Katherine turned back to her class and ended her lesson in the usual fashion—listening while each of the students read a section of the Royal Primer aloud. The process was long, and, by the time they finished, the church bell had chimed yet again, the rain had weakened to a drizzle, and the drizzle had receded into mist.
After the last student had filed out of the chapel, Katherine surveyed the empty pews and then began collecting the primers.
“Lady Katherine.” The rector’s voice boomed across the sanctuary.
“Good afternoon, Rector Chandler.”
He remained by the door and quietly folded his hands behind his back. “It looks as if the worst of the storm has passed.”
“Yes.” She placed the final primer in her basket and joined him.
“The marquess,” he ventured carefully, “seems like a fine gentleman.”
She arched a brow. “Nothing has been settled.”
“And yet, he praised Southford—you in particular.”
“Did he?” she asked lightly. “I find that hard to believe. I tried to force him to leave.”
The rector chuckled. “He must appreciate a woman of spirit, then.”
Wasshea woman of spirit? Resilience, certainly, but spirit? “Or,” she said, “by providing a contrast to my bad behavior, he intended to excoriate me.”
“Oh,” the rector replied dismissively. “Distrust of a new acquaintance is not at all unusual, and perfectly reasonable.” The rector’s gaze grew unusually pointed. “I would be more than happy to see such a jewel as yourself in a setting fit for a marchioness.”
“You’ve known me since I was born.”
“Your tone suggests that our long acquaintance should make your unsuitability obvious.” Mr. Chandler searched her face and then sighed. “I know that my son—”
She inhaled sharply.
“I,” he softened, “I merely wish to point out that the young often possess very stringent ideals.” He cleared his throat. “Untestedideals. I, for one, am proud of the person you’ve become and never once doubted your goodness or sincerity.”
Katherine’s limbs grew heavy as the rector’s meaning dawned—Septimushad doubted. She knew he had, of course. What she hadn’t known was that he had maligned her to his father. She sunk into the support of the wooden pew.
“There now,” Mr. Chandler continued, as he sat by her side, “I intended to reassure you.” His kindly eyes held far too much understanding. “Septimus’s choices were his own, and his illness a consequence of his work. You are no more to blame for his passing than I.”
She bit her bottom lip. Hard.
His shoulders slumped, ever so slightly. “It would be a great comfort to me to see you wed.”
Wed. The word on the rector’s lips made her fate feel inevitable.
“Lord Bromton and I have only just met.” True. “There is not likely to be an understanding.” Not as true. Panic bubbled up in her throat. “How could I even imagine leaving Southford? I’ve built my life here.”
“Built? Past tense?” he asked gently. “Come now, you are not so old as that.”
Her eyes slid toward the long rows of cemetery stone just beyond the window. “I feel ancient.”
He covered her hand with his. “And yet, I look at you and see all the possibilities of youth.” His hand came back to rest on the Book of Common Prayer. “You’ve many gifts. If you are given the chance to share them beyond our little town, will it not be your duty to do so?”
She hadn’t thought of leaving in quite those terms before.
In wanting to stay safe and restricted—“constricting her wants though she may live on a barren heath”—had she also been refusing to heed a call?
“Humility is good,” the rector continued. “A lack of courage, on the other hand…”
She blinked away a sting in her eyes. “Who would teach the children?”
