Charity had not really asked herself whether she expected Mr. Edwards to call again soon. It was the sort of question that young ladies who were in love asked, or at least, young ladies who were toying with the possibility of being in love.

She thought back to how she had felt the day that she had been hoping that Mr. Harding would call. The flood of fears and feelings, the heady sense of joy when she had heard his approach.

When she was informed that Mr. Edwards was waiting in the drawing room she was somewhat pleased. Nothing more, nothing less. The idea of seeing the lively young man was a pleasant one, but there was no accompanying quickening of her heartbeat.

When she entered the drawing room, her father was already sitting with Mr. Edwards, wearing an expression more jovial than she had seen on his countenance for a long time indeed.

“Is not it a glorious day outside?” the Reverend Miller asked cheerfully, gesturing out of the window. It was true that there were patches of blue sky here and there, peering tentatively through a thick layer of white cloud. It was not bad weather, but it was not the sort to convince one to stir outdoors if one was already disinclined to do so.

“You’re so fond of walking, Daughter,” he continued. “I wonder if you and I and Mr. Edwards might take a little turn together. Perhaps there is some pleasant path that I am not well acquainted with. Certainly, I would like for Mr. Edwards to see the neighborhood to the greatest advantage, is it not so?”

“Of course, Papa,” she replied. She did not look at Mr. Edwards, but she was sure that if he were half as intelligent as he had seemed in their previous meetings, then he would be able to see through her father’s orchestrations. She knew that the Reverend Miller would stir a few paces and then insist that his rheumatism was troubling him, urging the young people to walk ahead so that he could rest a while.

It was not nearly as subtle a plan as he seemed to believe it to be.

Nonetheless, she saw no reason why they should not take a walk together. It would be better, at least, than sitting stiffly on the uncomfortable furniture of the drawing room, trading in banal niceties. At least, she might be able to have a rational, distracting conversation with Mr. Edwards, if her father was not hanging on their every word and doing his best to orchestrate the direction of their talk.

The day had grown less fine even between their agreement to go walking and the moment they stepped outdoors. Indeed, Charity could discern a great cluster of thunderclouds not a very significant way off and wondered whether they would be able to walk long enough for the rite to be completed before the heavens opened.

They walked together for a while. As she had expected, the Reverend Miller lagged behind a good deal, claiming by turn that he needed to re-lace his boot, or admire a particularly fine tree, or pause for a moment to catch his breath. At every one of these excuses he urged the two young people to ‘walk on — do not mind the shilly-shallying of an old man’.

They conversed amiably for ten or fifteen minutes. Charity inquired as to the content of Mr. Edwards’ sermons and how he went about writing them, and he gave answers that were genial and sensible, if not notably inspiring. Charity could hardly say that the conversation was captivating her, but certainly, she was enjoying it tolerably well.

She was about to ask him how he planned to help in alleviating the poverty that was so rife in his parish when the sight of a familiar figure striding down the road made her catch her breath.

It was Mr. Harding. She would recognize his tall figure, the line of his muscular shoulders, the purposeful character of his walk, in any context that she saw it.

Mr. Edwards followed the line of her gaze and saw the figure too.

“Who is that?” he inquired, his cheerful tone suggesting that the inquiry was perfectly genuine, that he hadn’t the least idea of who Mr. Harding was, and consequently could have made no pre-judgement regarding his guilt or lack thereof. “He appears from his bearing to be a gentleman, yet I thought I had been introduced to most of the persons of note in these parts?”

“He is a gentleman,” Charity said quietly so that Mr. Harding would not hear her pronouncement. “A gentleman indeed, but one who finds himself in certain outlandish circumstances.”

“Would you be so good as to make the introduction?” Mr. Edwards asked. Charity became very conscious that her arm was still linked to his. From behind them, she could hear the puffing sound of her father approaching.

“Naturally,” she replied, her balanced tone contrasting somewhat with her quickening breath and racing eyes.

“I should be glad to introduce you to the gentleman,” her father’s voice interrupted, while Mr. Harding was still thirty paces or more away. He lifted his hat to Mr. Harding and hailed him in a tone that was chilly but bore the unmistakable polish of politeness of the kind that could not be ignored without a grave infringement of manners. “Good day to you, Mr. Harding!”

