not left it since.
Though if he had arrived that early, Miss Waddell observed to Mrs. Parsons, wife of the aptly named vicar, when the two ladies encountered each other across the hedge separating their back gardens, he must have been traveling all night and was enjoying a well-deserved rest, poor gentleman. It would not be kind to call upon him too early. She would inform the reception committee. Poor dear gentleman.
The vicar rehearsed his speech of welcome and wondered if it was too formal. For, after all, Viscount Darleigh had once been just the sunny-natured, mischievousson of the village schoolmaster. He was, in addition to everything else, though, a war hero. And he did now have that very impressive title. Better to err on the side of formality, he decided, than risk appearing over-familiar.
Mrs. Fisk baked the bread rolls and cakes she had been planning in her head for weeks. Her son , her beloved only child, was back home, not to mention Viscount Darleigh, that bright and happy boy who had used to run wild with Martin and drag him into all sorts of scrapes—not that Martin had taken much dragging. Poor boy. Poor gentleman. She sniffed and wiped away a tear with the back of her floury hand.
At ten o’clock the young Misses Granger called upon the equally young Miss Hamilton to discover what she planned to wear to the assembly, which would surely happen now that Lord Darleigh had come. The three of them proceeded to reminisce about Vincent-Hunt-that-was winning all the races at the annual village fete by a mile and bowling out every cricketer on the opposing team who had the courage and audacity to come up to bat against him and looking so very handsome with his always overlong fair curls and his blue, blue eyes and his lithe physique. And always smiling his lovely smile, even at them , though they had been just little girls at the time. He had always smiled at everyone .
That last memory drew tears from all of them, for now Viscount Darleigh would never win any race or bowl at any cricket game or look handsome—or perhaps even smile at anyone. He would not even be able to dance at the assembly. They could conceive of no worse fate than that.
Vincent would have been horrified to know that, in fact, his arrival in Barton Coombs had been expected. Or, if that was too strong a word, then at least it hadbeen looked for with eager hope and cautious anticipation.
For Vincent had forgotten two overwhelmingly significant facts about his mother and his sisters. One was that they were all inveterate letter writers. The other was that they had all had numerous friends at Barton Coombs and had not simply relinquished those friends when they moved away. They might not be able to visit them daily, as they had been used to do, but they could and did write to them.
His mother had not been reassured by the two notes that had arrived, scrawled in the inelegant hand of Martin Fisk. She had not sat back and waited for her son to come home. Rather she had done all in her power to discover where he was. Most of her guesses were quite wide of the mark. But one was that Vincent might return to Barton Coombs, where he had spent his boyhood and been happy, where he had so many friends and so many friendly acquaintances, where he would be comfortable and would be made much of. Indeed, the more she thought of it, the more convinced she became that if he was not already there, he would end up there sooner or later.
She wrote letters. She always wrote letters anyway. It came naturally to her.
And Amy, Ellen, and Ursula wrote letters too, though they were not as convinced as their mother that Vincent would go to Barton Coombs. It was more likely that he had gone back to Cornwall, where he always seemed to be so happy. Or perhaps to Scotland or the Lake District, where he could escape their matchmaking clutches. All three of Vincent’s sisters rather regretted the aggressive manner in which they had pressed Miss Dean upon him. She
Though if he had arrived that early, Miss Waddell observed to Mrs. Parsons, wife of the aptly named vicar, when the two ladies encountered each other across the hedge separating their back gardens, he must have been traveling all night and was enjoying a well-deserved rest, poor gentleman. It would not be kind to call upon him too early. She would inform the reception committee. Poor dear gentleman.
The vicar rehearsed his speech of welcome and wondered if it was too formal. For, after all, Viscount Darleigh had once been just the sunny-natured, mischievousson of the village schoolmaster. He was, in addition to everything else, though, a war hero. And he did now have that very impressive title. Better to err on the side of formality, he decided, than risk appearing over-familiar.
Mrs. Fisk baked the bread rolls and cakes she had been planning in her head for weeks. Her son , her beloved only child, was back home, not to mention Viscount Darleigh, that bright and happy boy who had used to run wild with Martin and drag him into all sorts of scrapes—not that Martin had taken much dragging. Poor boy. Poor gentleman. She sniffed and wiped away a tear with the back of her floury hand.
At ten o’clock the young Misses Granger called upon the equally young Miss Hamilton to discover what she planned to wear to the assembly, which would surely happen now that Lord Darleigh had come. The three of them proceeded to reminisce about Vincent-Hunt-that-was winning all the races at the annual village fete by a mile and bowling out every cricketer on the opposing team who had the courage and audacity to come up to bat against him and looking so very handsome with his always overlong fair curls and his blue, blue eyes and his lithe physique. And always smiling his lovely smile, even at them , though they had been just little girls at the time. He had always smiled at everyone .
That last memory drew tears from all of them, for now Viscount Darleigh would never win any race or bowl at any cricket game or look handsome—or perhaps even smile at anyone. He would not even be able to dance at the assembly. They could conceive of no worse fate than that.
Vincent would have been horrified to know that, in fact, his arrival in Barton Coombs had been expected. Or, if that was too strong a word, then at least it hadbeen looked for with eager hope and cautious anticipation.
For Vincent had forgotten two overwhelmingly significant facts about his mother and his sisters. One was that they were all inveterate letter writers. The other was that they had all had numerous friends at Barton Coombs and had not simply relinquished those friends when they moved away. They might not be able to visit them daily, as they had been used to do, but they could and did write to them.
His mother had not been reassured by the two notes that had arrived, scrawled in the inelegant hand of Martin Fisk. She had not sat back and waited for her son to come home. Rather she had done all in her power to discover where he was. Most of her guesses were quite wide of the mark. But one was that Vincent might return to Barton Coombs, where he had spent his boyhood and been happy, where he had so many friends and so many friendly acquaintances, where he would be comfortable and would be made much of. Indeed, the more she thought of it, the more convinced she became that if he was not already there, he would end up there sooner or later.
She wrote letters. She always wrote letters anyway. It came naturally to her.
And Amy, Ellen, and Ursula wrote letters too, though they were not as convinced as their mother that Vincent would go to Barton Coombs. It was more likely that he had gone back to Cornwall, where he always seemed to be so happy. Or perhaps to Scotland or the Lake District, where he could escape their matchmaking clutches. All three of Vincent’s sisters rather regretted the aggressive manner in which they had pressed Miss Dean upon him. She
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