The vicar was a fawning sycophant who had pleaded with his superiors to be sentanywherebesides Chiddon, but to no avail. Farthing had been here some time before Beatrice’s arrival, whining at the fact he must give his sermons in the grass and not a proper church. He’d been sent to Chiddon by Castlemare, banished by the duke just as Beatrice had been. Probably for some minor infraction, such as not bowing low enough. Or daring to offer an opinion. God forbid, Farthing may have made eye contact with Castlemare.
I once found such things of utter importance.
“You frowned during church last week, Your Grace, and he spent the entire evening recounting each interaction you might have had which would account for your grievous mood toward him.” Melinda giggled. “I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was merely a headache brought on by sampling too much of Gates’s ale the previous day.”
“I am Gates’s patron,” Beatrice said primly, trying not to laugh. “If I am to offer my good name to his cause, I must sample the wares.”
“I quite agree.” Melinda lifted her teacup to her lips, eyes dancing with delight before glancing at the vicarage. “The vicar is working on his sermon inside, which I’m sure will be full of fire and brimstone with references to enjoying oneself too fully while having tea.”
Melinda spoke of her husband with practiced tolerance but loathed his attempts to curry favor with Beatrice. Thin chest puffed out like a rooster, Farthing would spot Beatrice in the village and fawn over her until she wanted to slap at him. He hoped Beatrice would use her influence to find him another post. One with prestige, unlike Chiddon.
Little did Farthing know, Beatrice possessed no power or influence outside of Chiddon. Castlemare’s family and his younger brother, who had inherited the title upon her husband’s death, had never liked her. Their joy at having Beatrice gone from their midst had not gone unnoticed. The Foxwoods had likewise abandoned her shortly after Castlemare’s banishment. Her place in society, once assured, had faded away. She was not missed. Not inquired after. Her friends, more hangers-on, had deserted Beatrice in an instant once they’d realized she was no longer of any use.
Poor Farthing.
Melinda sat back and picked up another biscuit, biting into it with relish. “Please thank Mrs. Lovington. I fear my baking skills are sorely lacking, which I realize nearly every time you bring me a proper tin of biscuits.”
“Melinda.” Beatrice traced the pattern of lace on the cloth covering the small table between them. “Are you familiar with the Earl of Blythe?” She’d been meaning to ask her friend all during tea. If there was an earl in Chiddon, a powerful one, it seemed impossible Vicar Farthing wouldn’t know of it.
“The Earl of Blythe?” Melinda frowned. “Sounds rather pompous. Not at all the sort of lord a poor vicar’s wife would associate with unless, of course, the earl was handsome and insisted on becoming acquainted.” She winked at Beatrice. “It wouldn’t hurt if he possessed a full head of hair matched with a striking pair of cheekbones.”
Vicar Farthing possessed neither.
Melinda, at times, reminded Beatrice quite a bit of Andromeda Barrington. An uncommon observation given that Andromeda would never have been Beatrice’s friend. But both women spoke their mind. Expressed opinions, unpopular or not. Possessed a bold wit and a bravado Beatrice often wished was hers.
She had admired Andromedaandbeen jealous of her.
I was quite terrible.
The firsttruefriend Beatrice had ever had was Melinda. The young ladies she’d known before had merely wished to be in her orbit, like tiny planets revolving around the sun Beatrice had once arrogantly imagined herself to be. They repeated her every thought. Agreed with her opinions. Were more than happy to turn on each other if Beatrice encouraged it. Rebecca, Lady Carstairs, was a perfect example.
“Melinda, you are a married woman. A vicar’s wife. You should be above such musings.”
“The good Lord gave me eyes and expects me to use them.” Melinda sipped her tea.
Beatrice laughed gaily. “You are terrible.”
“Terrible I may be, Your Grace. But without me, you’d be reduced to sipping tea with Mrs. Tidwell and her herd of boys. Seven, at last count. You’d leave every visit with crumbs in your hair or a frog hiding in your skirts. Besides, there is nothing wrong with admiring the beauty around me. Even yours.”
Beatrice’s lips hovered over the edge of her teacup. “I am no longer beautiful.”
“That is a matter of opinion.”
Melinda was the only person in Chiddon, save Peg and Mrs. Lovington, who had seen what lay beneath Beatrice’s thick golden hair, tied tightly with ribbon and pinned to the right side of her head. After sharing a nip of brandy one cold day—more than one—and feeling full of pity for herself, Beatrice had—ratherdramatically,according to Melinda—exposed her damaged cheek and neck. Closing her eyes, she’d waited, hands trembling, for Melinda to shriek in horror as Lady Foxwood had done upon seeing her daughter’s injuries.
Melinda had put down her brandy on a side table in Beatrice’s parlor. She’d peered closely at Beatrice’s cheek and shoulder, tracing one nail over a jagged scar. After asking if the skin stiffened or pained Beatrice overmuch, Melinda had suggested a combination of herbs for the bath and the use of the same ointment Jasper used on Cicero.
Then Melinda had calmly gone back to her brandy.
“Buy an assortment of ribbons, Your Grace. Wear your hair as you like. No one will question a duchess.”She’d taken Beatrice’s shaking fingers in her own. “It may not seem so, butCastlemare did you a great service in sending you to Chiddon. I do not believe it to be punishment but providence. A second chance of sorts.”
The memory fell away as the sunlight of the garden warmed the tip of Beatrice’s nose. Whatever would she have done without Melinda?
“I’m assuming you are acquainted with this Lord Blythe?” Melinda questioned, waving away a fly who was invading their tea tray.
“Years ago. Before.” Beatrice trailed her fingers along her cheek. “We are barely acquainted. We rarely, if ever, spoke. But Blythe and I revolved in the same circles. Were invited to the same events. I saw him often at balls and the like.”
And at a disastrous house party where Blythe had borne witness to her humiliation.
