The Vicar's Widow

One bright Sunday morning, she wrote the names of the three men whom she would consider marrying, in order of preference: Lord Montgomery (a bit long in the tooth at two and thirty, but at forty thousand pounds a year, she didn’t mind); Lord Bastian (hardly as old as her, and rather undisciplined, but at thirty thousand pounds a year, worth the effort); and Lord Dillingham (perfectly suited to her in terms of age and temperament, but rumor had it that after some disastrous investment, he now had only twenty thousand pounds a year).

Emily studied the names. She intended to have an offer from one of them by the peak of the season, preferably at the Charity Auction Ball, an affair Lady Southbridge hosted each year to benefit the local orphanage. Emily had a lovely fantasy of being offered for in front of hundreds of the ton’s most elite members. She’d be wearing her court dress, of course, but with new gloves and slippers, and when the lucky gentleman made the offer, a round of applause and cheering would go up, and perhaps her friends would toss flowers from their hair to her feet as Montgomery (or Bastian or Dillingham) swept her in his arms in a mad moment of public affection.

With that happy image playing in her mind’s eye, Emily put aside her pen and drew on her Sunday gloves, found her reticule, and marched out of her room to join her family for church services and the spring social immediately following. She was not the sort to ever miss an opportunity to further her cause, and as two of the gentlemen in question regularly attended church, she counted it as one of her better opportunities.

When they arrived at the church, Emily’s parents and older brother took some time to greet the many friends and neighbors who had gathered on the church steps this brilliant spring morning. As Emily impatiently waited for her parents, her eyes scanned the crowd; she spotted Montgomery off to one side, speaking with the last vicar’s widow.

Interesting. Mrs. Becket had put away her widow’s weeds and was wearing a blue brocade gown that Emily thought conspicuously bright for Sunday services. The widow was laughing at something Montgomery said, her eyes crinkled appealingly at the corners. Emily instantly urged her father in that direction, hoping for the chance to converse with Montgomery, but her father was engaged in a lively conversation with Lord Frederick and would not be budged. Emily could do nothing but stand by dutifully.

But she could watch intently as Montgomery leaned his head close to the widow and said something that made the woman blush. Blush! Imagine it, a widow blushing like a girl! It was, in Emily’s opinion, unseemly.

When at last it came time to enter the church, the Forsythe family filed in and occupied the third pew to the right of the pulpit, as was their custom. On the second row to the left of the pulpit, Lord Montgomery had joined his sister and her husband, as was his custom. Emily liked this arrangement—she could watch him in the course of the services. Typically, she alternated between Montgomery and Dillingham, who sat directly before her, but Dillingham was in the country this weekend, and Bastian, alas, was apparently a sinner, for he did not attend services with any regularity. That would, of course, change if Emily accepted his offer.

As the services started, she settled in, one eye trained on Montgomery, the other on the vicar, naturally, lest anyone think she wasn’t completely attentive. But her attention to the vicar soon waned as it became apparent to her that Montgomery was not listening to him, either. She couldn’t be completely certain, but she thought he was watching the widow Becket, who was seated off to one side with her father.

But why would he be watching her?

Emily mulled that one over. It wasn’t as if Widow Becket was any sort of match for a viscount! Her beginnings were humble, as Emily understood them, and she was living in the guest house on the vicar’s small estate. Not only that, she was old. Granted, not so old that she required a cane or any such thing, but too old to be contemplating marriage again.

Yet at the conclusion of the insufferably long service, Emily was positively convinced that Montgomery had gazed at Mrs. Becket the entire service. Well, mostly convinced—she supposed it was possible that he’d been gazing at the cross above her head, divining some sort of inspiration.

Nevertheless, the possibility troubled her.

At last, the congregation filed out the church and tromped around through the courtyard, across the cemetery, to the old stables converted to meeting rooms where the spring social would be held. Emily escaped her parents, and her brother, who wandered off to join other young men that Emily had no use for, and made her way to sit beside Miss Tabitha Townsend, who, like her, had come out just this season. Emily and Tabitha had known each other since they were girls.

“Have you received an invitation to the May Day Ball?” Tabitha asked breathlessly once the two young women had exchanged pleasantries.

A ridiculous question. Of course she’d been invited. “Of course.”

“What do you intend to wear?” Tabitha asked anxiously.

“I’ve a new yellow silk set aside for just that occasion.” Emily had managed to convince her father she needed a new gown for every event of the season.