“Ah,” he said. “We have come to the reason I wanted to speak with you. I—I have asked the bishop for recommendations.”
She stiffened. Unlike many rectors, who used their portion of tithes to hire a curate or vicar, Mr. Chandler had always performed his duties on his own, with an ever-present, kindly smile. Just the thought of having someone else preach a sermon or stand by the door…
“Are you planning to leave us?” she asked.
He shook his head no. “I will remain, but I feel it best—for continuity, you understand—that I share the blessings of the parish. The time has come to employ a vicar. I,” he continued, “not only feel ancient,” he laughed gently to himself, “I grow closer to the distinction every day.”
She placed a hand over her lips. “Are you ill?”
“Nothing like that, child,” he reassured, “but none of us are immortal. There comes a time we must relinquish even things we hold most dear.”
He tilted his head. She responded with a wobbly smile.
“Will you,” she asked, “introduce the likely candidates?”
“Of course.” He hesitated. “There is one candidate in particular I find of special interest.” Another hesitation. “He ran a daily school at his last parish.”
“Oh,” she said, followed by a second, “Oh,” in an entirely different tone.
His eyes searched hers. “Would you be amenable to giving up your duties?”
“Amenable.” The bridge of her nose burned. She forced a breath. “A proper tutor would be good for the children and the parish.”
He patted her shoulder. “I knew you would understand.”
“Yes.” She lifted the basket. She had to be gone.Now. “Of course, you should do what’s best.”
“Why don’t you leave those here with me? They will be safe.” He grinned. “Not to mention dry.”
She handed him the basket. It felt ridiculously akin to relinquishing her last hold.
“Lady Katherine,” he said, “you are worthy of happiness, no matter what you believe. Perhaps the arrival of the marquess has been most providential.”
Unable to find words, she nodded. They rose together and left the church, pausing on the stairs. He squeezed her shoulder one last time before heading toward the parsonage.
She watched him disappear into the brick house, filled with a hollow loneliness she’d never before experienced. Seeking solace, she unlatched the cemetery gate and stepped inside. The mist, pungent with the scent of spring, filled her lungs. Within the mossy stone walls, she found quiet. After years of rocking in a dead-calm sea, overnight, everything had changed.
The last time that had happened, she almost hadn’t recovered.
Slowly, she approached a monument. Its distinctly carved letters were yet unmarred by wear, lichen, or moss. She touched the cold, rough sandstone, tracing the letters.
S-e-p-t-i-m-u-s C-h-a-n-d-l-e-r.
Her inhale caught against a spongy mass in her throat.
She’d felt a certain comfort carrying out her daily life close to the place of his eternal rest. She’d never understood why. Today, she’d accidentally uncovered the answer. Since the Brummell incident, she’d been living the life she and Septimus would have lived together—tutoring, managing, comforting—trying to be the wife he had wanted, the lady he had believed she could become.
That is, before she had so deeply disappointed him.
One day you’ll be beautiful—if you learn to behave.
Her suppressed sob turned into a hiccup.
The other Katherine—the wanton, impulsive Katherine—had been lying in wait all along. There was nothing proper about the wayshehad behaved toward Lord Bromton. Nothing refined or dignified about the way she’d melted into his embrace.
She suspected if she closed her eyes, Bromton—and the sensations he aroused—would be present. The temptation was too great. She found the marquess in the darkness behind her lids replete with his half smile and his searching look.
A feathery sensation wafted down across her cheek, a lock of hair, serving as his phantom finger. And then, her senses re-created the shimmering memory of his kiss—the sensation of drifting atop pillowy heat, anchored by his iron arms and solid chest.
