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“The smell seeped through the floorboards, and the only way to remove the smell will be to rip them out. I said as much to Father Duddleston before he passed away, but he thought the repairs would be too burdensome. His solution was to stop using the library altogether.”

“Mr. Marlowe could have figured that out himself,” Joan said, rolling her eyes. “He merely wanted an excuse to write to you, and never mind the fact that his fiancée is hovering in the background like a bird of prey. Wait until Miss Pettigrew finds out about these notes you’re exchanging.”

Viola felt a twinge of guilt and looked down at her letter. If the truth be told, she hadn’t even mentioned the weasel. Mr. Marlowe’s last sermon, preached in the townhouse chapel, had addressed marital love, and she was trying to compose an intelligent response to prove that she was worthy of being a vicar’s wife.

Her lack of success was evidenced by the crumpled pieces of paper at her feet.

Miss Pettigrew certainly wouldn’t approve.

Dear Mr. Marlowe, she’d written, I wish to congratulate you on the perspicuity of your recent sermon on marital harmony.

She wasn’t quite sure what “perspicuity” meant.

I shall take to heart your point as regards avoiding using another human being as an instrument for one’s own pleasure, thus making a spouse an object of indulgence.

That was as far as she’d got because, frankly, what did she know? Lavinia and Parth had joined them for the Sunday service, and she was quite certain that Parth had been laughing because she heard Lavinia hushing him. Her stepfather and mother had just looked straight ahead with mildly interested expressions.

Lady Knowe looked as if she might confiscate the letter, so Viola hastily folded the draft. It felt improper, even if it wasn’t improper.

As if her aunt could hear her thoughts, Lady Knowe said, “The very fact you are corresponding is improper, perhaps even more so because you are abiding under the same roof. Darling, don’t you see that it doesn’t say much for Mr. Marlowe that he has engaged in, let alone encouraged, your correspondence? As Joan pointed out, he is betrothed. Miss Pettigrew surely has no idea that you are exchanging missives, no matter how innocent the subject.”

“He doesn’t think in those terms,” Viola explained. “Mr. Marlowe isn’t attuned to the mores of polite society. He devotes all of his time and energy to helping parishioners.” But she felt another pang of guilt.

“Here, do I look as peckish as Pettigrew?” Joan asked. She picked up a piece of black lace and hung it over her head.

“Don’t be unkind,” Lavinia said, plucking the lace away. “Whoever Miss Pettigrew is, she’d be lucky to find herself in that particular piece of lace. Do you know how hard it was to find a vegetable dye that results in a true black? We’re having to reserve it for widows.”

“I can’t see how Miss Pettigrew could object to my notes,” Viola said, not convincing anyone, including herself. “I’m merely trying to help.”

“You’re not the only one hankering after our local clergyman,” Joan pointed out. “You do remember that in the week before we left for London, the church pews were fairly bursting? That wasn’t the case when dear old Father Duddleston was preaching.”

“You’re being remarkably impolite,” Viola retorted, leveling a frown at Joan. “Father Duddleston’s sermons were excellent.” She looked down at her folded letter. “I regularly told him what I thought of them, although he never agreed.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Joan said. She picked up some white lace and draped it on her head. “Here, now I’m saintly Viola.”

“You’re being horrid,” Viola snapped.

Lady Knowe frowned. “The two of you rarely lowered yourselves to squabbling in the nursery, and there’s no reason to do it now. Viola, I suppose I should be unsurprised that you would risk your reputation in order to share advice. You were the kindest child in the nursery by far.”

“Except when she wasn’t,” Joan said. “Remember the scene she made when Father thought that Barty would be better off living in the woods?”

“He didn’t understand that Barty’s wings don’t work properly,” Viola said.

Lavinia looked up from the piles of fabric she was sorting through. “Do you have a hidden stubborn streak, Viola? I didn’t know that.”

“Of course I don’t,” Viola said. “Well, perhaps a little bit.”

“Years ago she discovered two calves were being fattened up for Easter dinner, and she practically threw herself across their bodies to save them,” Joan told Lavinia. “To this day, Cleo and Daisy live the life of queens. They have their own cowshed, and I’m surprised it isn’t gold plated.”

“No more letters to Mr. Marlowe,” Aunt Knowe said, laying down the law. “If anyone found out, Viola, you’d be ruined, and never mind that you’re sharing ideas for a Sunday school or whatever. It won’t matter.”

Viola nodded. She’d just have to find another way to impress Mr. Marlowe with her thoughtful appreciation of his sermons.

“Now we can talk of other things,” Lady Knowe said. “What color will you wear to the Murgatroyd tea tomorrow, Joan?”

Joan sighed. “Lavinia has mandated that Viola and I have to wear pale colors. With white wigs. Ghostlike.”

“Pale colors emphasize that this is your first Season,” Lavinia said, looking unrepentant.