Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

From a distance, Jemma saw a small group of women milling around the church door. She had a feeling it was not a group of enthusiasts come to discuss the Bible. Her hand went to her hip. Such determined women would encroach on her time with Miles. She blinked the thought away as quickly as it had come. She had meant it would shorten her lesson time.

No, even that sounded poorly. She was acting jealous when she had no right to do so. She dropped her hand and repented of her selfish thoughts. Vicars performed important responsibilities. It was not right for her to assume these women did not have real needs or that hers came first.

Nearing the scene, Jemma drew up short. Was Miles pinned against the door? She stood on her toes. Indeed, he was! His tight smile said plenty about the four women who were far closer than was respectable. One even had the audacity to stroke his hair.

Jemma's lips pinched tight. She took back her remorse. Mr. Romantic's lady entourage was entirely too much, and she wouldn't stand for it. Didn't they know Miles was nearly engaged to Lisette Manning? Everyone in their town expected it. Were they taking advantage of the fact that Miles had not made anything official?

She crowded in with the other women, catching Miles's eye to show her disapproval.

He shrugged helplessly.

Ridiculous man. He was too nice to run them off but clearly was not trying to encourage any of them. And now he was trapped by their cunning. She didn't care to make a scene and have anyone think she was after him, too, but she supposed she should help. Casting her eyes to the heavens, she took a resolute breath and leaned toward the closest woman to her, hovering just beyond the others. She was likely a farmer's daughter, similar to Jemma's own age, and in need of a fichu to cover more of her chest. She seemed the type to do anything to attract Miles's attention, which made Jemma far angrier than she deserved to be.

Amid the clamoring for Miles's attention, Jemma whispered into the woman's ear the first thing she could think of. "Did you hear there is a sale at the emporium on ribbon? Mr. Jackson loves ribbon."

The woman pulled away from Miles. "He does?"

Not as much as she, but Miles wouldn't mind if she stretched the truth for a good cause. "He uses them to mark his prayer book. Don't you want him to think of you every time he prepares a sermon? Now, I cannot remember the exact price of the sale. Thirty percent off?"

The farmer's daughter's eyes rounded. "I would hate to miss it. And I would get there before the others."

Jemma nodded, grateful she kept apprised of prices on not just fabrics but also all the embellishments. "Better hurry, then." Jemma watched her go. One down, three left. And the best part? She hadn't even come close to making a spectacle of herself. She dusted off her hands, eager to take on a second woman. But who to start with? Jemma knew a little about the two of them: Miss Hardwick was asking Miles to pray for the puppy in her arms, and Miss French wouldn't stop touching his hair, no matter how many times he pulled her arm away. The third possessed a vaguely familiar face tipped beguilingly toward Miles as she begged him to eat her scones. Good heavens. A ribbon sale wouldn't distract these women.

Miss Scones , first. Jemma glanced at the scones made with dates and raisins lying in a basket on the woman's arm, then glanced up at her deceivingly sweet, large eyes behind a pair of spectacles. She was pleading again with Miles.

"They are better than last time, I promise."

"Please, thank your cook, but I must decline." Miles held his hand up to the basket before whirling it to the other side to keep Miss French from reaching his hair again.

Jemma took the moment of distraction to say to Miss Scones, "Mr. Jackson eats too many sweet things." Jemma didn't even bother to whisper over the noisy ladies next to them.

"Nonsense." The woman brushed her aside, annoyance written all over her face.

Jemma leaned toward her once more. "He could use more meat in his diet. I bet women bring him scones all the time anyway."

The other women sent her looks of annoyance amid their attempts to monopolize Miles's attention. Heaven forbid she encroach on their embarrassing petitions. They picked right back up with their incessant talking, but she caught Miss Scones's elbow, pulling her gently back a step and whispering, "Meat would make you stand out from the others." Meat? Had she really just said that?

Miss Scones froze. "Really?"

Jemma shrugged. How would she know if meat appealed as a gift offering? She personally would take the scones. However, she was being honest that it would make her stand out. Either way, the seed was planted and was sprouting before her eyes.

