Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

It was commonly known in the hamlet of Millcombe, just outside of Bath, that the vicar of their small parish was never to be taken seriously unless he stood at his raised pulpit before the congregation. When scripture had advised him that a merry heart was good, Mr. Caldwell had thoroughly embraced it. He had been known to switch salt for sugar—thus losing the privilege of so much as passing through the kitchen from his cook—and hiding in the small alcove just inside the doorway to spook his wife as she turned in from tending to her garden.

Mr. Caldwell had jokes on hand equal to his knowledge of God’s scriptures, and while it endeared him to a good number of people from Millcombe, it was inappropriate, abhorrent behavior to others.

The town was split down the middle.

Which was why Mercy Caldwell, oldest of the vicar’s daughters, was used to the side-eye and upturned nose she had experienced with Mrs. Hoopes when she had knocked at the door to deliver a basket. But expectation did not always equal an extra measure of patience.

“I do hope Mr. Hoopes feels better quickly,” Mercy said gravely, ignoring the aforementioned upturned nose and waspishly pinched lips. She passed the basket through the door and brushed a copper lock of hair from her temple. “My father asked me to mention that your household is in his particular prayers. We do not wish for anyone else to catch his cold, not when the choir is relying on your voices for the Christmas service.”

Mrs. Hoopes preened, though her mouth remained pinched. “How kind.”

“My mother sent along her restorative calves’ foot jelly as well. It has done wonders for my sisters in the past.” Mercy herself couldn’t abide the stuff. Food ought not to jiggle, in her opinion.

“Thank your mother for me, Mercy.”

“Of course. Good day, Mrs. H?—”

“Is it true?” Mrs. Hoopes asked, taking the items from the basket and stacking them on a table just inside the door. “I heard Mr. Raybourne paid a visit to your house last night and was seen leaving with an exceptional grin. Talk around the village is very animated regarding young Grace.”

Mercy’s jaw clenched shut. As her sister’s prime chaperone last night, she’d had the misfortune of being a witness to Mr. Raybourne’s visit and the resulting engagement. But it had not been announced yet, so Mrs. Hoopes was not going to pry the details from her.

“I will take the basket with me now, if you have no need of it.”

Mrs. Hoopes clutched it to her stomach. “Will we see Grace this Sunday? Or will she be visiting any other parishes?”

“As far as I am aware, she will be at church with the rest of my family.” Mercy reached for the basket.

Mrs. Hoopes relinquished it, leaning in slightly. “There is no shame in younger sisters being married before the eldest, Mercy. Do not allow Grace’s possible news to be a blight on your day. Chin up.” She added the last bit with a quick nod to reaffirm her words.

Mercy wanted to sink into the frozen mud at her feet. She pasted a smile on her face. “Thank you. Please send for my father if there is anything he can do for you or Mr. Hoopes.”

“Of course, dear.” The judgmental, upturned nose had returned. Mrs. Hoopes sided firmly with the pious half of town—the folks who could not stomach Papa’s aptitude for laughing.

Clearly, her righteousness did not extend to avoiding town gossip.

Gray clouds filled the sky, hiding the retreating sun. Mercy slid the basket handle over her arm and turned down the lane toward the vicarage. She lifted her skirt and hopped over a puddle, glad her half-boots were thick enough to withstand the wet road. The cold didn’t penetrate her thick cloak, but the muggy weather was thick with mist and the promise of more rain, hurrying her steps along the country road.

She hoped, with December around the corner, the snow would be here soon. There was nothing more beautiful than the hills surrounding Millcombe covered in frosted white blankets, fresh and pure. Perhaps, by the time the snow fell, Grace would be married and Mercy could be alone in the vicarage with her parents and her injured pride .

It wasn’t that she was envious of her sisters, exactly. Mercy would not wish to be married to any of her brothers-in-law, current or future. They were each of them perfect for her sisters in their own ways. But being the oldest and watching them marry and set up homes of their own was bittersweet. Mercy’s happiness for her sisters fought for precedence over the very subtle envy wrapped around her heart.

Now more than ever before. Perhaps it was Grace’s pout after Mr. Raybourne had left that had done her in. Or it was the small dip in her lips when she took Mercy by the hand and exclaimed she would find a husband one day, Grace was certain of it.

