Page 69 of Temptations of a Wallflower
There was a part of him, he had to admit to himself, that worried about her reception at Rosemead. What she’d make of the place. It was a simple English village. A far cry from the glamour and sophistication of London. Much quieter. Much more sedate. Would she be bored? Angry? He’d tried to be as honest as possible when describing it to her, and what her responsibilities would be as a vicar’s wife. But there was theory, then there was reality. The two weren’t often compatible.
At last the carriage rounded a bend, passing through a copse of ash trees. The vicarage came into view.
“Is that it?” Sarah asked, leaning forward, her hands on the frame surrounding the window.
“Your new home,” he announced.
They watched the low building as they approached. It was a small, two-story redbrick building, built for the vicar of Rosemead during the Tudor years. The roof was sharply sloped, and the windows were abundant but small. A garden of wild roses adorned the front, showing the last of the blooms before the cold set in. A low gate enclosed the front yard and wended its way around the whole property.
Standing in front of the gate were Mrs. Holland and Mr. Wolbert. Both of them looked eager to meet the new mistress of the vicarage.
Sarah drew in a breath, as if steeling herself. The carriage came to a stop, and before either Jeremy or the coachman could open the door, Mrs. Holland was already doing it, chattering away.
“My goodness, but you’ve had a long journey,” the older woman exclaimed. “Come all this way from London. You must be fair worn out. I’ve prepared cordials and cakes in the study and—”
“Sarah,” Jeremy said, stepping out and handing his new bride down, “this is Mrs. Holland, my housekeeper.”
Mrs. Holland dipped into a curtsy. “My lady,” she murmured.
“It’s an honor to meet you,” Sarah said, holding out her hand. The housekeeper shook it gingerly. “Jeremy spoke of nothing but your stews and pies the whole trip. I was fair famished just to hear of them.”
Mrs. Holland reddened appreciatively. “I’ll be happy to show you how to make them, my lady. That is,” she quickly corrected, “if you’ll be wanting to know your way around the kitchen.” A duke’s daughter likely understood the stillroom, but not the oven.
“Anything you can teach me will be greatly appreciated,” Sarah answered.
The housekeeper looked relieved. “Of course, my lady.”
“And this is Mr. Fred Wolbert, my curate,” Jeremy said, holding his hand out toward the man in question. He was slightly concerned, because Mr. Wolbert was a second-generation Briton, his freed grandparents having emigrated from Barbados. Jeremy had no idea how Sarah would react to being introduced to the curate.
“You’re the man that keeps everything running smoothly while my husband is gallivanting in London,” Sarah said, offering her hand.
“He leaves it in excellent condition for me,” Mr. Wolbert answered, shaking her hand. His smile flashed white in his dark brown face.
Jeremy silently exhaled at the exchange. There was nothing to fear here. He should have known.
“About those cordials,” Sarah said, turning back to Mrs. Holland. “The roads are so very dusty, and I know your refreshments will be excellent.”
“Right this way, my lady.” The housekeeper bustled ahead of them, with Mr. Wolbert following.
When the curate and housekeeper disappeared into the house, Jeremy pulled Sarah in close for a quick kiss.
“And the reason for that?” Sarah asked, leaning back with amusement and affection in her gaze.
“For being exactly the woman I knew you to be,” he answered.
Did a shadow pass across her face at his words? He had to believe it was all in his mind, because in a moment, she was smiling again.
“Let’s go inside, love,” she suggested. “Much as I want to keep kissing you, I think I’d rather do it without an audience.” She gazed meaningfully over his shoulder, and he turned around to see a herd of goats watching them from a field. One of them bleated in greeting.
With that welcome, Jeremy took Sarah’s hand and led her inside. He hoped that the two of them would find perfect happiness within the vicarage’s walls and that nothing could ever take that away.
Mrs. Holland refused to sit. She hovered in the doorway of the snug parlor as Jeremy, Sarah, and Mr. Wolbert took their tea and cordials. The housekeeper did consent to take a little sip of raspberry cordial, but she insisted that the cakes and other food were for the newlyweds—and the curate, though she sent him something of a baleful look as she said this.
“But surely you’ll have just a bite, the merest bite of this lemon fairy cake?” Sarah pressed, holding one out to Mrs. Holland.
“I really couldn’t,” the housekeeper asserted. “I made those especially for you.”
“And they are truly delicious.” Sarah took an appreciative nibble. “You ought to go to London with these cakes. You’d give Gunter’s and Catton’s a run.”
