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  “So,” Mrs. Sutton went on, “I know ‘tis a terrible imposition on you, but we cannot spare Cook from the kitchen or Peggy from the scullery, and if I go, ‘twould mean I’d not get through most of my own work today.”

  “Go?” Artemisia blinked. “Go where?”

  “Why, into town, of course. Someone must fetch your father’s medicine from the apothecary today, else he’ll miss his dose on the morrow and his doctor would not be pleased.”

  Artemisia was well aware that her father’s physician had prescribed him a headache powder that was to be taken daily at breakfast. Her father had insisted on numerous occasions that, as he didn’t have a headache, he didn’t need the powder, but his doctor insisted the lack of head pain was proof the powder worked. Whether that was the case or not, Artemisia couldn’t say, but since the first symptom of the original apoplexy had been a headache, she was quite in accord with the notion of doing everything possible to prevent another, and the headache powder seemed as likely to be responsible for her father’s continued health as anything else.

  And if she had to go into town to ensure he got it, then so be it. “It’s not an imposition at all. I’ll go right after breakfast.”

  After all, what was the worst thing that could happen?

  Walter chose to make his call on Tom Forster early Thursday morning, knowing his likeliest opportunity to speak with the young man would come before he’d left for work. Forster lived in a rented room above the apothecary shop on the High Street. Judging from what Walter could see from outside the open doorway, the place was clean and, thanks to the young man’s carpentry skills, well furnished with a sturdy table, several chairs, and a bed with an intricately carved headboard. A half-eaten bowl of porridge sat on the table. He’d caught Forster in the middle of his breakfast.

  Forster ran his fingers through his sandy hair several times as he absorbed Walter’s presence at his front door. “What brings ye here this morn, vicar?” he asked, his voice a bit hoarse.

  Rather than answer the question, Walter said, “May I come in?”

  Forster cleared his throat. “Oh, aye, o’ course, o’ course.” He stepped aside to allow Walter to enter the room.

  Once inside, Walter noted the few things he hadn’t been able to see from the doorway—a window overlooking the street, a small fireplace with a low fire burning in the grate beneath a suspended pot, a wardrobe, and a screen behind which Forster’s wash basin and privy no doubt resided. The room was lit by means of several good oil lamps, which put off a minimum of smoke.

  All in all, a well-appointed home…for a single young man of the working class. Needless to say, it was also a completely inappropriate habitation for a gently reared young lady like Miss Alice Thursby.

  “May I have a seat?” Walter asked, pointing to one of the chairs that sat round the table.

  Forster’s head bobbed. “Aye, guv. Sorry, I ought to have offered in the first place. I’m just…I was not expecting ye, ye ken?”

  Walter nodded, removing his hat as he folded himself into one of the chairs. He waited for Forster to do the same, and after several moments of silence, the young man pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table and sat down.

  “I think you know why I’m here, Mr. Forster,” Walter said gently.

  Forster, whose complexion was fair to begin with, managed nonetheless to blanch. “I imagine ’tis about Alice.” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously. “She hasn’t changed her mind, has she?”

  “Changed her mind about what?”

  “Marrying me. She said aye when I asked her, but...” He sighed and looked around his tiny abode with a rather morose expression. “I ken I’ve little to offer her, so I would not blame her for thinking better of it.”

  Walter’s respect for the young man ticked up a notch. He wasn’t a heedless youth who’d given no thought to the consequences of his actions. Although Walter wasn’t entirely sure Forster had done much to apprise his intended of those consequences.

  “She hasn’t changed her mind. On the contrary, she is entirely ready to elope with you.”

  Forster’s head snapped up. “Are ye sayin’ we should?”

  “God, no,” Walter expostulated, forgetting for a moment that as a vicar, he oughtn’t engage in such interjections. “That is the worst idea imaginable.”

  “Then ye think we shouldna marry at all, I suppose.”

