Mrs. Linton spoke under her breath, “When might he find the time?”
“Time, I understand, would be a sacrifice…”
Mrs. Linton’s gaze sharpened as if to say—you think you know sacrifice, do you? Then, her eyes dropped to Katherine’s blue-black fingers and her stance softened. “You’ve a good heart,” Mrs. Linton said with a sigh, “but every day is not Sunday.” She leaned back and let out a shrill yell. “Bess!”
A young girl in a dirty apron appeared in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Take her ladyship’s gift up to the boys’ room.”
“Right away, ma’am,” Bess hurried down the steps and whisked away the papers, but not before taking in Katherine’s dress and cap with curious dismay.
“Keep those from Tommy until after supper, else we’ll lose a full day’s work out of him.” Mrs. Linton nodded to herself as she turned back to Katherine. “Your ladyship,” she said with much more deference, “I thank you for your time. You’ve kept at schooling the children longer than most expected. We’re all grateful, but…” She bit her lip and looked away. “I must be getting back. Good day to you.”
Katherine stared after Mrs. Linton as the woman retreated. She had kept at teaching longer than most expected, had she? What a confounding thing to say. Rector Chandler himself had asked her to help, and he had assured her she’d be making a valuable contribution.
Was it possible she needed the children more than they needed her? Had she been intruding where she did not belong?
She frowned. The pig let out a hostile snort.
“Very well, I’ll go,” Katherine said to the pig’s ugly, wrinkled little snout. Slowly, she began trudging back to the village.
In Tommy’s case, at least, she had been helpful. The child was truly exceptional. So very quick. Perhaps with help from his brother Ian, he could even…
She froze.
Ian! How could she have forgotten? She glanced back, knowing if she presumed to intrude again, Tommy would never see the copy she’d made of the Royal Primer.
Perhaps the flirtation was harmless enough. Then again, perhaps not. Julia was older than she had been at the start of her devotion to Septimus.
Septimus Chandler.
The name was rusty—a memory left to decay. Now, however, his image would not be denied. She closed her eyes and a wave of loss stung like winter wind.
How often had she followed the rector’s son around the rectory, desperate for his smile? Before she even understood the nature of her sentiments, her every action had silently begged,Notice me, Septimus Chandler.
Did you see how quietly I sat in church today? I’ve dressed modest and neat—just like you said I should.
Septimus had been the sole reason she’d wanted to become good. But it had been Septimus who’d been good. Far too good for this world.
And far too good for her. Even if, in the end, he hadn’t always been kind.
Her eyes flew open, and the import of his image transformed—less nostalgia, more warning. If her sister bore the same fervent longings and was cursed with similar willful impatience, there would be fierce storms ahead.
Under Katherine’s muddied soles, the ground rumbled, jolting her back to the present. She pushed aside her cap-trim and watched an open landau jostle into the clearing, its wheels kicking up a haze of dust. She recognized the coach before she could see the crest.
Markham had arrived a day early, just as she’d predicted.Willfulandimpulsivedid not necessarily correlate towrong.
“Katherine!” Markham yelled as Southford’s head coachman slowed the carriage. “What luck to find you on the road.”
“Hello, Samuel,” she said to the coachman. “Markham,” she greeted a touch more coolly. Lack of introduction gave her leave to ignore his companion. “I expected you tomorrow.”
“We wanted to surprise you.” Markham frowned. “But you weren’t home. I had Samuel bring ’round the landau so I could take Lord Bromton up to see—oh, I do apologize.” Markham shook his head as if he’d forgotten introductions. “Katherine, may I present the Marquess of Bromton? Lord Bromton, my sister, Lady Katherine.”
“A pleasure,” she said, turning. She had lifted both brows at the word “marquess.” They remained frozen in that position.
Markham’s friend was not the foppish fool she’d expected.
Yes, the marquess’s black hair fell about his face in bold, thick locks, but hair was his only feature that could be deemed au courant—or, rather, au Byron—the look Markham’s other friend had favored. When it came to Lord Bromton’s figure, there wasn’t a hint of fop.
