Charming the Vicar's Daughter Page 4

  It came as no surprise to find herself seated beside Mr. Harrow at the dining table, with Mr. Trey Lumley on her other side. Rebecca was certain Lady Bridgethorpe had arranged them by rank, as society insisted upon, and not because the two young men were of marriageable age and Rebecca was still single. If the lady or her husband had any desire to see one of their sons married to a vicar’s daughter, they would have arranged such a match when Rebecca first came of age to marry.

  Rebecca directed her first question to Mr. Lumley. “When do the bride and groom leave for Newmarket?”

  “Tomorrow, I believe. David is concerned about his mares who will be foaling.”

  She forced herself to eat some of the eggs on her plate before turning to Mr. Harrow. One questioned begged an answer. Where had he gone last night? He’d rushed out after their dance as if his coat tails were on fire, and she didn’t see him again. For her, the light had dimmed after that one dance.

  A niggling voice in her head insisted she knew the reason he’d gone. Had someone revealed her secret? Only a few knew the entire truth of the matter, but any one of the tales she’d overheard would be enough to send a man running.

  Sighing, she took another bite of the meal. Her life wasn’t meant to be bright and gay. Hers had a purpose, one beyond that of a wife and mother. Once she had accepted that and put aside those dreams, she was able to fulfill her purpose tending to Father’s parishioners. It hadn’t been an easy adjustment, but she’d managed. Until Mr. Harrow came to call on his cousins, that is.

  Mr. Harrow pushed his food around his plate with his fork. “Lovely wedding, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” she responded. “Lady Joanna’s jonquil posy was the perfect color with her lovely blue gown.”

  The rest of the diners were much livelier. Rebecca observed them while she ate, responding whenever the gentlemen to her sides spoke to her. She was beyond grateful when Lady Bridgethorpe suggested they remove to the drawing room. She expected Mr. Trey Lumley to escort her, but Mr. Harrow usurped his place and offered his arm after helping her from her chair.

  “Do you suppose it’s warm enough for a walk in the garden? I’m certain one of my cousins would accompany us.”

  She should refuse. Her father would expect her to remain inside with the other young ladies, in full view of their parents, like the obedient daughter she was. Yet she grew so tired of being that obedient child. She was being punished, she understood that, but she was no longer that foolish girl. She had accepted the strictures, endured the changes in her lifestyle, and gave up her dreams, without argument. She was four-and-twenty now, however, and she should be allowed some of the privileges afforded other single young women her age.

  Suddenly she wanted to confront her father and ask him to give her the chance to see if a man could look beyond her mistakes. At the same time, she wanted to demand of the villagers the chance to speak to a young man without them assuming betrothal contracts had been drawn up.

  Her skin practically itched with the need to do so. Yet she was a dutiful daughter and would never do so. Forcing her smile to remain steady, she said, “I should remain inside with the others.”

  Mr. Harrow’s fingers tightened where he pressed her hand against his arm. “We shall bring Lady Hannah, or Jane, my cousin Stephen’s wife.”

  Butterflies stirred in her middle, but she pushed the excitement down. “I cannot.”

  The other guests had moved past them in the hallway, and Mr. Harrow held her back before they reached the open double doors to the drawing room. “I only wish to speak with you. Everyone drags me away whenever I try. Why is that?”

  Pain stabbed at her heart, and her chest tightened. Tears welled. She batted her eyelashes furiously and pulled her handkerchief from her reticule. A self-conscious laugh bubbled up. “Forgive me. Weddings are such happy occasions, I can’t contain my joy.”

  Mr. Harrow wiped his hand over his mouth and looked toward the doorway. “I have upset you. I am sorry for that. I never wished to cause you distress. We will not walk in the garden. Will you tell me why the widows are so eager to see you wed, yet the others all keep men from approaching you? Their behavior makes no sense.”

  Heat coursed over her skin and she covered her face so he wouldn’t see the flush. The entire village knew of her shame, but it hurt to think of admitting it to this man. She spoke softly through her hands. “It is not important. Tomorrow you will go to Town and you will forget about the vicar’s daughter. Please let me join the others before I am missed.”

