The Vicar's Widow

“My husband has been gone two years, Mrs. Biddlesly.”


“My husband died thirty-four years ago,” the old woman said, shaking a crooked finger at Kate, “and to this day I mourn him!”

That she did, in the same black bombazine she wore every day.

“I mourn my husband, too, Mrs. Biddlesly, and I always shall,” Kate assured her with a smile. “But life must go on. Don’t you agree?”

“Bah!” Mrs. Biddlesly said and eyed an apple in the basket. “Rotten stuff, that fruit. Don’t bring fruit again!”

Kate assured her she wouldn’t, and moved to the door, smiling at the equally ancient footman who moved to open it for her.

“Ho there, where do you think you are going?” Mrs. Biddlesly shrieked. “I’ve not said you might go!”

With a look toward heaven, Kate turned round. A full half hour later, she managed to escape, having endured the cataloguing of all Mrs. Biddlesly’s physical ailments—in precise detail, thank you.

Kate’s father was leaning against his little cart as she bounced down the stairs.

“A list of complaints again, eh?”

“Indeed,” Kate said with a laugh. “And she’s added quite a few more since last week.”

With a snort, her father rolled his eyes. “Don’t know why you bother at all, Kate. She’s an ungrateful old bat.”

“Ah, she is that. But I can’t help but do so, Papa—no one else will bother with her,” Kate said and adjusted her bonnet. “Well then! Shall we call on Mr. Heather?”

With another shake of his head, her father grabbed the cart handle. He looked up, over Kate’s shoulder, and nodded to something behind her as she took another basket from the cart. “Looks as if you’ll have an escort again this week.”

Kate turned around—and almost collided with Lord Montgomery. Again. Another happy coincidence. In fact, she quickly calculated it was the eighth happy coincidence in as many weeks.

“Beg your pardon, Mrs. Becket. I must have startled you,” he said with a mischievous smile.

“Not at all, my lord!” A ridiculously large, unguarded grin split her face.

He glanced over her shoulder at her father and touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Mr. Crowley. Fine day for a walkabout, eh?”

“Aye, it is, as fine a day as the past Wednesday’s walkabout, and the one before it,” Papa snorted. “You go on ahead, Kate,” he said, ducking beneath the wide brim of his hat as he busied himself with the rearranging of the baskets in his little cart. “I’ve a bit of tidying up to do here, and you’d not want to keep Mr. Heather waiting for his victuals.”

“Thank you, Papa.” She stole a glimpse of Montgomery. “Mr. Heather is undoubtedly pacing the floor, wondering what could be keeping us. He’s rather the nervous sort.”

“You are so good to engage in such charitable works, Mrs. Becket, and how diligent you are about it!” Montgomery exclaimed. “There are others who are not as generous with either their time or their spirit, myself chief among them.”

“Indeed? I naturally assumed you were calling on them yourself, sir. Whatever else might bring you to this street each Wednesday?” she asked with a sly smile.

He chuckled boyishly, took the basket from her hand, and walked beside her as she started down the street. “You give me too much credit. My motives are far more nefarious than charitable endeavors, I freely admit.”

“Nefarious?” She laughed. “Lord Montgomery, how you tease me! I’d wager you’ve not a wicked bone in your body!”

He gave her a look that suggested she knew better than that, leaned slightly toward her, and said low, “You’d be quite wrong, madam, were you to wager. I’ve more than one wicked bone in this body.”

That sent a heat straight up her spine, and Kate swallowed. There were few persons who could confound her, but Montgomery happened to be the king.

“Ah, look here! I’ve offended you,” he said cheerfully.

Offended was not exactly the word she’d use, and she laughed. “Offended? Never! Titillated is more accurate,” she said, and unthinkingly stole a glimpse of her father over her shoulder. He was keeping quite a distance behind her and Lord Montgomery. She slid her gaze to his lordship again; his two thick brows had risen quite up to his hat.

“I’ll have you know that the gentleman in me is aghast at having titillated. But the man in me is rather intrigued by it.”

She believed him—his eyes were glittering with the intrigue, and she could feel the spark of it herself, all the way to her toes.

“I find I rather enjoy titillating beautiful young widows.”

And this young widow enjoyed being titillated—in fact, she was so caught up in the state of titillation that she had not noticed they had come to a crossing point. Montgomery casually caught her elbow, held it firmly as he looked one way and then the other, and propelled her across the street.