Unclaimed (Turner, #2)

“Well,” he told her, “gossip about that, then. At least what you say about me happens to be true.”


MRS. T ATLOCK, apparently, had not chosen to spread rumors about Mark’s defense of Mrs. Farleigh—at least she hadn’t by the time the ladies of the church arranged the picnic in his honor. Upon his arrival, he was hailed with good cheer and humor. The commons where they held the event had been emptied of all livestock except a flock of chickens, who squawked in complaint in the corner. But the sheep were not the only undesirables they’d kept hidden; they had succeeded in keeping away the less fortunate members of the community by hosting the event on a Wednesday morning. The common folk were all laboring: in the mills, in the fields, or simply doing the spinning in their own homes. The only laborers present were the servants who danced attendance.

When Mrs. Farleigh arrived, a wave of shock ran through the gathering throng. It started in gasps; it traveled in whispers. By the time she’d come halfway across the field toward them, a horde of concerned women had descended upon her. They buzzed about her, gesticulating and consulting one another in tones.

Even though he could not make out a word they said, he could imagine their scandalized conversation.

“Help,” Mark supposed Mrs. Lewis might be saying. “A pretty woman has appeared—and she has lovely breasts.”

At least that’s what he hoped she was saying. Mark couldn’t imagine why else she’d be pointing to Mrs. Farleigh’s bosom.

“Oh, no!” Mrs. Finney could have been replying, as she put her hand on Mrs. Farleigh’s elbow. “I haven’t had chance enough to embarrass my thirteen-year-old daughter by introducing her to Sir Mark. We can’t have an actual woman close to him—he might want her instead. Come over here, Mrs. Farleigh.”

The group moved together, slowly displacing the hens, who squawked in avian protest. One of Mrs. Farleigh’s hands had crept to her hip.

Mrs. Lewis gave her a bright, cheery smile, so false that Mark could discount it even from this distance. The women all nodded at her firmly, shook their heads and walked away, leaving her a full twenty yards from the gathering, with no company nearby but the chickens.

Mrs. Farleigh watched them leave. She didn’t sigh. She didn’t shake her head. She didn’t even shrug. She simply reached into her basket and pulled out a blanket. She laid it out, ignoring the poultry who pecked at its edge.

Walking back, Mrs. Lewis, the rector’s wife, rubbed her hands together briskly, as if well satisfied.

The conversation Mark had imagined had been for his own amusement. But by the look on their faces—by the stony unconcern on hers—he doubted the conversation had been pleasant for her at all.

The women returned to their places by him, chattering amongst themselves as if nothing had happened.

Really. Had any of them read his book, or had they simply placed the volume directly on the altar, as a mute object of veneration?

Perhaps that was why he turned to Mrs. Lewis as she fussed over her daughter’s bonnet. Mrs. Lewis was the epitome of a clergyman’s wife—staid and proper—and Mark caught the rumble of a lecture about ladies and the sun as she wrestled her daughter’s wide bonnet into place.

He was about to upset their shiny, clean social order.

“Mrs. Lewis.”

As he spoke, her hand dropped from the ribbons about her daughter’s chin. The crowd quieted, hanging on his words. “Why is Mrs. Farleigh seated with the hens?”

Twelve people turned to him as one, their eyes rounded.

Young James Tolliver made a choking sound and gestured urgently.

Mrs. Lewis was not much more cogent. “She—well—have you not heard the talk?”

“I’ve heard some innuendo,” he said carefully. “I’ve seen a few dresses—but nothing that is outside the typical bounds of fashion.” She was dressed beautifully—provocatively, in fact, for the country. But promenading in a London park, she would only be thought a little daring.

Heads turned again to look at Mrs. Farleigh and then turned back to Mark.

“It’s…it’s… Sir Mark.” The rector’s wife was flustered. “Truly. Perhaps somewhere in London that sort of thing is tolerated. But we’re good people here. Upstanding.”

“What sort of thing are you speaking about?”

Mrs. Lewis flushed. But Miss Lewis spoke out from under the brim of her bonnet. “It’s the décolletage,” she said simply. “If it were here instead of there…” She drew a line on her own breast.

“Dinah!”

“What?” Dinah said. “I saw all the men looking. If you would only let me get rid of this horrid lace…”