The Vicar's Widow

Something flit across Widow Becket’s face, but then . . . nothing.

Once again, she surprised Emily—she did not seem the least bit offended. She did not gasp, did not make any sound at all, but went on shoveling biscuits onto the wooden table as if she’d not heard a word Emily had said. In fact, Emily worried that perhaps she hadn’t heard her, and leaned forward, peering up into her face. “You do understand me, Mrs. Becket?”

“Of course I do, Miss Forsythe,” she said, and smiled as she walked past Emily to put her tin away.

Was it possible the widow did not understand the implications of what she’d just said? “I suppose that’s why his lordship has the awful reputation of being a roué,” Emily mused aloud. “It’s said in all the drawing rooms, you know.”

“No, I wasn’t aware,” Widow Becket said pleasantly, as if they were discussing the weather. “There now,” she continued, arranging two of the biscuits just so. “I shall return in a quarter of an hour and they should be quite cool to the touch. Shall we go help the ladies with the charity baskets?”

Bewildered by Widow Becket’s reaction—or lack of it—Emily nodded and followed her out.

She did not have another opportunity to reassure herself that Mrs. Becket understood Lord Montgomery’s dark reputation but consoled herself with the knowledge that what little she had said most certainly dampened Widow Becket’s enthusiasm for him. After all, how could she possibly continue to esteem him, her being a vicar’s widow and he being a bloody rake, for God’s sake?

All right, then, the part about the ladies and the alleys had been completely fabricated, but everyone in town knew that Lord Montgomery was no stranger to the pleasures of female flesh. And now, the saintly Widow Becket knew it, too.

Still . . . to be doubly sure that Widow Becket was completely out of the picture, Emily begged her leave of paying a call to the orphanage, much to her mother’s obvious disappointment, and instead paid a call to Lady Southbridge.

Lady Southbridge was a grand dame of the ton. It was said—at least by Emily’s father—that if there was anything worth knowing about a person, Lady Southbridge knew it and would repeat it to one hundred of her dearest friends. Emily certainly hoped that was true.

Lady Southbridge was pleasantly surprised to see Emily when the butler showed her to his lady’s drawing room. The large old woman was lounging on a day couch, two little dogs at her feet.

“Miss Forsythe!” she cried happily as Emily curtsied before her. “Forsythe has turned you out quite well, hasn’t he? Turn round, turn round, and let me have a look at you.”

Emily did as she was told, and when she had completed her rotation, she smiled sweetly at Lady Southbridge and dropped another curtsy.

“Oh my, you’re a lovely one, dear. So come,” she said, patting the seat of the chair next to her. “Come and tell me all about your coming out. Have you received any offers?”

“None,” Emily said.

“Dunn?” Lady Southbridge squealed.

Emily’s eyes flew wide open—Lord Dunn, the positively ancient old man? “No!” she said instantly. “No, no, I beg your pardon, I said none.”

“Well then, you must not mumble, Miss Forsythe, for I distinctly heard you say Dunn.”

Emily blinked several times. “Forgive me,” she muttered.

“Oh, of course, of course,” she said, clearly disappointed that Emily’s answer was not Dunn. But she quickly recovered. “Oh there now, you mustn’t be unhappy, Miss Forsythe! It’s quite early yet! Why, in my day, a gentleman did not dare offer for a young lady before the Charity Auction Ball! It makes a young man seem far too eager if he offers before then.”

“Really?” Emily asked, perking up.

“Oh, indeed!” Lady Southbridge cried, and with two hands, patted her enormous chest. One of the little dogs scampered up the hill that was her and happily licked her face. “The Charity Auction Ball is still the venue for the most important offers,” Lady Southbridge continued, giggling at her little dog as she took him in her arms and crushed him to her. “So, my dear, what brings you to my sitting room today?” she asked, oblivious to the little dog’s squirming.

“Only my desire to call on you, my lady. My mother speaks so very highly of you, and I had always thought that when I’ve come out, I shall go and pay my respects to Lady Southbridge.”

Lady Southbridge smiled broadly at that, her cheeks balling up like two lumps of dough. “What a thoughtful dear you are!” she cried. “When who comes out?”

“When I’ve come out,” Emily said again, but louder.

“Really, you must practice your enunciation, Miss Forsythe. You’ve an awful habit of mumbling! Oh, I adore callers, and you are the perfect antidote to an otherwise dreary afternoon! I’ll just ring for tea,” she said and picked up the little bell next to her day couch.