threw over her shoulder softly. Christy looked for a sign that she was teasing, but couldn’t see one.
***
Residents of Wyckerley liked to boast that no two houses in the village looked alike. Certainly the cottages in Hobby Lane, where the Weedies lived, bore only a passing resemblance to each other. Some were granite, a few were brick; some had slate roofs, others were colorfully thatched with Dartmoor heather. Many were of sturdy Devon cob but varied widely—some might say wildly—in the color the householder had chosen: buff-washed, blinding white, pink, pale green, gray-blue. Primrose Cottage, the Weedies’ little house, had been painted crocus yellow in 1834, the last year of the late Mr. Weedie’s life. In the intervening twenty years it had dimmed and mellowed through stages of saffron, lemon, and flax, and now it glowed a soft, creamy shade of dusty gold, as faded and gentle as the two ladies who lived inside its flaking walls.
Christy turned in at the gap in the trim hedges and started up the cinder path to the door. Bees buzzed among the columbine and blue forget-me-nots in the carefully tended garden, and the mild air was sweet with the odor of wallflowers. Violets and primroses tumbled from window boxes and clay pots set back from the path. The old thatch on the gables and jutting eaves of the cottage roof sprouted reeds and emerald-green mosses, and draped the upstairs dormer windows in graceful curves, like a woman’s bonnet. Christy heard voices through the open front door; they broke off when he entered, ducking his head in the low doorway.
“Reverend Morrell!” Miss Weedie hurried toward him, both
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