Page 78 of Temptations of a Wallflower
He’d never talked to anyone the way he talked with Sarah. She held his heart in her capable hands.
“Anything you say to me, I will keep between us,” Sarah assured the other woman.
“You won’t even tell your husband?” Mrs. Edmonds pressed. “I’ve never seen a couple so lost in each other. The vicar has the world in his eyes whenever he looks at you.”
Heat filled Jeremy’s face. It was a good thing he didn’t play cards—bluffing had never been his strength.
He could well imagine the blush that likely stained Sarah’s cheeks at this statement, too. She concealed little from anyone; her honesty was humbling and inspiring.
“Nothing we speak of today shall leave this parlor,” Sarah assured Mrs. Edmonds.
Jeremy couldn’t resent his wife’s discretion where this was concerned. He had to keep the confidences of an entire parish. Secrets overburdened him, but he had to keep silent. She never pressed him for more.
Which meant he really had to move along, lest he hear things he wasn’t supposed to. So, as silently as he could, he crept down the hallway toward his study. He had lessons to plan for his thrice-weekly school sessions.
Teaching the village children remained a constant pleasure. Of all his duties as vicar, educating young minds continued to be his favorite. He loved watching their faces as they took in new knowledge, and he carefully answered every question that was put to him. He firmly believed in listening rather than grinding in education by rote. Dull obedience made for an even duller mind. This wasn’t always a popular approach, yet he managed to retain most of his students even after their compulsory years had passed.
This, too, he spoke of to Sarah in the depths of night. And always, she listened.
He reached his study, crammed full of books and papers. It was a comfortable room, not particularly elegant or sophisticated. Propped up on one of the bookshelves stood a recent addition—a framed sketch, done by a local mercer who was also an artist, of Sarah sitting under an elm tree, reading. Jeremy often studied that drawing. Whenever he did, the restlessness that sometimes scraped at him calmed, and he felt both peaceful and expansive.
He stood before it now, admiring the strong line of her profile as she bent over her book. Mrs. Edmonds was not the only village woman to seek Sarah’s counsel. Many of his female parishioners had appeared at their door over the past month, each eager to consult with her. At first, Sarah had been a little reluctant to offer advice.
“Who am I,” she had asked at supper one night, “to tell anyone how to live their lives?”
“Perhaps they see a woman willing to listen without judgment,” he’d answered. “Which is what many of us need.”
She’d poked at her roast pigeon. “They think I’m some grand and sophisticated lady from London. But to many, I’m just a wallflower.”
He’d taken her hand, gripping it tightly, and stared into her eyes. “You’re notjustanything. You are yourself, and that, my love, is everything.”
She had kissed him, then. Hotly. And the rest of the meal had gone uneaten.
Since that time, she had received the women of Rosemead with grace and confidence. The visits took up a considerable amount of her time, like the copious amounts of correspondence she seemed to engage in. She often sequestered herself in her own study, writing letters every day, for hours. Her mother never wrote her, as Sarah’s father had insisted, but that didn’t stop Sarah from penning her own missives.
She had told him that she also occupied her time with writing a journal, and though he was surprised that a country vicar’s wife could find so much to write about, he was glad she wasn’t bored. He had feared that her new role would fill her with ennui, but that hadn’t come to pass, and for that, he felt gratitude.
Turning away from Sarah’s portrait, he moved toward his desk. He planned on reviewing geometry and history with his students this week, and both subjects required considerable planning. But as he sat down, he noticed a letter waiting for him, sitting atop a stack of books.
His father’s handwriting on the exterior of the letter was unmistakable. A traitorous sinking pitched in Jeremy’s stomach. He hadn’t heard from the earl since his wedding, and his father was seldom one to simply jot off a note of greeting. Clearly, Lord Hutton wanted something.
After a moment’s hesitation, Jeremy broke the red wax seal, marked with the insignia of the Earl of Hutton, and read.
It was, in fact, a command. The letter detailed that rumors circulated: the Lady of Dubious Quality was to publish a new book within the next few weeks. This, Lord Hutton insisted, could not stand. Jeremy had to return to London immediately to resume his search for the author and expose her before this newest novel could reach an eager, susceptible public. No reply to the letter was expected, as Jeremy was to obey it at once.
He set the missive aside, seething.
Jeremy was a grown man, with employment and a wife. He glanced at a blank sheet of paper and had the impulse to write his father back, refusing to journey back to the city. Anger surged at the imperiousness of the earl’s tone, his expectation that he would be obeyed in all things. Yet if Jeremy disobeyed, his father would hound him mercilessly. Lord Hutton’s tenacity was the stuff of legend. In Parliament, he ground down opponents with the force of his moralizing will. No one denied him anything. They couldn’t. The earl refused any attempts to say no.
How could he tell his father that his life here in Rosemead was too full, too encompassing? Such notionswould be rejected. Duty came first to the earl. And a son’s duty was to his father.
And if he exposed the Lady of Dubious Quality?
He didn’t want to. He wanted to preserve her secrecy. Through her, he’d learned the many ways of pleasing a woman, and for that, he felt profound gratitude. Sarah rose from bed—or the sofa, or the table, or the floor—with a smile on her face. A smile he’d put there. He’d not give up those smiles for the world.
How could he reconcile himself to this? The responsibility his father demanded, the threats he made, and Jeremy’s own desires?
The cage seemed so small around him, cutting off freedom.
