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He’d almost broken his resolve after she’d confided in him earlier, but he’d remained strong, allowing her to leave his side without following her and pressing for more. He did not ask if he could fetch her lemonade or a tart, and he surely did not offer his arm when they’d walked to the back of the church to watch the men light the bonfire.
Charles had shown great restraint, and he was quite proud of himself.
“Mr. Fremont,” a deep voice said, gathering his attention. He turned to find the vicar approaching, leaning heavily on his cane.
“Good evening, Mr. Conway. Well done on the success of this feast. The town made a good showing tonight.”
“Indeed.” He sighed good-naturedly. “If only our pews could be as full on Sundays as this churchyard was today.”
Charles smiled. “I am certain these gatherings are good for the congregation.”
Mr. Conway nodded. His gaze returned to the dwindling crowd. Women cleared away the remaining plates and bowls as families gathered and bade one another farewell. The evening was winding to a close, and Charles’s gaze found Amelia, seated again on the bench beneath the hawthorn tree, Hattie Green beside her.
“How are you managing the estate now that your uncle has returned to the sea?” the vicar asked, his shrewd gaze tripping over Charles’s face, causing him to feel bare. It was likely untrue, but Charles had spent most of his life believing that this man could see straight into his soul. As a child, he’d been convinced that Mr. Conway had the ability to read minds. Now, he knew better. Or so he hoped.
“He left us some time ago,” Charles said, “and I have managed well enough, I think.”
“Surely your house feels empty now that Miss Sheffield married and left. She managed to abscond with the rest of the family.”
He shrugged, unsure where the vicar was leading with this. “It has become very quiet, but I am growing accustomed to it.”
“Do you have plans to fill the house once again?”
Ah, so that was it. Charles pasted a smile on his face. He was certainly going to remain a bachelor for the rest of his days, and unless his uncle decided to leave the navy and move home, Sheffield House would likewise remain quiet. If he could not even secure Miss Pemberton’s hand last summer, what other option was available to him? None. “I am not sure what the future holds for me, Vicar. I suppose only time will tell.”
The man gripped Charles’s shoulder. “I will continue to pray for you, Mr. Fremont. It is only a matter of time. Surely she will come around.”
She? Mr. Conway could not mean Amelia, certainly.
He suppressed an irritated scoff. Did the entire town watch Charles and Amelia for entertainment? Even the vicar?
Discomfort pooled in his gut. He wanted to leave. “I should be getting home,” Charles said, returning Mr. Conway’s smile with no little effort. “I will see you Sunday.”
“Be careful on your way home. There are gypsies camping in Donning Grove. Heard it from Mr. Tucker myself.”
“I shall be on my guard,” he said, though truthfully the matter did not frighten him. Gypsies had camped in those woods before and had done nothing to bother him or his land.
“Goodbye then, Mr. Fremont.”
Charles stepped away, lifting his hat in farewell. He skirted the edge of the dwindling crowd, stepping down the street to where he’d left his horse earlier that day. He needed a bruising ride—too bad it was much too dark for such a thing. Swinging up into the saddle, he settled into his seat and gripped the reins tightly. A carriage passed him on the street, and he lifted his hat to the coachman, giving the conveyance ample room to pass.
He was sure Mr. Conway was well-intentioned, but the man’s questions had done nothing but drive home just how pathetic Charles’s situation was and how very alone he would be when he returned to Sheffield House for the night. Swinging his horse around, he directed it toward the inn at the end of the road. One drink, and nothing more. Just a little something to prolong his evening, to make certain he was dead tired by the time he returned home, that he might fall into bed half-asleep and not lie awake for hours considering his pitiful life.
Just one drink.
