He could not remember the last time he had met a person who made him contort his mind to comprehend her—to pin her down as this or that. There was a singularity to her that seemed to defy classification. An originality that was precious—worth protecting.
And he was failing at it.
He knew it was not his fault that the weather had turned too severe to finish the journey, but he felt responsible. And disappointed, for he had hoped it was within his gift to lift the burden of worry from Alice, rather than to contribute to its protraction.
(And was there not, if he was honest, a selfish motive too? Had he not wanted her to look at him and know that, whatever their philosophical differences, he had come to her aid? Had he not wanted her admiration, or at least her gratitude?)
(He had. Nay, he still did.)
But he had only added to her worries.
Why had he debated with her? If the Lord wished for Henry to remind Alice of His love for her, surely discussing sin and punishment was not the way. He should have told her of the way the Lord could hold you. The comfort of the endless, awe-inspiring sacrifice of Christ.
He’d done exactly as his father always said: put principle ahead of people.
And now he sat beside this girl he’d failed, braced in the shameful echo of the words he’d known were true for an hour, but had not been able to bring himself to voice until this moment: I’m not able to get you to Fleetwend in this weather.
He snuck a glance at her, fully expecting to see contempt written on her face for his inability to do what he had promised. Fully feeling he had earned it.
But she merely looked up at the sky and nodded.
A realist, apparently, Alice Hull. He was not sure why this surprised him.
“There was a sign for an inn a half mile away. Leave me there and I’ll catch the next mail coach that comes through once the snow stops. You’ve been more than generous in taking me this far.”
“No, of course not. We’re near enough to my father’s house to make it there. I’ll take you with me and as soon as the roads are passable, we’ll drive on to your mother’s. If the weather clears overnight, we could get there by mid-morning.”
She looked at him like he had sprouted horns. “You want to take me to your family home?”
He nodded, not acknowledging the implication of her question, though he knew very well what she must be thinking.
“It’s no imposition,” he said quickly. “They have plenty of space.”
She laughed softly. Lack of space would not be the reason for their objection to bringing home a woman such as Alice, and her eyes made clear she knew this as well as he did.
“And how were you planning to explain where you’d collected the likes of me, Reverend?”
Well, he couldn’t.
He had offered to take her to Fleetwend assuming that he could deliver her to her door without anyone who knew him learning he’d driven a woman of questionable character alone across the countryside. If it became gossip, there would be the question of propriety—perhaps damage to his reputation. But more immediately, he could not set off this delicate reunion with his father on the wrong footing. Which meant he could not tell his family who she was.
He would have to lie.
He’d known this, abstractly, but it felt much worse now that he had to suggest a deceit aloud.
“I will introduce you to my parents as a widow. Mrs. Hull. A member of my fellowship on her way to visit her ailing mother.”
The unsavory nature of the request felt sour leaving his mouth—not least because it would no doubt confirm her view of his questionable ethics.
“I mean no offense,” he added quickly. “Truly. It’s just that … my father is sensitive to the appearance of things, and he would not approve of me driving an unchaperoned maiden.” He did not add that if his father knew the nature of the work of this particular unchaperoned maiden, he would without question throw them both out of his house, and likely never speak to Henry again.
Nor would he be discreet about his reasons why.
Rumors could get back to Reverend Keeper. It was imperative Henry prevent gossip. His future depended on the Reverend’s belief that he was reformed.
Alice drummed her fingers on her knee. “I will not cause trouble for you Henry. You may say whatever you like. But I’m confused. Is it not a sin to lie to one’s own family?”
He sighed. “It is. But the greater sin would be to leave you stranded when your mother is ailing, and it is in my gift to take you home.”
“Ah, I see. You uphold your own morality.” She scrunched up her mouth, a pronounced twinkle in her eye.
He had to grant her grudging respect. He, too, liked to gloat upon winning arguments.
“I see your point. But I would argue that my father’s objections are not rooted in morality. My father would disapprove of my driving you home because it lacks the appearance of respectability. From a moral standpoint, I know that I would not behave in such a way that your respectability or mine would be called into question, whatever the appearance. The appearance is not what is important to me if the intention and result are good.”
She looked at him earnestly. “I’m teasing, Henry. I understand your relationship is strained. I’ll do whatever I can to help you. Whatever you need me to say or do, just ask.”
Her sudden sincerity touched him. He prayed there would not be call to ask—that the weather would clear with the sunrise, and he would have no further cause to perpetuate untruths.
“Thank you, Alice.”
She shrugged. “Such are the advantages of an immoral woman.”
Despite his low mood, he laughed. She smiled broadly, like she was pleased to have amused him. That is, until he drove past the forested outer grounds of his father’s land, and the rolling hillocks came into view. On the highest of them sat his father’s house, grand and large enough for ten families, all its windows lit with candles. Such a waste.
“Foreskin of Christ!” Alice uttered, gazing at it like it was something tasty she could eat.
He nearly choked. “Alice, please. You mustn’t speak that way.”
She continued gaping, unperturbed. “You live here?”
He shook his head. “Not me.”
Her eyes had gone as large and round as sixpence in her dainty head. She’d obviously not been expecting him to hail from an estate like landed gentry. And in truth, he didn’t. His father had purchased the estate when Henry’d been eleven and already at school. The glass-monger’s airs in buying the old priory were met with great scorn by the other landholders in the area, who laughed at the enormous, modern house he built on the land. That Charles Evesham was richer than all of them made no difference then, and Henry doubted it made any now.
But his father had not believed the contempt of his betters would last. He’d thought he could buy respectability. And perhaps, in a way, he had—for Henry’s brother had married well, and his mother planned to bring his sister out next year in London.
“Good thing I’m wearing my furs,” Alice pronounced, grinning merrily at him.
Despite himself, he smiled.
Alice pointed at the spires of the snug, stone building to the west of the main house.
“What’s that?”
“The old priory. It’s the original structure on the estate.”