  Truth be told, Walter did think that. Or he would, had Miss Thursby not confided her biblical knowledge of Mr. Forster. Although, to be fair, Walter had not confirmed the veracity of this assertion with Forster, and Miss Thursby, given her upbringing, might be mistaken regarding the precise meaning of that phrase. That seemed rather unlikely, though, for she was a country girl, and even sheltered country girls could scarcely avoid acquiring a rudimentary grasp of the facts of life.

  “I think, Mr. Forster,” Walter said carefully, “that if you elope with Miss Thursby and bring her to live with you here, in circumstances which will be as foreign to her as living in the wilds of Africa, she will come to resent you and your marriage will be an unqualified disaster. You’ve seen the Thursby’s home. Can you genuinely imagine Miss Thursby being happy here, in your single room, day in and day out while you saunter off to work each day?”

  Forster set his jaw. “I’ll be out of my apprenticeship soon. Once I am, I’ll find us better lodging. And Alice willna have to stay here all day. She can visit with Mrs. Nicholson and other women in the village. We’ve talked about this, ye ken?”

  “I’m sure you have, but Miss Thursby can have no real idea of what your life is really like. Has she ever been here?”

  At that, Forster shook his head. “No, but I canna see what difference it makes. I love her, and she loves me. Is that not enough?” When Walter didn’t answer, Forster added, “And then there is the fact that I would be dishonoring her if I did not marry her after…well, after.” The young man’s cheeks colored, leaving no doubt as to his meaning.

  And there it was. The confirmation Walter had needed, if not precisely wanted. “So she told me.”

  Forster’s eyes widened in surprise. “And ye’re trying to convince me not to marry her? What sort of vicar are ye?”

  An unusual one, or so Miss Finch had said. “I’m not trying to convince you not to marry Miss Thursby. I am trying to convince you not to elope with her.”

  “But what other choice do we have? Ye know her parents will never consent.”

  Walter shrugged. “Perhaps not, but you’ll never know if you don’t ask. And with their consent comes her dowry, which I guess must be in the neighborhood of five hundred pounds.”

  Forster’s mouth dropped open. “That much? I canna believe it.”

  “Five hundred pounds is the difference between this one room and a nice little cottage on the edge of town with a maid of all work and perhaps even a footman. The difference between your life and a life that resembles the one Miss Thursby is accustomed to. If you love her and want her to be happy, then the choice is clear, is it not?”

  “I…I didna think ‘twould be so much. With that and my earnings once I’m out of my apprenticeship…” After a moment’s pause, he shook his head. “But if I do this, ‘twill seem as if I only want her for the money. I want her without so much as a ha’penny, and I dinna want her or her parents to think I’m fortune-hunting.”

  It seemed Alice was right. Tom Forster was intelligent if that problem had already occurred to him. Perhaps the pair would make a decent go of it despite their youth and naivete.

  Walter smiled. “You leave that to me. I believe I can convince both Miss Thursby and her parents that you’ve no interest in the money for yourself.” He stood up and placed his hat on his head. “Now, I don’t want to make you late to work, so I’ll be going, but promise me there’ll be no more talk of eloping until we’ve spoken again…early next week, I should think.”

  Forster looked unconvinced but nodded. “Ahreet,” he said at length, allowing
a thicker version of his Cumbrian accent to overtake his speech. “But I dinna think ‘twill work.”

  Indeed, it might not. But, as Walter walked down the stairs and out into the bright sunlight of the spring morning, he felt remarkably confident that his plan would be successful. He tugged at the brim of his beaver to shield his eyes from the blinding daylight and smiled to himself. All in all, it was a good beginning to his day.

  And then, his day got suddenly, brilliantly better. For out of the door of the apothecary shop stepped none other than Artemisia Finch.

  Artemisia didn’t know what she had expected to happen when she entered the apothecary shop. Bolts of lightning striking her or perhaps a hole in the ground opening up to swallow her for having the effrontery to foist herself upon respectable people. Of course, neither had come to pass, and the apothecary, Mr. Nemeth, had been businesslike if not friendly, filling her father’s prescription efficiently and without question.

