He followed me into the garden. “Surely a few days of neglect won’t destroy everything.”
“Stressed plants will never produce as well as ones that are cosseted. I have hours of work ahead of me.”
“Hours?” he said dubiously. “It doesn’t look that overgrown.”
“It is late summer, which means the weeds are out in force. I must tend to them immediately.”
“Tell me how I can help.” He shrugged out of his somber black tailcoat, leaving just his white linen shirt and waistcoat. I tried not to notice how finely formed he was, with wide shoulders, a trim waist, and the athletic thighs of an expert horseman.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” I started with pulling the weeds around my cucumbers. “You don’t know the first thing about gardening.”
“Surely you can direct me.” He rolled up his sleeves, just slightly, baring strong forearms generously dusted with dark hair. “It is the least I can do, given how generous you’ve been to the community.”
I averted my eyes. How had I never before noticed how attractive a man’s arms could be? “Can you identify a weed?”
“Naturally.” He watched my progress. “I can assume that task.”
“Very well.” I stepped aside, moving over to the tomatoes. “You may weed so that I may focus on pruning.”
He immediately took my place, pulling the weeds with the necessary care, the cords in his forearms flexing. The weather wasn’t overly warm, but I certainly felt heated. Forcing myself to concentrate on the tomatoes, I trimmed and tied back the plants to train them to grow in the proper manner. Mostly, we worked in amiable silence, with the vicar asking the occasional question about his task. I was a little sad when it came time for Mr. Haddad to take his leave after a couple of hours.
“My thanks for your help,” I said.
“It was my pleasure,” he said, rolling down his sleeves, covering those lightly muscled forearms. “Will you work in the garden again tomorrow?”
“Most definitely. There is much work to do.”
He surveyed the rows of plants. “Is there?”
“I am very particular. More so than most gardeners.”
Amusement lit his eyes. “I am beginning to see that.”
To my surprise and delight, he came again the next morning, insisting on being put to work. He returned again the following day, and I began to look forward to our time in the garden. We worked side by side, sometimes in silence, other times chatting about Meryton and his five brothers and sisters. He told me about each of his siblings and spoke fondly of his nieces and nephews. He asked me about my children and appeared genuinely interested in my answers.
“Why did you become a vicar?” I asked on our second afternoon weeding and cropping together.
He paused, looking out over the garden. “I felt a calling, and I cherish developing meaningful relationships with my parishioners. It is an honor to be of service to people during the most significant periods in their lives—such as marriage, illness, and death.”
I admired his commitment to good works. Michael Haddad was a truly decent man. “If only my late husband had had a calling beyond gambling and carousing.”
His understanding gaze met mine. “Was your marriage very difficult?”
“It was.” Again, I noted how easy it was to talk with Mr. Haddad. Perhaps it was on account of his being a vicar accustomed to hearing people’s problems. He listened without judgment, which, in my experience, was exceedingly rare. “Darcy, mysister’s husband, saw to it that we were married after I was foolish enough to run away with Wickham.”
“You were very young and, I imagine, quite sheltered from the machinations of scoundrels like George Wickham.”
His defense of my reckless youthful actions warmed my insides. “It is ironic that Darcy made certain that Wickham married me to save my family’s reputation,” I remarked. “But Wickham turned out to be such a disreputable character that being his wife was perhaps even more damaging to my good name.”
“I am truly sorry you’ve had such a difficult time.”
“My union with Wickham gave me my children, so I cannot regret it.”
Later, when I set him to work on the squash, he said, “My mother would covet your squash.”
“Then you must take her some once they are ripe.”
“Oh no, these small ones are perfect for kousa mahshee.”
