By Wednesday, I begin to fear for my sanity.
I am having actual fantasies of driving to the man’s house and visiting him there.
I have not been inside the vicarage in years, not since I was a girl, and I try to imagine Alfred living there.
What changes has he made to the small rooms and homely walls? I remember the small morning room, used by Mr. Thompson in his prime as a study, off the main drawing room. I imagine mounting Alfred at the desk that Mr. Thompson kept by the window and riding him once more.
But I have my dignity. And I can’t have Alfred Saintsbury thinking that he affects me to such a degree.
The only thing worse than being in this state would be to have it known—by him of all people.
I cannot call him to me until I have myself under control.
To distract myself, I decide to visit the Ludlows. I owe them a call anyway—I try to check in on them at least twice a week. Yes, it does occur to me that I once saw Alfredthere, but I can have no reasonable expectation that this coincidence will repeat itself.
However, when my carriage pulls up outside the Ludlow cottage, I see a familiar, tall figure in the yard. Ludicrously, my heart begins to beat faster. I fear that I will appear flushed—that I have gone crimson. For a moment, I hold a hand to my cheek and will myself calm. Then I disembark.
“Ah, Miss de Lacey!” I hear Betsy cry. “What a funny thing—you’ve come again when the good vicar is here with us.”
Alfred lowers his head in greeting to me. He looks at me respectfully, as if I am a kind of queen. Of course, I am no such thing. I am a wanton harlot with a talent for financial speculation and the fortune or misfortune (depending on how you look at it) of inheriting the estate of a father who hated me. I am the whore who has ruined him, who will turn him to her purposes and then dismiss him from his post as a reward.
All three Ludlows stand in the garden next to Alfred. They look at me with their kind, friendly faces, and the sight of them with Alfred unmoors me. For years, I barely felt anything. And now the sight of Alfred with my old nurse and her family sears through my chest.
“I am showing Mr. Vicar my pig!” yells Victoria.
“Do not scream at Miss de Lacey, child,” scolds Mrs. Ludlow, although she doesn’t appear truly upset with her granddaughter’s behavior.
“A pig is a very serious business,” I say, opening the gate and walking into the yard. “Did you purchase him at market?”
“Ah, no, Miss de Lacey,” Mr. Ludlowsays. “We cannot be frittering away our coin on such frivolous purchases as little pigs.”
“He was a gift from Mr. Holster,” Mrs. Ludlow says. “And very kind of him.”
I try not to start at the mention of Frank Holster.
“Victoria plays with his little daughter,” Mrs. Ludlow says, her voice gone soft with knowledge and I avoid her eye. “This little pig was the smallest of the new litter. And I want to say to you, lass, that the improvements you have made amongst the cottagers have done much good. Frank Holster is not the only man in town who has bought pigs recently. I know two on de Lacey land who have taken to it. They can do it now that all their time isn’t spent trying to keep their roofs from falling in on them. Not to mention the pens and fences you gave the money for.”
I suspect Betsy praises me to distract from the mention of Frank. I appreciate her tact.
“Mr. Holster was going to kill it,” Victoria announces, a tinge of hysterical joy in her voice, ignoring her grandmother’s attention to cottage improvements.
Yes, thatdidsound like Frank. Doing a painful, barbaric thing out of convenience.
“But our Victoria asked him if she could have it and he gave it to her.”
“His name is Splotches,” the girl says. “Because he has these black splotches in his fur.”
“Pigs don’t have fur, my love,” Mr. Ludlow says. “They have hair.”
“Black splotches in hishair,” the girl says.
“How will you keep it alive?”
I watch the little pig trundle around in the mud. The little thing is very wee—I can understand why Victoria is captivated.
But the Ludlows don’t have much to nurture such a creature.
“I will send milk for it,” I say, answering my own question. I already send food over to the cottage each week.
