“Fitz is so handsome,” Miranda gushed. “He looks lovely in that hat.”
“What does he see in Alba?” Caroline asked. “They’re so different.”
“Let’s just be thankful he’s willing to take her on,” Margo said, glancing at her husband, then adding tactfully, “She might be unconventional but she’s lively. I bet life is never dull with her.”
“She might be lively, but no one has a temper like Alba,” said Caroline. “I hope Fitz knows what he’s got himself into.”
“I bet he hasn’t seen her temper yet!” said Miranda.
“God help the poor man,” said Margo under her breath. She glanced again at her husband. But he was miles away.
Beechfield church was as one would expect: quaint, picturesque, and very old. It was built of brick and flint, with a wooden bell tower where Fred Timble, Hannah Galloway, and Verity Forthright had held the much-coveted positions of bell ringers for over thirty years. Margo took her duty as lady of the village with the utmost seriousness. She was on the list for doing the church flowers once a month and made sure that her creations were the most elaborate. That was quite a challenge, for Mabel Hancock cultivated a stunning garden and her arrangements were always adventurous. When it was Mabel’s turn, Margo’s stomach would churn all the way to church until she had satisfied herself that she hadn’t been outdone by a woman of the village.
As they arrived the bells rang out, drawing the villagers, dressed in their finest, to worship. Socializing was left for afterward when prayers had been said and consciences cleared. Alba took Fitz’s hand and followed her father and stepmother. When they weren’t looking she unbuttoned her coat. “What are you doing?” Fitz asked, concerned. He didn’t want to have to listen to another row.
“Giving the vicar a lesson in fashion,” she replied.
“Don’t you think you should…”
“No,” she answered brusquely. “I don’t care what the Buffalo thinks. I’m twenty-six for God’s sake.” He couldn’t argue with her. “This way you can look at my legs,” she added with a smirk. “I want to feel you looking at them.”
She flashed him the most alluring smile and he couldn’t help but smile back. She was irresistible. His heart buckled and he tried to forget that earlier feeling of emptiness. Perhaps if they made love again it would be different. Maybe she had been nervous and all that moaning and thrashing about was simply covering up.
“Don’t worry. I’ll be thinking of nothing but your legs,” he replied as they walked through the large wooden door and up the aisle.
The church was full. Only the front pew was empty, reserved for the Arbuckles as it was every Sunday. Thomas stood aside for his wife and two younger daughters, who filed past him and sat down. He nodded at Fitz, the kind of nod a man only gives to another man, a nod of silent complicity, and sat down, leaving the last two places free for him and Alba.
Alba sat with the coat falling apart at the thighs. She admired the patterns on her sugar-almond tights, bought for forty pence at the Army and Navy Store. She felt Fitz’s eyes on them and relived their lovemaking. What she remembered most, though, was his kiss. It was somehow more tender than any kiss she had ever had before. She had felt embarrassed. It had been too intimate. It had frightened her. But she had liked it. Maybe he would kiss her like that again. If he did, perhaps she’d manage to control the unbearable sensation of losing her stomach, like she did every time she drove too fast over that bridge outside Kings Worthy.
Suddenly Reverend Weatherbone swept into the nave. He definitely swept, robes flying behind him as if a great wind blew up the aisle. His hair was a shock of gray, wild and long, dancing on an imaginary wind like his robes. His face was illuminated with enthusiasm, his eyes blazing, his mouth wide and smiling. Alba had grown up with the dour, self-important Reverend Bolt. She had not expected his replacement to resemble a mad scientist. His voice was mesmerizing, bouncing off the walls in vibrant echoes. Not a single person moved. It was as if he had enchanted them all with his awesome presence. Alba hastily threw the coat over her knees. He turned his eyes to her and she gasped beneath the weight of his gaze. “Oh God!” she exclaimed.
“Thank you, Miss Arbuckle, for the promotion,” he said and a light, nervous titter rippled through the congregation. Alba blushed a deep scarlet and lowered her eyes. She gulped and glanced across at her stepmother.
Margo’s expression was one of deep, unfailing admiration. Here he stands before these good villagers, she thought to herself smugly, and he’s lunching with us! She must let Mabel know that the reverend was a guest at her table. Totally harmless, of course, she reassured herself, aware of where she was. Childish rivalry is not a sin.