Chapter Fourteen
The following Sunday was Mr. Fielding’s first appearance in church. Cynthia had used the excuse of his illness to persuade him to remain at home, even when he was quite well enough to go.
“The atmosphere in the church is so damp,” she had said. “I don’t believe the stone has dried out this summer, due to the bushes growing so high over the windows. They need to be cut back, but unfortunately, the sexton is a lazy beast and does the minimum required.”
In fact, the real reason for her dissuasion was her worry about where Mr. Fielding should sit.
Should he sit with her in the Rowley family pew in the front?
If he did, the gossip would be re-doubled.
But why should he sit further back with the gamekeepers, tradespeople and household staff, where, as a gentleman, he didn’t belong?
She knew she should talk to him about it, but shrank from doing so.
The question was still preoccupying her as she dressed that Sunday.
For reasons she preferred not to admit to herself, she was determined to look her best, and put on a gown she had altered earlier in the summer from one of her mother’s, but never yet worn.
It was in a pale blue silk and in the style of the previous century, the dress was originally in two pieces.
The bodice was separate and laced to fit tightly in the back, while the full skirt was tied into the waist. Where the two met was covered by a dark blue sash.
Cynthia took out some of the fullness of the skirt , ironed out the creases and attached it to the bodice, using the sash to cover the seam and to make a matching ribbon for her bonnet.
She was quite pleased with the result. It was not in what she knew was the modern, slim style adopted by her friend Harriet, but it fit her quite well and was a pretty color.
She had breakfasted on a cup of tea and a piece of bread and butter in her room that morning, and had not seen Mr. Fielding before slipping a white shawl over her shoulders and climbing into the gig next to Ruby.
It was too small for all four of them, so it had been decided the men would walk.
At the church, Cynthia installed herself quickly in her usual place, and, forcing herself not to look around for the men’s arrival, tried to concentrate on her prayer book.
Ben Vernon, the sexton, who was, as usual, seated at the back of the church, observing everyone and missing nothing, was pleased to see Miss Rowley sit down alone.
There was something a bit different about her, he thought.
She looked better than usual. Was it a new bonnet?
Yes, he decided, that was it. He hoped she wasn’t the sort to want new duds at every tiff and turn!
That wouldn’t suit him at all. Mrs. Browning had a new bonnet, too, he saw.
Now, how had she persuaded her old man to buy her that, he wondered.
And young Daisy Compton and Neville from the Big House were exchanging sideways glances.
Well, Daisy could look all she wanted. His mama wouldn’t have him tied up with a girl from the village.
Not she! He looked with satisfaction back at his Cynthia, sitting quietly on her own, her eyes on her prayerbook, as they should be.
He would have been less satisfied if he had known that the problem of where Mr. Fielding would sit was still preying on her mind.
But then it was Ruby who settled the whole question.
There was a stir, which Cynthia guessed announced the arrival of the newcomer, but then, in a loud whisper, heard by everyone in the church, Ruby said, “You go on down in front, Mr. Andrew, sir, with Miss Rowley, you being our gen’lman lodger an' all.”
There was a collective exhale as Andrew Fielding walked down the aisle.
They’d heard he was an artist, but his manner, even more than his clothes, proclaimed him a gentleman.
He was wearing what he had arrived in, repaired, washed and pressed.
The superfine tailored coat and breeches had seen better days, but fitted his form admirably, his well-used but highly polished boots were molded to his legs.
But it was the effortless elegance with which he wore them that was unmistakable.
Yes, he was a gentleman, right enough. And a handsome, young one, at that.
He’d been poorly, by all accounts, and had fallen on the spinster’s front doorstep.
He was lodging with her while he recuperated, that’s all it was!
The rest had just been gossip. Everyone knew she’d been left hard-up, so it was no wonder she was letting out rooms. Ben Vernon sighed with relief when he saw Andrew Fielding.
He hadn’t needed to worry. A man like that wouldn’t look twice at Cynthia Rowley.
Cynthia’s friend Harriet had long recovered from her mysterious illness, but had stayed indoors these last weeks, fearing the effects of the sun on her complexion.
She’d heard from her maid about a man staying with her friend.
At first it was said he was nothing but a tramp and he was only there because he was too ill to move.
But recently there’d been gossip he was a handsome young man.
Being always on the lookout for a new husband, she had decided to come and see for herself.
She now saw the stranger for the first time, and her heart leaped.
Like Ben Vernon, not for an instant did she consider Cynthia as a match for this fine young gentleman.
But she was! She was in her thirties but looked younger.
She wasn’t exactly handsome, but her white skin and abundance of red hair made her striking.
Harriet had been married early to a much older man, who did her the favor of dying when she was still in her twenties.
He had left her reasonably well provided for, but not wealthy enough to spend the season in London, which she would have liked to do.
The village provided very poor pickings when it came to husbands, and she was the sort of woman who could not envisage going through life without one.
Just that morning she had plucked a greying hair from her flaming curls, so she straightened her back when Mr. Fielding came into view, determined to make the best of him.
He was probably not very well off. Artists never were.
But he was young, good-looking, and obviously a gentleman. He would do very nicely.