Page 7 of Heartbreaker of the Ton (Misfits of the Ton #6)

“W hat is, love?”

The sermon began and the congregation fell into a hush.

Etty settled Gabriel on her lap and ignored the sharp glance from the woman in the row in front of her. It was the same woman from last week, whom Etty now knew to be the squire’s housekeeper. Clearly the parishioners took a proprietorial approach to their seats in the church. Everyone seemed to be sitting in exactly the same position as last week—the innkeeper and his wife, who’d seemed pleasant enough when Etty passed the inn on her way to the market during the week, and the farmer and his family, including James, the lovely young man who’d delivered the leg of pork.

And, of course, the squire and his stiff-backed family, right at the front in their position of prominence.

Sir John and Lady Fulford, the innkeeper’s wife had said when Etty asked their names, uttered in the hushed tones of the subservient villager. Clearly the Fulfords considered themselves superior to the rest of the village.

What might they have done had Etty stridden to the front and occupied their pew, rather than hiding at the back again?

“Love thy neighbor,” the vicar declared. “We have all heard that spoken many times. But how many of us have paused to ponder the meaning of love, and the many forms it takes?”

Etty sighed. Every waking hour, vicar.

Her definition of love had undergone such a change in the past two years, from material desires to selfish needs, until it finally settled on her son. The love a mother bore her child—a mother who would die for him if fate required it.

She settled Gabriel on her lap and kissed the top of his head.

“Mama,” he said softly.

“Hush, my love,” she whispered, pulling him into an embrace.

“For many of us, love can be selfish,” the sermon continued. “What we may describe as love is often, in fact, a selfish wish for our own gratification. We might express love for another person only because we desire them.”

The squire and his wife stiffened. Doubtless they considered the subject of desire unsuitable for the vicar to discuss in public.

“Or we may express love for an object merely because we find it pleasing, or because we believe that our lives are the better for owning that object. In which case, what we believe to be love is merely envy and pride. Who among us here today has committed such sins and sought absolution by convincing ourselves, and others, that we have acted out of love when, in fact, we have acted out of a selfish desire for our own gratification?”

The vicar cast his gaze over the congregation, and Etty cringed.

He might as well have been speaking about her— to her.

“But desire is not the only form of love.” His voice softened. “The purest form of love is that which we harbor for others—where we place their welfare above our own convenience. That is the embodiment of love, where we seek to perform acts of kindness and devotion—not for reward or consequence, but for the simplest of reasons.” He paused, and his lips curved into a smile. “Because it’s the good thing to do. Not what is right —for being right implies a sense of superiority, of following rules and traditions set by others—but what is good .”

A murmur of whispers rose, and the vicar’s smile broadened as he raised his hand.

“Permit me to explain,” he said. “While I would not, of course, condone acting in a manner that contravenes the law of the land, or disrespects the long-held traditions that we hold dear, I would ask you to always look into your hearts and question whether your actions would stand the ultimate test—the test of whether those actions would better serve the word of the Almighty, who asks us to love one another without condition or desire for reward.”

Etty’s cheeks warmed with shame. Most sermons were delivered with such harshness, as if the man in the pulpit had declared himself to be both judge and executioner upon the souls he preached to—and ordered them to comply with his instructions, lest they face an eternity in the fiery pit of hell. Such sermons had only ever given rise to anger and indignation within her heart, against a mortal man who wished to wield his power over others. But this man before her now, who spoke with such gentleness and warmth of spirit, was making no demands of his flock. He was merely asking the congregation to be kind to one another.

And it was his very kindness that spoke to her soul, laying it bare for her eyes to see, and opened her eyes to her own cruelty.

She glanced up to find him looking directly at her, understanding in his expression, as if she’d also revealed her soul to him.

