After the Wedding (The Worth Saga #2)(10)

How could it hurt her to be happy for a few days?



* * *



Five minutes later, Camilla ducked into the rector’s office, where the two men were ensconced deep in conversation.

Summer sun was shining through the window, laying a cross-hatched pattern on the surface of Rector Miles’s desk. She set the large tray there, then gathered up the teapot.

“As far as charity works for the parish,” Rector Miles was saying, “I honestly cannot imagine doing more than we are doing at the moment.”

Camilla did not think much of the rector’s plans for charity. It was flaw number forty-nine in her, she supposed—a tendency to judge others when she had more than her own share of defects to correct. She tried not to judge—a little bit—but alas.

That would no doubt be engraved on her tombstone: Camilla tried to be good, but not for very long.

It was particularly hard for Camilla not to judge Rector Miles on the matter of charity, though. She and Kitty were both his charity projects, and while she did see some charity in his actions, she was still essentially an underpaid servant. She knew she should to be grateful to him, but…

“No,” the bishop replied. “I’ve seen what you do, and there is no benefit in devoting any more funds to the matter.”

Camilla was grateful to Rector Miles. She was. She had been in trouble when he rescued her. He’d made her see all the possible consequences of her behavior. He’d taken her in, and he patiently spent time thinking of her.

No point returning to what she had been. She’d made a mistake—several mistakes—but she was trying to do better. She’d focus on that.

“Then we are agreed.” The two men nodded at each other.

Camilla set spoons and saucers down, aligning them precisely, then arranged the little ceramic dishes of milk and sugar between them.

It had not been trouble trouble that the rector had saved her from. At least, it had not been immediate danger. Just the kind that put her immortal soul in peril, even if it had made her mortal being temporarily happy.

“I’ve been thinking of the best way to handle the situation,” Rector Miles was saying. “It could potentially become a larger issue.”

Mr. Hunter had seemed kind. Just thinking of a man’s shoulders could not endanger her mortal soul, could it? They were just shoulders. Shoulders were above the waistline. Far above the waistline. Surely it would be entirely innocent to think of them. Would it not? Camilla fetched the sugar biscuits and set them above the tea things.

“And here I thought the matter was already decided,” the bishop said.

The tea-tray had been laden with treats today, but who had put it together, Camilla didn’t know. One didn’t serve sandwiches tossed higgledy-piggledy on a plate to a bishop. She shook her head and arranged them into a spiraling star.

The bishop was right, even if he hadn’t been addressing Camilla. She’d already made her decision. She was trying to be good. She didn’t want to have to think of her mistakes, and that meant no flirtations. No shoulders. No nothing.

Down that path lay danger to her immortal soul. If she were a better person, she’d accept what she ought to be with a glad heart. But there were times Camilla quite resented her immortal soul.

Sometimes, Rector Miles spoke of the conflict between good and evil as if an angel and a devil stood, one on each shoulder, whispering suggestions. For whatever reason, Camilla had been assigned an entire regiment of devils. And her angel was—at best—defective. Still, it tried its best.

“There will always be people who donate to the church,” Bishop Lassiter was saying. “They’ll do so loudly, to appear virtuous to those around them. Mrs. Martin is no different. Trouble is always possible, but we should handle her as we have all the others.”

It was sobering. Camilla had to find her virtue elsewhere—in overheard conversations, perhaps. Camilla laid the scones in a straight line and made sure the jam and clotted cream had not spilled from their containers.

Trouble was always possible, and here she was, trying to justify her choices once again.

“But,” Rector Miles said, “she’s demanding—”

“Don’t give in.”

That was what Camilla had to remember. Her first impulse was wicked; her second no better. She usually didn’t start questioning if she was on the right path until ten minutes later, when she’d already made a fool of herself. At least now she was questioning what she was doing, even if it took her some time. That was improvement, was it not? She had just met Mr. Hunter. She had no business flirting with him.

One last check of the little cakes, and she nodded.

“We have official policy in place precisely for times such as these,” Bishop Lassiter said. “We cannot disclose the information she requests for reasons of parishioner privacy. It’s that simple.”

Camilla set the tray of sandwiches in front of the men with a flourish.

Bishop Lassiter stared at the silver tray, at the attractive display of sandwiches, then raised his head to contemplate her. He blinked and frowned, as if seeing her for the first time. “Girl. What are you doing here?”

“Me?” Camilla had thought that putting out tea things was self-explanatory. “Sandwiches, Your Grace?”

“She’s just laying out the tea, Lassiter,” Rector Miles said.