Bess, her mother would frequently tell her. A statement that only served to make the boy more interesting than he otherwise might have been.
Once outside, Margaret skittered about, finding other children to play with while her parents were engaged in conversation with the Prossers. Thomas was quickly bored by the business of other people and took himself off to lean against a shady yew. Bess noticed Sarah showing off her new baby, now nearly one month old, and felt a wave of pride. She still marveled at what she had managed to do that night. It was good to see mother and child happy and well and know that she had played a part in their well-being. Bess wandered about the churchyard, ears pricked. The tail end of summer still held some heat and cheerful light, so that the scene was one of brightness and color, a pleasant contrast to the interior of the poor church. At the western boundary, a late-flowering honeysuckle trailed over the wall of the churchyard, its buttery blooms resting against the glossy leaves of the ivy beneath it. Out here, even the restrained fabrics of the women’s dresses were charming and colorful. A little girl hurried by in periwinkle blue, chased by a boy in doublet the color of crushed cherries. Bess passed Widow Digby and Widow Smith, both reliable mouthpieces for village gossip.
‘By all accounts, they found him running down the high street wearing nought but his hat and his silver-buckled shoes!’ declared Widow Smith in a stage whisper.
‘For shame! His poor wife, that she should endure such behavior. And him a vicar’s son.’
‘’Tis no more than is to be expected. There have been complaints aplenty to the magistrate over the strength of the ale at the Fiddler’s Rest, but nothing is done, Sister, nothing is done. Oh, good morning, Bess.’ Whatever Widow Smith had been about to say further on the matter, Bess would not now hear. She silently berated herself for stepping too close before learning the identity of the poor man with the silver-buckled shoes.
‘Good morning, Widow Smith, Widow Digby. What a pretty day it is, do you not agree?’
Widow Smith puffed herself up, inflating her already considerable bulk to menacing proportions.
‘Pretty? ’Tis the Sabbath, child. Have a care.’
‘Would the Lord take offense?’ Bess asked.
‘He may,’ Widow Digby warned, ‘if He believed that fair head of yours was full of nothing but frivolous thoughts.’
‘Instead of thoughts of Him, which is what thou shouldst be concerned with on this day,’ agreed Widow Smith.
‘Upon my oath, Ladies, I have only to look at such a blue as that sky be to think of our Lord,’ said Bess with a disarming smile, before turning on her heel and stepping quickly away. She walked quietly around the edge of the churchyard until she neared the lychgate. There stood the Reverend Burdock and the church warden, Amos Watts. Bess had thought to walk straight past them but paused when she discerned the subject of their conversation.
‘I will have to make a note,’ the church warden was saying. ‘I cannot refrain from doing so any longer.’
Reverend Burdock nodded sagely, ‘Of course, you must. It is incumbent upon us to be vigilant. I had hoped that after my brief conversation with him at last Tuesday’s market … but no, it seems Gideon Masters wishes to remain firmly outside of our flock. It saddens me. To see a man, a man of quiet intelligence I believe, to see him turn away from God.’
‘Gideon has always been a man apart. I’ve never known him attend a service in all the years I’ve lived in Batchcombe, which is a fair few, Reverend, as you know. Time was, a man’s conscience was his own concern.’
‘And God’s, of course.’
‘Well, now ’tis the business of government, and government says all those failing to attend church on the Sabbath must have their names noted in the church records. They will be dealt with at the quarter sessions, like it or no.’
‘You must do
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