Page 31 of Miss Vincent’s Vow

On the morning she had appointed to receive her bridal visits, Cassandra sat in the drawing room alone, waiting for the calls to start. Her embroidery was laid out on her lap, but she was yet to set a single stitch, as her mind was elsewhere.

Where was Jethro? She had informed him she was ready to receive visitors, but despite his promises to find the time, he was yet to join her. It was disappointing, but not altogether surprising.

Would she be obliged to make some excuse for his absence? It would not be hard to cast the blame on the demands of his business, but it would hardly help him form the image of being a gentleman that meant so much to him.

It did not help that the longer she sat there alone, the more time she had to examine the room and the more aware she became of its inadequacies. With the aid of a footman, she had consigned a hideous chair to the attic and rearranged the remaining furniture, but there were still no sofas.

On either side of the fire, she had positioned two tables that almost matched and on them she’d placed a pair of blue and white patterned Wedgwood vases, bought out of her pin money, which she had filled with flowers. She had scattered a few books from the library on the tables, but the mantelpiece was bare apart from a small Wedgwood bowl of the same pattern as the vases, and the walls were empty of pictures.

She had done her best, but nothing could hide the unfashionable image that the room presented.

Cassandra had feared to tax her husband’s patience further with a request to redecorate the drawing room. Their truce was too recent. Too fragile. She had almost shattered it over her request to use his mother’s desk. For now, it was enough that he had procured the visiting cards and agreed to join her to greet their visitors.

Except he had not come, and she sat alone when the footman announced her first caller. Gilbert Barnes.

Cassandra rose to her feet and held out both hands to the man who had been such a support to her during the years of her father’s illness. From the first moment he had entered her life, the curate had proved himself a loyal friend.

If he had been a woman, she could have acknowledged the depth of their friendship openly, but as it was, only the two of them understood how close they had become.

To judge from the concern she had seen in his eyes on her wedding day, Cassandra thought it had caused him more than a few heart pangs to see her rush headlong into marriage with a man she hardly knew. Perhaps he despised her for marrying without love.

At least now, as a married woman, she could entertain him without fear of damaging either of their reputations.

“I must congratulate you, Cassandra. You are looking well.”

“Thank you, Gilbert. It has been too long since we’ve had the chance to talk.”

A pinched expression appeared around his eyes as they took their seats. “Is Mr Hunt not joining us?”

Unbidden, her cheeks warmed. “My husband is a busy man with many demands on his time. I fear he has been waylaid…”

Her words hung in the air and Gilbert bit his bottom lip, unspoken sympathy in his eyes.

She blinked away the tear that formed at encountering such ready understanding and changed the subject.

“Have you met the new rector yet?”

Gilbert let out a long-suffering sigh. “Yes.”

“That does not sound positive.”

“I believe the boy—for he is but a boy, though just turned 24—should not have been ordained. He is immature and interested only in the income of the living. He has a second parish in Hampshire, where he resides, but I doubt they will benefit from his ministry. From what I have seen of him so far, he has no heart for the Lord nor a care for his parishioners. I do not believe we will often see him in the pulpit, and I regret to say that is a good thing.”

Cassandra reached out and gave his hand a brief squeeze. “I’m sorry.”

“Forgive me. I should not have spoken so freely.”

“You need not apologise. I know your frustration is driven by your own devotion, which the parish will continue to benefit from. It must have been convenient for the new rector to hire such an experienced curate, with so little difficulty to himself. Given the man’s age, and that he has another parish, I assume the post is yours for as long as you want it.”

Gilbert nodded. “I will be in Weymouth for the foreseeable future.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I feared you would look for an alternative position, now that another stands in the place that should have been yours.”

“There are no vacant livings in the area, and I will not seek one elsewhere, so I’ll remain a curate. I do not wish to leave. My heart is in Weymouth.”

Cassandra gave him a sympathetic smile. “I know.”

A noise startled her, and she raised her gaze to see Jethro stood in the doorway, his lips pressed firmly together, and an unfriendly glint in his eye.