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“It is,” she said. “You simply need a good match.”

“Regardless of whether the fit gives you blisters?”

“Really, Alexander.” Lady Bloxley’s mask of indignation cracked just enough to expose a hint of concern. “I do not fault your efforts in Parliament. The time you spend trying to better the lives of others is highly commendable. But the fact remains that you need an heir, and I wish for grandchildren. Those things should not be neglected any more than the plight of chimney sweep apprentices.”

Alexander took a deep breath, feeling suddenly and unexpectedly weary. “I realize that you have my best interest at heart, Mother, but I cannot bring myself to worry about Lady Emma’s pettiness over my lack of attention to her. Once this parliamentary session is over, however—on the assumption that the current blight on my character is no longer—I promise I shall devote a greater measure of time to courting.”

Lady Bloxley’s shoulders sagged with relief. “Thank you, Alexander.”

He nodded. Marriage had always been on his seemingly never-ending list of responsibilities. He’d always hoped that it would not be something he simply crossed off with the same satisfaction and lack of emotion that he did when he successfully replaced the roof on a tenant’s cottage or brought on a new servant. For as long as he could remember, his heart had wished for far more than that. So he had held off removing that particular item from the list, hoping that he could approach it with something deeper than duty. Perhaps he had waited too long.

A knock sounded on the door.

“Enter,” Alexander called, grateful for the interruption.

Hastings walked in carrying a silver salver bearing three envelopes, each appearing as businesslike as the other. “The post has arrived, my lord.”

“Thank you, Hastings.” A week ago, Alexander had given the butler strict instructions to deliver letters to him immediately upon their arrival at the house. It had not seemed as foolish then as it did now. “Place them on the desk, if you would.”

The butler complied, and his mother started toward the open door. “I have my own letters to write, so I shall leave you to your correspondence.”

“Very well. Good day, Mother.”

Lady Bloxley raised her hand in response and sailed back out of the study having successfully launched her warning shot.

Jane sat beside Phoebe on one of the center pews of the country church, watching the brightly colored beams of light reflecting off the stained glass window dance across the whitewashed walls. At the pulpit, Mr. Fossum was in fine form, his sonorous voice bouncing off the rafters above the heads of the congregation. His wife was sitting in the pew immediately in front of them, watching him with rapt attention. Unfortunately, it seemed that she might be the only one fully invested in the vicar’s prolonged sermon. Phoebe had been fidgeting at Jane’s side for the last twenty minutes, and a quick glance around the church confirmed Jane’s suspicions that the vast majority of the congregation was either asleep or meditating deeply.

Close to the front, a shimmer of blue light touched the wall, and Jane saw a small hand reach up from the depths of a wooden pew to touch it. The tiny fingers twisted in the air, playing with the color coming from Christ’s blue robe of glass in the distant window. Jane watched, mesmerized by the sight—until a large hand reached out and swatted the child’s arm down.

“No.” Jane’s soft cry was swallowed up by the organ’s opening note. The vicar had finished his sermon, and all around her, the congregation was coming to its feet.

Pulling up on the back of the pew before her, Jane stood. She shifted a few inches to the right, straining to see the child, but a broad-shouldered man with red hair obscured her view. As she watched, he turned his head and reached for something at his right. Recognition came immediately, and she gripped the seat more tightly as Mr. Stanley yanked Asher upright. The small boy’s head barely cleared the top of the pew, but he stood rigidly between Mr. Stanley and the wall. The youth who had called to Asher from across the street stood on Mr. Stanley’s other side, and beside him was a short woman with brown hair tucked neatly beneath her bonnet. She was holding an infant in her arms.

The singing came to an end, and Jane sank onto the pew again, her eyes still on Mrs. Stanley. Was it possible that she could contrive a way of speaking to the woman before she left the church?

“Let us pray.” From the pulpit, the vicar’s booming voice brought the congregation to its knees. Jane bowed her head, hoping, as always, that God would forgive her for not lowering herself to the floor.

When the final amen was said, the congregation waited for the vicar to take his place at the rear door, then they slowly began filtering out of the church. Jane watched as the Stanley family left their pew and started up the aisle toward her.

“Come, Phoebe,” she said.

“Now?” Her sister’s surprise was understandable. Jane normally preferred to wait until everyone else had left before exiting. It saved her the discomfort of knowing that she was slowing those behind her with her labored walking.

“Yes. Now.” Sliding to the end of the pew, Jane clasped her cane in one hand and waited. Mr. Stanley drew near. He caught her eye and inclined his head in greeting. Jane returned the gesture before turning her eyes on the young boy following behind the butcher. Asher’s head was bowed, his narrow shoulders slumped. “Good day, Asher,” she said softly.

The child’s head popped up, and his questioning dark eyes met hers. “Good . . . good day, miss.”

Jane smiled at him, and he managed a wobbly smile in return. The young man at his rear, who could only be the butcher’s son, gave him a shove, urging him on. Asher stumbled forward, closing the gap between him and Mr. Stanley. But he turned back once, and even though the light inside the church was dim, it was enough to expose the purple bruise on his left cheek. Jane’s breath caught.

“What is it?” Phoebe had been close enough to hear.

Jane shook her head. “Nothing.” The butcher’s family was too close to discuss it now.

As soon as Mrs. Stanley passed the end of their pew, Jane rose. Shifting her weight from the back of the pew to her cane, she stepped into the aisle. The man following Mrs. Stanley saw her movement and stopped. He waited politely while she and Phoebe entered the walkway. A quick glance back at the pew told Jane that their sudden departure had taken her parents by surprise. They were not yet to the end of the seat, but to her relief, her father waved her on.

When Jane turned back to look down the aisle, however, she was met with disappointment. As usual, she had moved too slowly. Two more people had slipped in ahead of them, and they now stood between her and Mrs. Stanley. Frustration gnawed at her, but knowing there was nothing she could do to change her situation, she followed the portly older gentleman before her in a silent shuffle toward the outer door.

They had not passed more than a couple of pews when Jane began to wonder if she might have discovered an unforeseen benefit to Mr. Fossum’s poor hearing. The closer she drew to the vicar, the more clearly she could hear his conversation with those ahead of her. Not only was his voice overly loud, but if he mistook a parishioner’s response, he repeated himself. And in a church where every other voice was muted, there really was no other recourse than to listen in on the vicar’s interactions.