“That is very sentimental of her.”
“I suppose.” Bea began playing a cheerful quadrille.
William Bentley spoke more loudly to be heard over the music. “You know, my uncle has often described what a lovely girl Miss Charlotte Lamb has become. So, when I first entered the room, I thought you must be she.”
A sour note, a half step off-key, reverberated through the doors as Bea abruptly stopped playing. “Mr. Harris finds Charlotte ... lovely?”
In the hall, Charlotte froze mid-button.
“I suppose that’s what he meant, a lovely girl, a lovely young girl. But you, Miss Lamb, are a beautiful woman.”
Charlotte expelled the breath she’d been holding. She could imagine Bea’s reaction, the red-cheeked pleasure that must be coloring her face.
“I believe Uncle is quite fond of your sister,” Mr. Bentley continued, “though it must be tedious for a man of his age to always be warding off the infatuation of one so young.”
Humiliation filled Charlotte, and she quickly pulled on her other boot without bothering to finish buttoning the first.
“Did he say that?” Bea sounded as appalled as Charlotte felt.
“No, no, heavens no. I am only reading between the worry lines as it were. Fret not, beautiful Beatrice, Uncle holds you all in great affection.”
Charlotte did not wait to hear more. She made her way quietly out of the vicarage and strode across the narrow lane to the churchyard. Ben Higgins, a lad of fifteen who assisted his father with grave digging and upkeep of the church, was waiting for her. He had already maneuvered the young tree, its roots bound in a ball of dirt, to a spot near her mother’s grave. Charlotte picked up a shovel and thrust it into the ground with more vehemence than necessary.
A few minutes later, William Bentley came walking across the churchyard. “Your workman desert you, Miss Lamb?” he called.
Charlotte looked up at him from the hole she was digging. She paused in her work, leaning on the shovel with one hand and pushing a stray hair from her face with the other, though she did not realize until later that her muddy glove had left a smear of dirt on her forehead. Nor why Mr. Bentley had bit back a smile as he drew near.
“I sent him to ask our gardener for some manure. He shall return directly.”
“Manure? Lovely. You could wait and let him do that, you know.”
“I do not mind a bit of work. Do you?”
“I confess I am not really the digging-in-the-dirt type.”
She grinned. “I cannot say I’m surprised.”
“Really?”
At his feigned chagrin, she felt her smile widen.
His eyes danced with pleasure. “You do indeed have a lovely smile, Miss Lamb.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded toward the sapling resting beside the hole. “What sort of tree is that?”
“A French lilac.Syringa vulgaris.”
“Looks like a stick to me.”
“I suppose it does. But in year or two, it will boast the most fragrant lilac blossoms.”
“Your mother. She’s been gone—?”
“Two years.” She felt her smile fade.
“Forgive me. I’m sorry.”
