“A rich one at that,” the mustachioed man said, wagging his eyebrows meaningfully.
“And how do you like your wife’s townhouse in Manchester Square?” Mr. Milton directed the conversation to more comfortable topics.
“Fine, fine.”
“And how do you find life in London?”
“A far cry from Kent, no doubt.”
The discussion calmed and continued, but Daniel found himself remembering the first time he had seen Charles Harris—and the way Charlotte had looked at the man. They had been standing in the vicarage garden, as they often did, when the man came riding up on his big black horse, the tails of his greatcoat nearly matching the gleaming ebony flanks. But Daniel’s attention was soon pulled from the admirable horse to the equally gleaming look in young Charlotte Lamb’s eyes. And as Daniel looked from girl to horse, from girl to man, he realized she was admiring not the fine animal, as he had been, but rather the man astride it. Her attention was completely captured by him, her eyes, always cheerful, had taken on a glow as though she were gazing on a candlelit Christmas tree, or the first snowfall, or ... he admitted to himself grudgingly, an exceedingly handsome man.
“Who is that?” he asked her.
She laughed a sudden, surprised laugh, as if amused that someone in the world should not know who this astounding man was. “Why, that is Mr. Harris. Our neighbor.”
“And where is Mrs. Harris?” he asked somewhat peevishly.
“Mrs. Harris? There is no Mrs. Harris. Unless you mean his mother.”
The man rode close and reigned in his horse in an impressive show of hooves and horsemanship. “Hello, Charlotte. You are looking lovely as usual. Your father about?”
“In the church.”
“And Bea?”
“Not in the church.”
He grinned a knowing grin, and Daniel wondered at the meaning of that little exchange. Was there something between Charlotte’s sister and this dashing neighbor—older though he was?
Harris touched the brim of his hat and quickly spurred his mount off again in the direction of the church. Daniel noticed he barely looked his way.
“He is a bit old for your sister, is he not?”
“Yes, he is much too old for Bea. But not for me.”
“But—she is older than you are!”
“Oh, I am only teasing, Mr. Taylor. You will have to forgive me. I have learned that art from Mr. Harris, and I am afraid it is a habit deeply ingrained.”
“You spend a great deal of time with him, do you?”
“No. Only small bits of time, but in regular doses over many years.”
“Your father approves?”
“Of Mr. Harris? Completely. He rather thinks of him as the son he never had.”
“And your sister?”
“Bea has long been smitten with him.”
“And you?”
She shrugged. “She would say the same of me.”
“And would it be true?”
“Oh, Mr. Taylor,” she soothed, touching him lightly on the arm, “we are all smitten with him—every last one of us, from Father to Cook. Who would not be? But we do not expect anything to ever come of it. Well, except perhaps for Bea.”
