As You Are Read Free

arrived at the house. She took a deep breath, willing her heart to return to its normal rhythm.
    One disadvantage of having only two servants, one who was obliged to look after the children when visitors called and the other whose duties were exclusively in the kitchen, was having to answer her own door. She never knew who was on the other side or what his intentions might be.
    She made her way slowly toward the front window. Keeping out of sight, she inched back the curtain, peering out. With an immediate surge of relief, she identified Mr. and Mrs. Whittle, the vicar and his wife. She knew logically that they would be the ones standing there. But a woman in her situation could never be too careful.
    “Good afternoon,” she said welcomingly as the couple stepped inside.
    They returned the greeting and were soon comfortably situated in the sitting room.
    Mrs. Henderson brought in the tea tray and set it on the table near Clara. Just as Mrs. Henderson stepped from the room, another knock sounded.
    “I will answer that before I go, ma’am,” Mrs. Henderson said, sticking her head back inside the sitting room.
    “Thank you.” Clara’s heart hammered once more. She exchanged a knowing look with Mrs. Henderson. Check first . Mrs. Henderson nodded her understanding. The kindhearted lady didn’t know exactly why Clara was so careful of any new arrivals, but she obliged her in taking a moment to identify visitors.
    In the next moment, the gentleman she’d invited stood in the doorway. He was intimidating and unfamiliar, but she wasn’t truly afraid of him. Not yet. Clara was tall for a woman, but he was taller. It never ceased to amaze her that his hair was precisely the color of a polished guinea. Clara’s hair was quite plainly brown. This man’s was pure gold.
    Shaking off the thought, Clara rose, as did the Whittles.
    “Would you be so good, Mr. Whittle,” Clara addressed the vicar, “as to perform an introduction? I fear this gentleman and I have not had the opportunity to be appropriately introduced.”
    “Of course. Of course.” Mr. Whittle spoke with his usual broad smile. “Mrs. Bentford, may I present Mr. Jonquil of Havenworth.”
    Havenworth? The impressive estate just west of Ivy Cottage? Edmund insisted on stopping whenever they walked past to watch the many horses there. Havenworth, she had heard, was a horse-breeding farm and a highly successful one at that.
    Clara curtsied as was expected, though she didn’t cross any closer to him. Men were best dealt with from a distance. Even Mr. Whittle, who had proven himself harmless time and again, would have set her on edge if he didn’t always come with his wife.
    Mr. Jonquil executed a very proper bow. He looked displeased, his eyes surveying the room. Under his arm, he held a prayer book—Clara’s, no doubt. He appeared to be muttering to himself.
    Might as well attend to the business at hand , Clara told herself. “I have your prayer book just over here, Mr. Jonquil.” She crossed to an end table near the fireplace, picked up the book, and turned, bracing herself to find him uncomfortably close. Mr. Jonquil, however, had not wandered an inch from the doorway.
    A strange gentleman, to be sure. Clara returned to where he stood and held the book out to him. “Thank you again for inventing a means of escape for us.”
    Mr. Jonquil nodded and traded books with her.
    “Escape?” Mr. Whittle asked, standing nearby.
    “The congregation descended upon us as we left the chapel on Sunday,” Clara explained, turning toward the vicar.
    “Oh dear,” Mrs. Whittle replied. “They do have a tendency to do that. Overly curious if you ask me.”
    “I would not mind for myself,” Clara lied—was it particularly wrong to lie in front of a vicar? “But it does unsettle Edmund.” That, at least, was the truth.
    “And Mr. Jonquil provided you with an escape route?” Mr. Whittle asked.
    “Yes.” Clara looked once more at Mr. Jonquil. He still appeared