Something told her that Mr. Redmond, who had lingered in the churchyard with Mrs. Sneath and the vicar yesterday, had likely learned of Reverend Holroyd’s scheduled parishioner visit.
His footfall was muffled by soft earth and moss as he moved closer. Her heart thudded.
He paused abruptly at a distance when he saw her. For a moment it seemed as though he could not speak, only stare.
Finally, he bowed. “Good afternoon, Miss Sylvaine. I hope you’ll forgive my tardiness.”
She realized she loved his voice. Its depth and cadence were somehow both stirring and soothing, innately intimate.
“I forgive you, Mr. Redmond. I had every faith you would eventually arrive, as it would be ignoble of you to shirk your civic duty.”
For the next two or three heartbeats, they did nothing but smile at each other.
Thusly they once again said about million things without actually saying them.
“As you appear to be bucketless today, I’ll happily share mine,” she added. “I was about to start over here.”
She didn’t tell him she’d been about to leave for home.
“You’ve a generous spirit, Miss Sylvaine.”
They worked in silence for a time, too companionably, too comfortably. Very efficiently. Her cheeks were warm and she didn’t look up because she knew—she could sense—his eyes on her.Feast them, she thought mischievously.
In no time at all the name on the headstone was once again revealed:
Violet Marguerite Llewellyn
1630-1660
“‘Violet’ is such a pretty name. Her parents called her after a flower. Isn’t that lovely, Mr. Redmond?”
“Perhaps because babies are soft,” Isaiah mused.
This painfully charming observation made her heart squeeze. “Do you know of any Llewellyns in Pennyroyal Green?”
Isaiah shook his head.
“I wonder what Miss Llewellyn’s story was?”
He sat down and leaned back on his hands. “I think…Miss Llewellyn was from a wealthy family. Her father was someone important. Perhaps a titled gentleman of some sort. No! I have it—a wealthy, powerful magistrate.”
“A magistrate?” she was enchanted. Her knees were beginning to ache from crouching. “Intriguing. Was Violet beautiful?” she asked mischievously. Her own audacity sometimes amazed her.
“Oh, undoubtedly, she was wondrous fair,” he affirmed, holding her gaze a potent beat longer than necessary, reminding her that Mr. Redmond was older and capable of being bold in a subtle way that felt to her unnervingly sophisticated. She ought to be careful.
“This magistrate in fact hadtwodaughters, I think,” he added, idly.
“Perhaps her sister’s name was Lily! Another flower!” she suggested.
“Perhaps her namewasLily. And I think their magistrate father was very strict.”
“Poor girls. He wouldn’t let them go anywhere unchaperoned, that sort of thing?”
“Even more strict than that. And while Lily was inclined to be obedient, her sister Violet—” he gestured at the stone “—was impetuous. Her father had arranged an excellent marriage with a man of wealth and stature, a powerful duke who was in love with her, but Violet fell in love with… Signor Massini, a gifted artist. And on the evening of her wedding to the duke she was kidnapped by Signor Massini and a band of his friends.”
“Kidnapped! Good heav…”
She caught on. Her jaw dropped for a good three seconds and stared at him with absolute delight.
