Page 34 of The Lady's Companion
“We need all the practice we can get,” David said. “And I am late. Susan, if we become too much of a torment to ears accustomed to better singing in London churches, wander out among the gravestones, or count daffodils. We won’t be much above an hour.”
She was content to listen, and agree with the bailiff’s assessments of the choir’s abilities. Still, she reasoned, what they lack in competence, they make up for in enthusiasm. And it was hard to overlook the magic of a Welsh bass among the underendowed English. She decided that a few more Welshmen in the lower registers would make this a choir worth listening to. I imagine the curate longs to recruit beyond these borders, she thought, but I doubt that recruitment was a subject addressed during his study for Holy Orders.
And speaking of the curate, that could only be he, leading the music. Susan watched with amusement at first, and then interest, as the curate led his little choir through a somewhat labyrinthine Bach cantata. From her viewpoint, she could only regard his shoulders, which were rather narrow, and the back of his head, which at least contained abundant hair of an auburn shade. Come to think of it, he appeared to be all narrow planes and elbows. She was forcibly reminded of a marsh bird.
But an earnest one, she had to allow as the curate sang along, with his choir, his enthusiasm wholehearted. How intently they follow him, she observed. Well, almost all, she amended, turning her attention to Cora Skerlong in the contralto section, who traded lingering glances with a tenor. Good for you, Cora, she thought. It looks as though our bailiff will be casting about foranother milkmaid and girl of all work before long. She sighed. Perhaps I should volunteer. I don’t seem to be doing Lady Bushnell much good as lady’s companion, beyond affording her some amusement with my execrable piano playing.
I wonder that no one gives the bailiff looks like that, she thought idly, not that it’s a concern of mine. He isn’t beyond his early thirties, and so what if he lived a little harder during those years than most men? Heaven knows it makes him an interesting conversationalist, and after all, one cannot make love all the time. She sat up a little straighter. Susan, mind your thoughts.
She noticed a mouse scooting from the wall to the pew in front of her and hurriedly raised her feet to the prayer bench. David has all his hair—such a rich, dark color—and appears to have all his teeth, which is more than Cora’s tenor can boast, from the look of him. And while the bailiff is only a little taller than many Welshmen, he does not have that lightness of frame, she considered. He’s built to stay, and perhaps that does not appeal to some. And yet, if a young woman, or even one his age could sit with him before a fire, or watch him measure and regard his precious wheat, she might be inclined.
The mouse moved again and Susan tucked her feet under her. I had better stop worrying about tea and bailiffs and diligently apply myself to the pianoforte. A letter to Joel Steinman would be in order, too, although I have been threatening that for a week. Why didn’t I just give up and stay in London? Perhaps the bailiff is right about someone wanting me; stranger things have happened.
She turned her attention to the choir, willing the mouse away by ignoring it, and resolving to suggest that the bailiff offer the curate a kitten when they were born. One cat could do the job. It wasn’t a large church, such as she was used to in London. Sheep fold, manor, church, or inn, it is all the same in the Cotswolds,Susan decided after a thoughtful look around. The centuries sit lightly on stone. These buildings will be here long after I have stuck my spoon in the wall. She smiled, intrigued that while morbid, the thought was far from unpleasant. The bailiff could be right; maybe what I consider large issues really aren’t so important. I must remember to ask him sometime if he felt that way before Waterloo, or only after. Or it could be that I am a slow learner in the school of life.
Choir practice ended. She looked up in surprise at the silence, and then the voices blended now in idle chatter as singers hunted for cloaks, scarves, and mittens, and considered dinner and chores. Sitting in this chapel, one could become a philosopher, she thought, as the bailiff came down the aisle with the curate. She looked around for the mouse, decided it was gone, and put her feet on the stone floor again.
“Miss Hampton, this is our curate, Mr. Hepworth,” David Wiggins said.
She dipped a curtsy to the curate, discovering to her amusement that his front was all planes and angles, too. He had a kind face, though, and light eyes that held a welcome, even while his face blushed a fiery red. Only the charitable would call him handsome.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” she said, pleased to have some topic of conversation. “Mr. Hepworth, perhaps the bailiff will give you a kitten in a few weeks. Your church mice could use a challenge, I think.”
The curate blushed more vividly, then recovered himself. “I trust it will be a benevolent kitten, Mr. Wiggins,” he said, then returned his attention to Susan. “This is a sobering consideration, Miss Hampton. Here I had been thinking that the various squeals and exclamations from the congregation during my sermons were raptures over my scholarly doctrine and sophisticated wit.”
She laughed, delighted to know that somewhere far down in the church’s hierarchy there was a curate with a sense of humor. “You know them better than I, sir,” she replied, giving him the full benefit of her eyes. “But I do recommend a mouser.”
“Anything you wish, Miss Hampton,” Hepworth replied, his voice fervent. He extended his arm to her as the three of them walked toward the door.
She took it, and caught a glance from the bailiff just before he looked away for one of his oblique smiles. You are a matchmaker, sir, she thought, as she walked into the late-afternoon sun with the curate. He handed her into the gig as though she were made of cobwebs and eggshells, then took her hand again as the bailiff walked around the gig and climbed up beside her.
“Please give my regards to Lady Bushnell and tell her that I will pay her a parish call next week. It’s long overdue, more shame to me,” he said as he released her hand a finger at a time.
“I will, sir,” she said.
She could feel the bailiff chuckling beside her as they turned toward Quilling Manor. “I wonder why the sudden clerical interest in Lady Bushnell?” he mused. “Lady B won’t have anything to do with him. I think she’s irritated with God and His staff of well-wishers and do-gooders.”
Susan laughed. “That relieves my mind, sir! Here I had thought I was the only thorn in her side. If she doesn’t care much for the Almighty, either, then at least I am rubbing along in good company!” She leaned toward the bailiff. “Who does she like?”
He inclined his head her way. “Keep this under your bonnet, Susan, but I doubt that any of us measure up.”
She looked at him then up close, admiring his brown eyes and grateful that she was in no danger from the power of them, or the comfort of his presence alone. “Then it will fall to me to offer the curate tea and address some innocuous conversation his way?”
“I am certain of it, Susan.” He straightened up, assuming that bland tone that made her giggle inside. “Mr. Hepworth has a nice parsonage, with a housekeeper and a maid, I believe. He is a third son with two livings that I know of, so you could probably afford new shoes every year,” he teased.
“More than you could have offered me?” she teased back.
He smiled. “Jesusa went barefoot. It’s a good thing you already turned me down.”
They laughed together at the absurdity of it, but the bailiff offered no more suggestions as he turned off the main road to the manor and toward the stone buildings in the shelter of the low hills. “Ben Rich,” he said when she looked at him. He pulled out Joel Steinman’s glove. “You can present it to him.”
She took the glove, enjoying the buttery feel of the tanned kidskin as she removed her mitten and ran her finger across it. “My father used to spend more on gloves than I am to earn from a year with Lady Bushnell,” she said as she replaced her mitten. “I think that is one of the reasons I am so out of sorts with him.”
The bailiff whistled. “That is a lot,” he agreed, then put his head close to hers again and whispered. “Maybe you should hate him for ever and ever for that, and then some. Silly blighter. What is his excuse for living?”
“Wait, now, you’re speaking of my . ..” she began, then stopped. “You’re making fun of me,” she said firmly.
“Only a little,” he said. “Did he ever read to you, too, or brush your hair, or scold you when you needed it?”