  “Why will your father not allow you any friends? I mean you no harm.”

  Something snapped inside her. Heat flared over her more quickly this time, angry waves of it aimed at her younger, foolish self. If she’d acted with more sense seven years ago, she would not be in this situation now. She lowered her hands, fisting the handkerchief. “In that case you will let me pass.”

  He grabbed her arm. “I—I cannot. I do not understand what has happened to me. All I can think about is you, Miss Cookson. I am leaving tomorrow to begin the life I have looked forward to, and all I can think about is you.” His eyes pleaded with her. He looked so earnest, so honest.

  Missing was the hesitation of the local men, who feared they’d be the one sacrificed to marry her. The idea was ludicrous, as if she would ever consider marrying someone who could not love her. This man saw her for who she was—who she used to be, at least. Just another young woman from the village.

  That hurt as much as it excited her.

  Yet she couldn’t speak of her past. Couldn’t open the wounds she’d thought healed before Mr. Harrow came to town and opened them. Before he’d wakened a part of her that she didn’t know still existed. She wanted to know this man, find out what made him laugh, what foods he loved, and if he enjoyed reading as well as she did.

  If only she had met him before Rory Calhoon. Mr. Harrow seemed to be close to her own age, however, so he wouldn’t have been flirting with a seventeen-year-old girl like Rory had. Would Rory’s pretty words of love have had such an affect on her if she had known a man like Mr. Harrow? The biggest question was whether she would have recognized the proposal from Rory’s lips as the falsehood that it was.

  She would never know those answers.

  She needed to get away before she did something she regretted. “I must join the others.” She tugged her arm free and adjusted her shawl so no one would see how strongly his fingers had gripped her. Closing the door to her heart and her mind, she entered the drawing room alone.

  Chapter Seven

  Three miles into Neil’s journey to London, his horse threw a shoe. As he walked his horse back to Bridgethorpe Village, he began to seriously question his decision to have David locate a matched pair of horses for him. Since he first stepped out of the carriage at the vicar’s cottage, everything he’d done had caused problems.

  The blacksmith told him it would be several hours before he could get to Neil’s horse. Another bad sign. He strolled to the Pickled Grouse to wait, hoping he could avoid any of the locals there.

  His bad luck held. He crossed paths with Mrs. Benjamin, who greeted him like an old friend. “Good day,” he responded.

  She adjusted the empty basket on her arm. “I expected you would be well on your way by now. I heard you were returning to Town.”

  He didn’t bother to explain he’d yet to reach Town. Now he was beginning to wonder if he’d ever get there. “That was my plan, but my horse had other ideas. He is at the blacksmith awaiting a shoe.”

  “I see. Perhaps you will use this time to visit your friends here in the village?”

  He knew exactly which friend she referred to, and refused to take the bait. Miss Cookson had made it plain she did not want his friendship. “I thought I would partake of an early meal while I wait.”

  “I see.” She sighed, and her eyes narrowed as she studied him, making the fine lines in their corners more pronounced. She pursed her lips. “I thought you were made of sterner stuff. I see I w
as mistaken. The girls will be sorry to hear this. We had hopes…”

  “Yes, and those hopes involved Miss Cookson, I imagine,” he snapped.

  “They did. She is so deserving of a husband.”

  He folded his arms across his chest. Someone needed to tell the widows to keep their tongue-wagging to themselves. “Perhaps she should be the one to choose her husband. Or her father should. I know you mean well, but sometimes assistance isn’t gladly accepted.”

  The old woman leaned close, her voice low. “Her father will never arrange it. He is too protective of her.”

  “Most fathers are.” And many mothers, he added silently, visions of Mother springing to mind. How anyone managed to marry—or remain single—was beyond him. Parents sometimes had a hard time letting go of their dreams for their children.

  “Yes, of course they are. The reverend has reason for it, though, the poor man. And poor, poor Miss Cookson. One day a man will arrive who is strong enough for the challenge of winning her heart.”

