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Chapter Twelve

Hour by agonizing hour, day by day, the week of Philippa’s temporary reprieve crept past. She tried not to look out the window in the direction of the castle. Wick had promised her a week. He would try. He would . . . try. She kept repeating that to herself though she went to sleep sobbing at the possibility that he wouldn’t come.

Or at the possibility he would come to ask for her hand, but a day too late, a week too late, a year too late.

On the fifth day in the early afternoon, her father found her, sitting in a back room without a view of the dusty road leading in the direction of the castle. She was tired of leaping to her feet every time she heard the slightest sound that might be a carriage.

“My dear,” he said, “would you do me a great kindness and take this book to the vicar? I borrowed it sometime ago, and I expect he’d like it back.”

She took the book from his hand. “The Hellenica, by Xenophon,” she read. “What on earth is it?”

“A most interesting account of military prowess,” her father said. “Xenophon was an ancient Greek warrior.”

“Of course, Papa,” she said. “I’m trying to finish hemming before suppertime, but I’ll take it to the vicarage first thing in the morning.”

“No, the vicar is waiting for the book,” her father stated. “Please do so at once.”

Philippa saw that her father’s jaw was set. He seemed to be vibrating with a kind of wordless excitement, one that she instantly interpreted.

“You’re having another argument with the vicar, aren’t you?” she asked, with a sigh. “And I suppose The Hellenica proves your point.”

“Exactly,” her father said with satisfaction. “Riggs will be quite surprised.”

“Must I go this very moment?”

“You could . . . do your hair,” her father said, waving vaguely at her. “After all, no one has seen you since your return.”

Philippa made her way upstairs, thinking about that. No doubt the villagers were agog with excitement. Certainly by now they knew all about her stint as a nursemaid in the castle. The realization made her put on her second-best gown, a fetching pale blue one caught up under her breast with navy ribbons. She had a bonnet to match, a silly little thing that emphasized the color of her hair.

Once in Little Ha’penny the first person she saw was the baker’s wife, delivering hot rolls to the Biscuit and Plow. “Aye, so you’ll be a baroness as of Saturday,” Mrs. Deasly said comfortably. “When I think of you as just a little scrap, coming in here with your nursemaid, I can hardly believe you’re all grown-up. Your hair was like sunshine, even then, and you were the prettiest little thing I’d ever seen. It’s a lucky girl you are, Miss Philippa!”

“Yes,” she said, smiling at Mrs. Deasly. Even if she had to marry Rodney, she had loved and been loved, and that was more than many a woman could say.

As she approached the village square, she saw the vicar in front of his church, chatting with the blacksmith. Father Riggs was a gentle, stooped man, as dear to her as a grandfather. He was standing under an oak tree. The sun was slanting through the boughs, and his black cassock was dappled, as if it had been spotted with rainwater.

“It is a pleasure to see you again, my dear Miss Philippa. And it will be my honor to perform your wedding ceremony on Saturday,” he said, rocking back on his heels.

Philippa couldn’t quite manage a smile, but she nodded.

The vicar drew a little closer and scrutinized her face. “My dear, are you . . .” He stopped and began again. “Often those of the fair sex feel a trifle reluctant to marry, but I assure you that the rewards of being a dutiful and loving wife are remarkable, and realized not merely in heaven.”

Philippa nodded absently. She was wondering whether a broken heart ever scarred over. She returned her attention to the vicar when she saw that his face had grown soft and regretful, as if he were consigning her to the gallows rather than the altar.

He put a consoling hand on her arm. “I will certainly—” But at that moment she heard the clatter of horses’ hooves on cobblestones and her heart bounded. Surely it was Wick at last! She spun about so quickly that the priest’s hand fell from her arm. It was—

It was Rodney.

As soon as he saw her, he jerked his head to the two young men riding with him. They withdrew to the opposite side of the square, and Rodney swung off his horse. For a moment, he simply stood before her, his face tight, before by an effort of will, it seemed, he regained his habitual sleepy look.

At last, he bent into a bow. “Miss Philippa.” At the bow’s lowest point, she saw that he would be bald quite soon. Bald as an egg, likely.

She curtsied, and held out her hand to be kissed. “Mr. Durfey.”

“Ah, the dear betrothed couple!” Father Riggs chortled beside her.

They ignored him.

Rodney took her hand in his, raised it to his lips, and didn’t release it. “Philippa,” he said, with a windy sigh. “Ah, Philippa.”