“No, sir. I was not.”
“Of course not. Forgive me. A young lady such as yourself could have no reason to be so desperate, I trust.”
She hesitated, her lips stiffening. “No reason . . .”
“I am Mr. Tugwell,” he said, doffing his round, wide-brimmed hat of black felt. “Vicar of St. Mary’s.”
“How do you do.” She guessed him to be in his midthirties, with light brown hair and soft, mobile face.
He extended his hand. “May I offer you a hand up?”
“I fear mine are wet and cold, sir,” she apologized as she placed her hand in his.
He pulled her to her feet. “You were in earnest! A cold fish comes to mind.” He grinned. “Never fear, I have handled far worse.”
She found herself grinning in spite of her recent ordeal. “And my face. I suppose it is a fright?”
He cocked his head to the side and appraised her. “Your face is charming.” He nodded toward his boys. “You fit right in with my lot here. These are my sons—Jeremiah, Ezekiel, Isaiah, and Tom. Amos, my eldest, is at school.”
“Hello. I am Miss Keene.” The name was out of her mouth before she could think the better of it. But how could she lie to four such angelic, albeit dirty, boys?
Mr. Tugwell handed her his handkerchief, then tapped a broad finger to a spot along his jaw.
Blushing, she wiped the same place on her own jaw. “I am afraid I have fallen and made a mess of myself.”
“Have we not all done so, Miss Keene?” he asked, a twinkle in his kindly hazel eyes. “Have we not all?”
Not knowing how to respond, she returned the handkerchief and asked, “And who is this?” of the spaniel sniffing at her skirts.
“That is Harley,” little Tom supplied.
“Harley likes these wanders as much as we do,” Mr. Tugwell explained. “The lady of the house believes a great deal of exercise keeps male animals from tearing about the place.” He grinned. “The dog as well.”
She smiled. “Might you direct me to St. Aldwyns, sir?”
“With pleasure.” Tucking the handkerchief back into his pocket, the vicar said, “We are for Arlington, which is on your way. May we escort you that far at least?”
“Thank you.” She thought a moment. “I suppose my first task will be to repair my appearance. Is there someplace in Arlington where I might purchase a needle and thread and perhaps a pair of gloves?”
“Indeed there is. Eliza Ludlow’s shop. Miss Ludlow is a friend of ours. Might we have the pleasure of introducing you?”
“Yes, that would be most kind. Thank you.”
In company with Mr. Tugwell and his boys, Olivia crossed a stone bridge near the village mill and turned up the high street, passing the Swan Hotel and a row of weavers’ cottages—evidenced by stone troughs for washing and dying cloth, and the narrow mill leat flowing past. They crossed the cobbled street and approached a cluster of shops—a chandler’s, a wool agent’s, and the promised ladies’ shop with a display of hats and bonnets in its many-paned bow window.
“Please await me here, boys,” Mr. Tugwell said. “And do keep Harley from the chandler’s wares this time, hmm?”
The vicar opened the shop door for her. Quickly smoothing back the wisps of hair at her temples, Olivia stepped inside while the bell still jingled.
The shop was small, neat, and sweet-smelling. Shelves displayed gloves, scarves, stockings, fans, and tippets. A dress form wore a flounced walking dress of white cambric muslin. The front counter held fashion magazines and an assortment of cosmetics and perfumes.
A woman in her thirties, dressed in an attractive, vested gown of striped twill, stood at a tidy counter. She smiled brightly at the vicar. “Mr. Tugwell, what a lovely surprise.”
Her ready smile dimmed only fractionally as Olivia stepped near.
“Good afternoon, Miss Eliza.” He made a slight bow. “May I present Miss Keene, of . . . ?”
Olivia faltered. “Near Cheltenham.”
“Who is in need of your services.”
“Of course.” Miss Ludlow turned warm brown eyes in Olivia’s direction.
Mr. Tugwell straightened. “I shall leave you ladies to it. I know little of such falderals, and confess I prefer my ignorance.” He smiled at Olivia. “But you may trust Miss Ludlow implicitly, I assure you.”
The woman blushed at his praise.
Mr. Tugwell rubbed his lip in thought. “I don’t wish to be presumptuous, Miss Keene, but it does grow late, and St. Aldwyns is still a few miles off. You would be most welcome to stay the night in the vicarage guest room. Miss Tugwell will make you quite welcome, I assure you.”
