“That is all right.” She sighed. “I went traveling with my aunt in the spring, as I often do. Our carriage passed a long stand of lilacs in full bloom, and I remembered how much Mother loved their fragrance. But this variety doesn’t spread like the more common English lilacs. I ordered this all the way from Limoges.”
“That’s a very dear gesture.”
Charlotte shrugged. “She was very dear to me.”
Resuming her work, her shovel clanged against something solid, and Charlotte bent low to pick a large stone out of the hole. As she did, she had the discomfiting realization that William Bentley enjoyed a lingering look down the bodice of her dress.
“Mr. Harris speaks very highly of you, Miss Lamb. I know I said the same of your father, but in all truth I think my uncle holds you in the highest regard of all.”
“I’m sure you are mistaken,” Charlotte replied, straightening. “Mr. Harris has long been a friend to our entire family. Even Mother was fond of him.”
“And you, I think, are not indifferent to him either.”
Remembering what Mr. Bentley had said to Bea, Charlotte could not hide her embarrassment. “Of course not. Mr. Harris has always been very kind, the best of neighbors, almost like a son to Father.”
“A son? I shouldn’t think so. That would make you brother and sister, and I don’t think either of you should like that.”
“Mr. Bentley, please don’t speak so. It isn’t fitting.”
He appeared genuinely chastised. “You are quite right, Miss Lamb. Forgive me.”
“If you are implying what I think you are, you are quite mistaken.”
“Am I? Then I confess myself relieved.”
“Relieved? Why so?”
“Well, it is just that I should be disappointed were you already spoken for.”
“I am not spoken for, Mr. Bentley. I am only seventeen.”
“Seventeen. And my uncle is, what? Five and thirty?”
“Not so old as that, I don’t think.”
He studied her face, and her discomfort grew under his close scrutiny.
“In any case,” she hurried on, “I’ve no thought of marriage. My sister is two years older and has no thought of it either.”
William looked up at the vicarage window and Charlotte followed his gaze. She saw Beatrice standing there frowning down at them. When she saw them look up, she spun away.
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that, Charlotte,” Mr. Bentley said, then lowered his eyes back to her. “May I call you Charlotte?”
“Yes, please do.”
“And you must call me Mr. Bentley.”
She looked at him dumbly, taken aback.
He smiled, reached out, and rubbed an immaculate gloved finger across her forehead. She allowed him to do so, standing like a submissive schoolgirl. Then he showed her the dirt-stained glove. “Dirt doesn’t suit you, Charlotte. You should remain unsullied by the earth you love.”
In the manor garden, Charlotte stooped awkwardly over her rounded middle to pick up a stone. She wondered briefly where William Bentley was now and if he truly planned to marry her sister. Had his intentions ever been honorable? Rising gingerly, she hurled the stone into the mossy pond, where it landed with a dull plop.
Unsullied indeed.
That very afternoon, Charles Harris rode his horse from his estate toward the Doddington vicarage.
A young lad herded a dozen sheep across the pasture path, so he had to slow his horse to allow them to pass. The boy tipped his hat to him, but Charles Harris only gave a terse nod in return. In no mood to be hindered, Charles pulled the reins up short and urged his horse up the embankment and around the walled churchyard.
