He hesitated, then oddly looked at Charlotte, then Beatrice. “I have yet to make up my mind, sir.”
“The church is as noble a profession as you might aspire to, sir, if you have a taste for servitude and humility.”
William Bentley smiled, clearly amused, then straightened his expression into sobriety. “I’m afraid I haven’t your fortitude, good sir. Nor your modesty.”
“Well, you are yet young.” Her father sighed. “I’m afraid the church calls to me even now.” He pushed himself cumbrously to his feet. “I’m to meet the churchwardens to discuss repairs to the south chapel and nave. If you will excuse me.”
Mr. Bentley rose.
“No need to get up on my account. Do stay and have your visit with the ladies. Beatrice, perhaps you could play something for Mr. Bentley?”
“It seems a bit early in the day ...”
“Oh, would you, Miss Lamb? I’d be delighted to hear it.”
Bea looked at Mr. Bentley as if gauging his sincerity. “Very well.”
Their father left and Bea walked slowly across the room and sat at the pianoforte. She flipped through some pages of music on its ledge and began playing a moody piece, the somber tone darkening her already stern countenance. Then, seeming to remember her guest, she stopped.
“Forgive me, that’s not quite fitting.”
“Quite powerful though,” Mr. Bentley said, his eyes full of admiration.
Tibbets knocked once and entered. “Begging your pardon, Miss Charlotte, but Digger says it’s time.”
Charlotte rose, but Bea answered for her. “Tibbets, we have a guest, as you know. Tell him to wait.”
“Actually, I will go,” Charlotte said gently. “Thank you, Tibbets. Tell young Higgins I shall be out directly.”
“Very good, miss.”
Bea shook her head in disapproval. She spoke to Mr. Bentley but her gaze remained narrowed on her sister. “Charlotte seems to love nothing better than playing with dirt and plants all day. She spends more time out of doors than in.”
“Your grounds here are lovely,” Mr. Bentley allowed. “But why go out of doors when there is so much beauty to appreciate within?” He smiled significantly at Bea.
Charlotte bit back a wry smile of her own. “I am sorry, Bea, but I did ask Ben Higgins to fetch me just as soon as the tree arrived for the churchyard. Forgive me, Mr. Bentley. You must think us terribly rude, first Father rushing off, and now me.”
“Think nothing of it, Miss Charlotte. My visit was unplanned, after all.”
“Thank you. Perhaps you might come again. Are you staying with your uncle long?”
“I’m not sure. A few days at least.”
“Then please do call again.” It wasn’t Charlotte’s place to invite him, she knew, and she could feel Bea’s silent censure from across the room.
But the young man smiled brightly. “Thank you. I shall.”
He bowed to Charlotte and she smiled at him. Bea glared at her over the man’s bent head. Charlotte simply shrugged, then left the room.
Charlotte sat down in the entry hall, on the bench between the drawing room and the outside door. She leaned down to remove her slippers and begin the arduous task of fastening all the buttons on her calfskin gardening boots. From the nearby drawing room doors, she heard Bea run her fingers experimentally over a few keys.
“Please excuse my sister, Mr. Bentley,” Bea said. “I don’t know what she could be thinking, leaving on account of a tree.”
Charlotte started. She had not realized she would be able to hear their conversation from here. Evidently Bea did not realize it either.
“What is so important about this tree?” Mr. Bentley asked.
“Oh, some tree she wants to plant by our mother’s grave.”
