When a Duchess Says I Do - Grace Burrowes Page 0,25
for the passion Duncan had brought to his training. “I did.”
“Why?”
Always a thorny question. He stalled by dipping his shortbread into the hot, spicy cider. “I had seen the job of vicar done poorly. In my arrogance, I thought I’d have a better approach. I was wrong and never made it past my first curate’s post. I enjoyed academics, enjoyed the company of my fellow students, enjoyed the notion that I might contribute something to a community eventually. When it came to being part of a congregation and supporting its leadership, I was not successful.”
He’d been a raging failure.
“If I’d dipped my shortbread,” Miss Maddie said, “it would have disintegrated all over the table and gone to waste.”
Duncan dipped the shortbread again and held it out to her. She might not share her truths with him, but she could share a bite of humble goodness.
After an entirely too sober perusal of him, the shortbread, the shadows lurking in the corners of the kitchen, and perhaps her own conscience, Miss Maddie took the treat, nibbled off a small portion, and passed it back.
“Why did you leave the church?” she asked.
“I lacked a proper vocation.” The bishop had said as much. Examine your conscience, and you’ll find that this might not be the path God has in mind for you. “I had the skills necessary to instead become a schoolteacher, so I pursued that livelihood.”
And had been a raging failure all over again, until Aunt—widowed, thank the timely intercession of the Almighty—had taken pity on him. Her generosity had arrived too late, or perhaps Duncan’s pride had been the issue. He’d spent several years flogging himself with that question before becoming absorbed in Stephen’s situation.
“Is any of this prosaic tale even true?” Miss Maddie asked. “I can understand a ducal family sending a younger son into the church, but allowing him to become a schoolteacher? They are an impoverished, overworked lot seldom held in any esteem.”
Not by their so-called betters, but the esteem of the scholars was a more precious commodity. “The title came long after I’d left the church. I loved teaching. If I was patient and wily enough, I knew I could put some learning into the heads of the farmers’ and tradesmen’s children. That learning might make them a little safer, a little more successful than they’d be otherwise, a little harder to cheat and exploit. You are absolutely right, though: Teaching is one step above starvation in most villages.”
That sad truth was the limit of what Duncan was willing to admit in an effort to win Miss Maddie’s trust, and he’d managed not to lie outright.
Time for some turnabout. “So tell me, to the extent you can without violating confidences, how you come to be alone in the wilds of Berkshire at this time of year.”
She gathered her shawls—two—and scooted on her seat, like a scholar preparing to recite. “I am widowed, and bad luck has me making my way home to Dorset.”
Her air of self-possession suggested she might be widowed, and the bad luck was believable enough, which left Dorset for the falsehood.
“I haven’t traveled much in Dorset recently,” Duncan said. “I did spend some time there as a younger man. Whereabouts is your destination?”
“A small village on the coaching road south of Shaston.”
Shaston did indeed enjoy a fair amount of coaching trade, something any map could have revealed to her.
“Such a pretty town, nestled in the shadows of such pretty hills. I suppose you’ve worshipped at St. Matthew’s?”
More fussing about with the shawls. “Occasionally.”
Duncan could accept her dissembling and let her go, for on the first fine day, she’d doubtless melt back into the woods where he’d found her.
Part of him would be relieved. He had an estate to set to rights, a house to restore, ledgers to sift through, and, time permitting, journals to edit. Sooner or later, some Wentworth or other would arrive—no need to send notice when ambushing family—and the whole business would become awkward and complicated.
Though how much more awkward and complicated to be a woman without means or defenses, alone in the English countryside? Compared to that situation, Duncan’s concerns were trivialities.
He rose, rather than watch his guest squirm. “Miss Maddie, you are an inept liar. This is to your credit. The fifteenth-century church in Shaston is St. Peter’s, and Shaston is one of few villages in Dorset to sit atop a high hill. You’ve never been there, and you don’t seek to go there.”