Daniel and his father sat on the high-backed bench in a box near the middle of the church—a box generously shared with them by the widow Mrs. Wilkins, originally with the evident purpose of introducing her grown daughter to an eligible physician. She had been too polite to rescind the invitation once she learned Daniel was already married. An easy mistake to make, he realized, considering no one in that church had ever seen his wife.
As the man in black began his sermon, Daniel’s attention wandered, as it usually did. If asked, he would likely acknowledge that he attended church because that was what respectable people did, and what a respectable physician was expected to do. His spirit received little nurture—nor conviction—from the lofty sermons and formal hymns. He did not blame the Church of England. He knew the problem lay within his own soul.
As he sat there, his father listening attentively beside him, the hard bench digging into his spine, the man’s deep baritone took him to another church, another time.
How long ago was it? Five years, perhaps. He had just come from seeing Mrs. Lamb. Dr. Webb, eager to return home in time for tea, hurried on but urged him to take his time. He no doubt guessed Daniel was feeling low—first from having been called by a teary-eyed lad to a dismal thatched cottage just that morning, only to find the grandmother already dead, and now the disappointing visit with Mrs. Lamb. Daniel was grateful to the older man and, indeed, felt the need for some solitude.
Walking away from the vicarage, Daniel passed the church and, on impulse, walked inside the empty, echoing old building. The age of the place continued to astound him—sections dated back to the twelfth century. He never tired of gazing upon the unique ornaments of the otherwise humble church—chancel arch, double squint, mullioned windows, wall paintings of St. Francis and Henry the Third outlined in red ochre. He had attended services there the past Sunday and for a moment imagined he could still hear Mr. Lamb’s booming baritone reverberating within the stone walls as he delivered his sermon from the raised pulpit. But no, the place was utterly silent but for the crisp turning of a page. He turned his head and there, in a rear pew of the nave, in a spot clearly chosen for its wide swath of sunlight, sat a teenaged Charlotte Lamb.
“Miss Lamb.”
“Hello, Mr. Taylor. How fares my mother?”
“A bit weaker than usual, I’m afraid. But she seems in good spirits.”
“Mother always is. I only wish her health were as good as her spirits.”
Knowing it was not his place to reveal Dr. Webb’s prognosis, he changed the subject, nodding to the black book the girl held against her chest. “May I ask what you are reading so intently?”
“Well, it’s the Bible, as you see.”
“And do you like reading it?”
“Yes, of course. Don’t you?”
“I’m afraid I find some of it rather dusty, but there are parts I am quite fond of.”
“Which parts?”
“Oh, I like the Gospels, the Proverbs, and some of David’s Psalms—the desperate ones. And of course in secret ...”
“Secret ...?”
He felt his face heat and knew he was blushing, “I was going to say the Song of Solomon, but I should not say it to you.”
“But you have already said it.”
“Forgive me.”
She turned to scan the south chapel, then looked back at him and whispered, “You have told me a secret. Now I shall tell you one. Shall I show you what I am truly reading?” She pulled out several folded pages that had been tucked into the Bible. “I am supposed to be reading the book of Numbers, but instead I am reading this letter over and over again.”
“It must be a very interesting letter.”
“More interesting than Numbers at any rate.”
“Is it ... a love letter?”
“A love letter?” She ducked her head. “No. Not at all.”
“But you do ... receive love letters ... from time to time?”
“No. I have never.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Whatever for? I am only fifteen years old.”
“Quite right. Those should wait until you are at least ...”
