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Sam’s color was permanently pink now, redder around his ears and the base of his throat. “I’m looking out for my community.”

“They are not a part of your community?” Monet gestured to the three people sitting across the tea table, and Maggie glanced at the boys on either side of her. Tom’s face was blank, and even Bridgers looked surprisingly calm.

Sam’s eyes dropped to his lap. He looked like a little boy being scolded. “They are.”

“So why do it?”

Sam looked up at the ceiling. “The suffering of the few for the benefit of the many is justifiable. Did the death of Christ not save us all?”

“You’re comparing the sacrifice of God’s child for humanity to a gossip campaign you launched to drive a bakery, and a paper mill, and a modiste out of business?”

“It’s really more of a haberdashery,” Bridgers muttered, and Tom elbowed him.

“No,” Sam said slowly. “No, not exactly.” He straightened himself. “I had a decision to make, and I made it. I have been charged with leading my flock, and that’s what I’m doing.” His voice was oddly hollow, and his eyes were tired. Curiosity gripped Maggie, although she supposed she should have felt something else—anger, indignation, any of the emotions that had been swirling around her so steadily the past few weeks.

“I have some influence with the superiors in the church, son,” Reverend Monet said gravely. “I’m afraid that if you can’t convince me that your actions were justified, I’ll have to begin the process of defrocking you.”

Sam’s jaw tightened, but his eyes brightened. “I understand.”

“You really hate us so much that you’ll throw your life away to make a point?” Tom’s voice broke in. He, like Maggie, appeared to be more confused than anything else.

“I don’t hate you,” Sam said, and his voice sounded animated for the first time. He looked distressed. “I don’t …” He sighed. “If you think defrocking is appropriate, then please begin the process.”

Monet’s mouth dropped open, his face slackening with astonishment. “Are you sure, son? You don’t wish to convince me?”

Sam shook his head.

Monet glanced at his nephew, still appearing startled. “Well, my wife and I will be here visiting our niece and nephews for a few days. I’m here to talk if you change your mind.” He rose. “Come along, children.”

The children, all of whom were over or nearing thirty, rose.

“Can …” Sam looked up. “Can I, ah, speak with Miss Cruthers? Privately?”

If Reverend Monet was stunned before, it was nothing compared to his expression now. He looked at the trio, eyebrows raised, and Tom stepped forward. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s fine,” Maggie said. She sat back down. She felt, oddly, no anxiety whatsoever. “You three go tour the garden. I’ll be out shortly.”

Bridgers opened his mouth, most likely to protest, but his uncle shook his head. Monet took his nephews by the arms and steered them out. “We’ll be back in ten minutes,” he said firmly, shoving Tom and Bridgers out the door.

Sam remained sitting—he hadn’t stood when the men left—and looked at Maggie frankly.

“May I rely on your discretion?”

Maggie’s brow lifted. “I beg your pardon?”

“I want to tell you something, but I would appreciate it if you could keep it to yourself.”

She blinked. “I’ll do my best.”

Sam tucked his hands between his knees, drawing in a deep breath. “I wonder, Miss Cruthers, if you are in any way aware of the circumstances of my childhood.”

“I … A little?” It was out before Maggie could give it a second thought, and she felt a brief stab of embarrassment at the admission, like she had been eavesdropping. It was Lou’s fault, really.

Sam’s smile relaxed into the one she’d only seen glimpses of before, warm and soft. “The Barrows used to take care of me and my younger brothers quite a bit.” He twisted his head sharply, releasing a crick. “My father died when I was eight, and my younger brothers were five and two. My mother took in washing but it wasn’t enough to provide for the four of us, which is why Mrs. Barrow made sure we were fed.” He paused. “She isn’t a warm woman, but I am indebted to her for that.”

Maggie nodded silently.

“The thing is, Miss Cruthers, my mother had a brother, my Uncle Fred.” He fidgeted his fingers together. “He lived in the city, and owned part of a mill down there.”