Chapter Ten

T here was nothing so satisfying as an honest day’s work with a fair wage at the end.

Lawrence drove the hoe into the ground, then stretched and surveyed his handiwork.

To the untrained eye, the vicarage garden merely looked a little neater. The weeds—particularly the ground elder, which had taken a stranglehold on the borders, its roots spreading beneath the surface to smother every other living thing—had finally surrendered to his tenacity and were now smoking on the bonfire.

Next year, the garden would be ablaze with color. The new plants in the borders would bloom throughout spring and summer—a myriad of colors in a carefully planned pattern, yet still retaining the appearance of wildness, as if Mother Nature, though unwilling to be fully tamed, had embraced a little order in her world.

The vicar’s wife approached, carrying a pitcher and glass. With mild features, soft brown eyes, and a kind smile, she was the antithesis of the last woman who’d employed him.

“Mr. Baxter, I thought you’d like something to drink,” she said, “seeing as you’ve been working so hard.”

Lawrence eyed the pitcher. “Is that…?”

“Fresh lemonade,” she said. “I thought you’d prefer it to tea, as it’s such a hot day. Not like yesterday with that dreadful storm. Were you caught out in it?”

“I don’t mind the rain, Mrs. Gleeson.”

“No, I suppose a man of your trade is more resilient than most. Mr. Gleeson detests the rain, and he got caught in the downpour on his way to visiting Mrs. Richards. Do you know her?”

“The widow next door to the inn?”

“That’s her. You’d have seen her at church on Sunday, but when you’re new to a village such as ours, it must feel very overwhelming.”

“Overwhelming?”

“Aye.” She nodded. “Everyone knows everyone here in Brackens Hill—and Mrs. Richards knows more than most. She likes to keep appraised of local news.”

Which was the polite way for saying that she was a gossip. But Mrs. Richards was harmless enough—a congenial woman of a certain age who loved company. She had already seen her best days, and, as she was widowed with no children, her prospects were never going to improve. But she maintained a cheerful disposition.

Unlike that haughty harpy.

Lawrence sighed. Why did his thoughts always turn to her ? Doubtless she’d have forgotten about him and turned her attention to her trousseau—or whatever a spoiled heiress concerned herself with before her wedding.

“I hope you don’t find Mrs. Richards too tiresome,” Mrs. Gleeson said, returning him to the present. “She does rattle on—she forgets that we’ve heard her stories several times. I swear she’s told me the tale of the chicken that escaped and made its way into her bathtub at least six times.”

“No, I like her,” Lawrence replied. “She told me about the chicken when I visited her. I even met the culprit, but I doubt her feathered friend will repeat the escapade now the coop’s secure. There was a hole at the back.”

“And you fixed it? There’s kind! Ned Ryman said you were a goodhearted young man. And hardworking too, I can see.”

She placed her hand on his arm. “Forgive me for being forward, but Ned told me you’d suffered misfortune and loss, though he wouldn’t say what—and I wouldn’t dream of asking. But we’ll look out for you—you’re one of us, now you’re here.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gleeson,” Lawrence said. “And I appreciate the work you’re giving me.”

“It’s I who should appreciate you , Mr. Baxter. I could never keep that border so tidy, not with my rheumatics. It’s too much for one person, and Mr. Gleeson’s too busy tending to his flock. We might consider a kitchen garden round the back if you’re wanting a bit more work?”

“I can’t take charity, Mrs. Gleeson.”

She rolled her eyes. “The pride of the male sex!” She let out a huff, then laughed good naturedly, and he smiled at the memory of Millie’s exact words. “You’ll be doing me a favor. I’ve always wanted a little kitchen garden, but I seem to have the knack for killing every plant I touch. My sister gave me a beautiful houseplant when she visited over Christmas, and it lasted less than a fortnight, even though I watered it every day.”

“Then it would be my pleasure, Mrs. Gleeson, though I cannot accept payment.”

“Yes, you can,” she said. “If not for yourself, take it for your little ones.” She cocked her head to one side and gave a wry smile. “Are they settling in here?”

Lawrence grimaced. Bobby had already been sent home twice from school for misbehavior. Her twin was no better—Mr. Colt had come knocking on his door two nights ago, dragging a red-faced Billy by the scruff of the neck, with a tale of how the boy had been caught drinking the dregs of the tankards in the bar. As for Jonathan, Lawrence’s youngest poked his tongue at every adult he came into contact with.

“They’re taking time to settle,” Lawrence said. But instead of dipping her head and glowering at him over her glasses—like Mrs. Chantry from the school—the vicar’s wife merely smiled, understanding in her eyes.

“Poor little things,” she said. “Torn from their home—and their mother…?” She raised her eyebrows.

“She’s not here,” he said. “She didn’t come with us to Brackens Hill.”

The last thing he wanted was sympathy over being a widower—or a suggestion that he console himself by courting one of the girls in the village.

She sighed. “That’s a shame, you poor man. Well—perhaps if you’re finished, you’d prefer to take your lemonade inside? Mr. Gleeson should be home soon—he’s visiting the vicar in the next parish. Mr. Coles, his name is—a very pleasant man, if a little young. He was curate before the previous vicar took a chill during the winter and passed, and he’s finding the responsibility as vicar a little overwhelming. He’s come to rely on Mr. Gleeson for guidance. Not that Mr. Gleeson minds, of course.”