At the Reverend’s words, Charity saw from the corner of her eye Mr. Edwards’ countenance change. She realized that he must have been acquainted with Mr. Harding by reputation, even if he did not know him by sight.

“Reverend Miller,” Mr. Harding said, removing his hat. “Miss Miller.”

She met his eyes for a second and saw the familiar fire there, but it was as though a grate had been placed in front of the flames to prevent them from burning too wildly. Mr. Harding’s eyes immediately shifted to Mr. Edwards, clearly waiting for the introduction to be made.

His expression was not friendly, and Charity could see him taking in the way they were standing, the way that her arm was laced with Mr. Edwards’. She knew that he must have seen them from some way off, and knew, too, how he must have perceived the situation.

“Mr. Harding, you know my daughter Charity, of course,” the Reverend Miller said, with a smoothness that belied the rocky circumstances under which the three of them had last met. “And please allow me to introduce you to Mr. George Edwards, a clergyman new to these parts.”

Mr. Harding bowed to Mr. Edwards, with all the grace that befitted a man of his rank, but with none of the cordiality that Charity knew to be a natural part of his own character.

The gesture was returned in a far more friendly mode. Clearly, Mr. Edwards was not aware of the layer of tension that had descended upon the rest of the group.

“If you are the Mr. Harding of whom I have heard so much, then I must ask you to hail your father on my behalf,” Mr. Edwards said with great geniality. “It is thanks to him that I have had the good fortune to take over the living of my new parish.”

“Thank you, sir, I will,” Mr. Harding replied stiffly. It occurred to Charity that Mr. Edwards could scarcely have said anything less tactful, given the state of estrangement that still existed between Mr. Harding and his father.

“Mr. Edwards has not been long in the neighborhood,” the Reverend Miller continued cheerfully, “But already, I must say, a marvelous intimacy has formed between him and our family. I do my best, of course, but for young people, there really is no substitute for company of the same age, would you not agree, sir?”

“Certainly.” Mr. Harding did not look as though he wished to acquiesce to any appeals to him, but his manners were too good to contradict the Reverend, particularly in the presence of a new acquaintance. “I am very glad to hear that Miss Miller and Mr. Edwards have found such stimulating company in one another.”

The look that he gave Charity — a half-smile that broke her heart clear in two — showed her that, at least upon some level, he did wish that he might be happy for her. Evidently, he thought that there was some kind of understanding between herself and Mr. Edwards, and was doing his best to convey to her, without using so many words, that he wished her joy.

But we are not engaged! She wanted to cry out. If he were to ask me, then I should say no!

It was not long — yes, it did not seem like long — before Mr. Harding made his excuses and bade the party farewell.

He gave Charity one final, burning look as he took his leave, and at that moment she found herself thinking desperately how she might forsake the company of her father and Mr. Edwards to follow him. In the moments when she looked at him and he at her, it felt as though it mattered not what anyone thought. It mattered not even what he had done, so long as she could be with him.

That same thought frightened her greatly. As he walked away, with his long coat billowing far behind him, she observed to herself that it was perhaps a blessing in disguise that she was not at liberty to speak from her heart in this instance.

She still had every reason to believe that Mr. Harding was a rogue, to a greater or lesser degree, and as such, she was grateful that the presence of her father and Mr. Edwards prevented her from throwing herself upon his power.

Charity was only distantly aware of Mr. Edwards observing to her father what a ‘pleasant, gentlemanly person’ Mr. Harding was.

If only you could know how he must feel about you in return, Charity thought with a sort of grim humor. I suspect that he would not repay the compliment in kind, although that is indeed a great injustice.

Perhaps, she thought to herself as the party of three returned up the lane toward the vicarage, it was time to discard that which made her quicken, to no longer think upon those burning looks.

Perhaps it was time to think sensibly, wisely. To embrace the open-heartedness of a man like Mr. Edwards over the brooding passions of Mr. Harding, with all his apparent sins and mysteries.

Perhaps, she thought to herself, as she stood in the drawing room and heard the first clap of the approaching thunder. But then again, perhaps not.