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Alexander had had every intention of visiting the Stanleys himself, but going with the vicar would likely be a better strategy, particularly if Mr. Stanley were home. It might be the only thing that prevented him from lowering himself to the butcher’s level and injuring the man.

I should be very happy to accompany you.

Mr. Fossum retrieved his hat from the hook behind the door, and Alexander set down the quill.

“Are you willing to walk, my lord? It is not more than a quarter of a mile.”

“Of course,” Alexander said, nodding as he spoke.

“Very well. Let us be off.”

The vicar maintained a fluid monologue the entire way. Alexander inserted a word every once in a while, but as he was never quite sure if Mr. Fossum heard him, he contented himself to listen to accounts of the marvelous Christmas baskets his mother had provided to the church, the astonishing similarity in the twin girls born to the blacksmith and his wife, and the great curiosity in the community about the new Hadford family at Charwell Park.

“You will find the Hadfords a great addition to the neighborhood,” Alexander said.

“I thought the same when Mrs. Fossum and I visited them soon after they arrived,” the vicar said. “A few of our most long-lived villagers can remember Mr. Reginald Hadford and his sister visiting the old Mr. Hadford as children. I believe they left a positive impression even then.”

Alexander nodded, grateful that now that they were outside the echoing church, Mr. Fossum seemed to hear him better. “I look forward to getting to know them better.”

They had reached the village green. The forsythia arch was beginning to lose its blossoms, and the grass was littered with yellow petals. Across the road, a woman exited the butcher’s shop. If the shop was open, it was unlikely that Mr. Stanley was at home. Alexander could only hope that someone would answer the door to the house.

The vicar led the way, approaching the flaking blue door with confidence and letting the knocker fall. They waited in silence, and through the door, Alexander heard the pounding of feet. The door opened, and a redheaded youth stood in the entrance. He looked first at the vicar, and then his gaze moved to Alexander, and his eyes widened.

“Good afternoon, Charlie,” Mr. Fossum said. “Lord Bloxley and I are here to ask about your mother. I hope she is feeling better.”

Thanks to Miss Hadford’s letters, Alexander knew Charlie to be the Stanleys’ son. He had the pale complexion common amongst redheads, but unless Alexander was mistaken, the pinkness around Charlie’s eyes came from crying.

The youth managed a clumsy bow directed at Alexander before answering the vicar. “She is very poorly. I . . . I don’ know if she’s goin’ t’ make it.”

Mr. Fossum glanced at Alexander, who shook his head slightly. Concern filled the vicar’s eyes. “May I see her?”

Hesitantly, Charlie pulled the door wider. “I suppose so.”

Knowing full well that he had not actually been given the same license, Alexander followed Mr. Fossum through the door and up the steep staircase beyond. Charlie shut the door behind them, and the vicar paused on the tiny landing to allow the youth to slide past them into a room to the right.

“Mother. The vicar’s ’ere to see you.” There were a few whispered words before Charlie reappeared. “She wants to speak with you, Mr. Fossum.”

The vicar disappeared into the room. Alexander hesitated. It was one thing to follow the man into a house; it was quite another to follow him into a female parishioner’s bedchamber. He stood on the landing, waiting. Seconds later, Charlie reappeared.

“She don’ want me there,” he said, moisture glistening in his eyes.

Miss Hadford had described Charlie as a bully, and Alexander did not doubt it. The youth had the right physique and had probably learned the behavior from his father. Nevertheless, he was obviously suffering deeply at the moment. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I lost my father when I was about your age. I understand how difficult this is.”

Charlie clenched his fists, and his face contorted. “I ain’t lost her. She’s still alive. She’s in there talking to the vicar.”

“Forgive me. I spoke out of turn.” Sympathy was clearly not what the youth wanted. Perhaps the vicar would offer him hope.

“Mrs. Stanley. Can you hear me? It’s Mr. Fossum.” From inside the room, the vicar’s loud voice was met with a murmur. “Lord Bloxley?”

Alexander faced the doorway. “You called, Mr. Fossum?”

“I will require your assistance, if you would be so kind.”

Charlie had turned his back to the bedchamber, and by the slight shake of his shoulders, Alexander thought he might be crying. Removing his hat, Alexander stepped into the bedchamber. The light was dim, but he could see the bulky shape of a bed and the outline of Mr. Fossom’s cassocked form kneeling beside it. The air was stale and smelled unpleasant, but Alexander forced his feet forward until he was standing beside the vicar.

“What can I do, Vicar?”

“Mrs. Stanley wishes to speak with me, but I cannot hear her. I would ask that you listen and relay her words.”