Lady Fitzhoward shrugged. “Family disapproval didn’t stop my Donald, thankfully.”
Rebecca teased, “Were you an actress too?”
The older woman arched a sly brow. “Who among us is not?”
10
Later that afternoon, Rebecca sat with Lady Fitzhoward on a bench in the abbey garden, chatting companionably and enjoying the peaceful burble of the fountain, surrounded by daffodils, tulips, and primroses.
An ancient-looking man in a flat cap worked amid the flower beds. He laboriously got to his feet, trowel in one hand, daffodil stem in the other. Rebecca recognized him as the same old man they’d encountered upon arrival. He slowly approached their bench and extended the bloom to Lady Fitzhoward, head humbly bowed. “A flower fer a flower.”
Lady Fitzhoward frowned up at him, wincing against the sunshine and the unexpected compliment. When she made no move to accept the sweet offering, Rebecca gently nudged her.
She belatedly took the stem. “Thank you.” As the man ambled away, she added under her breath, “Old fool.”
Rebecca teased, “It appears you have an admirer here.”
“Yes,” the lady dryly replied. “How soon can we leave?”
Rebecca grinned.
Then Lady Fitzhoward rose with the help of her stick andexcused herself, going inside for her daily “restorative,” or customary afternoon nap.
A few minutes later, Sir Frederick appeared from around the corner of the abbey. Anticipation thrummed through her. She reached up to touch her hair, reassuring herself it was no longer pulled back severely nor covered by a mobcap.
“Good afternoon, Miss Lane.”
She smiled back. “Sir Frederick. Did you enjoy your ride earlier? I saw you leaving.”
“Thank you, I did. My horse and I both needed the exercise. I wonder—might you have any interest in visiting Wickworth with me? I have been putting off a decision about the refurbishments and would appreciate your opinion.”
“Of course. Happily.”
His lower lip protruded. Her acceptance had apparently surprised him. “Excellent. Shall we ride or walk? Or I could hire the fly?”
“No need for that,” she quickly replied, preferring not to involve Robb Tarvin. “A ride would be enjoyable, but I haven’t a riding habit here. Nor a horse! I don’t mind the walk, if you don’t.”
“Not at all. It is not far.”
He offered his hand and helped her to her feet. Standing before him, her hand still in his, their faces close, his eyes seemed to grow large, kindled with warmth and—dare she hope—attraction?
“Miss Lane,” he breathed, “you are...” He broke off, then faltered, “Are you ready as you are? That is, you look very well as you are, but do you need anything from your room first?”
She shook her head. “I am ready.”
Together they walked from Abbey Lane to the North Road outside of Swanford. Arms at their sides, they strolled pastfields and pastures, talking companionably about villagers they both knew and the changes the passing years had brought.
Rebecca inhaled a deep breath of fresh air and gazed out at the misty fields. She noticed sheep huddled beneath the outstretched arms of a flowering blackthorn, new lambs frolicking nearby, and father and son farmers preparing the ground for planting.
They raised hands in greeting and walked on. Soon Rebecca felt her recent tensions melting away beneath the invigorating spring sunshine.
She wondered why Sir Frederick wanted her to see Wickworth again. How long had it been since she’d stepped foot in the place—four, five years ago? Then she remembered the last occasion. It was a few months after her father died. The Wilfords had invited her and John for dinner to gently let them know that a new clergyman and his family would be moving into the vicarage soon. And to soften the blow of losing the house, they had offered them the use of their underkeeper’s lodge as well as the services of Rose Watts, whom they already knew and liked.
How Rebecca had lamented the loss of their home. If John had aspired to make the church his profession, Sir Roger might have given the living to him rather than to a stranger. But John had no interest in being ordained. Nor in the military. He’d always wanted to be a “great writer” and nothing else.
As they turned into Swanford Road and neared the dower house, Rebecca asked, “And how is your mother? In good health, I hope?”
“Yes. According to Dr. Pope she is in excellent health, though to hear her itemize her aches and pains, you would think she was very ill indeed.”
