Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Georgie didn’t know whether to be disappointed or pleased when Mrs. Hallet let them into the vicarage sitting room and fetched Pip.
“The vicar is meeting with a family from outside the area who want their father buried in the churchyard,” the housekeeper confided as the two boys put their heads together.
“I don’t recall the name. I don’t think he was actually from Tyneham, but they seem to think so.
” She beamed. “You see how famous our village is? Now, I’ll just be a moment with the tea. ”
She bustled for the kitchen.
The two boys were seated side by side on the sofa. Oliver had spread his book over both their laps, and Pip was following along as Oliver turned the pages.
“That’s a good one,” Pip remarked, scratching behind one ear. “That’s how your mum looks.”
Oliver colored. “Thank you. She’s hard to draw. She’s always moving, like you. Here’s one of Her Grace the Second.”
Pip looked at the page, then up at Georgie. “You got her nose wrong.”
Oliver stiffened. “Did not.”
Pip pointed at the page. “Did too. You look at her, all pretty over there, and tell me I’m wrong.”
Frowning, Oliver studied her. Georgie raised a brow. “Some might think that sort of look impertinent, Mr. Warden.”
He hastily dropped his gaze. “Sorry.” He lowered his voice to Pip. “You’re right. I see it. I’ll correct it when I get home. I hate it when I get things wrong.”
She could hear the tears in his voice. Before she could intervene, Hugh strode in and made his bow to her. His hair had been tamed, and his coat was perfectly pressed. “Your Grace, forgive me for keeping you waiting. Mr. Warden, good to see you again.”
Oliver mumbled something, but he kept his head down. Hugh looked to Georgie, brow up in question.
Pip hopped off the sofa, nearly sending the sketchbook to the floor. Oliver pulled it closer.
“Come on, then,” Pip urged him. “We’ll go out into the rear yard. The light’s better there. You can draw me if you like.”
Oliver’s head came up. “Please may I, Georgie?”
She nodded. “Of course. But we will be leaving shortly. We wouldn’t want to overstay our welcome.”
He scurried out with Pip.
“You,” Hugh said, “could never overstay your welcome.”
This was what she’d feared, this pleasure at his words, his company. “Nevertheless,” she said, folding her hands primly in her lap, “your duties must keep you busy. I would not interfere with them.”
He reached out and rested his hand on hers, the touch setting her pulse to pounding. “I could never be too busy for you. But you were quiet on our trip back from Corfe Castle. I hope I’ve done nothing to offend.”
Oh, he would be her undoing. She wasn’t about to confess that her conversation with Sophia had troubled her. Georgie was just glad that Mrs. Hallet backed through the kitchen door then, bringing them a tea tray. Hugh pulled his hand away.
“There, you see?” his housekeeper said. “I knew he’d find time for you. Shall I pour or would you prefer to do so, Your Grace?”
“I’ll pour, thank you,” Georgie said. At least, that would give her something to do with her hands rather than reach out to snatch his closer again.
“Very good,” Mrs. Hallet said, setting the tray down on the low table between Georgie and Hugh. “I’ve dinner cooking, and I wouldn’t want to burn it, so I’ll be in the kitchen, but I’ll leave the door open.” She smiled at both of them again, then hurried off.
“Is she part of the plot?” Georgie asked, reaching for the pot.
“No,” Hugh said. “At least, not that I can tell. She’s never mentioned marriage or wives or that sort of thing.” He edged forward on his seat. “You needn’t worry, Georgie. I have no intention of proposing. I know when my attentions aren’t wanted.”
Her fingers started trembling so hard she nearly spilled the tea. “It isn’t that they aren’t wanted, Hugh. No one could fail to be honored by your attentions. I simply don’t know my own mind at the moment.” She thrust the cup at him.
He took it gingerly. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
Stay as far away as possible? Pull her close and kiss her senseless?
The thought shook her, but she managed to pour her own cup without spilling. “No. But please be assured that I treasure our friendship and would do nothing to disturb it.”
Particularly letting herself fall in love with him all over again.
* * *
By Sunday, Morrigan was ready for her half-day off. It had been busy around the manor. Though Her Grace the Second had kept Anastasia close since returning from their outing, Morrigan had been called on to help with the annual spring cleaning.
Mrs. Carmichael took the matter seriously.
Every carpet had been pulled up, taken outside, and beaten.
