The Secret of Pembrooke Park(51)
Everyone assented, and they picked another day and time.
William left a short while later, relieved to know the skills he’d learned during his years at Oxford had not evaporated in the intervening months. He was also relieved to see Leah looking more relaxed and enjoying herself. He was not quite sure how he felt about his friend’s obvious interest in his sister, and again prayed Leah wouldn’t end up being hurt.
Chapter 11
William glanced from the vestry into the nave, and his heart sank. Empty. Was no one coming? Would he be forced to read the annual prayers in honor of the King’s birthday to vacant pews? The ill monarch was still a popular figure—far more so than his son, the prince regent—though the regency and the weather had cast a pall over the day.
William could usually count on his family to attend prayers during the week, if no one else, but his mother and sister were spending the day with their grandmother, who had taken a fall. And his father had been called out early that morning to help a tenant repair a fence before all of his livestock escaped. In the absence of his parish clerk, William went into the entry porch and rang the bell himself, then returned to the vestry.
Resigned to the lonely task, William donned a white surplice, determined to do his duty—flock or not.
He reentered the unoccupied church and stepped to the reader’s desk with a sigh.
The outer door banged open, and a figure scuttled in beneath a dripping umbrella, slipping on the slick threshold. He glimpsed wet half boots and damp skirt hems. The umbrella lowered, revealing its bearer’s face.
William’s heart rose. Miss Foster.
He felt comingled relief and embarrassment to have her witness his failure to draw a crowd.
She looked about her, uncertainty etched on her brow. “Did I mistake the time?”
“No. I was just about to begin.”
Shaking the rain from her umbrella, she said, “I am sorry I’m late. I thought if I waited, the rain might lessen. But quite the opposite, I’m afraid. No doubt that’s what has kept the others at home.”
How kind of her. “Thank you for braving the weather, Miss Foster.”
She shrugged, uncomfortable under his praise. “Easy for me. I live the closest. Save for you.” She hesitated. “My father . . . isn’t much of a churchgoer, I am afraid. I hope you aren’t offended.”
“Not at all. Won’t you be seated?”
“Oh yes, of course. Forgive me, I’m holding you up.” She left her wet umbrella and walked forward, her heels echoing across the nave.
She straightened her bonnet and took her customary seat. She looked charming with coils of dark hair made springy by the dampness framing her glistening face.
He cleared his throat and began, “Today we meet to honor our venerated sovereign, King George the Third. And to pray for divine healing and protection in his fragile state of health.”
He looked down at the official prayer he was meant to read but hesitated. He glanced up once more.
Miss Foster sat there, hands clasped in her lap in the posture of dutiful listener.
He admitted, “I feel silly standing here, pretending to talk to a crowd.”
Lips parted, she glanced to the side as though to verify he was talking to her. “You . . . don’t look silly.”
He stepped from behind the desk and walked toward her. “Would you mind if we made this less formal, since it is only the two of us?”
“Not at all.”
He placed a hand on the low door of the enclosed box. “May I?”
“Of course,” she said, but he did not miss the convulsion of her long white throat as she swallowed.
William sat beside her, several feet of space between them on the pew.
“Shall we pray?”
She nodded and solemnly closed her eyes. For a moment he sat there, taking advantage of her closed eyes and proximity to look at her, allowing his gaze to linger on the fan of long, dark lashes against her fair cheek, her sweet upturned nose, and delicate pink lips. Then he cleared his throat and shut his own eyes—not that he felt closed eyes were required to commune with his creator, but he knew he needed to block out this particular feminine distraction.
“Almighty God, we pray for King George, as you have instructed us to pray for the leaders you have placed in authority over us. We ask that you, Great Physician, touch his body and his mind and restore him to health. We pray for his son, the prince regent, who rules in his stead, and ask you to guide him. Oh, that he would seek to walk in your ways.
“Father, we are grateful that you are our perfect eternal King, sovereign forever, and that you love us and forgive us and adopt us as son and daughter. We are in reality unworthy peasants, but you see us as prince and princess, children of the King, through the sacrifice of your Son, Jesus, our savior and deliverer, and it is in His name we pray. Amen.”
“Amen,” she echoed.
They sat there a few moments in silence, William looking straight ahead, knowing he should move away but not wishing to.
She asked quietly, “Is that what you’d planned to say?”
He shrugged. “I prayed what was in my heart. If you would prefer I read the formal prayer, I will happily oblige. . . .”
“That’s not necessary. I was only curious. I like that you are less formal in your prayers and sermons. Less practiced.”