Mary touched the column of her throat. “Was the letter from me?”
Harper gave a sharp nod.
Trevor had received and read her letter!
Feeling her pulse against her hand, Mary feared that Trevor’s reaction meant that he would release her from the engagement. She sighed; he worried too much about money. But then she remembered what he had told her of his childhood. The many nights that he had gone hungry and slept near the fire in the kitchen, for there was no hearth in his tiny room. She had never experienced want. Her father had taken his living soon after graduating from university. He had married her mother, who had a dowry of two thousand pounds—half of which would be her own dowry. Their life at the rectory had been warm, plentiful, and happy. All things that Trevor had never experienced.
How could he possibly trust her enough to risk sinking back into poverty? After he had worked so hard to leave it?
She wished he could trust her and her love more.
***
A male servant had arrived to help him dress for dinner, and the man had brought with him a new suit tailored precisely to Trevor’s frame. He had never received charity before, and it was a tough taste to swallow. Embarrassed, he hoped that Mary had not been involved in the purchasing of his new navy-blue suit. The man was supposed to provide for his wife, not the other way around.
Trevor should have talked to Mary after receiving her letter, instead of barricading himself in his room to brood. He had tried to think of any way that he could keep her. Trevor had worked very hard for nine years. He was a good clergyman, and he deserved an opportunity to have his own parish.
He needed to find a living immediately, and Lord Hampford had one of the largest holdings in the country. If there was anyone who might be able to offer him a living, it would be the duke. Now all Trevor had to do was work up the courage to ask His Grace. Something he never would have done a fortnight before, but like Mary, he had changed. He could no longer be content with the status quo. He had kissed Mary, and it was more wonderful than anything he had ever imagined. He wanted—no, needed—to marry her. And he was finished waiting.
He was certain that Lord Hampford would help him, but what if the parish was far away from Mary’s family? His current curacy was only an hour’s carriage ride from her parents’ vicarage in Cookham. Close enough for frequent visits. The duke might send him all the way to Wales or Scotland. Would Mary wish to leave her family? Travel would be expensive and would necessitate a great distance between them. Even the sending of letters would cost dearly, for she would not have Lord Hampford frank them for her. They would have to pay to receive them too.
Would Mary be willing to leave her family? A family of his own was all that he had ever wanted.
Trevor would not be sending any letters to the squire or his cousins.
Except one last one:
Dear Squire Wallace,
I am writing to inform you of my resignation from the curacies of Little Greenwick and White Waltham. I am seeking other employment opportunities and wish my cousin the best in his new role as vicar to two parishes.
Here are a few helpful hints for the new incumbent. Widow Moulton requires a weekly visit; she prefers Mondays at noon. Mr. Thackeray is bedridden and needs to be lifted out of bed in the morning at nine o’clock and back out of his chair at eight o’clock in the evening. His wife alone is not strong enough for the task. Farmer Trask needs help in the spring and fall sowing his fields.
I recommend that Alfred hire Mrs. Stonehocker to wash his laundry; otherwise, she will not be able to feed her children and will return to an unfortunate profession that gives her more mouths to feed. Mr. Phelps’s arthritis has made it impossible for him to hold a pen; he likes to write letters on Wednesdays. Mr. and Mrs. Tubbs, the pub owners, will only attend Sunday meetings if you buy a pint during the week. Be wary of Miss Hendricks; she is eager to marry and has tried more than once to entrap me in a compromising position.
Sincerely,
Trevor Wallace
He almost asked the Duke of Hampford to frank the letter but decided that he would rather make his uncle pay to receive it. He handed the letters to a footman before leaving for dinner. He did not wish to lose his nerve in the morning. Trevor had no position now. Only the three hundred pounds he had saved over the nine years of being a curate. It would more than enough to support him while he found a new situation.
Taking a deep breath, he entered the parlor to see that the Stringhams had guests. Being a clergyman, he associated with people of all ranks, and it did not take him long to decipher that the duke’s guests were tradesmen and their wives. The women’s gowns were neat, but not delicate and ornate like Lord Hampford’s daughters. The men’s suitcoats were made of sturdy wool, but not expensive either. He felt rather inconspicuous in his new coat; it felt like wearing borrowed feathers. He wanted to announce that he had no position and that he was not worth anyone’s time or attention.
Mary and the duke’s daughters entered the room behind him. She wore her lovely crimson silk gown again that brought color to her pale cheeks. There were dark circles underneath her eyes, as if she had not slept well the night before. He hoped that he was not the cause of her sleeplessness. He never wished to hurt her. He only longed to love her and make her happy. Both of which he had failed miserably at so far.
“Poor Trevor,” Lady Helen said in a loud voice that made him cringe. “Let me introduce you to our friends.”
Friendswas an odd word for those of another class. Still, Lady Helen tugged him by the elbow and thankfully introduced him as “Mr. Wallace” to a Mr. and Mrs. Moon, Squire and Mrs. Parwick, Sir and Lady Steadham, and Mrs. Goodman.
“Wallace, you say,” Mrs. Goodman repeated. Her hair was completely gray, but it looked to have once been as black as his own. Her eyes were green and sharp. He would have guessed her age to be over fifty from the lines on her face and the gentle slope of her shoulders. Her gown was black and cut simply. “And who would your father be, young man?”
At the age of thirty, Trevor was not used to being calledyoung.He cleared his throat and smiled. “I am afraid that my father died many years ago.”
“His name,” she insisted in a shrill voice.
Swallowing, Trevor said, “Alfonso Wallace, ma’am.”
Widow Goodman stepped closer, her head nearly touching his shoulder. “And was his wife’s name Delilah?”