Miss Scones's mouth turned into a deep pout. Her companions had shifted their bodies to push her farther from Miles, their petitions consuming his full attention. She took a long, disappointing glance at her basket and was off, muttering about meat with every step.

Two more to go and Miles was already going to be the lucky recipient of more markers for his favorite verses and meat to balance out his persistent sweet tooth. Jemma took a hard look at Miss Hardwick. She had the biggest hair Jemma had ever seen and the conniving look in her eyes was far more determined than any of the others. She and her little pug would be hard to dissuade, but Miss French would not intimidate her. She had to stop petting Miles's hair. It was exasperating to watch.

"I am happy to pray for your puppy, Miss Hardwick," Miles said. "Miss French, please do stop touching my hair."

"But you promised to gift me a lock of it," Miss French said. "I have been waiting for months."

"I never promised," Miles said more to Jemma than Miss French.

Jemma's eagerness to help waned for a moment. If she were not so eager for her lesson, and a bit disgusted, she might be entertained by all this.

"He can give you a lock later," Miss Hardwick said. "My puppy is sick. Look at him!"

Jemma lifted onto her toes to see the pug, who seemed quite overfed and happily dozing in Miss Hardwick's arms.

Miss French scowled. "But I want what was promised me!"

Running off women was not Jemma's area of expertise, but surely as a Rebel, she could think of some way to help Miles to the bitter end. But if he had really promised this woman his hair, Jemma could be induced to shave it all off to restore Lisette's honor.

"Wait until he gets rid of the lice," Jemma blurted.

Miss French pulled back; revulsion smeared across her face. "Lice?"

"They are not so uncommon, but his is a particularly nasty case. Does it itch badly, Mr. Jackson?" Jemma asked.

Miles glowered at her.

She did not know what possessed her to continue such a charade, but there was no backing down now. She tsked her tongue and gave him her best commiserating look. "Poor thing."

Miss Hardwick held her dog a bit closer to her chest, and for the first time, her eyes were not quite so besotted.

"I—I heard of a remedy with turpentine," Miss French said. "I will fetch you some, Mr. Jackson and bring it directly to your home."

"Better try it yourself," Jemma added. "You have already been exposed by touching him so many times. I would refrain from it in the future." Miss Hardwick nodded deeply in agreement.

"I did not think of that," Miss French said, scratching her head and taking a step back.

"Terribly itchy, isn't it?" Jemma asked.

"Miss Fielding," Miles chided.

She had gone too far, but her annoyance with Miss French was all the justification she needed at present. She looked at Miles with as much innocence as she could muster and shrugged.

"I will send for the turpentine," Miss French assured. She hurried away, both hands now scratching under her bonnet.

Jemma did not wait for Miles to take her to task. She put her arm around Miss Hardwick. "What a sweet puppy."

"He's sick," Miss Hardwick repeated, her eyes turning to implore Miles again.

"What he needs is someone to pray for him," Jemma said.

Miss Hardwick gasped. "That is exactly what I have been saying!"

"Mr. Jackson is much too busy, but I am available."

"You?" Miss Hardwick wrinkled her perfect nose. "I would prefer that a vicar do it."

"I can—"

"There are no rites for sick animals," Jemma said, cutting Miles off before he could volunteer. "And I am excessively good at praying. What is your puppy's name?"

"Jackson."

Jemma coughed. Miss Hardwick had named her puppy after Miles? These impertinent women took all sorts of liberties. Jemma regained her breath and gently pulled Miss Hardwick back a step. "Come, we will have a beautiful prayer over Jackson and get him right to bed. He looks terrible, you know. His demeanor is all wrong. You mustn't make him suffer another moment waiting for a man."

Miss Hardwick studied her dog. "His demeanor is wrong? I had thought him excessively sleepy, but I believe you are right."

Lazy, more likely, but Jemma was no doctor. She led Miss Hardwick away, looking back over her shoulder for a brief moment.