Morrigan and Dorcus had dusted behind every little statue, each of the fine paintings, and all the crevices in the sculpture room.
Bailey had helped them with that one, and they’d all had a laugh when he’d insisted on cleaning the statues’ ears as if the stones were children and their mothers hadn’t done a good job of tending them.
“I can’t be the only one glad for a reprieve,” she told him as they walked together toward the church for services. The day was fine with a light breeze that reached past her bonnet to tickle her cheeks.
Bailey hunched his shoulders and exaggerated a limp. “Me back’s nearly broke, so it is.”
Morrigan shook her head, but she laughed as he straightened and winked at her.
Mr. Caddington led the service with his usual appropriate solemnity despite the howls coming from the vicarage as King Saul sang along. But when the vicar stood up in the pulpit to read the sermon, he closed the Book of Common Prayer and looked out over the congregation.
“We talk about the Ten Commandments,” he said.
“But our Lord and Savior emphasized two that sum up all the rest: Love God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength, and love your neighbor as yourself. I have been privileged to see neighborly love on every side since coming to this village. If someone has a need—a fence broken, a position lost, a family member gone—someone else rises to meet that need with help and encouragement. That warms my heart and confirms my belief in humanity. I also think it warms God’s heart. ”
Around her, long-time members of the village were nodding, and the newer members looked hopeful.
“So, when someone breaks this sacred trust, we all suffer,” he continued. “Gossip, slander, theft—these are no way to honor God and love others. Surely, these have no place in our village.”
The people around her exchanged glances, and one or two slumped lower in their seats. Gossip was hard to avoid any place Morrigan had lived. When someone nearby did something salacious, stories spread. But slander? Only the most bitter dropped so low. And theft?
Theft could see a girl sacked or worse, sent to the magistrate. She’d barely escaped once. She could not bear to think of it happening again.
The vicar continued a little longer, but Morrigan’s mind was too full to hear much of it.
As the Exalted Dog Nanny of Tyneham Manor, she was sometimes privy to things she shouldn’t know, but she did her best to pass along only what might affect the rest of the household.
And no one had accused her of stealing here.
She tried to put the sermon out of her mind as Bailey escorted her across the green to the cottage he’d pointed out the last time they’d walked together.
The front garden was bordered by a white wood fence that had been recently painted if its gleam was any indication.
He opened the gate for her and led her up the flagstone walk with neat rows of plants on either side.
The only one she recognized was spinach, with its round-ended thick leaves.
The door opened before he could even reach for the latch.
“You’re here!” His sister hugged him tight a moment before beaming at Morrigan. “I’m so glad to see you both.”
“Don’t stand there yapping at them,” his mother called with a laugh. “Invite them in!”
Bailey’s sister stepped aside.
The cottage appeared to have two rooms at the front, bedroom on one side of the entry and sitting room at the other, with the kitchen across the back.
Stairs to one side of the entry said there were more rooms under the roof.
The white walls had a framed picture here and there, and the floors were covered in colorful rag rugs.
Not a speck of dust was to be seen on the hardwood chairs, tables, or hearth.
Morrigan was impressed. She knew how hard it was to keep everything spotless.
“’Bout time you stopped by, my boy,” his mother said from her seat in a ladder-back chair near the hearth.
She was older than Morrigan had expected, or perhaps her early life had aged her.
Her silvery hair was drawn back in a bun, but Morrigan could see her scalp in places.
Her slender frame was bent so that the brown wool at her back humped.
Mrs. Bailey tapped her cheek with one gnarled finger. “Give your old ailing mum a kiss.”
Bailey bent dutifully. “I was here just the other day, Mum.”
“Were you?” She frowned at him, then leaned forward to look around him at Morrigan. “Of course he was! He comes every half-day off, the dear. He’s the dependable sort.”
Morrigan had already surmised as much.
“Mum, this is Miss Turner,” Bailey said, “who works at the manor with me.”
Morrigan dipped a curtsey. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Bailey.”
“And you,” she said with a nod.
Sally plopped down on the low-backed wood settle under the front window. “You all seem so busy every time I come up to the manor. What’s it like working there? Tom doesn’t talk about it much.”
So, any gossip wasn’t coming from him, then. “It’s nice,” Morrigan allowed, taking the chair his mother indicated. “Clean, orderly.”