“A pleasant one, I hope.” He held my basket in his hand. “I thought I’d return this.”
“How considerate,” I said without enthusiasm. I’d gotten the message. He did not need to keep reiterating his desire for me to steer clear of his precious church.
“Who is it?” Lizzy appeared in the small foyer.
I had no choice but to introduce Lizzy to the vicar when all I truly wanted was for the man to make a hasty retreat. I’d misjudged his kindness. Deep down, the vicar was like everyone else in Castleberry who wanted to avoid being seen with me.
“Mr. Haddad,” I said with a sigh, “you might remember my sister, Mrs. Darcy.”
“Of course.” He stepped inside even though I hadn’t invited him to do so. “How lovely to see you again.”
Lizzy’s eyes widened almost imperceptibly as she took him in. I couldn’t blame her. Michael Haddad was a striking man. “I think you were a very small boy when we last met,” she said.
“Probably no older than thirteen. I have told Mrs. Wickham that all of us admired the famous Bennet sisters of Longbourn.”
“How charming.” Lizzy gestured toward the parlor. “You must join us.”
If she’d been near enough to me, I would have kicked her.
He hesitated. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”
“Don’t be silly,” she insisted. “Please do join us in the parlor.”
“If you insist,” he said, with a slight smile on his lips, which suggested he was more than happy to be asked to stay. As he went in ahead of us, I held my sister back with hard pinch on her arm.
“Ouch!” Lizzy exclaimed. “What was that for?”
“Why did you invite him to linger?” I whispered furiously.
“Lydia! Do you not see how fortuitous this is? Now Mr. Wilson will see that you are respectable enough for the vicar to condescend to be seen visiting you.”
I shook my head, frustrated. After entertaining no male visitors at all, I was suddenly forced to play hostess to two men. “When did you become our mother? First I had to endure her matchmaking, and now I must deal with you.”
“You will thank me one day,” Lizzy said, all confidence. “Just wait and see.”
I sighed and fetched another teacup for the vicar, introductions were made all around, and I retook my seat, hoping Mr. Haddad would drink quickly so this interminable visit could come to a hasty end.
“Haddad? I do not believe I have heard that name before,” Mr. Wilson said. “Where is your family from?”
“My parents were born in Ramallah, a small town in Palestine not far from Jerusalem. They came to England before I was born.”
“Palestine? Your parents are Turks? From the Levant?”
“Arabs, yes,” Mr. Haddad said.
Mr. Wilson frowned. “And you are the vicar here in Castleberry?”
“Yes,” Mr. Haddad said. “I am, indeed.”
“Hmm.” Mr. Wilson’s frown deepened. “Did your family convert to Christianity once they came to England?”
“No, my family has been Christian for centuries.” Mr. Haddad was all patience as he explained. “We are descendants of the original Christians, and we have retained and practiced our faith for centuries.”
“How interesting.” Mr. Wilson sipped his tea. “I thought all Turks… erm… Arabs… were Mohammedans.”
“That is understandable,” Mr. Haddad replied. “While the majority of Arabs in the Levant are indeed Muslims, there are, naturally, many Christians in the birthplace of Jesus.”
I listened with great interest. I vaguely recalled that the Haddad parents came from foreign lands, but I hadn’t known where they were from until now. That explained the vicar’s lovely dark curls and liquid midnight eyes.
