Page 71 of The Lady Knows Best

“Your text this week?” Grandmama demanded.

Mr. Yearsley looked taken aback. “The loaves and fishes, ma’am.”

“Ah.” She nodded approvingly. “Lovely story about faith, generosity, and conviviality. The perfect start to my birthday celebration.”

The vicar folded his arms over his chest while he reflected on her assessment of the Scriptures. “Yes, well. It’s also about doubt, failure to plan, and a remarkable lack of—”

Grandmama had been tapping about the stone floor with the tip of her cane, the movement apparently aimless. But when she encountered the vicar’s foot, she pressed down firmly on his toes.

Mr. Yearsley yelped. “But if you wish it, my lady, I can of course highlight the, uh, more p-positive aspects. . . .”

“Excellent,” she replied, lifting her cane. “Now, all this chatter has given me a powerful thirst.”

“I’m sure, if you cared to step over to our humble vicarage,” said the parson, “Mrs. Yearsley could have a pot of tea—”

“Take me to the Ram and Rooster,” she commanded Miles, who had to choke back a laugh at Mr. Yearsley’s pinched expression.

Though they had already discussed matters, Miles had hoped for another private word with the vicar about the wedding. He wanted every detail to be perfect.

On Saturday morning, Ryland would bring Daphne into Lyneham to meet Miles at the church. Afterward, they would return to enjoy the lavish wedding breakfast the cook was already preparing, at which Miles would present his grandmother with her surprise. Following services Sunday morning, everyone in the village would gather on the green to toast the new Lady Deveraux and to wish the Dowager Lady Deveraux a happy birthday.

But any conversation on the matter was forestalled when Daphne turned away from the plaque she’d been reading and approached, wearing her Miss Busy B. expression. “Is there a school?” she asked, and her tone suggested she already knew—and did not approve of—the answer.

Mr. Yearsley, to whom the question had been directed, stammered a little. “I, er, I beg your pardon, Miss Burke . . .”

She looked vaguely taken aback that the vicar already knew her name, but it did not distract her from her inquiry. “Is there a school nearby? For the children of the village and Lord Deveraux’s tenants?”

“Oh. Well, er. No, miss. Those with the means see to their children’s education at home.”

“And those without the means?”

Mr. Yearsley rocked back on his heels and fixed her with a chary, disbelieving look. “What need have they for education?”

Miles said a silent prayer—why not? they were in the proper place for it—that Daphne never smiled at him the way she was presently smiling at the vicar. And her eyes . . . My God, surely Yearsley could feel their steely chill piercing his soul?

Daphne said nothing further, however, and the vicar took leave of them with a bow. On the street, his grandmother took a half-dozen creaky steps before pausing to tilt her head in Daphne’s direction. “I take it you’re one of those radical reformers?”

Had Miles really tempted fate by suggesting that nothing could be worse than the earlier carriage mix-up? He would have given a great deal to be in his curricle now, racing away from impending disaster.

Though, to be fair, Daphne looked less affronted than she might have. “Well,” she said, clearly considering her reply. “I believe our society has need of reform in many areas. I believe in education for all and rights for women, that slavery is an abomination, and that the poor ought to be treated with compassion. Is that radical?”

Such an innocent-seeming question . . . to which the answer could only be “Yes.”

No matter how much Miles agreed with her, no matter how he had tried to improve things at Lyneham or how he voted in the Lords, there was no question such views lay outside those held by society in general.

Grandmama scrunched her mouth and furrowed her brow, which in Miles’s experience was the prelude to a tongue-lashing. “You know it is,” she began, in a scolding tone.

And then, tottering slightly, she released Miles’s arm, shifted her cane from her other side, and reached for Daphne, patting her hand when she found it and then linking their arms to proceed down the street. “But you’re not wrong, Miss Burke. You’re not wrong.”

Dumbstruck, Miles followed, listening as Daphne explained how her parents’ unconventional educational theories had produced an important political novelist, a top barrister, a renowned botanist, and a much-lauded poet.

And you, he wanted to add. But didn’t.

“And your younger sister?” Grandmama asked instead.

“She’s something of a family pet,” Daphne confessed. “But Bellis has a sharp mind and a good heart.”

By the time Daphne had finished singing her siblings’ praises, they had reached the Ram and Rooster. Grandmama was eager to sit down and enjoy a glass of beer in the cool, dimly lit pub, so Miles left her in the care of Ryland and Stalbridge and offered to walk a bit farther with Daphne.