Page 45 of The Work of Art

“I shouldn’t like to start out my tenure as your wife by dismissing all of your staff. I’d much rather get along with everyone. Naturally, the servants won’t be disposed to like me at first—”

“Why the devil not?”

“Servants like to be prepared for things so they can show themselves at their best. They take a great deal of pride in their work. It will put them in a taking to have a new mistress appear so unexpectedly—”

“They are expecting us.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Are they?”

“Yesterday morning, I sent my butler, Crofton, an express. I informed him we’d be arriving late this evening, and that we’d have your four dogs with us. The servants will have had ample time to see that all is in readiness.”

“Oh, Arthur, you have thought of everything.” Philly sank back into her seat. “I do so want to start out well. With the servants—and with the villagers in Heycombe.”

He raised his brows. “The villagers, too?”

“Naturally. In Fox Cross, I often accompanied our vicar’s wife, Mrs. Webb, on her visits to the sick and the poor. I’d bring them special hampers from Satterthwaite Court, and sometimes, if they wished it, I would read aloud to them or help with their sewing.”

“An angel of mercy, in fact.”

“Hardly that. Most of the villagers wished us at Jericho. Mrs. Webb had the disagreeable habit of sermonizing to every poor soul we called upon. They would endure it, of course, but I used to think it a high price to pay for nothing but a hamper full of supporting broths and restorative jellies.”

“Good God, not Dr. Ratcliffe’s Restorative Jelly?”

“You have some familiarity?”

Arthur grimaced. “More than I care to remember.”

“It is vile,” Philly agreed. “But you needn’t fear. When you’re next ill, I shall feed you nothing but cream cakes and jam tarts.”

No sooner had she uttered the words than she wished them back again. The very idea that she’d be the one to care for him when he was ill, as if she were a real wife, and theirs a real marriage.

But Arthur didn’t seem to mind the intimacy of her jest. He leaned back against his seat, stretched his legs out in front of him as far as he could in the close confines of the carriage, and said, quite gallantly, “I see I shall have to contrive to become ill more often.”

Philly laughed, even as her stomach turned over. Was he flirting with her? Surely not. It was merely harmless banter. The flattering sort that gentlemen indulged in with ladies. And yet…

“I’ve never heard you laugh before,” he said.

She blinked. “Haven’t you?”

“I’ve often wondered what it would sound like.”

Had he not looked so dreadfully serious, Philly might have thought he was teasing her. He’d been thinking about her? He’d been wondering about her laugh? For a moment she didn’t know where to look. “You were no doubt disappointed,” she said, thankful her voice didn’t betray her quaking heart.

“On the contrary. It was everything I’d hoped it would be.”

She waited for him to elaborate, but he said nothing more on the subject, instead resuming their previous conversation as if no interruption had taken place.

“Are you in earnest about continuing your charitable endeavors in Heycombe?” he asked.

“Completely. Why? Would it not be welcome?”

He folded his arms, his broad shoulders straining against the fabric of his coat. “You may be disappointed. The village is an exceedingly small one, with precious few people worth visiting. And there’s no vicar’s wife. Frankly, I can’t envision a woman who would willingly fill the position. Mr. Fordham is a dour, miserable man with more about him of fire and brimstone than Christian charity.”

She frowned. “These older vicars can sometimes be difficult. They’re set in their ways, and often their advanced age makes them cantankerous and short-tempered. Perhaps Mr. Fordham might be persuaded to retire soon?”

“Mr. Fordham is not yet thirty years old,” Arthur said. And, for the first time in their acquaintance, a smile flickered across his face.

Philly didn’t fail to recognize it. “You think me very silly, don’t you?” she said with a faint smile of her own.