The Vicar's Widow

“Ooh, how lovely.”


Tabitha sighed so longingly that Emily gathered her pale blue gown would be making its third appearance this season. The Townsends were not as wealthy as the Forsythes, which everyone knew, but Tabitha proceeded to launch into a rather lengthy tale of her latest trip to the modiste, and how, in a tragic turn of events, her new silk gown would not be ready for the May Day Ball.

Emily lost interest and began to look around at the congregation milling about, her eyes trained for Montgomery. He was easy to spot—a head taller than most, his handsome face radiated a warmhearted smile as he spoke with fat old Lady Vandergast.

Emily would speak to him today. Determined, she glanced down to straighten the buttons of her gloves as Tabitha droned on. But when she glanced up again, she frowned—Widow Becket was standing very near Montgomery. Again.

“What do you think?” Tabitha asked.

“I beg your pardon?” Emily asked, dragging her gaze away from Montgomery.

“About the shoes. Should I wear the silver, to match the reticule? Or the blue, to match the gown?”

“The silver. Contrasts are all the rage,” Emily said instantly. “By the bye, have you noticed that the Widow Becket has come out of her weeds?”

Tabitha looked to where Emily indicated and exclaimed happily, “Aha, she has indeed. Has it been as long as two years since the poor vicar’s death?”

“Just, actually,” Emily said. “I wonder if she intends to stay on in London, or trot back to Wales or wherever it is she comes from.”

“Oh no, I should think she’d stay,” Tabitha said instantly and with some authority. “Mrs. Becket is engaged in a charitable endeavor benefiting the Hospital for the Infirm, as is my mother. Mother told me that Mrs. Becket and her father have been granted the right to stay on at the vicar’s guest house for as long as she liked. Mrs. Becket said likely she would, as there is so much more she might do with her charity work in London than in Shropshire.”

Emily narrowed her eyes and glared at Tabitha. “Are you quite certain?”

Tabitha shrugged weakly. “Fairly certain, yes.” She turned away from Emily’s intent gaze and looked at the widow again. “She was a Methodist, you know,” she suddenly whispered.

Emily gasped.

Tabitha nodded fiercely. “Mother says that our departed vicar found her in a Methodist church in the country and fell quite in love with her. So inspired was he by his love that he convinced her to join the Church of England and come to London.” She paused there and sighed dreamily. “Isn’t it romantic? He saved her from the Methodists! My cousin Alice had something very similar happen,” she added, and launched into yet another excruciatingly boring tale having something to do with more country people.

Romantic it was not, Emily thought. How dare Widow Becket, a Methodist of all things, insert herself into the ton? She thought to stay on in London so that she might carry on indecently, as she was this very moment? Preying on marriageable men and taking the attention from debutantes? Emily glowered across the crowd at Montgomery, who was still speaking to Widow Becket, standing entirely too close to the woman and smiling in a way that made Emily fume. He was bestowing an indecorous smile on a vicar’s widow, and worse, his lordship clearly held the woman in some esteem!

As for her, Widow Becket was looking up at him and laughing in that perfectly adorable way she had of laughing. It was enough to compel Emily to her feet.

“Wh-where are you going?” Tabitha cried, not quite finished with the recitation of her cousin’s romance.

“I beg your pardon, but I had forgotten that my mother bade me to sit with her.”

“Oh,” Tabitha uttered, obviously bewildered.

“Good day!” Emily said smartly and marched off before Tabitha could reply.

She made her way through the crowd, dutifully stopping to pay her respects where necessary, and finally reaching the other side of the gathering where Montgomery was deep in conversation with Widow Becket. Decorum be damned, Emily marched up to the couple and forced a bright smile to her face.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Becket. My lord,” she said, curtsying.

Both of them started a bit at her intrusion. Mrs. Becket instantly smiled and grasped Emily’s hand. “Good afternoon, Miss Forsythe! My, how lovely you look today! Positively radiant—it must be the effects of having a successful debut,” she gushed.

“I suppose so. Thank you,” Emily said stiffly, and turned a smile to Lord Montgomery.

“Miss Forsythe, how do you do?” he asked, perfectly polite.