She’d told him to come at eleven. Her father would be at home working on his sermon. Her mother would be superintending a wash. She’d promised to ensure her brothers were there too, amused at the look on his face. Yes, perfect, her whole family lined up to cast judgement.
What had she told them? How had she explained it all—turning him away a few days ago, this man who had driven her from London, and now asking them to welcome him as…as son…as brother…
Ifshe had. Perhaps this would be the social equivalent of getting pushed in the mud. He’d walk in, doff his hat, and be met by glares and pitchforks.
The buzzard overhead called, long and harsh. A heron took off with a beating of immense grey wings. The crickets kept chirping; the sun was sticky and hot.Hewas the pariah here, walking alone in this strange land.
A shady lane led off from the road, climbing to a steep hill. He walked up it and met three children picking fruit. A young boy was purple with blackberries. An older boy climbed a tree, hunting for plums. A girl, about the same age, stood at the trunk, looking up, catching what he threw down. The air smelt of fruit, heady and bruised after the rain. He tipped his hat, the girl blushed, and he passed them, up and up the lane to the golden light where the tree canopy broke.
He had plenty of time. He’d made sure of it. The church was easy to find, dominating the centre of the town. It was low and ancient, built of the same flint and clay tiles as most of the houses he’d passed. A large grassy churchyard surrounded it, tilted gravestones as ancient as the ruins clinging to the church’s sides.
He hadn’t asked Madelaine, but he’d suspected it would be here. After wandering among the graves for a while, he found a well-worn path in the grass and followed it to the churchyard wall. A dark stone plaque was set among the flint.
Alfred Charles Ardingly, beloved son and husband, lost at sea.
Sebastian took off his hat, studying the marker. It was stranger than he’d thought, seeing it for real. A pressure squeezed his throat.
“Hello at last.”
But he was Sebastian Thorne. He wasn’t about to wander around talking to himself like a madman. The convenient thing about the dead was that one could talk to them in one’s mind.
I won’t ask for your blessing. It seems cruel to demand that of you when you’ve already given up so much.
The church clock stuck a quarter hour, as though agreeing.
I’ll make you a promise though, to love her as she deserves. To try to deserve her. All the vows I’m about to make soon in this church or some other like it, listen to them. I’ll mean every word.
There was no reply. The man was long gone. He only lived in hearts and memories. And now, in a way, in Sebastian’s too.
With one last look at the slate-grey plaque, Sebastian bent and set down the flowers he’d brought. Then he turned, put on his hat, and made his way to the parsonage.
It was at the back of town, down a lane with three pretty houses, their fronts Dutch tiled, their wooden shutters painted blue and white and green in turn.
He paused at the parsonage gate. The wooden gateposts had been carved with faces at the top, the woodwork newer than the wood itself. One seemed to be the Greenman, a face buried in leaves. The other a wind spirit, a gust swirling from cherub lips. Strangely pagan for a clergyman.
He ran his finger over the carvings, fighting his racing pulse. There were voices inside the house, a hum of conversation through the open windows. He heard the creak of a mangle. The scent of laundry soap and hot water came on the breeze.
God. He’d sooner face the Regent and his inner circle.Theyhe could charm with ease. All of London at his beck and call and he was scared to walk into this parson’s house…
The front door opened, the sound making his head jerk up. Madelaine stood there, smiling softly. She wore a cream dress trimmed with coral ribbons. It suited her beautifully.
“You’re early.”
“No.” He shook his head. “It took me far too long.”
With another smile, she took his hand and led him into the house.
Epilogue
Three Years Later
London
Madelaine looked up from her letter, her writing desk situated comfortably by the window of the drawing room where the light was best, though the smoke-smudged sky was never quite clear in London. Her aunt was fussing over Lord Arnon’s cravat.
“But itislopsided! Look in the mirror.”
The man waved her away with a mild huff and stepped up to the large mirror above the fireplace. He frowned at the knot, his gnarled hands tugging at it. “Sebastian, well, you’re the expert. What doyouthink?”
