The Vicar's Widow

Pandemonium erupted; people crowded around her, some smiling, some frowning, but the only one she wanted to see was Darien. And then he was there, standing before her—she hadn’t even realized she’d made it halfway to the platform to reach him until she felt his hand on her arm, the other on her waist, steadying her.

She tried to smile, but she was so shocked, she couldn’t even breathe. “Kate,” he said, his voice penetrating the din around them. “Come with me, Kate, say you’ll come with me now,” he said earnestly.

“Anywhere,” she whispered hoarsely, and impulsively threw her arms around his neck, oblivious to the cheers surrounding them, oblivious to everything but Darien’s arms around her, holding her tightly, his face in her neck, breathing her in.





Several days passed after the Southbridge Charity Auction Ball, the newspapers ceased to carry the “Montgomery Offer,” as it had been dubbed, in the gossip columns, and turned instead to the speculation of whether or not Lord Frederick, a close and personal friend of Montgomery, would offer for Miss Forsythe in the wake of this trauma.

She was reported to have said that she would have refused Montgomery’s offer, had it been made to her, and that she never expected such a thing.

Darien and Kate never heard the latest gossip flowing in and out of salons in Mayfair, for they had departed London a scant two days after the Southbridge ball for Gretna Green, along with Darien’s sister and her family, and Kate’s father. It was the third Sunday church service Kate had missed since arriving in London.

After a fortnight had passed, the weather was so fine that Lady Southbridge decided to take her two dogs on a doggie walkabout, and had her butler leash them up properly while her lady’s maid saw to it that Lady Southbridge was properly leashed up. In Hyde Park, where she had paused and instructed her footman to see to the dogs’ needs, preferably behind the bushes, she had occasion to meet Lady Ramblecourt.

The two friends exchanged pleasantries, and as they waited for the footman to return with the two yapping dogs, Lady Ramblecourt said, in a soft voice so that no passersby would hear, “Have you heard, Elizabeth? The child?”

“W-what?” Lady Southbridge demanded, focusing all her attention on Lady Ramblecourt.

“The widow, of course!” the woman hissed, looking around them covertly. “They say she’s with child!”

“No!” Lady Southbridge said, aghast.

“Mmm,” Lady Ramblecourt said, nodding adamantly. “That explains quite a lot, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed it does!” Lady Southbridge loudly agreed.

And in truth, the information bothered her the rest of the afternoon. It was a mystery, she confessed to her good friend Lady Marlton, why Mrs. Kimbro would want another child, having birthed six of them already.

“Because,” Lady Marlton said authoritatively. “She’s taken a lover.”

“Who?” Lady Southbridge demanded.

“Lord Tarelton.”

Lady Southbridge fell back in surprise. Lord Darlington was at least ten years Mrs. Kimbro’s junior. Would the wonders never cease?





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Parker Price hadn’t had a hit in two weeks.

It wouldn’t be a big deal if he was playing in a church league in Hoboken, but he was playing for the New York Mets, who had inked a deal to pay him one hundred ten million over seven years, plus bonuses, because they thought he could hit, among other things. And furthermore, it probably wouldn’t have been that big of a deal if the Mets had at least won a game in the last two weeks.

They hadn’t.

Even worse, with the humiliating end to last night’s game—in which they had been swept by the team nemesis, the New York Yankees—they were on a downhill slide, picking up steam for a spectacular crash at rock bottom. And for some reason, all of New York seemed to think it was Parker Price’s fault.

Okay so he’d had a couple bad weeks, but he wasn’t the only one swinging at air out there. There big hitter, bought from the Angels for almost as much as Parker, hadn’t been able to hit a damn thing, either. But did they boo him? No. Yell at him to get back on his mule and ride for Texas? Hell no. Just Parker.

Maybe these people just hated Texans in general—there had been some press to that effect when the Mets had lured him away from the Houston Astros. And maybe he really just sucked. God knew he was wondering of late—no one was more surprised than him by the base-running error he’d made last night. No wait, that didn’t do it justice—what he’d done last night had to be the most incredibly boneheaded base-running error in the history of the sport.

It was bad enough that he couldn’t get out of the parking lot without hot dogs and beer bottles being thrown at his car. It was bad enough that his neighbor, Mrs. Frankel, who had to be ninety if she was a day, was waiting for him at the bottom of the drive when he arrived home. The old bat was standing in his drive, wearing her Mets jacket and Mets hat perched atop of her cotton-ball head, carrying a bat that had the words New York Mets Swing for the Fences! emblazoned down the side.