Chapter Thirty-Five

Sandcombe, Lincolnshire, December 1815

"Mrs. Riley."

Eleanor slipped on her gloves as she continued along the gravel path leading out of the churchyard.

"Mrs. Riley!" the voice called out again.

"Miss Howard!" Harriet hissed, and Eleanor turned to see the vicar approaching, his breath forming a mist in the air, soft brown eyes crinkling into a smile.

"I beg pardon, Mrs. Riley, I hadn't expected you to attend Wednesday Evensong."

"My soul is in as much need of saving as the rest of your flock, Reverend Staines," Eleanor said. "And I have to confess curiosity. On Sunday you had alluded to a sermon about St. Nicholas, and I was anxious to hear it."

"Did it meet your expectations?"

"Your sermon surpassed my expectations, reverend," she replied, smiling.

"In what way?"

"In its brevity."

He let out a laugh. "Bravo! An honest critique is preferable to flattery."

"Oh, forgive me, reverend."

"Mr. Staines, please."

"Forgive me—Mr. Staines."

"There's nothing to forgive."

"There's always something to forgive," she said. "At least, that's what you said in your sermon last week."

"An honest critique and an accurate recollection of my sermons. The holy grail of congregants."

"Careful, Mr. Staines—I wouldn't let Mrs. Fulford hear you say that."

He rolled his eyes then gave her a very un-reverend-like wink.

"Is there something you wanted, Mr. Staines?" she asked.

"I wondered whether you were attending the children's party at the vicarage later."

"Harriet and I have been baking biscuits all day, and we've already arranged for Thomas Ham to bring them over."

"But you'll not come yourself."

"Forgive me, reverend, but no."

"Not even the prospect of seeing your beautiful landscape taking pride of place over my fireplace can tempt you?"

"Now you're flattering me," she said. "I've no objection to Harriet attending, but I dislike large parties—all those people crowded together in a room."

"Isn't that what a congregation does every Sunday? You seem at ease during the service."

"That's because a service has structure and certainty. Everyone knows what to do and say—when to speak up, and when to be silent. It's a time to reflect—not a social occasion."

"And there's me thinking you attended because of my sermons."

"I do," she replied. "I find them fascinating—they lack the pomposity of the sermons I was subjected to as a child."

"There's no place for pomposity in the modern age," he said. "Now I have a living of my own, I can write my own sermons in the manner I see fit."

"You couldn't before?"

"No." He smiled, his brown eyes radiating warmth. "When I held a curacy, I was under strict instructions from Reverend Frogmore—who lived in the parish before he passed last year—not to deviate from his ideal of what a vicar should be."

"Which was?"

"A man responsible for striking fear into the hearts of the souls in his care, by warning them of fire and brimstone if they strayed from the path of righteousness."

"Heavens!" She let out a laugh. "I would hope you wouldn't place such a burden on your curate."

"Of course not," he said. "Far too many vicars leave their curates to undertake all the work, while they drink port and wallow in the self-righteousness. Have you never wondered why so many members of the clergy suffer from gout?"

"You don't paint a very flattering portrait of your vocation, Mr. Staines."

"Too few see it as a vocation, Mrs. Riley," he said. "Instead, they consider the clergy as a profession—a means for financial, not spiritual, enrichment."

"And yourself?"

"My father wanted me to go into the army. Every second son in our family—dating, no doubt, back to the first Earl Staines—purchased a commission in the militia. But I lack the temperament, and have no desire to distinguish myself."

"There are ways to distinguish oneself other than leading an army into battle," Eleanor said.

"How right you are," he said. "If it's not too forward of me to say it, I'm glad you are come to Sandcombe—even if it was under such tragic circumstances."

Eleanor's gut twisted in apprehension—did he know how she came to be here?

"T-tragic?" They reached the lych gate, and she leaned against it.

"Oh, forgive me!" he exclaimed. "I've no right to make reference to the late Mr. Riley, when you're only recently out of mourning."

Relief flooded through her, and she suppressed the urge to laugh.

"Of course you cannot be expected to attend parties," he said. "You must think me an awful cad for asking."

"It's not that. I—" Eleanor began, but Harriet placed a hand on her arm.

"Forgive us, reverend, but Mrs. Riley needs her rest. She finds company tiring, don't you, miss?"

The reverend tilted his head to one side and narrowed his eyes, his gaze shifting from Harriet to Eleanor. Then he nodded and smiled.

"Of course, Miss—Mrs. Riley," he said. "Please enjoy the rest of your evening."

"Reverend!" a sharp voice cried. "Reverend Staines!"

He winced, then turned back toward the church. "Mrs. Fulford—how may I be of assistance?"

"I wanted to speak to you about the flowers again."

He leaned toward Eleanor and winked. "Duty calls—at least duty to my patron's wife." He bowed, then returned to the church.

"I'm sure he suspects something," Eleanor said.

"You can trust him, miss," Harriet replied.

"In what way?"

"He's a good man—and he's unlikely to judge. He'd do very well for you."

Eleanor let out a laugh. "He's pleasant enough, Harriet, and I like him—after all, he was kind enough to purchase one of my paintings. But with three unmarried daughters, I doubt Mrs. Fulford would allow him to pay attention to me—a widow living on her own in a cottage on the outskirts of the village? Hardly an appropriate partner for the second son of an earl."

"You're younger than the eldest Miss Fulford," Harriet said.

"She's an unmarried young woman, Harriet."

"And so are you," Harriet said. "He likes you—I'm sure of it."

Harriet rattled on, extolling the virtues of the vicar, until they reached Shore Cottage.

"I think I'll retire," Eleanor said, interrupting Harriet's monologue. "I find myself a little tired. There's no need to tend to me—I can see to myself."

"Very good, miss."

Eleanor climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. After shedding her jacket and bonnet, she approached her dressing table and pulled out her sketchbook with its precious drawings. Each day since she'd arrived at Sandcombe, she'd not been able to summon the courage to look inside. But tonight…

Perhaps it was talk of another that brought him to the forefront of her mind—or perhaps it was her conscience, berating her for disloyalty against the man she loved.

She flicked through the pages, feigning nonchalance, even though she was alone in her room, until she reached one of the first portraits she'd ever drawn of him—where he looked out from the page, his beautiful eyes clear and wide, a soft smile on his full lips.

A smile for her.

She traced the outline of his face with her fingertips.

Did he think of her as she thought of him? Or had he forgotten her?