She was a good creature, was Alice. Never questioned, or gave herself martyred airs like her mother, Mavis—despite her fall from grace. Mavis had once been the late Mrs. Mortimer’s personal maid and seemed to imagine this gave her the right to monopolize the vicar. She haunted the church at all hours of the day especially to instruct him. A trial to Luke’s patience, poor man.
Alice was a much more comfortable person than her mother. Mind you, she was not so good with flowers. Sighing, Abigail went to rearrange the daffodils in the vase on the windowsill and was still there when she heard Luke’s voice approaching.
She turned quickly, glad to see him ushering in the lovely Mrs. Silver, who was indeed stunning close up, and the elegant Mr. Grey.
Unexpectedly, it was the latter who deprived her of breath. She had graciously given Mrs. Silver her hand and found her friendly, appraising gaze overbold. This woman was not one whocould be easily intimidated. Abigail slipped her hand free and smiled into Mr. Grey’s eyes.
It felt almost like blow, like when she had fallen off a horse as a girl and been winded. Deep, compelling eyes gazed back at her as though seeing into her soul. His brow was broad and intelligent. His full lips seemed to denote both humor and passion. And yes, he was a most handsome man in an excitingly dark kind of way. She just hadn’t expected to be so overwhelmed by…what? Awareness? Some presence that went beyond rank and wealth and position? It felt like recognition. Fascination.
And she must be staring like the village idiot.
“Mr. Grey,” she managed, forcing a smile. “How do you do? Won’t you both sit down? Alice is bringing tea.”
“Our friends have just asked me a question I can’t fully answer,” Luke said, handing Mrs. Silver into Abigail’s favorite chair. “About the children’s friends.”
“Ourchildren’s friends?” Abigail asked in surprise.
“If you could give us an idea,” Mrs. Silver said.
“Sherridan spends a lot of time with Edgar Chadwick and Ned Lance from other the hill, though perhaps Ned is more Timothy’s friend.”
“What about the Gimlets and the Dickies?” Mr. Grey said.
“They know each other through school, obviously,” Abigail admitted.
“But not outside school?” Mr. Grey sounded so surprised that Abigail knew he must have heard something different.
“Children can never tell when someone is unsuitable,” she said. “We don’t encourage it, but Richard Gimlet and Joe Dickie do turn up occasionally. Even Bessie, who is most particular, insisted on having Jill Dickie to her birthday party—along with Maria Lance, can you imagine it?”
“No,” Mr. Grey replied, gratifyingly, although he immediately qualified it by adding that he knew nothing of anyof the children. “Are they wild? Do they trouble shopkeepers or make a lot of noise? Give insolence to adults? Get into fights?”
“Well…Richard Gimlet and the Dickies might get out of hand occasionally—they have never been taught manners, you understand. Even Edgar Chadwick has been known to bully a bit, though to be fair, Mr. Ogden seems to have weaned him off that. Why do you ask about the children?”
They would be looking for reasons and motives, of course, for Emmeline’s nasty letter. A matter that certainly didnotconcern Abigail’s children. They asked a few more questions—Mr. Grey had the most beautiful voice, like melting chocolate, so she was more than happy to answer just to hear him speak again.
Until she caught an odd glint in Mrs. Silver’s eyes—half cynical, half understanding—and pulled herself up. She was the vicar’s wife, not Bessie in the throes of yet another infatuation!
“More tea, Mrs. Silver?” she said graciously.
“Thank you, no. I’m afraid we have we have kept you both too long already. I believe we shall meet again at Miss Mortimer’s card party this evening, so we shall be on our way. Thank you so much for your help.”
“Then wehavehelped?” Abigail asked, hiding her unease beneath a hopeful smile aimed at both visitors.
“Indeed,” said Mr. Grey. “And we are grateful.”
At least she would see him again at the manor…
Chapter Nine
“What is thevicar hiding from us?” Solomon asked as they walked through the churchyard.
Constance took his arm. “At best, something unsavory about his parishioners. At worst, that his wife sent the letters. Or he is afraid that she did.”
“Do you believe that?”
“Not absolutely,” Constance admitted. “But I do find Mrs. Raeburn the likeliest culprit of everyone we have met so far. She is very judgmental and convinced of her right to be so.”
“Would she not be more inclined to speak her mind to those concerned than send letters in such a way? Would she really go to such lengths to remain anonymous?”
