A Proper Companion. Louise Gouge M.
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eyes. He looked her way and the anger disappeared, replaced by a wry grin and accompanied by a shrug.
The door was opened by an elderly, black-clad gentleman. The light in his pale blue eyes reminded Anna of Papá. In fact, his entire facade and bearing resembled a man of God.
Lady Greystone stepped back. “Mr. Partridge.” She peered beyond him into the dimly lit room. “Has Mrs. Winters—”
“No, no, madam.” The gentleman emitted a scratchy chuckle. “She is well enough for her many years.”
The major leaned toward Anna to mouth “the vicar.”
A bittersweet pang tore through her, but she forced a smile. Her intuition had been correct. But did he live here? Was this humble dwelling the vicarage? The church stood at the far end of the village, whereas her father’s church had been next door to their home. And she could not think a wealthy peer such as Lord Greystone would house his clergyman so meanly.
“Well,” Lady Greystone huffed. “Will you grant me entrance or not?”
“Of course, madam.” The vicar gave her a slight bow. The warmth in his eyes as he moved back revealed a respect uncluttered by trepidation.
The party moved into the room, except for Matthews, who waited outside.
“Now, Winters.” Lady Greystone approached a grey-haired woman hunched into an upholstered armchair. “What’s all this? Have you called the vicar for last rites?”
Anna could detect no kindness in Lady Greystone’s tone, but like the vicar, the old woman smiled without fear. Anna deposited the observation in her memory to consider later.
“No, my lady. Just holy communion. I cannot travel the distance to the church, so he brings it to me.”
Once again Anna felt a sweet pang of remembrance. Papá used to offer the same service to his elderly parishioners. Perhaps her emotions showed on her face, for Major Grenville gently squeezed her elbow as if he understood.
“Of course. Just as he should.” Lady Greystone sat in the straight-backed chair next to the old woman and set her basket on a battered side table. “Now, I have brought you some of Cook’s apple tarts, bread and lamb stew, along with a bit of tea and some cream.”
“All of that and cream, too? Oh, my lady, how grand.” Mrs. Winters’s eyes glistened. “Thank you.”
“Nonsense.” Lady Greystone clicked her tongue and her hawk-like features sharpened. “It is your due for faithful service, and my duty to provide it.”
“Yes, my lady.” Mrs. Winters adjusted her spectacles. “Is this my Edmond?” She reached out to the major. “Oh, dear boy, come close so I may see you.” Now her tears slipped down her wrinkled cheeks.
The major knelt by her chair. “Hello, my dear Winnie.” He kissed her cheek, and she patted his.
Watching the encounter, Anna’s heart performed a dozen somersaults. Not only was she touched by the major’s gentle gesture, but she also longed to know more about this old woman, more about the vicar. These were gentle souls, people to whom God had brought her that she might minister to them. Her grateful prayer was cut short when the old nurse’s gaze fell on her.
“And who is this lovely creature you have brought to me? Edmond, is this your bride?”
Laughter bubbled up inside of Anna over such a silly assumption, but the major jolted to attention, and shock covered his handsome countenance. “Why, no—”
Lady Greystone uttered a mild, unladylike epithet. “She is nothing of the sort. Nothing at all, really. My new companion, if she pleases me.”
The woman’s expression grew sober, except for her eyes, which danced merrily. “As you say, my lady.”
The major swallowed noisily next to Anna while his mother opened her basket. “As you already have an unseasonable fire burning, shall we have tea?”
“Ah.” Mrs. Winters turned her attention to that offer. “How lovely. Mr. Partridge, will you put on the kettle?”
“Nonsense.” Lady Greystone waved the vicar back to his chair. “Newfield, see to it.”
Grateful to be useful at last, Anna hurried to the small hearth where she dipped fresh water from a crock into a battered tin kettle, hung the kettle on the iron arm and swung the arm over the amber coals. A gentle stir with a poker ignited the flames, and soon steam wafted from the kettle spout. She hesitated before measuring tea leaves into the porcelain teapot. Did Lady Greystone like weak or strong tea? She glanced behind her to see the viscountess inspecting Mrs. Winters’s knitting project.
“You waste too much dye on your wool,” Lady Greystone said. “A pale scarf is as warm as a dark one for these village children. They’ll turn them dark soon enough in their games.”
Economy seemed to be the lady’s watchword, so Anna measured two scant spoonfuls of tea leaves into the pot and poured in boiling water. Once it had steeped she served the others, and to her relief, no one complained about the weakness of the beverage.
“Will you not have a cup, my dear?” Mrs. Winters gazed at Anna as if she were an old friend.
“Why—” Anna glanced at the major for direction, but quickly shifted her gaze to Lady Greystone. The lady’s eyebrows quirked briefly in what seemed to be assent. “Thank you, ma’am.” She chose a cup and saucer from the mismatched china on the mantelpiece and savored the warmth of the tea against the chill of the room. Truly, it was not too soon for old Mrs. Winters to have a fire, but Anna could hardly admonish her employer.
While Lady Greystone conversed in low tones with the old woman and the vicar, Anna stood by the hearth and studied the cozy but sparsely furnished parlor. Dark green drapes were drawn aside from two small windows, permitting sunlight to brighten the room. The plaster walls were painted pale green, and wrought iron sconces hung above the faded settee where Major Grenville sat looking a bit sour.
Was he still dismayed over the old woman’s erroneous assumption about their relationship? If so, he really should learn to laugh a bit more at such ridiculous conjectures. After all, she was clearly in mourning, and her black lace cap bespoke a spinster not seeking a husband. He was an aristocrat not likely to marry someone of her station.
Never mind. People would soon understand it all. While the gentleman would make a fine husband for some fortunate lady, Anna would not be the one. The thought generated a modicum of sadness, but she refused to give place to such nonsensical feelings. After all, scripture taught that a merry heart doeth good, like medicine. Through many experiences she had seen that laughter was the best remedy for any unhappiness, the wisest contradiction for any false speculations.
Perhaps she should teach him how to play “What’s the worst thing?” as her family used to do.
* * *
Edmond could hardly keep from squirming on the settee, not just because of its lumpy seat or his aching leg, but because dear Winnie had created an awkward situation. If Miss Newfield sat beside him or if he stood and offered her his place, the old nurse would tease again, and Mother might begin to view the girl as a threat and cast her out. While her sons’ occupations held first place in her machinations, not far behind was her determination that they should marry well to someone of their own class. More times than he could count, she had railed against aristocrats who married members of the gentry. Such unions not only tainted the blood, she claimed, but they created disorder by lifting unworthy souls above their God-given place on the Great Chain of Being. Thus these marriages were nothing short of sin.
Edmond had always accepted her reasoning, for every aristocrat he knew held that view. Of late, however, he had begun to reconsider, particularly after a superior man named Peter Newfield died in his stead. And as each hour and day passed, Edmond grew more and more determined that Newfield’s sister must never want for security.
For the present, however, the only safe course