Perhaps it was the pitying looks Mama had cast at Mercy when she thought no one was looking.

Either way, she was seven years older than Grace. Mercy was the mature sister. The wise one. She could pass through the reading of the banns and subsequent wedding with equanimity and only cry silently into her pillow at night when no one was around to witness.

In all reality, at six-and-twenty, she was not likely to find a husband, was she? Mercy was resigned to spending the rest of her days doting on her nieces and nephews and assisting her parents with their service in the parish. It was a full, enriching life ahead of her. She would find solace and comfort in other things, if not a family of her own.

Like ginger biscuits.

She had been working on perfecting her cook’s recipe and was nearly there. Mercy would eat her fill of ginger biscuits and happily bear her way through December. Then Grace would be out of the house and she could pout at her leisure .

The heavy thud of hoofbeats clopped along the lane, warning Mercy of an oncoming carriage. She moved to the side, picking careful steps on the barren grass and slick mud. The carriage driver didn’t seem to notice her, for the horses weren’t slowing at all.

Mercy’s heartbeat picked up speed as she looked down the steep slope at the edge of the lane. She couldn’t trek down it with so little time—the carriage was fast approaching. She sucked in a breath and raised her shoulders to her ears, squeezing her eyes closed.

The carriage whipped past, the wheel splashing through a large puddle and sending a spray of muddy water over the side of Mercy’s body. She let out a squeal as the cold liquid splattered her neck and cheek. It soaked through her cloak and into the bodice of her gown.

A shout sounded behind her, and she was faintly aware of the carriage coming to a stop.

That was the outside of enough . She had already been subject to the pitying asides from her family about Grace’s engagement, the pious judgment of Mrs. Hoopes—now this? To be splashed with muddy water while on an errand of service?

“Could you not have slowed at all ?” she shouted to the carriage, flicking water from her arm.

The door opened and Colin Birchall poked his head out. “Why the devil have we stopped?”

Of course he, of all the parish gentlemen, was the one responsible. The one man Mercy had carried a slight tendre for over the last decade. She could have laughed if she wasn’t afraid it would make her seem mad.

Had the universe decided to play a cruel trick on her? Grace had received a proposal, and all Mercy got was a spray of mud from the most handsome man in Millcombe.

Lucas’s head popped up from where he sat in the coachman’s seat. “I didn’t see you there, Miss Mercy. Are you hurt?”

Her squeal must have alerted him to her presence, making him stop the carriage. She felt a warm blush rise to her cheeks, hoping he hadn’t heard her outburst, and gave him a smile. “No, Lucas. Just a bit of mud.”

He cringed.

Colin hopped down from his carriage, a frown marking deep grooves between his dark eyebrows. His clothing was impeccable even as his boots squelched across the wet road. “It was my carriage that did this to you?”

“Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Birchall,” she said, wiping the water from her face with her dirty sleeve. “I have long been hoping for an excuse to scrub this cloak.”

His frown shifted to confusion before his face flattened. “Ah. You are joking.”

“Well, it needed to be done weeks ago. That part was true.”

Colin rested a fist on his hip. “A schedule could help you keep your tasks in order.”

“I would be washing this cloak now even if it had been cleaned the first time I had the thought last month,” she returned quickly.

“True.”

“You cannot plan for everything, despite how well-ordered your schedules are.”

“No, but they certainly help,” he muttered. “Will you allow me to take the cloak home with me? I can have it cleaned and returned to you. ”

She stared at the man. “I would much prefer to do it myself and avoid freezing on my walk home. But I thank you for the generous offer.”

He grimaced. “I was not thinking. Why are you walking alongside the road now, anyway? It is about to rain.”

“Mr. Hoopes has taken ill. I think it is only a cold, but Mama made a large pot of soup, and I took him some jelly.”

Colin’s attention snapped to her. “How charitable of you,” he said, his gaze oddly direct.

“Not entirely. If he cannot sing, our choir will be sadly lacking, I fear.”

Colin chuckled lightly. “You cannot fool me.” His mouth dropped, cutting his chuckle silent like a swift blade over a field of wheat. He peered at her. “That was actually rather amusing, Miss Caldwell.”

She did not know whether to apologize or thank him. It sounded like a compliment, but his suspicious look was disconcerting.

He shifted from one foot to the other, raking his gaze over her with clear calculation.

