Page 39 of Dukes for Dessert

Sophie knew exactly what he meant. She held the words to her heart, and tried not to give herself away every time the two of them passed each other in the vicarage’s narrow corridors.

On Sunday, they attended the village church. Uncle had convinced Sophie to play the organ, Mrs. Plimpton happy to stay at home and nurse her aching bones. The church, built in an age where even the smallest parishes sported grandiose Gothic structures, had an organ loft, so Sophie could perch there and not have to enter with the congregation.

Uncle spoke about Moses today, focusing on the story of the baby Moses being rescued from the reeds. He then compared Moses being chosen to lead the Isrealites to freedom to Jesus being born to redeem sinners, one foreshadowing the other. Two helpless children had become saviors.

Uncle then went on to talk about how archaeologists and historians argued whether the pharaoh in Exodus was Ahmose the First or Ramses the Great, and perhaps if there were enough excavations, they would find out for certain. Digging up the past, Uncle concluded, was much like human beings sifting through their own pasts to reveal their sins, confess them, and ask forgiveness.

The last had been tacked on, as though Uncle realized his congregation was nodding off over the history of Ramses. Sophie pumped the organ and plodded through the next hymn, while Uncle shook himself and returned to the rest of the service.

David glanced up from where he sat with Eleanor and Dr. Gaspar, and shot her a quick grin. Arrow to her heart.

Once they reached home, Mrs. Corcoran, after she’d removed her Sunday hat, handed David a small envelope.

“You’ve a telegraph message, Mr. Fleming. Village boy gave it to me as I was walking back.”

David neatly slit the envelope with a pocket knife and slid out the paper inside. He read the brief missive then folded it, his eyes dark.

“I must return to London.” His voice was easy but held a note that stirred Sophie’s worry. “Is there a train up, Mrs. Corcoran?”

Mrs. Corcoran shook her head. “There’s no train from our station ’til morning, very early. But the butcher’s son is driving into Shrewsbury to be at the market tomorrow, and there’s a mail train from there at four this afternoon.”

“You are a walking Bradshaw, good lady,” David said, impressed.

“I’ve lived here all my life,” Mrs. Corcoran answered. “Stands to reason I know the trains. Not that there’s many out our way, so I’ve come to know the Shrewsbury timetables as well.”

“Excellent. I shall seek this butcher’s son and beg him to take me in his cart.”

Sophie did not like how heavy her heart grew as she listened to this exchange. She could say nothing, only swallow the lump in her throat.

Uncle Lucas gave David a surprised look. “Why the hurry to be off? Are they arresting you at last?”

Dr. Gaspar started, and even Eleanor looked concerned.

“No, indeed,” David said quickly. “It’s business that won’t wait. I’ll return as soon as I’m able.”

“Not until you’ve had luncheon, certainly.” Uncle led the way to the dining room as though brooking no argument.

Sophie tried to corner David as they went in, but he eluded her, slipping past Dr. Gaspar to escort Eleanor and seat her with aplomb.

Had the telegram to do with Sophie’s divorce? She’d asked him to leave it alone, but she didn’t believe for a moment he would. David was a whirlwind, Sophie had come to understand, and when he fixed on a problem, he’d sweep it up and pound on it until that problem surrendered in defeat.

“I believe I will accompany you, Mr. Fleming,” Eleanor announced as Mrs. Corcoran brought in the meal—a cold one, as she did no cooking on Sundays. “I have taken many photographs, and I want to develop them in my darkroom at home.”

Dr. Gaspar gazed at her in alarm. “Gracious, dear lady, you cannot ride all the way to Shrewsbury in a butcher’s cart. You are a duchess.”

Eleanor sent him a pitying smile. “Well, I am not about to tramp to Shrewsbury with my photographic plates strapped to my back. Do not worry, Dr. Gaspar, I am not delicate porcelain. And I am certain David will give me the best seat on the cart.”

“Of course.” David winked at Sophie.

Sophie ate her cold beef without answering.

Eleanor shot Sophie what she supposed was meant to be a reassuring look. Sophie did feel a little better—Eleanor had decided to travel back so that she could keep an eye on David, Sophie surmised. Developing the photographs was an excuse.

After luncheon, David disappeared to his chamber at the top of the house, descending with his small valise. Eleanor had several large cases, which David and Dr. Gaspar gallantly loaded onto the cart for her. The butcher’s boy, a placid youth, assisted, seemingly unbothered by his detour.

David turned to Sophie once the cases were safely stowed. “Au revoir, my lady.” He gave her a sweeping bow, narrowly missing hitting his head on the cart’s large rear wheel.

“I will take good care of him, dear.” Eleanor caught Sophie’s hand and kissed her cheek. “He needs looking after.”