Read Online Lady of Milkweed Manor by Julie Klassen - Free Book Online
Authors: Julie Klassen
Ads: Link
you, Miss Lamb, are a beautiful woman.”
Charlotte expelled the breath she’d been holding. She could imagine Bea’s reaction, the red-cheeked pleasure that must be coloring her face.
“I believe Uncle is quite fond of your sister,” Mr. Bentley continued, “though it must be tedious for a man of his age to always be warding off the infatuation of one so young.”
Humiliation filled Charlotte, and she quickly pulled on her other boot without bothering to finish buttoning the first.
“Did he say that?” Bea sounded as appalled as Charlotte felt.
“No, no, heavens no. I am only reading between the worry lines as it were. Fret not, beautiful Beatrice, Uncle holds you all in great affection.”
Charlotte did not wait to hear more. She made her way quietly out of the vicarage and strode across the narrow lane to the churchyard. Ben Higgins, a lad of fifteen who assisted his father with grave digging and upkeep of the church, was waiting for her. He had already maneuvered the young tree, its roots bound in a ball of dirt, to a spot near her mother’s grave. Charlotte picked up a shovel and thrust it into the ground with more vehemence than necessary.
A few minutes later, William Bentley came walking across the churchyard. “Your workman desert you, Miss Lamb?” he called.
Charlotte looked up at him from the hole she was digging. She paused in her work, leaning on the shovel with one hand and pushing a stray hair from her face with the other, though she did not realize until later that her muddy glove had left a smear of dirt on her forehead. Nor why Mr. Bentley had bit back a smile as he drew near.
“I sent him to ask our gardener for some manure. He shall return directly.”
“Manure? Lovely. You could wait and let him do that, you know.”
“I do not mind a bit of work. Do you?”
“I confess I am not really the digging-in-the-dirt type.”
She grinned. “I cannot say I’m surprised.”
“Really?”
At his feigned chagrin, she felt her smile widen.
His eyes danced with pleasure. “You do indeed have a lovely smile, Miss Lamb.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded toward the sapling resting beside the hole. “What sort of tree is that?”
“A French lilac. Syringa vulgaris.”
“Looks like a stick to me.”
“I suppose it does. But in year or two, it will boast the most fragrant lilac blossoms.”
“Your mother. She’s been gone-?”
“Two years.” She felt her smile fade.
“Forgive me. I’m sorry.”
“That is all right.” She sighed. “I went traveling with my aunt in the spring, as I often do. Our carriage passed a long stand of lilacs in full bloom, and I remembered how much Mother loved their fragrance. But this variety doesn’t spread like the more common English lilacs. I ordered this all the way from Limoges.”
“That’s a very dear gesture.”
Charlotte shrugged. “She was very dear to me.”
Resuming her work, her shovel clanged against something solid, and Charlotte bent low to pick a large stone out of the hole. As she did, she had the discomfiting realization that William Bentley enjoyed a lingering look down the bodice of her dress.
“Mr. Harris speaks very highly of you, Miss Lamb. I know I said the same of your father, but in all truth I think my uncle holds you in the highest regard of all.”
“I’m sure you are mistaken,” Charlotte replied, straightening. “Mr. Harris has long been a friend to our entire family. Even Mother was fond of him.”
“And you, I think, are not indifferent to him either.”
Remembering what Mr. Bentley had said to Bea, Charlotte could not hide her embarrassment. “Of course not. Mr. Harris has always been very kind, the best of neighbors, almost like a son to Father.”
“A son? I shouldn’t think so. That would make you brother and sister, and I don’t think either of you should like that.”
“Mr. Bentley, please don’t speak so. It isn’t fitting.”
He appeared genuinely chastised.
Charlotte expelled the breath she’d been holding. She could imagine Bea’s reaction, the red-cheeked pleasure that must be coloring her face.
“I believe Uncle is quite fond of your sister,” Mr. Bentley continued, “though it must be tedious for a man of his age to always be warding off the infatuation of one so young.”
Humiliation filled Charlotte, and she quickly pulled on her other boot without bothering to finish buttoning the first.
“Did he say that?” Bea sounded as appalled as Charlotte felt.
“No, no, heavens no. I am only reading between the worry lines as it were. Fret not, beautiful Beatrice, Uncle holds you all in great affection.”
Charlotte did not wait to hear more. She made her way quietly out of the vicarage and strode across the narrow lane to the churchyard. Ben Higgins, a lad of fifteen who assisted his father with grave digging and upkeep of the church, was waiting for her. He had already maneuvered the young tree, its roots bound in a ball of dirt, to a spot near her mother’s grave. Charlotte picked up a shovel and thrust it into the ground with more vehemence than necessary.
A few minutes later, William Bentley came walking across the churchyard. “Your workman desert you, Miss Lamb?” he called.
Charlotte looked up at him from the hole she was digging. She paused in her work, leaning on the shovel with one hand and pushing a stray hair from her face with the other, though she did not realize until later that her muddy glove had left a smear of dirt on her forehead. Nor why Mr. Bentley had bit back a smile as he drew near.
“I sent him to ask our gardener for some manure. He shall return directly.”
“Manure? Lovely. You could wait and let him do that, you know.”
“I do not mind a bit of work. Do you?”
“I confess I am not really the digging-in-the-dirt type.”
She grinned. “I cannot say I’m surprised.”
“Really?”
At his feigned chagrin, she felt her smile widen.
His eyes danced with pleasure. “You do indeed have a lovely smile, Miss Lamb.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded toward the sapling resting beside the hole. “What sort of tree is that?”
“A French lilac. Syringa vulgaris.”
“Looks like a stick to me.”
“I suppose it does. But in year or two, it will boast the most fragrant lilac blossoms.”
“Your mother. She’s been gone-?”
“Two years.” She felt her smile fade.
“Forgive me. I’m sorry.”
“That is all right.” She sighed. “I went traveling with my aunt in the spring, as I often do. Our carriage passed a long stand of lilacs in full bloom, and I remembered how much Mother loved their fragrance. But this variety doesn’t spread like the more common English lilacs. I ordered this all the way from Limoges.”
“That’s a very dear gesture.”
Charlotte shrugged. “She was very dear to me.”
Resuming her work, her shovel clanged against something solid, and Charlotte bent low to pick a large stone out of the hole. As she did, she had the discomfiting realization that William Bentley enjoyed a lingering look down the bodice of her dress.
“Mr. Harris speaks very highly of you, Miss Lamb. I know I said the same of your father, but in all truth I think my uncle holds you in the highest regard of all.”
“I’m sure you are mistaken,” Charlotte replied, straightening. “Mr. Harris has long been a friend to our entire family. Even Mother was fond of him.”
“And you, I think, are not indifferent to him either.”
Remembering what Mr. Bentley had said to Bea, Charlotte could not hide her embarrassment. “Of course not. Mr. Harris has always been very kind, the best of neighbors, almost like a son to Father.”
“A son? I shouldn’t think so. That would make you brother and sister, and I don’t think either of you should like that.”
“Mr. Bentley, please don’t speak so. It isn’t fitting.”
He appeared genuinely chastised.
Similar Books