“Are you unwell, Colin?” she asked softly, slipping and using his Christian name. It was an accident that happened from time to time, but could she be blamed? She had known the man her entire life.

He shook his head slightly, rubbing his jaw. “I have just come from London. A premature reading of the will for my great-aunt, actually. It was a strange, uncomfortable affair and has put me out of sorts. I am very sorry for dousing you with my carriage. How might I make it up to you?”

She stared at him. He had always been orderly and precise, but never so charitable or thoughtful. Could he sense the ridiculous dreams she used to harbor that he would fall madly in love with her? They were silly, of course. But when were dreams ever meant to be practical?

“I can take you home.”

“My father would not like it,” she said, looking over her shoulder. She might have been a spinster, but he still would not abide her riding alone with an eligible man. They were standing near the turning lane that led to Colin’s house, and her vicarage was at least a ten minute walk away. “I better be on my way before the rain comes in earnest. Good day, Mr. Birchall.”

Colin looked between her and his estate, the top of which could easily be seen from the lane. “Then I will walk with you.” He turned to Lucas. “Take the carriage home. I will return shortly.”

Lucas stared. Mercy stared. They even exchanged a quick, questioning look before the coachman nodded and turned in his seat to drive home. Something very strange must have happened to Colin during his aunt’s meeting, because he was acting extremely out of the ordinary. Never once had he gone out of his way to walk her anywhere. Yes, they had shared a path on occasion, but only out of convenience.

Colin locked his hands behind his back and fell into step beside her.

“You must have had a shock today,” she said.

“That does not feel adequate to describe my day, Miss Caldwell, but I do not wish to loiter in those feelings. I would like to hear about you.”

She used her dry sleeve to wipe the rest of the mud from her neck and tried to cover her surprise. “I’m afraid I’ve nothing of value to report. You might have heard my sister Hope had her baby. A darling little thing, but he exercises his lungs like they are a new regiment preparing to meet France.”

He chuckled again, and the sound was again cut off abruptly. Colin halted in the road and faced her. “Have you always been so amusing, Miss Caldwell?”

She stopped, her mouth falling open. “I…do not know.”

Colin stared at her, raking his eyes over her face, as though seeing her for the first time instead of the thousandth.

“You are beginning to worry me,” she said. “What is it? Do I have a leaf on my face? A bit of mud on my nose?”

“You look lovely,” he said, brushing off her concerns.

The words had the opposite effect, making her stomach pool with warmth.

He rubbed a palm over his chin. “I’ve been thinking. I might have a proposition for you.”

This ought to be interesting. Did he want permission to organize a cleaning schedule for her? Set order to her life? She had never known anyone as fastidious as Colin, and she could only imagine how eager he was to structure her hectic days.

He glanced up at the thickening mist. “Though I do not imagine this is the proper time or place for such a conversation.”

“Now you are worrying me in earnest.” Her pulse thudded; the very notion that he needed to speak to her was equally exciting and disconcerting.

“We have known one another for our entire lives,” he said carefully, watching her for a reaction.

“Yes,” she confirmed.

“You are not a stranger to me.”

“No, indeed, I am not. ”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. The mist was thickening, darkening his damp hair, making a lock fall over his forehead. It was a bit roguish until he brushed it back, restoring order to his appearance. “According to my aunt’s will, I can receive a large sum of money if I find a wife before Twelfth Night.”

“Goodness,” she breathed. “That is…a particular requirement.”

“Ridiculous would be far more apt.”

She agreed, though it felt rude to say so aloud.

“My aunt is dying, and I think she would like to see her money distributed on her own terms. Personally.” Colin leveled her with a look. “I’ve resigned myself to a marriage of convenience. Winterbourne is falling to pieces. It needs the funds. I think I can comfortably provide for a wife once the inheritance passes over.”

Strange apprehension balled in her stomach while the cold seeped into the wet places of her gown and made her shiver. The image of Colin flaunting a new bride soured. “It seems a reasonable arrangement, Mr. Birchall.”

“Reasonable,” he repeated. “I cannot help but find comfort in that particular choice of words.”

“Why is that?”

“Because I was hoping you would find the situation logical and not strange.” He took a breath, releasing it in a cloud between them. “Mercy, would you consider agreeing to this partnership and becoming my wife?”