Warmth flushed over her at the admiration in his voice. “It must have been a spectacle.”
“The vicar gave you a lecture. Mr. Hickinbottom gave you a sheep.”
“He did?”
“Aye.”
“What happened to it?”
“Mutton stew.” He laughed. “Ye hated to eat anything ye’d named, but yer uncle wanted it gone soon as ye carried it into the shop. It bleated a whole night before he lost his patience.”
How very much she wanted to take in his words, live and breathe them, until they colored all the emptiness of her mind. “Tell me more.” A strange homesickness wafted through her. “Anything about me. Or my uncle. What we were like.”
“Ye laughed a lot.” Tom shook his head, tender crinkles at his eyes. “Come evening, especially. When ye were tired. When it was the three of us.”
“We spent a great deal of time together.”
“Aye.”
“Did you …” She regretted the question that almost slipped out. When Tom raised a brow, she plunged forward anyway. “You spent time with other village girls too, I presume?”
He seemed a little surprised by her curiosity. A little pleased too—annoyingly so.
“Not that it matters to me.” Meg shrugged. “I just supposed you did.”
“Why?”
“I—well, because—”
“Ye think me a wee bit handsome?” The daring grin that widened his lips made her glare.
“Certainly not.Sir.” The last she added with no small amount of defiance as she tightened even closer to her end of the box pew.
Tom did not seem bothered. He leaned closer, his intentions unclear, when—
Voices and footsteps echoed behind them. An elderly couple bustled down the aisle, paused in cheerful greeting, and found their seats at the front of the church.
“Later,” Tom whispered. What had he been ready to say? Or do?
As a clock on the wall ticked by at an irritating rate, others wandered in. A mother with five towheaded children, a trio of three young maids, more husbands with their wives.
When the bell struck its first booming note, Joanie and Meade slipped into the box pew behind them. He clapped Tom on the shoulder. “Nod off and I’ll be hammering the back of your head.”
“Might need to do the same to ye, after last night,” said Tom.
Meg glanced back at the blacksmith. She had never seen his hair slicked back and his skin scrubbed clean of the usual soot. Despite the tidiness of his appearance, however, his eyes were red rimmed.
Joanie brightened. “I brought this for you.” She handed over two light-pink hollyhocks. “I made Meade stop along the road so I could pick them.”
“Oh, they are lovely.” A little drooping, a little hand crushed, but sweeter than all the perfect blooms in the Penrose garden. The innocent token of friendship startled Meg with gratitude—and comfort.
The bell ceased.
The vicar climbed his pulpit, wearing a white surplice and bands, and read in a scratchy voice from theBook of Common Prayer.Sunlight glowed behind him. Everything hummed around her, tiny noises—one of the tots whimpering, a pew creaking, Meade hiccupping behind them.
And Tom.
She detected his breathing and was far too aware of every twitch he made. She was not certain if she had shifted or he had, but the inches between them had lessened.
