He pantomimed shoveling. “It’s a bit like that, isn’t it?”
She laughed. “Very well, then. We’re meeting at the hall tomorrow afternoon. Come with me, and we’ll tell Mrs. Sneath you’d like to help in the churchyard.”
“Very well.” He let the last word trail into a yawn. “My fate is in Mrs. Sneath’s hands, then.”
But what tingled in his veins was triumph.
He did know a twinge of guilt. But he’d gotten what he’d wanted, and his sister was none the wiser that she’d been the means to his end. And Diana would benefit, too, would she not?
For the first time in his life, however, he was reluctant to examinewhyhe wanted what he wanted.
All he knew is that he felt twice as alive as he’d been only yesterday at the very idea of seeing Isolde Sylvaine again.
“Well, I think I’ll go change into a shirt that doesn’t stink of cheroot smoke from the Pig & Thistle.” He stood again.
“Off you go, then,” Diana replied absently, returning to her book.
Just as he reached the doorway she called, slyly, “And I’m sorry about your darts loss to Finchley.”
He laughed, startled, and mimed taking a dart to the back.
She indeed knew him too well.
Isaiah couldn’t fidgetwith his gold watch while he was holding a full bucket of water, but he did know it had been five minutes past two o’clock when Mrs. Sneath handed it to him. She’d left him with her thanks, which were the perfect balance of brisk (because she was always brisk) and obsequious (because he was a Redmond), as well as a handful of rags and a little brush. These he’d stuffed into his pockets.
He’d been told the vicar would be helping out in the churchyard today, too, but a few minutes ago the elderly Mrs. Barton, a Pennyroyal Green parishioner, had rushed through the gates into the churchyard, apparently in urgent need of spiritual counsel. Reverend Holroyd had bustled her into the church. Isaiah’s instincts told him they wouldn’t emerge soon.
So, Isaiah stood alone in the shadow of a willow, his face aimed in the general direction of the gate, his back to the stone bench featuring a carving of a little boy angel. He’d averted his eyes from that bench his entire life.
Today as he’d wandered through the churchyard, he’d realized one could track the rise of the Eversea and Redmond fortunes by the dates on the headstones. About a century ago both families began retiring their expired members into family mausoleums instead.
And while Fanchette Tarbell and her family rolled ever closer to Pennyroyal Green from their Northumberland estate, every single one of Isaiah’s senses were pitched for the arrival of another girl entirely.
He straightened alertly when the gate squeaked.
He heard her before he saw her; she was humming a lilting tune. An enormous straw hat came into view. Beneath it was a girl, merrily swinging her own bucket of water. The skirts of her practical brown dress, covered in an apron, swayed gracefully at her ankles.
She stopped so abruptly when she saw him that the only sound for a moment was the water sloshing in her bucket.
The stillness during which they regarded each other felt to him as complex as a conversation.
A faint, pretty flush moved into her cheeks.
They both knew why he was here.
“Well. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m destined to encounter you beneath trees from now on, Mr. Redmond.”
“I’m relieved that you said ‘destined,’ and not ‘cursed’, Miss Sylvaine.”
She tipped her head and assessed him. “I suppose there are worse fates,” she concluded, airily.
He smiled slowly. “How fares your toe today?”
“Almost completely restored to health, thank you for asking, Mr. Redmond.”
“My sister and I agreed it would be noble of me to volunteer. Mrs. Sneath sent me out to the churchyard,” he told her.
Her brow furrowed in mock concern. “Is ‘noble’ really the word for it?”