  He was not that man. He had no intentions of winning anyone’s heart, not yet. All the secrecy surrounding Miss Cookson stirred his curiosity, however. Plainly, Mrs. Benjamin knew the full story, and he was fairly certain she could be encouraged to talk. He offered her a warm smile. “I mustn’t keep you standing out here in the lane. Would you care to join me at the inn for a cup of tea?”

  Her expression grew crafty, and her lips turned up. “If it’s tea you are wanting while you await your horse, come with me to Mrs. Lewis’s. You’ll be more comfortable there than at the public inn.”

  Something was afoot, but he couldn’t determine if it was in his favor or not. It might lead to the answers he sought, and that swayed his decision. “How very kind of you.” He offered her his arm and they strolled off to the other widow’s cottage.

  Mrs. Lewis opened her door and welcomed them in. “Mr. Harrow, how good of you to call.”

  He handed her his hat and gloves. “Mrs. Benjamin extended the generous invitation.”

  She showed him to a delicate chair covered in a faded floral print in a small room filled with serviceable furnishings. A moment after he sat, a servant brought in a tray with a teapot and three cups with saucers. Mrs. Lewis poured, handed out the filled cups, then lifted her own and studied Neil. “It’s a lovely day for your journey.”

  “It is. I look forward to being on my way when the blacksmith has shod my horse.”

  Mrs. Benjamin set down her drink. “I told Mr. Harrow how disappointed I was to see him go.”

  “Mmmm,” agreed Mrs. Lewis. “How wonderful you were able to spend a few weeks with us. Wasn’t Mr. Lumley’s wedding a blessed event?”

  “I hoped we would see another wedding soon.” Mrs. Benjamin looked to Neil as if it was his turn to speak.

  Small talk over tea wasn’t his forte. He went straight to the matter at hand. “It might be impolite for me to have noticed, but the local young men appeared to refrain from standing up with Miss Cookson at the dance. I should think they’d all fight for the honor of having such a beautiful partner.”

  The widows exchanged a glance he couldn’t read. Mrs. Benjamin sipped her tea. Mrs. Lewis offered a plate of biscuits to him. “Would you care for a nibble?”

  He reached for one, offering his thanks before taking a bite. It was sweet but dry. He wasn’t put off by their delaying tactics and pressed on. “Lord Knightwick wouldn’t discuss it with me, either.”

  “You asked his lordship about Miss Cookson?” Mrs. Lewis queried.

  “It was more a question about the young men of the village and their avoidance of the lady.” When neither woman spoke, he added, “I received a setting-down for asking.”

  “Yes, Lord Knightwick is very good that way. He will make a fine earl, don’t you agree, Milly?”

  “Yes, I do think so. He has a good heart and strong morals, like his father.”

  Neil set down his cup. The widows weren’t going to tell him, either. He was wasting his time. He let go of the subject, asking instead about the families of each woman, giving them time to preen about the successes of their children. When he felt they might be more receptive, he commented, “It strikes me as rather odd that the two of you and Mrs. Carlyle would be so eager to accuse me of improper behavior with Miss Cookson, yet you aren’t willing to tell me anything about her. About her standing in the village. About why you seemed so eager that I speak to her before leaving town.”

  “Yes, well, let us see,” said Mrs. Benjamin. “Miss Cookson is a generous girl, so very dutiful, always putting the needs of others in front of her own.”

  “She had been keeping house for her father since her mother died. And she has the most delightful voice when singing hymns. She plays the pianoforte rather well, also, when she has the opportunity.”

  They continued to sing her praises and avoid what he wanted to know. He tried to direct the conversation. “Her father didn’t seem eager to have a stranger speaking with his daughter at the assembly, even one with good family. I understood that was the purpose of such gatherings, to give the young people a chance to visit in a chaperoned setting.” His connections to the Lumleys should speak well enough for him in any situation. There was nothing in Neil’s past to concern any potential father-in-law.

