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Mama spoke up, “Mayhap we could retreat to the summer room? I do feel this rain will not ease any time soon.”
Blessed Mama, offering a way out of this.
“An excellent idea!” Jane readily agreed. “As you are closest to the rain and will soon become soaked, please lead the way, Lady Jardine. Mama, we shall join you there momentarily.”
The Pastor looked as if he wished to flee indoors. Jane took her chance. “I do apologise for meeting you in such undesirable circumstances, Pastor… ahhh?”
“Sheffield,” he said, “Reverend Nigel Sheffield, at your service, my Lady.”
He took her hand and made a little bow over it, then lightly kissed her knuckles.
Jane said, “I was looking forward to meeting you Sunday morning, when the Baron and I would take up our places in the Ealing Pew.” Hmmm, she was using the word ‘apologise’ far too often. A Baroness would never apologise for anything, much less to the man employed by her husband to deliver sermons. “How goes the congregation, Reverend Sheffield?”
His surname indicated a location, rather than family, which pleased Jane further. If she’d guessed correctly, the Reverend relied on the Baron’s patronage for his position, which meant that he was not answerable to Lady Jardine. At least, not yet.
“You were not married in the Baron’s local parish?”
“We were married in our family’s chapel. A charming service. We arrived home to Ealing Manor the eve before last, after a five-hour carriage ride.”
“How do you do, my Lord,” the Reverend said as he turned towards the Baron and made a low bow.
The Baron, quite naturally, did not reply.
“He is sleeping,” Jane said. “The wedding, the wedding breakfast, the long journey home and the wedding night and following day has taken its toll. Entertaining visitors has placed quite the strain on him.”
Reverend Sheffield’s eyes grew large at that confession, and he began to colour as understanding dawned on him.
“Then you have my very best felicitations. Oh dear, this rain is not letting up, is it?”
“We shall see you for Sunday Service, Reverend Sheffield. I heartily promise not to place any further demands on the Baron, and he shall be fully recovered by then.”
Turning a shade of crimson, the Reverend slapped his hat on and fled to the house.
Jane turned to Mr Foote and held back laughter.
Mister Foote had turned red too.
“I was ready to snore the moment his back was turned.”
“That may have raised his suspicions further.”
“Instead, you shocked him into fleeing indoors. Very well played, my Lady.”
Jane gave him a saucy wink and said, “Thank you, Mister Foote. Now, shall we take his Lordship back to bed before anyone else ventures hither?”
“Agreed,” he said.
It made quite the sight, them hauling the Baron backwards across the gravel in the chair, but the rain had fallen so heavily that the pathway had bogged. Pushing forwards would have resulted in no further motion at all.
Jane walked a little ahead, again to mutter directions to Mister Foote, who was walking backwards, and to keep a lookout for others approaching. They were uninterrupted as they reached the Scullery. At which point, Mister Foote lifted the Baron, and his voluminous wet, heavy blankets, and bid Jane farewell.
“Can the master not walk?” Cook said as he wielded a cleaver through a roasted fowl.
“Good afternoon, Cook.”
“Good afternoon, my Lady,” Cook corrected, “My question stands, can the master not walk?”
“It is most obvious that he cannot at this very moment. He is in slumber.”
