hands extended in welcome—as if they hadn’t spoken barely an hour ago. He saw relief in her face, and deduced that entertaining the Vanstones single-handedly had become something of a strain.
But she wasn’t alone, he saw at a glance: her mother was sitting in her usual place in the inglenook, peering shortsightedly and smiling at him; and Miss Pine and Mrs. Thoroughgood, the Weedies’ constant companions, were puttering around the tea table, trying to make themselves useful. They stopped puttering long enough to greet him. Eustace Vanstone was standing beside the window, looking dignified and mayoral with his legs spread, hands clasped behind his back. He greeted Christy with one of his hearty professional handshakes, but his first words sounded peevish. “I heard D’Aubrey’s not coming.”
“No, he had some business to attend to, I gather,” Christy confirmed. The mayor scowled, and Christy suspected he was feeling duped. Instead of a golden opportunity to ingratiate himself with the new heir, his new patron, the man to whom he would now be in debt for every political favor that came his way, he was obliged to waste an entire afternoon being polite to a roomful of women (Christy excepted), with no one worth trying to impress except Lady D’Aubrey, a poor substitute for her now powerful husband.
“Yes, I believe he had business to discuss with Mr. Deene,” Miss Weedie said helpfully. That reminded her— “Your niece did a wonderful job with the children’s choir today, Mayor. They sounded like angels, everyone said—”
“Geoffrey’s talking to Tolliver?” Vanstone interrupted sharply. “What about?”
“Why, I have no idea,” she faltered, realizing belatedly that she’d added insult to injury by revealing that the absent viscount was at this moment conducting business with the mayor’s brother-in-law. Deene and Vanstone might be friends, but it was no secret that they were also rivals.
“Miss Vanstone, you’re looking well,” Christy put in for a diversion, taking the mayor’s daughter’s limp hand and bowing over it. Honoria didn’t get up from her padded wing chair, the seat of honor in the small, cramped parlor, and he wondered whether she would relinquish it when the real guest of honor arrived. He doubted that she had ever set foot in the Weedies’ modest cottage before, or that she would have now if the new viscountess weren’t coming.
“Good afternoon, Vicar,” she said, batting her dark eyelashes. At twenty-six, Honoria was skating perilously close to the thin ice of permanent spinsterhood, and the knowledge didn’t agree with her. Lately a look of discontent had begun to settle in her sharp features, souring an aspect that before had merely seemed tart. Close in age, they had been “Honoria” and “Christy” in their careless youth, acquaintances and schoolmates if not friends. Sometime between his departure for theological college and his appointment to the benefice of All Saints Church, though, they’d retreated from first-name familiarity and grown formal with each other. Which was ironic, Christy thought, considering that Honoria, unless he was grossly mistaken, had romantic designs on him.
He sat down in a rush-bottomed chair that looked familiar—he thought it belonged to Mrs. Thoroughgood, who lived across the street—and set about making himself agreeable to the decidedly mixed group the Weedies had invited, out of innocent good faith, to their home. Once Lady D’Aubrey arrived, it would undoubtedly become even
more
mixed, but everyone stole glances at the noisy eight-day clock on the mantelshelf anyway, impatient for her arrival.
At three o’clock she still hadn’t come, and the brilliance of the conversation had definitely dimmed. Christy had exhausted his store of ministerial chitchat and listened to all the opinions Mayor Vanstone had about the war with Russia to which a man ought to have to listen on Easter Sunday. Miss Weedie was in an agony of
But she wasn’t alone, he saw at a glance: her mother was sitting in her usual place in the inglenook, peering shortsightedly and smiling at him; and Miss Pine and Mrs. Thoroughgood, the Weedies’ constant companions, were puttering around the tea table, trying to make themselves useful. They stopped puttering long enough to greet him. Eustace Vanstone was standing beside the window, looking dignified and mayoral with his legs spread, hands clasped behind his back. He greeted Christy with one of his hearty professional handshakes, but his first words sounded peevish. “I heard D’Aubrey’s not coming.”
“No, he had some business to attend to, I gather,” Christy confirmed. The mayor scowled, and Christy suspected he was feeling duped. Instead of a golden opportunity to ingratiate himself with the new heir, his new patron, the man to whom he would now be in debt for every political favor that came his way, he was obliged to waste an entire afternoon being polite to a roomful of women (Christy excepted), with no one worth trying to impress except Lady D’Aubrey, a poor substitute for her now powerful husband.
“Yes, I believe he had business to discuss with Mr. Deene,” Miss Weedie said helpfully. That reminded her— “Your niece did a wonderful job with the children’s choir today, Mayor. They sounded like angels, everyone said—”
“Geoffrey’s talking to Tolliver?” Vanstone interrupted sharply. “What about?”
“Why, I have no idea,” she faltered, realizing belatedly that she’d added insult to injury by revealing that the absent viscount was at this moment conducting business with the mayor’s brother-in-law. Deene and Vanstone might be friends, but it was no secret that they were also rivals.
“Miss Vanstone, you’re looking well,” Christy put in for a diversion, taking the mayor’s daughter’s limp hand and bowing over it. Honoria didn’t get up from her padded wing chair, the seat of honor in the small, cramped parlor, and he wondered whether she would relinquish it when the real guest of honor arrived. He doubted that she had ever set foot in the Weedies’ modest cottage before, or that she would have now if the new viscountess weren’t coming.
“Good afternoon, Vicar,” she said, batting her dark eyelashes. At twenty-six, Honoria was skating perilously close to the thin ice of permanent spinsterhood, and the knowledge didn’t agree with her. Lately a look of discontent had begun to settle in her sharp features, souring an aspect that before had merely seemed tart. Close in age, they had been “Honoria” and “Christy” in their careless youth, acquaintances and schoolmates if not friends. Sometime between his departure for theological college and his appointment to the benefice of All Saints Church, though, they’d retreated from first-name familiarity and grown formal with each other. Which was ironic, Christy thought, considering that Honoria, unless he was grossly mistaken, had romantic designs on him.
He sat down in a rush-bottomed chair that looked familiar—he thought it belonged to Mrs. Thoroughgood, who lived across the street—and set about making himself agreeable to the decidedly mixed group the Weedies had invited, out of innocent good faith, to their home. Once Lady D’Aubrey arrived, it would undoubtedly become even
more
mixed, but everyone stole glances at the noisy eight-day clock on the mantelshelf anyway, impatient for her arrival.
At three o’clock she still hadn’t come, and the brilliance of the conversation had definitely dimmed. Christy had exhausted his store of ministerial chitchat and listened to all the opinions Mayor Vanstone had about the war with Russia to which a man ought to have to listen on Easter Sunday. Miss Weedie was in an agony of
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