“You are very kind. I . . . Perhaps I shall, indeed. If you are certain it is not too much of an imposition?”
“Not at all. And the boys and I promise to be on our best behavior. Though I cannot speak for Harley.” He grinned, then turned once more to Miss Ludlow. “If you would be so good as to point out the way, Miss Eliza, once your business is concluded?”
“Of course.”
“Then I shall bid you adieu for now.” He bowed to both ladies and made his exit.
When the jingle of the shop bell faded, Eliza Ludlow asked kindly, “And how may I help you, Miss Keene?”
“I hope to find a situation, you see . . . ” Olivia began.
The woman’s dark eyebrows furrowed. “I am afraid this little shop barely provides for me.”
“Oh no. Forgive me, I did not mean here. I understand there is a girls’ school in St. Aldwyns.”
“Yes, I have heard of it. Managed by a pair of elderly sisters, I believe. I cannot say whether they need anyone, but you might try.”
“I plan to. But I should not go looking like this.” Olivia pulled back one shoulder of her cape, exposing the crudely tied fabric of her frock. “I am afraid I suffered a mishap—a few of them, actually—on my way here.”
Miss Ludlow tutted sympathetically. “You poor dear.”
“Have you needle and thread I might purchase to put this to rights?”
“Indeed I have. Blue thread?”
Olivia nodded. “And, perhaps, a hairbrush and pins?” Her stomach rumbled a rude complaint, and Olivia ducked her head to hide a blush.
“Of course, my dear.” Eliza Ludlow smiled sweetly. “And you must come up to my rooms and repair yourself properly. Perhaps you would join me for tea and cake?”
Tears pricked Olivia’s eyes at this unexpected generosity. “You are very kind. I thank you.”
An hour later, Olivia’s hair was combed and securely pinned, and her gown repaired and brushed reasonably clean. She wore a new chip bonnet, two gloves, and a small reticule dangling from her wrist. She’d had money enough to purchase the bonnet, but Eliza had insisted on giving her a lone glove, saying she’d lost its mate and wasn’t it nearly a perfect match? Not wanting to deplete her funds, Olivia had gratefully agreed and accepted. Now her mother’s small purse, a new comb, and a handkerchief were encased within the reticule, which Miss Ludlow had sold her for a suspiciously low price.
Prepared to take her leave, Olivia listened as Eliza described the way to the vicarage. “Continue up the high street as it angles to the north. The vicarage is just past an old white house with a dovecote.”
“Is it proper, do you think, for me to accept the vicar’s invitation?” Olivia asked. “Mrs. Tugwell won’t mind?”
“You mean Miss Tugwell, his sister.”
“Oh. I thought—”
“Mrs. Tugwell died several years ago, poor soul.”
“How tragic. Those poor motherless boys . . .”
“Yes.” Miss Ludlow’s brown eyes glowed sympathetically.
“Still, I think it appropriate. Unless you would feel more comfortable in the Swan, though the inn might be more expense than you wish to bear.”
“I am afraid it would be.”
“Then we shall hope and pray the school has need of you directly.”
Olivia pressed the shopkeeper’s hand. “Thank you. You have been prodigiously kind, and I shall never forget it.”
“You are more than welcome.” Miss Eliza was suddenly distracted by a bandbox on the counter, her dark brows knit in perplexity or irritation. “Oh, fiddle . . .”
“Are you all right?”
The woman sighed. “I would be better had Mrs. Howe paid for this feathered cap she ordered. Said she wanted it for a party at Brightwell Court, but the party is this very evening, and still she has not sent anyone round to collect it. And bon chance trying to sell this piece of London frippery to anyone else in the village.”
“I am sorry,” Olivia murmured, but her mind had caught on something else Miss Ludlow had said. “Brightwell Court?” Olivia asked. She remembered the name Brightwell from her mother’s newspaper clipping.
“Yes. Do you know it? The largest estate in the borough, save the Lintons’. There is a party there this very evening.” She winked at Olivia. “But I seem to have misplaced my invitation.”
Olivia grinned at her joke. “As have I.”
Promising to call on her new friend when she was able, Olivia thanked her once again and let herself from the shop.
The evening was already growing dark, the hours of daylight quite abbreviated in the final months of the year. The wind pulled at her cape and she shivered. It was indeed too dark and cold to continue further. At least by foot.