Miles slumped against the door, looking like he needed a trip overseas just to forget his morning.

"You're welcome," she mouthed.

He produced a tired but mischievous grin and mouthed back, "Come tomorrow," then pointed toward the side of the church and the path leading to what had become more their bench than his.

Their secret exchange sent an unexpected flutter through her middle. She nodded before turning back to Miss Hardwick, pretending to pay attention to her. It proved difficult when all she could think about was Miles's smile and her reaction to it. He desired to be with her more than those other beautiful women because of their friendship, and yet her body was responding as if it meant more.

Her steps beside Miss Hardwick slowed. It suddenly struck her that her sense of accomplishment for chasing away the others was motivated by her own jealousy and not by her desire to protect Lisette. She slid a fingernail between her teeth, completely tuning out the woman next to her. This wasn't good. Miles had better hurry and marry her cousin to keep his fans at bay—and to remind even her that he was taken.

y

Miles caught himself smiling on his way home that evening. Several times throughout the afternoon, images of Jemma had flashed in his mind—her face when she had first seen him cornered against the door, the adorable way her eyebrows had flared whenever Miss French had touched his hair, and the genius way she had convinced every woman there to leave him alone. She had a gift.

Even if he had to have a bad case of lice because of it.

He entered his house through the kitchen, curious to see if Mrs. Purcell had dinner prepared. It was early yet, but he had worked up quite an appetite daydreaming about Jemma. The smell of stew simmering over the fire wafted through the air. Mrs. Purcell stood by the pot, her apron on, and her big wooden spoon stirring the carrots and potatoes.

"Good evening, Mrs. Purcell."

Mrs. Purcell doted on him like a second mother. "Yer 'ungry early again, ain't ye?"

"How could I not be? I can smell your divine cooking from a mile away."

"Enough of yer flatterin' words, Mr. Jackson. Go 'elp yerself to a roll. There's butter in the crock."

He snatched a roll off the counter and slathered it with butter.

He was on his second roll when Mrs. Purcell brought him a bowl of stew. "It's rabbit. A Miss Smith 'ad it sent over for ye."

"Miss Smith?"

"A little speckled thing."

He smiled into his fist. This was Jemma's fault. "I will write and thank her."

"Another young miss sent o'er some turpentine. A 'ole gallon o' it. It ain't proper for a vicar t' receive so many presents."

"I will tell them you said so, Mrs. Purcell."

His cook shook her head. "I want no part o' it."

"At least it was rabbit and not the hard scones with dates in them."

Mrs. Purcell scrunched her nose. "Aye. Those uns'll break yer teeth. The Smiths' cook is poor indeed."

Miles chuckled and took a large bite of stew. He had to admit, the rabbit was a nice change from the scones.

"'Aven't ye picked one of these nice young ladies to marry ye yet?"

Miles set down his spoon. "Mrs. Purcell, you must make up your mind. I thought you wanted me to chase them away."

"The right one would chase the others away for ye," Mrs. Purcell said, going back to her pot and dipping her spoon back into it.

"Is that right?" How amusing. The only one he knew with such a talent was Jemma. "If I find a girl capable of such a feat, do you think she would be interested in me?"

Mrs. Purcell laughed. "What a question! 'Ow could she resist ye?"

It didn't matter how—it mattered that she did. Whatever innocent allure that earned him hard scones and turpentine repelled Jemma Fielding. For years, he had been satisfied knowing she had chosen him for one of her dearest friends and confidants. But a friendship no longer seemed enough.

He found himself wondering what being married to Jemma would be like. Usually, he pushed those thoughts away quickly, but they lingered this time. Would she ever sneak into the kitchen with him to eat dinner early? Would she get on well with Mrs. Purcell? Would she visit him regularly at the church to make it clear to the other women that he cared solely for her?

He wished he were not seeing her on the morrow to teach her how to love another man. It would be all too enticing to teach her how to fall in love with him instead. Indeed, if she would show a little interest in him, he would not hold back.