  “He is a minister. Can you blame him for keeping a close watch over his daughter’s reputation?” Mrs. Lewis offered him a look that said her point was obvious.

  So, it was true. There must have been some damage or threat to Miss Cookson’s reputation before Neil arrived on the scene. She didn’t appear to be a wild or flirtatious sort of girl, so he couldn’t imagine she had brought any shame upon herself. Whatever the scandal, the entire town seemed to know of it. Why hadn’t her father married her off to protect her from further speculation? The entire situation left Neil with more questions than answers.

  This was none of his affair. Quite possibly, he wouldn’t return to Bridgethorpe Manor for several years, so he wouldn’t have reason to stop in the village. It mattered not to him whether Miss Cookson ever married. Once he reached London, his thoughts would be occupied by more pressing matters, such as who he could most easily beat at cards.

  If he could only put her from his mind, Miss Cookson would soon be forgotten.

  When he felt he’d been there long enough, he rose. “Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Lewis. I must see if I can pressure the blacksmith into finishing sooner, so I may be on my way.”

  Mrs. Lewis rose and walked with him to the door. “If your questions are well-meant, Miss Cookson, or her father, is the ones you need to ask.”

  That surprised him. Her pleasant expression didn’t reveal her thoughts, so he wasn’t certain whether she excused her own silence or pushed him toward making that contact. “I will remember that. Good day.”

  Walking down the lane, he debated stopping at the vicarage, but it was in the opposite direction. Paying a call on either the vicar or his daughter would imply an interest he didn’t possess, one far beyond mere curiosity. He proceeded straight to the blacksmith.

  As Knightwick had said, Neil couldn’t change the town in one day, and any more attention from him over the way Miss Cookson was treated would only do the girl more harm than good.

  Turning the corner, he stopped short of knocking down a young woman. His thoughts must have conjured her, for before him stood Miss Cookson. “Good day.”

  Her head snapped upwards and she stared at him, her lips slightly parted. The way her hair and bonnet framed her heart-shaped face emphasized her round cheeks. She looked even prettier than he remembered. Perhaps it was the lack of irritation directed at him in their last meeting that had her glowing in such a peaceful way. “Mr. Harrow. I understood you’d be gone by now.”

  That stung. While her tone was all politeness, the words had a sharper edge, as though she’d been relieved to know he was going. “My horse is at the blacksmith’s. I will be leaving shortly.”

  She flinched at something he said, although he
couldn’t understand what would upset her. Moving to step around him, she motioned to her housekeeper. “I hope you have a pleasant journey.”

  He turned to walk beside her and the servant followed. “Thank you. Are you on your way to the vicarage?”

  “I am.”

  “I will walk with you, if I may.” His head told him to run to the blacksmith’s, but like a bee to honey, he was drawn to be near Miss Cookson. If his cousins saw him, they’d accuse him of having an affection for her, but he knew that was not the situation. He was merely intrigued by her and the air of mystery surrounding her. Once he knew her whole story, he could focus clearly again on setting up his household in London. Reaching for the basket she held on her arm, he added, “May I carry your purchases?”

  Miss Cookson sighed. “You may. I have one more stop to make. Mr. Bellows has added a subscription library to his shop, sponsored by Lord Bridgethorpe. I am eager to see what books he has available.”

  Neil opened the door of Mr. Bellow’s shop when they reached it, and allowed Miss Cookson to enter before he did. The rich aroma of fine tobacco hit him as he followed her inside. In the front windows were finely-crafted tobacco boxes, monogrammed ink wells and other masculine necessities of life. A small display on one wall had perfumes and colognes for both men and women. And tucked in the back were three tall bookshelves filled to overflowing, one of which had a sign marking it as containing the books to be borrowed at a small cost.

  Since he was on his way out of town, he avoided that shelf, but he always had room in his bag for another book. He was more interested in what Miss Cookson would seek out, however. Did they have a good supply of romances here, or were they more intellectually inclined?

  She lifted down one slim volume after another, reading the first page or two before returning it to the shelf.