Prologue
As a rule Vicar Humbly did not believe in premonitions.
He was a sensible man who did not seek ominous omens or hope for miraculous messages from above. Such flamboyant symbols did not suit a simple vicar.
But this morning he could not deny a vague sense of unease.
Three letters.
All delivered in this morning’s post.
Three letters from three separate brides, all of whom had haunted his conscience for the past several months.
Could it be a sign?
With a frown he tapped a finger upon his cluttered desk.
On first glance there was nothing in any of the letters to stir his concern. They contained nothing more than mundane details of the young ladies’ days, local gossip, and a hope that he was doing well.
But the mere fact that he had often worried over the fates of Addy, Beatrice, and Victoria made him sensitive to the realization that none of them revealed the giddy happiness that surely should be apparent in the letters from a new bride.
Indeed, they were oddly stilted as if each were afraid of revealing too much in their guarded words.
His notoriously soft heart clenched at the thought that they were in any way unhappy.
Perhaps he should not have ignored the doubts that had plagued him before he had agreed to perform the weddings. Although the marriages had been months apart, he could not deny that each had made him hesitate. Deep inside there had been a decided fear that all was not well with the three couples.
Poor Addy Morrow being wed to Mr. Drake who deeply disapproved of her vivid spirit.
Beatrice Chaswell who Humbly feared was being wed for her large fortune.
And Victoria Mallory who had been unexpectedly compromised and forced into marriage with a complete stranger.
Three marriages that had been chosen for reasons other than love.
Hoping to clear his muddled thoughts, Humbly left his desk and slipped through the open door to the garden beyond.
There were few things more delightful than Surrey in April, he decided as he carefully bent down to weed around his beloved roses.
Rare sunlight dappled the countryside, warming the soft breeze that was liberally laced with the scent of wild flowers. Butterflies danced in twirling patterns, while newborn foals awkwardly stretched their legs in a nearby pasture.
Even the distinctly shabby Vicarage with its worn red bricks and slate roof acquired a mellow beauty in the golden glow.
It was a day to appreciate one’s blessings, Humbly tried to tell himself. And he had a great deal to appreciate. A rich, full life in service of God. Remarkable health for a gentleman staring sixty directly in the eye. And dear friends that often filled the Vicarage.
And, of course, he would soon be leaving his duties to retire to a lovely cottage only a few miles away. At long last he would have ample time to devote to his garden and the freedom to indulge his fancy for titillating novels that he had always adored, but that had never seemed quite proper for a Vicar to read.
Yes, he should be in a joyous mood, he acknowledged with a faint sigh. But instead he found his thoughts dwelling upon those disturbing letters.
Could he truly retire in peace with the knowledge that three of the marriages he had blessed were in trouble?
Did he not have a duty to assure himself that he had done all that was possible to help those in his care?
He heaved yet another sigh as a shadow fell over him. Glancing up, Humbly regarded the iron gray hair and forbidding expression of the stout woman who towered over him.
Mrs. Stalwart had been the housekeeper at the Vicarage for the past thirty years. Like a seasoned general she kept his household running with a smooth perfection, turned aside those who would take advantage of his soft heart, and ensured that he was kept somewhat in order.
Not a day passed that he did not send up a small prayer of thanks for God’s good sense in bringing Mrs. Stalwart to his life. Even if she did tend to scold him as if he were six rather than sixty.
As if to prove his point, the housekeeper placed her hands upon her ample hips and glared down at his rumpled form.
“I thought I would find you here.”
“Oh, Mrs. Stalwart.” He conjured his most innocent smile. “Is it time for tea?”
She gave a loud snort. “Tea will be served at four as usual. I thought you were devoting the afternoon to sorting through the books in the library?”
“Yes, well, it was such a lovely day I decided to spend a few moments tending to the roses.”
“Fah.” The wily old woman was not fooled for a moment. “You are dawdling. Shall I attend to the books myself?”
Humbly shuddered in horror. Mrs. Stalwart might be the very best of housekeepers, but she had no love for his precious books. Given the opportunity she would no doubt pitch the lot of them in the nearest fire.
“Certainly not,” he said firmly. “Only I know which references must remain and which I may take to the cottage.”
Not about to be diverted, she lifted an iron gray brow. “Then make a list. I can read.”
Ignoring the protest of his knees, Humbly rose to his feet. It was difficult to possess a measure of dignity while a large woman hovered over him.
