The Vicar's Widow

“One look at you, madam, and one would rather believe that there walks a woman who is true to herself and her passion,” he said with a wink.

Her flushed cheeks turned cherry red, and she playfully slapped his hand away, finished the buttoning herself, as he sought to tame errant wisps of her hair and tuck them behind her ears. “You’re a wicked man, Darien,” she said, but she was smiling. “You’ve led me quite astray with your picnic.”

“I should like to lead you much further than that.”

With a laugh, she smoothed the front of her gown, then looked up, cupped his jaw with her hand. “You’re a scoundrel, my lord. What would my poor father think?” she asked, and impulsively lifted up, kissed him fully before abruptly breaking away and grabbing her things. “I must hurry,” she said, and reached for the coach door. “It’s quite late.”

“Kate!” Darien said sternly after her as she poked her umbrella outside and opened it. “I shall call again.”

She smiled at him over her shoulder. “I must go now.” And with that, she was gone.

Darien pulled the door to, then pushed aside the curtains and watched her striding purposefully through the rain, her head held high, her bonnet hanging down her back. And her chemise, unfortunately, hanging below the hem of her day gown. He couldn’t help but smile, and reluctantly, he let go the small drape, tapped on the ceiling to send the driver on, and leaned back against the squabs, wondering if he could possibly bear it until he saw her again.





William’s wife, Mary Beth, served leek soup for supper that night. Kate sat across from her father, a bit fearful that he might note the flush in her cheek or inquire as to her whereabouts in the afternoon while he lay napping. But if he noticed any change in her, he said not a word and talked on about a game of cards he had enjoyed in the past week with the vicar.

That evening, after reading to her father as she did every night, Kate at last lay on the small four-poster bed in her room, reliving every moment of this astonishing afternoon. She stared blindly at the peeling wallpaper and faint cracks in the ceiling, giggling at the prospect of being completely and inexorably in love again.

There had been a time, shortly after Richard’s death, that she was quite certain she’d never loved anyone before him and would certainly love no one after him. The young men with whom she had flirted and shared an occasional kiss before Richard were sweet memories, but she never felt the same sort of deep esteem for them that she had for her husband.

She regretted never telling him about the kiss she shared with Darien. It had been a colossal mistake, and she’d been so fearful of what he might do or think, of losing his respect. In hindsight, however, with time and grief having dulled her girlish feelings, she believed he might have understood and forgiven her.

Would he forgive her now? For being so wanton as to sleep with a man out of wedlock? For wanting to feel love again? And she did so want to feel love again, to know, with all certainty, the strength of a man’s love for her, to feel his arms around her, protecting her, holding her. She had convinced herself she’d not know such love again, that she’d spend the rest of her days doing charitable works and looking after her father.

And she’d be quite content with it, really, for hers was a good existence. As a widow, she was not as restricted as the unmarried girls about town. In truth, she was free to come and go as she pleased, to speak freely with gentlemen at church, to live her life as she wanted, and not the way a man might dictate.

There were, of course, drawbacks to her carefree life. Her current spate of callers for example—Kate had not heard anything in particular about herself, but she was beginning to have the uneasy feeling that something untoward had been said about her, something that was being passed around as truth. She knew that certain widow’s were rather free with their affections. Had that been said of her?

As to the matter of her physical being, she had not realized how, having known a man’s love, she might yearn for it again. Oh, she yearned for it, all right. Yearned for it so hard that sometimes she lay awake at night, felt the ache of it deep in her marrow, making it impossible to sleep. And now, to have experienced that most elemental, primitive pleasure again, the ache had spread to her heart and head.