  Undoubtedly, the entire affair would have been more eventful had she arrived when other customers were in the shop. Although it had been a great many years since she had last attempted to interact with anyone in Grange-over-Sands who was not either her relative or her employee, she remembered well enough what had happened when, newly delivered of her stillborn child, she had entered the milliner’s shop with the intention of purchasing some fabric to sew a burial gown for the infant. The reaction of the ladies in the shop had been horrified, to say the least. If they had been in possession of torches and pitchforks, Artemisia was convinced they would have used them to drive her from their presence. As it was, they had been forced to settle for removing her by means of disapproving glowers and reproachful harrumphs. At sixteen and rubbed raw by her losses, Artemisia had dashed from the shop in tears.

  She’d learned a valuable lesson that day, nonetheless. While there was nothing to keep Robert Beaumont, who had admitted he could be the father of her child, from carrying on with his life as if none of it had ever happened, she was to be burdened with the stain for the rest of her born days and possibly beyond.

  When she stepped out onto the high street today, however, the bag containing her father’s medicine safely grasped in her fist and none the worse for wear, she was feeling rather pleased with the whole adventure.

  Until an all-too familiar male voice behind her said, “Good morning, Miss Finch.”

  Artemisia closed her eyes and swallowed. It seemed, the worst had come to pass after all.

  9

  If she had any sense of decency, she would not acknowledge his greeting. She would pretend he did not exist and thus avoid tainting him with her disgrace. Didn’t he realize he was taking a terrible risk, speaking to her here, on the High Street, in front of God and everyone in Grange-Over-Sands? And not merely speaking to her, but addressing her in a manner that suggested they’d been introduced.

  But when she turned at the sound of his voice and caught a glimpse of his face—etched with that devastating smile—she found her knees wobbled and her stomach skittered sideways and a bright memory of the last time she’d seen that particular look on his face flashed through her brain. Right before the last time he had kissed her.

  All of which meant she couldn’t look away, couldn’t ignore him as she ought. She didn’t want to. But she could still discourage him from making the attempt.

  “Good morning, Mr. Langston,” she returned, trying to keep her tone brisk and impersonal.

  “I trust you are in good health?” he asked, his gaze transiting from her face to her hand and back again.

  “Oh, this?” She shook the bag lightly for emphasis. “This is for my father.”

  “Ah, well then I trust your father is in good health.”

  “He is,” she answered, carrying on the conversation far longer already than she thought wise. “This is a preventive prescribed by the physician. Papa doesn’t entirely believe it works, but he hasn’t had another apoplexy, so he takes it despite his doubts and the foul taste.”

  Walter nodded, and a moment of silence stretched between them. A moment in which she should have said her good-byes, climbed into her cart, and driven off with no one in town thinking they’d done more than exchange the polite salutations of strangers.

  Instead, she waited a fraction too long, and he said, “This is your horse and cart?” He gestured toward the aforementioned horse and cart.

  “Yes.”

  “Ah, good. Perhaps you could give me a lift back to the vicarage, then, and save me the walk.”

  She took a step backward. The line must be drawn somewhere, and this seemed as good a place as any. “Are you mad?” she hissed.

  He blinked with patently feigned innocence. “No, I am lazy.”

  “You know very well what I mean. You should not be seen with me. People will talk.”

  “Let them,” he said. “We are behaving in a perfectly seemly manner. Although, if you fear you may not be able to keep your hands to yourself…”

  She huffed an indignant breath. “Don’t be ridiculous. I am trying to protect your reputation.”

  “Ah, but it is my reputation to protect. And if my riding with you in an open cart for a distance of approximately one mile in view of God and everyone is sufficient to sully it irreparably, then it was not worth protecting in the first place.”