She rattled on, scarcely drawing breath. Mrs. Richards had a rival for the title of the most talkative woman in the village. But an invitation to share good-natured, if inane, chatter was balm to the soul, for it bore the marks of friendship and acceptance.

“Ah!” she cried. “Here he is now. My love—we’re in the garden!”

The vicar approached, raising his hand in greeting. “Mr. Baxter, how goes the garden? I trust you’re not too wearied from the work—or my wife’s chatter.”

“Simon!” Mrs. Gleeson scolded. The vicar drew her into an embrace.

“Forgive me, my love,” he said. “You know how I like to tease.”

Lawrence’s heart tightened at the obvious affection between the couple, nurtured through years of a happy union. With Elizabeth, he’d never had the chance to nurture affection, much less love. He’d liked her, but marriage with the burden of responsibility was different to courtship. They’d had to scrape a living, their difficulties only increasing when the twins were born. Then she’d fallen pregnant again and been taken from him in childbirth, leaving him widowed, in debt, with three children to feed.

Now, to his shame, when he tried to picture his wife, he was unable to recall her.

Perhaps it was for the best they hadn’t had the time to grow to love each other. Perhaps those pampered fools in Society had the right idea. Marry for practicality and comfort—not for love. For with love came heartbreak and despair.

And with trust came betrayal.

“What news from Drovers Heath?” Mrs. Gleeson asked.

“A mysterious young woman has been found,” the vicar replied.

“What woman?”

“Nobody knows,” the vicar said. “She was seen floating in the river. Were it not for the keen eyes of a lad from Drovers Farm, she might never have been found. You know what the river’s like.”

“Good grief!” Mrs. Gleeson’s eyes widened, and she placed her hand over her breast. “You mean a body’s been found? Lord have mercy!”

“Heavens no,” the vicar said. “She’s alive. The boy’s been lauded a hero—he dived in and fished her out. But the young woman has lost her memory—she cannot even recall her name. Dr. Carter’s taking care of her until it can be decided what to do with her.”

“She’s not a stray dog, Simon.”

“Very well—until her family comes to claim her.”

“Assuming she has a family, poor lamb.”

“I’d spare your sympathy,” the vicar said. “I’ve never seen such a foul-tempered creature! If she has family, they ought to be pitied.”

“Simon!” Mrs. Gleeson cried. “How can you be so uncharitable?”

“You’ve not endured her company. She’s been ordering Mrs. Carter about as if she were a servant, and has found fault with everything, calling everyone who tries to help her a vile peasant. She struck Dr. Carter when he tried to examine her—so Mrs. Carter said.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. Charlotte Carter is prone to exaggeration.”

“I saw it myself—a bruise below his eye and a deep scratch on his cheek, poor man. The woman has the voice of a lady, but the mouth of a harpy.”

Vile peasant…

Where had Lawrence heard that before?

He rubbed the fading marks on his cheek from where she had scratched him.

Surely not…

It would be too much of a coincidence.

“A harpy , you say, reverend?” Lawrence asked.

The vicar nodded. “I must beg forgiveness in my prayers tonight for such uncharitable thoughts. The face of an angel, but the disposition of a demon. In fact…” He tilted his head to one side. “I say, Mr. Baxter—are you all right? You look as white as snow.”

“I-I’m quite well,” Lawrence said. “Might you describe the young woman?”

“You know her?” the vicar asked.

“Does she have dark hair?” Lawrence continued. “Almost black—thick black locks that curl at the ends. And blue eyes—the most intense blue eyes that reflect the color of a summer sky, but in anger glower with fire even as they darken?”

Mrs. Gleeson placed a hand on his arm. “You look quite ill, Mr. Baxter. Simon, my love, perhaps Mr. Baxter might like a glass of your brandy. Would you fetch it?”

“Yes, of course.” The vicar nodded, then retreated toward the vicarage. As soon as he disappeared inside, Mrs. Gleeson spoke.

“Forgive me, it’s not my place to ask,” she said, “but this young woman—is she the reason why you look so uneasy? Is she…” Her voice trailed off and her eyes widened. “ Sweet heaven …” Mrs. Gleeson lowered her voice. “Does she have any bearing on what you spoke of earlier? Perhaps you should go to Drovers Heath. Then, if you do recognize her—whoever she might be—you can reunite her with her family. Her husband—children…”

A blush spread across her cheeks.

“Oh dear—I hope you’ll forgive my husband anything he said untoward about the woman if she’s your…family. Having seen so much poverty and suffering in his work, he has little time for those he deems ungrateful. He can take you to Drovers Heath if you don’t know the way—or young Ned could take you in his cart. And if she is your family, you’d want to be reunited, won’t you?” She patted his arm.

Sweet Lord —they thought the woman was his wife ?

My wife…

A wicked idea formed in his mind—the idea to restore the balance of justice.

What if this mysterious woman was her —the woman who plagued his waking thoughts and besieged his dreams? The woman who had insulted, humiliated, and ruined him?

Perhaps providence had presented him with a chance.

The chance to exact revenge on Lady Arabella Ponsford.