“Away?”
“Yes.” She switched her basket to the other gloved hand. “I have ridden to the cove numerous times, yet you have never been there.”
“Then we simply must have missed one another.” He stood before her now, on the bottom step, close enough that her ribbons brushed against him with a gust of wind. “I have taken many rides at the cove myself.”
“Looking for me?”
“Not entirely.”
“Why not? You used to.”
“That was before I saw you strolling with that unfavorable-looking, red-haired brute.”
A trilling laugh left her lips. “Why, you are the drollest boy, Mr. Northwood. Could you truly mean dear Mr. Scrope, who has left Oxford for the gallant purpose of escorting his sisters to visit me?”
“Am I to understand there is no courtship?”
“Oh, but am I to understand there is a bit of jealousy?”
From the top of the stairs, the doors parted and the squire, the bishop, and several other well-tailored gentlemen exited. They all spared Felton a brief nod, if not a condescending one, then hurried on by him.
“Come along, Penelope,” said Mr. Haverfield. “If we are to deliver your baskets to the poor without being late for tea, we must waste not a moment.”
“Yes, Father.” She too must have noted the cool, disapproving ring in her father’s voice, because her smile seemed apologetic. She curtsied. “Good day, Mr. Northwood. I trust you will enjoy those rides we spoke of.”
Was that some sort of message?
“Penelope!”
“Coming, Father.” With one last smile and a half-teasing flash of her eyes, she hurried back for the carriage her father was already climbing into.
Felton shook his head and scaled the stairs. She may be a perfect lady, down to every coyishly framed word, but she was as unreachable as the stars in heaven. Did she enjoy playing games with him? Why, for once in her life, could she not speak plainly and be in earnest—like the crying girl he’d climbed in a tree with yesterday?
She had beheld him without pretense. She had spoken to him without riddles. She had been real…inexpressibly real, in a way he’d seldom known anyone to be in his life.
But Eliza Gillingham would never fit into the world he intended to make for himself. Nor anyone’s world, for that matter. She was something different. Something strange. Something he couldn’t understand and maybe didn’t want to.
“Mr. Northwood, how very good to see you.” Mr. Warburton met him in the vestibule, grasped his hand, and upon hearing Felton wished to talk, urged him into the nave for a seat. “Now, how might I be of service to you, my son?”
“I do not wish to take up much of your time, Mr. Warburton, but I should like to inquire about a man named Jasper Ellis.”
“The Captain?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, oh, yes. The Captain indeed. I remember the unfortunate fellow and have prayed often for his soul. Is he yet alive?”
“Yes, sir. What can you tell me of him?”
“Only sad accounts, my son. He came to me but once, in the middle of the night, and I have never forgotten him since. What can I tell you of him?”
“Who he was, why he came to you.” Felton studied the vicar—the long face, the intent eyes, the sad slant of lips so often mumbling prayer.
They stayed silent now, though, until finally Mr. Warburton glanced away. “When a man comes to me with such brokenness, as this man did, I cannot soon break his confidence.”
“I would not ask, sir, were it not a matter of great importance.”
“Importance to God, to Ellis, or to you?”