  He didn’t understand. He really did not grasp the degree to which her past tainted everything and everyone she came into contact with. But perhaps he was right that a brief drive through town would not be enough to damage him beyond repair. And once he’d seen the consequences of that single, brief interaction, he would understand why he must not repeat the error.

  “Very well,” she agreed.

  When they were seated side by side but with a suitable space between them, Artemisia gathered up the reins and gave them a little shake to stir the horse into action. The cart lurched forward.

  “I am glad I did not have to wait until Tuesday to see you again,” he said.

  They should not see each other again at all if this was the way he was going to behave. But instead of saying so, the words that came from Artemisia’s lips were, “I’m glad, too.”

  “It’s still too long to wait.” He didn’t turn to look at her, but his low, gravelly voice smoldered with barely suppressed ardor. “If you knew the things I’m thinking of doing to you right now…”

  Heat collected in her cheeks...and somewhere rather lower. Now she was thinking of all those things—and not paying attention to the road. Realizing she was careening off course, she tightened up on the reins in time to steer the car back to her side of the road to ward off a collision with an oncoming carriage. The driver threw her a dark glower as the coach, bearing the crest of the Earl of Sandhurst, drove past.

  Artemisia looked away, determined not to attempt to peer into the coach’s windows to see who was within. She didn’t care. Not a whit.

  “Do you wish you’d married him?” Walter asked.

  The change of subject was so sudden, Artemisia jerked back on the reins, causing the horse to slow his gait in confusion. She hardly needed to ask whom Walter meant by “him.” Or what had brought on the question.

  It had been ten years. She was quite over Robert Beaumont. Despite that, the mere mention of this shameful chapter from her past scraped her to the bone. Because, as certain as she was that marriage to Beaumont would have been miserable and lonely, marrying him would have made her a respectable, upstanding lady. One who didn’t have to fear entering an apothecary shop or being seen driving on the high street with a vicar sitting beside her.

  “Yes, sometimes, I wish I had,” she admitted, carefully keeping the raw edge of bitterness from entering her voice.

  “Only sometimes?”

  A faint smile made her lips twitch. “Other times, I wish I’d pushed him down a well.”

  “I wish you had done that, too,” Walter said, with some vehemence. “In fact, I rather wish I could do it now.”

  Artemisia glanced at him in
surprise. “That seems rather bloodthirsty. Besides, I’m sure you’ve heard there were others who could have been…responsible.”

  At that, Walter frowned and shook his head. “We both know that isn’t true.”

  She might know, but there was no way he could. Moreover, it was better if he believed what everyone else did—that she was a born trollop, a slut who’d spread her legs at any opportunity. Because as long as he did, he would treat her accordingly and that, in turn, would allow her to treat him as the meaningless diversion he must remain.

  “You know no such thing. And we have pretty clearly established that I am not a woman of high moral principles. Why would you not believe what everyone else in Grange-Over-Sands has taken as gospel for more than a decade?”

  “Because I know you, Artemisia. I realize you are trying to keep me from knowing you, but it isn’t working. I’ve already got you sorted, and there is not even the slightest chance that you were carrying on with more than one man at a time.”

  She rolled her eyes. “You can’t possibly be sure of that. For all you know, I am carrying on with more than one man right now.”

  The bloody fool reached over and patted her on the knee. She looked down at his hand in horror. When people saw that…oh, it didn’t bear considering. Especially now that they were less than a block away from the vicarage.

  “Rubbish,” he said firmly, as though completely unaware of the risks he was taking. “You forget that I knew you in London. You were choosy then, even when you had half the male population of the ton panting at your heels and could have charged any sum for your favors. I hardly imagine you would’ve returned to Grange-Over-Sands to give it away free to a bunch of provincial yahoos who treat you badly.” He withdrew his hand and smiled a little sadly as she pulled the cart to a halt in front of the vicarage. “I’m quite certain you have a stronger sense of your own self-worth than that. Not to mention considerably higher morals than the vast majority of supposedly respectable people I’ve encountered over the years.”