“I am not leaving today, Mrs. Stalwart. It will be six months before the new Vicar arrives.”
“Good thing, since you have not so much as packed a candlestick.”
Too accustomed to the woman’s gruff manner to take offense, Humbly merely smiled.
“Everything in its time, my good lady. We must enjoy what the Lord has given us this day. Beautiful sunshine, a lovely breeze. It would be a sin to waste such a blessing.”
“You may save such sermons for the pulpit,” she warned him, her shrewd gaze noting his air of distraction. “I know you far too well. Whenever you begin weeding the roses it is a sure sign that something is troubling you.”
A faint hint of color touched his plump cheeks. It was disconcerting to realize he was so very predictable.
“Ah well, as one becomes old we must expect the occasional troubles. Aches and pains, and of course, one’s digestion is always so unpredictable. I do hope Mrs. Graves has prepared a few of her lemon tarts for tea. They always settle my stomach.”
Distracted at last, Mrs. Stalwart lowered a disapproving gaze to his comfortably rounded midsection.
“You mean they settle around your stomach,” she corrected. “I have had to move the buttons on your waistcoat on three occasions during the past year. You will have to settle for cucumber sandwiches.”
Humbly grimaced in distaste. “Judas.”
Unrepentant, the woman tapped an impatient foot upon the graveled path.
“And I was not speaking of your constitution. You have been fretting and brooding since the morning post arrived. Are you disappointed that a new Vicar has been chosen?”
“Gracious, no. I shall be quite happy to settle in my cottage with nothing to concern me beyond my garden,” he was able to deny in all truth.
“Then what has you so unsettled?”
Realizing that the tenacious woman was not to be easily distracted, Humbly gave in to the inevitable.
“ ‘From the fruit of his words a man is satisfied with good and the work of a man’s hand comes back to him,’ ” he quoted softly.
She offered him a puzzled frown. “What does that mean?”
He gave a faint shrug. “Perhaps it is only the eccentricities of an old man, but I can not leave my position with a clear conscience. Not when I fear that I have been neglectful in my duties.”
Mrs. Stalwart swiftly bristled with indignation at the hint he had somehow been remiss in his responsibilities.
“Absurd. You have dedicated yourself to your duties for forty years. How many nights have you gone out to comfort the sick and dying? Or trudged through the rain to visit the orphanage? I should like to give anyone a piece of my mind who would say you ain’t done your duty.”
Humbly could not help but smile at the woman’s fierce loyalty. He did not doubt she would readily thrash anyone daring to insult him within her hearing.
“Thank you, Mrs. Stalwart, but it is in my own heart that I am uneasy.”
“What is it then?”
“Just an old man’s fancy, no doubt, but I should like to be sure,” he murmured, his thoughts returning to the three letters lying in his library. Dare he meddle in what was by rights a holy sacrament between a man and a woman? Could a feeble Vicar do more than cause even more troubles? Then again, could he be satisfied if he did not make some sort of effort? Dear heavens, it’s all very confusing. Still, he supposed that deep inside he had already made his decision. If one of his flock was in need of him, then he could not turn his back. “God’s will can occasionally use a helping hand.”
“Does this mean you will not be packing away those musty books?”
“Do not fret. I shall attend to them the moment I return.”
“Return? Where are you going?”
Humbly took a moment to consider. He supposed that it was only sensible to impose some order on his vague plans. Addy and Adam had been married the longest. He would begin with them.
“I shall be traveling to London,” he said in decisive tones.
“London?” Mrs. Stalwart was understandably shocked. Humbly rarely traveled more than a few miles from the Vicarage. He firmly believed his place was among his people, not gadding about the more fashionable neighborhoods. She gave a click of her tongue. “I fear that the sun has gone to your head. Return to the library and I will see to your tea.”
Not wishing to endure a lengthy lecture on the dangers of London, Humbly merely smiled with pleasure.
“Please do not forget the lemon tarts.”
“Cucumber sandwiches,” she corrected, turning about her considerable bulk to march back into the Vicarage.
Sifting through the numerous details that would have to be attended to before he could comfortably travel to London, Humbly reached into his pocket and removed a napkin containing a lemon tart he had earlier filched from the kitchen.
At least in London he would be free to indulge his love for sweets, he thought with a faint smile.
He could only pray he was making the proper decision. And that he was not about to do more harm than good.
He had precious little experience in playing Cupid.