Chapter 3 #2
He raised his brows. “You lived near rats in London?”
She’d said too much. Morrigan pasted on a smile. “You hear about such things. It’s much nicer here, that’s all. It even smells better.” She took another deep breath. No acrid scent from too many coal fires. No stink from whatever had caused that puddle among the cobbles. No employer ogling her.
She put the thought from her mind.
“I suppose it does smell better,” he said, watching as Anastasia nosed around a clump of mushrooms. “I’ve never been farther from the village than the seashore when I was a lad.
We walked the sand, and my sister gathered shells.
Sometimes, I think I can catch a bit of brine on the breeze even here. ”
He sounded almost wistful.
“We should go one day, on our half-day off,” she ventured. “It can’t be all that far. I’d like to see the Channel.”
He smiled down at her. “On a stormy day, it’s the same color as your eyes.”
She stared at him. She was used to his teasing grin, but this smile was softer, gentler. Almost tender, as if she were precious indeed. If he bent a little…
Anastasia yipped, the sound sharp as a stick, and Morrigan stepped away from Bailey even though she’d done nothing wrong.
His gaze jerked back toward the hedgerow, body stiffening.
She sucked in a breath even as Anastasia pulled at the leash. “Was that a child?”
He was frowning. “Looked to be. But the only child near the manor is Mr. Warden’s son, Oliver. What would he be doing holing up under a hedgerow?”
Young Oliver preferred things quiet and orderly. Quiet he might get out here, but she could not imagine him thinking this any sort of order.
So, who was hiding in their hedgerow?
* * *
Hugh found himself looking forward to Wednesday.
His Grace had recently instituted a weekly dinner, at which Hugh and sometimes members of the local gentry were invited to share a meal and their thoughts.
The only time he and Georgie had attended, he’d felt the distance between them, but after their last talk, he had hopes she would come down and things might be less awkward.
He simply hadn’t expected awkwardness before he even reached the manor.
The table at Tyneham hardly needed any embellishment; the pristine white tablecloth was often covered in porcelain and gilt. But he’d wanted to contribute something to the meal, so he stopped at the wet grocer’s to ask where he might pick some flowers.
“Fancy enough for the manor?” Mrs. Pritchard shook her blond head. He’d heard she’d been ill, but she’d apparently recovered, for her narrow face was pink with health, and her blue eyes were shrewd. “Do they even like flowers up at the manor now?”
Hugh frowned. “Did the previous duke dislike blooms?”
“Not that I recall,” she said, pulling down a basket of strawberries from the shelf behind her.
One of the other larger farms in the area had a glass house where they forced early fruits and vegetables.
“But His Grace, the fourth duke, always had his own flowers. His son didn’t care much, and I’ll not speak ill of the dead, but the last duke…
” She looked up as if begging Heaven for help.
He’d heard stories from a number of his parishioners about the unsavory ways of the previous duke.
He could only thank God that fellow hadn’t been Georgie’s husband.
But then again, he could not imagine Colonel Bancroft allowing her to wed a scoundrel.
He hadn’t even allowed her to marry an impoverished deacon!
“His Grace the current duke appears to be a better sort,” Hugh assured the wife of their wet grocer.
“Oh, aye,” she allowed, sorting through the berries to pull out those that appeared to be overripe. “But he won’t know the traditions of the area. None of those newcomers will. You can be sure if Sir Winfred had been named duke, he would have done things right.”
Sir Winfred was a distant cousin to the dukes of Tyneham. Hugh had met the white-haired fellow several times now and knew enough about him to avoid the baronet’s strong opinions.
“Sir Winfred was not the next in line,” he reminded Mrs. Pritchard. “And he seems to be doing well for himself.”
She inclined her head, but Hugh wasn’t sure she believed him. “We have what we have.” She nodded toward the right side of the shop. “I’ve a few bluebells and hyacinths in the garden. You’re welcome to pick some.”
He thanked her and headed for the patch.
It took only a few moments to gather a handful.
The bluebells in particular were only a little darker than Georgie’s eyes.
He could imagine her delight as he handed them to her, the way her lips would curl in a shy smile, the way her golden lashes would flutter.
Stop it, Hugh! You’re the vicar! You need to think of her as one of your charges!
Determined, he squared his shoulders and marched for the manor.
Yet memories of Georgie continued to circle, like seagulls that had found a rich cache.
The way her eyes would sparkle as she would explain a passage she’d read aloud to the children at the orphanage.
How she would put her arm around one of the children, head close and eyes alight as she listened to a tale.
When she would giggle at some feeble joke of his as if he were the wittiest of men.
Her unyielding loyalty and steadfast devotion to those she called friends.
Friends. Even that might be considered odd between a duchess and a vicar, and it was a far cry from the feelings that crowded him. But perhaps he could aim for being Georgie’s friend, and nothing more.
He had nearly convinced himself as he approached the manor.
From the far side came the sound of pounding, the workers bringing Ben Warden’s vision to life as he renovated the manor to better suit the current duke.
Hugh climbed to the front door, which opened to show the butler waiting.
Mr. Kinsle’s ready smile looked a bit too effusive for the position he now held, but Hugh couldn’t fault the welcome.
“Dinner will be served shortly, sir,” the butler said, taking Hugh’s hat.
A sound above made Hugh look up in time to see Georgie descending the stairs.
Her hair was sleeked back as she preferred to wear it now, and her dinner dress showed off her pale shoulders and long throat.
But it was the joy on her face that held Hugh captive.
What had he done to deserve such a look?
“Hugh, you will not credit it!” she cried as she reached his side. “We know who’s been stealing from the vicarage!”