Acknowledging the fact didn’t change anything.
Her pet crow, Barty, had been dozing on Daisy’s back, but he woke up and gave a little squawk. She was doomed, and even Barty agreed.
That night at their family-only supper, the duke announced that he’d found a new vicar.
“His name is Mr. Marlowe,” His Grace said. “He comes highly recommended by the Bishop of London. He’ll have the living on a year’s trial, as he’s both inexperienced and unmarried.”
“Is he handsome?” Joan asked, and squealed when ten-year-old Erik elbowed her.
“Children,” Ophelia said placidly.
“It was merely a question. I don’t want to marry a vicar,” Joan said.
“Viola could marry him,” Erik suggested.
“No, thank you,” Viola said. Her grand life plan involved surviving the Season and gratefully lapsing into life as a spinster.
“Mr. Marlowe is betrothed,” Aunt Knowe put in.
“He took an excellent first at Cambridge,” the duke said. “He’s young, though. Comes to us with only a few years as a curate.”
“His entrée is his fiancée,” Aunt Knowe added. She kept a close eye on polite society, by way of voluminous correspondence. “Miss Pettigrew is the granddaughter of an archbishop, daughter of a bishop, and reading between the lines, she means to push the man into a bishopric before he turns thirty.”
A few days later, Viola and Joan were sitting in the drawing room when Aunt Knowe trotted in and announced that Mrs. Pettigrew, Miss Pettigrew, and Mr. Marlowe had unexpectedly come to pay a visit.
Viola and Joan sprang to their feet. They had spent the morning making paper flowers, and bright scraps of paper were scattered all over the carpet. Barty had been seated on the back of the settee, overseeing their work, but he startled, instinctively tried to fly, and flopped over the back of the settee instead.
“Barty!” Viola cried, peering over. Her crow managed to land on his feet and looked up at her crossly. From experience she knew that he would now spend an hour or two grooming each of his wing feathers into shiny perfection.
Barty was a pragmatic bird, as the duke pointed out: Having discovered that his wings didn’t function, he focused on beauty.
“Join us whenever you wish,” she told him, and got to her feet. When Barty wasn’t embarrassed—as he was now—he was a sociable fellow who added companionable squawks to any conversation.
Aunt Knowe was greeting their guests at the drawing room door. Viola walked over to join her, leaving Barty to sulk behind the settee.
Miss Pettigrew was tall, with a superb bosom that curved like the prow of a ship. But nothing else about her resembled those jolly wooden women who plunge into the waves, breasts leading the way.
She wore a navy gown whose only ornament was a row of shiny buttons, a style that labeled the gown three to four years old. Viola had the strong feeling that Miss Pettigrew did not pay attention to frivolities of fashion. The pious look in her eyes suggested she considered herself above such earthly concerns.
Her mother was a taller version of the daughter, and her black gown, if not her expression, proclaimed that fashion was a trivial matter.
“He’s very handsome,” Joan whispered as Viola finished her curtsies. “I’d wager that all the ladies hereabouts begin attending services.”
Viola always avoided looking at strange men, having perfected the art of dropping into a curtsy and murmuring a greeting with lowered eyes. She had registered only that Mr. Marlowe didn’t tower over her the way the Wildes did. He wasn’t much taller than she was, perhaps even shorter than Miss Pettigrew.
It wasn’t until their new vicar was escorting his future mother-in-law to a settee that Viola dared to peek at his face.
Joan was right.
Squire Pretner’s three young daughters would be lined up in the front pew after they caught a glimpse of Mr. Marlowe’s profile. He was as startlingly handsome as an actor on the London stage. A lock of honey-colored hair fell over his bright blue eyes. He wasn’t wearing a wig, nor had he powdered his hair.
She was so entranced that she forgot to look away when he sat down. When he smiled at her, she felt the shock to the tips of her fingers. His eyes were warm and caring. One knew instinctively that he would be kind to everyone, from a crotchety elder to a colicky baby.
He turned away to respond to Aunt Knowe’s offer of tea, and Viola barely managed to keep her mouth shut. Her whole body was caught in a delicious, yearning warmth.
Joan, who always knew what Viola was thinking, planted a sharp elbow in her side. “He’s betrothed,” she hissed into Viola’s ear. “And short.”
“So am I,” Viola breathed.
“I’m sorry about the untidy state of this room,” Aunt Knowe was saying. “We’ve spent the last few hours making bouquets of paper flowers.”
“Decorations for our little sister’s birthday,” Joan explained.
Miss Pettigrew brushed a paper scrap onto the floor before she seated herself opposite Viola and Joan. “A charming notion.” Her expression suggested she would expect nothing less from indolent aristocrats.
“I could send a bunch of paper peonies to the vicarage, if you’d like,” Aunt Knowe offered.
“I do not care for decorations that collect dust,” Miss Pettigrew announced. Viola suspected that all her statements were announcements. “A tidy bouquet of fresh flowers is an acceptable adornment.”
“I see,” Aunt Knowe said.
Joan put her arm around Viola’s waist and gave her a little pinch, signaling either delight or horror. Probably both, since Miss Pettigrew was proving to be a character, and thus likely to entertain the family at dinner, in absentia, of course. Joan loved to act out the foibles of more outrageous visitors to the castle.
Mrs. Pettigrew smoothed her skirts. “We just came from Mobberley. The vicarage needs complete refurbishing. I gather it suffered a fire a decade ago?”
Aunt Knowe nodded. “An unfortunate accident.”
“We considered accepting His Grace’s offer to stay in the castle while the building is being reconstructed to my specifications.”
Aunt Knowe’s eyelids didn’t flicker at this news; not for nothing was she born and bred into the peerage. But Viola could tell that her stepfather would have an earful later.
“That will take some months. Upon consideration, I think it best that I return to London once I deem the building plans acceptable,” Mrs. Pettigrew continued. “Bishop Pettigrew cannot do without me. Obviously, it would be unseemly for my daughter to remain in the castle with Mr. Marlowe, since they have not yet taken vows.”
“Of course,” Aunt Knowe said.
“Mr. Marlowe may remain here,” Mrs. Pettigrew allowed.
Mr. Marlowe leaned forward. “I shan’t be underfoot,” he assured Aunt Knowe. “There is a great deal to be done in the parish, since Father Duddleston died some weeks ago.”
“The parish is as disorganized as the vicarage,” Miss Pettigrew put in. “Mr. Marlowe will need to catalogue the parish unfortunates.”
Viola’s mind was whirling.
Mr. Marlowe was . . . He was the man she had never dared to imagine. She hadn’t the slightest hint of nausea in his presence. She had no wish to flee to the cowshed. Instead, she wanted nothing more than to listen and contribute to his plans.