Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,8

trouble. Better for everyone if she thought of religion as little as possible.

And so she gave every appearance of listening to Mr. Higginbotham intently, but in reality she was hoping he would shut up so that the congregation could sing the next song and she could look about again. She had never before seen Mr. Pope in church, but that did not mean he would not attend this morning.

She had given surreptitious glances to her right during an earlier hymn, and during the next hymn she intended to give surreptitious glances to her left. Finally, the signing commenced, and Pru stood, her muscles cramped from being forced to remain so still for so long. She looked about under the guise of being moved by the song, but she saw no one new or interesting.

At the end of the service, she was eager to return to the vicarage and change out of her itchy Sunday dress and into one of her more comfortable day dresses, but the vicar informed her they were to dine with Mr. and Mrs. Dawson and would need to walk there directly.

The Dawsons were one of the wealthier families in Milcroft. Pru hadn’t been in the village long, but there were some things one learned right away. They had no children, but they did have three small dogs, and Pru enjoyed throwing a ball for the pups and feeding them scraps she sneaked under the table. The Dawsons were tedious but could be borne except on Sundays when she was forced to wear the stiff white dress with the high, itchy collar.

Pru did not complain, though. Firstly, it would be of no use. Secondly, the vicar would only tell her she was an ungrateful child, and she already knew that. She held her tongue and walked with the vicar until they reached the manicured lawns of the Dawsons’ home. The Dawsons had a small garden with pruned roses and perfectly even hedges. Pru found it utterly lacking in imagination. No fairy queens had cast any enchantments here, but to her surprise and delight, once they entered the house, she discovered they were to be joined at dinner by Mr. Langford, who was the village surgeon.

Mr. Langford was not as ancient as the Dawsons and the vicar, being only about forty, and he always had interesting and bloody tales to tell about accidents involving sharp farm implements and butcher knives. More importantly, Mr. Langford did not treat every question she asked as an opportunity to lecture her. She might ask him about the Earl of Beaufort and his son and receive more than a lesson on gossip.

Of course, the vicar and Mrs. Dawson might still consider the conversation gossip, but they would never dream of chastising Mr. Langford.

Pru waited through the chatter about the weather and the meal and the lovely sermon and was rewarded by Mr. Langford recalling how he had been called to the home of the Finker family because one of their children—who could say which one—had got his head stuck between the railings on the stair.

“Oh, but I hardly see as they would need a surgeon for that,” Mrs. Dawson said. “I would imagine some goose grease or butter would do the trick.”

“And that is what I prescribed, Mrs. Dawson,” Langford said with a smile. “But I’m afraid Mrs. Finker had not thought of that and had come to the conclusion that the little one would have to lose an ear in order to be set free. She had a knife waiting and handed it to me quite solemnly when I arrived. Do it quicky, Mr. Langford, she told me. Don’t let him suffer.

“At least I think that is what she said. It was difficult to hear over the child’s wailing.”

Pru could picture the scene and smiled at the poor child’s distress, thinking his ear was about to be severed from his head. Was it horrible of her to think if she were the surgeon that it would have been amusing to pretend—just for a moment—that she would actually sever the ear?

“But I soon calmed the child and assured him I would not need the knife. I greased him up like a Christmas goose and pulled him free easily enough.”

“Ridiculous waste of your time,” Mr. Higginbotham said. “You must have more important matters to tend to.”

“I did not mind,” Langford said, smiling at Pru across the table. She took that as her opportunity.

“I wonder, Mr. Langford, if you have ever been to Wentmore to