“We hear tales of the great deeds of men,” he said. “Deeds that further the cause of our world, or accomplishments in remote lands, such as Waterloo, that defend our countrymen against the tyranny of our enemies. But what of the deeds undertaken at home, deeds that go unobserved and unacknowledged? All of you—young or old, men or women—have the power to change the world. The smallest act can be the purest if delivered with selfless love. And, if it ignites a spark in one heart, it can bring forth a flame to light the whole world. To bring light to the world, we do not need to ride to war. An act of love could be delivering alms to the needy, or taking time from your busy lives to comfort another. Or it may be as simple as tolerating a crying child in church.”

Etty’s heart fluttered as she clung to her son. No—it must be a coincidence. He couldn’t be referring to last week—could he?

But his gaze remained fixed on her.

“Children should be cherished,” he said. “And we must always listen to them. Most of us abide by the rules of the society in which we live—we might refrain from speaking for fear of causing offense, or we inhibit our feelings for fear of retribution. We restrict our natural responses to the world around us. But children—in their early years, when their souls are pure and untainted—have yet to learn such inhibitions. Children express themselves freely. When a child cries, they’re telling us that something is wrong. Those of us who disapprove of, and shush, a crying child are placing our own comfort, and our wish to conform to society, over the need to right that wrong.”

Moisture stung Etty’s eyes, and she leaned forward to kiss her son’s head. The vicar smiled and inclined his head, as if in recognition.

“And so, rather than merely invite you to ask questions, I would have you consider the merits of this one instruction…”

He paused and glanced toward Sir John and his wife in the front pew.

“Love thy neighbor,” he said. “Go forth and act with consideration toward another, whether they be a friend you’ve fallen out of favor with, a subordinate in your employ, a relative you’ve been meaning to write to but have yet to find the time, or…”

He resumed his attention on Etty.

“Or a stranger in need of a friend.”

Gabriel fidgeted on Etty’s lap, then tried to climb to the floor.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” she said, pulling him into her arms. “Mama will take you outside in a moment.”

When he’d settled, she glanced up again. The vicar had stopped speaking, but was still looking at her. When she met his gaze, he continued.

“I will always lend an ear if you wish to discuss what it is to love—to do good. And for those of you in need, who have none other to turn to, then I am at your disposal.”

Etty’s vision clouded. She blinked, and a tear splashed onto her cheek. The vicar smiled again, and she looked away, unable to conquer her shame.

His words were for her —the stranger in need. The misfit. The pathetic creature with no one to turn to. Was that how he viewed her, a lost soul to be pitied?

Then he resumed his attention on the rest of the congregation and the sermon continued. But this time, when Gabriel let out a cry as he tried to snatch Etty’s hymn book, the volley of tutting she’d expected was conspicuous in its absence.

When the service concluded, Etty slipped out of the building. Gabriel wriggled in her arms, squealing with excitement, and she placed him on the path and took hold of his leading strings.

“Stone!” he cried, toddling toward the gravestones.

“No, sweetheart, we can’t play on those,” Etty said.

“Stone! Stone!”

She glanced over her shoulder at the main entrance to see the vicar emerge chatting to the squire’s wife. The woman’s nose twisted in contempt as she glanced at Etty. The vicar might have delivered a sermon on being tolerant of noisy children, but Lady Fulford—and, most likely, half the congregation—would have already let go of any resolution to live by the principles he’d spoken of. For them, it was the mere attendance at church that rendered them superior to others—there was little need to sully themselves with any of the activities that the vicar had described as good .

“Come on, Gabriel—let’s take a look at the stones around the back.”

Etty picked up her son and carried him along the path that ran alongside the church building, where he could explore the gravestones away from Lady Fulford’s disapproving stare. Once out of sight, she set him down and approached a statue of an angel covered in moss.

“Stone!” he cried, toddling forward until he reached the limit of his leading strings. Etty gave them a gentle tug.

“Come and look at this angel, sweetheart.”

“Stone!” he cried again. “Stone, stone!”

“No, Gabriel, let your mama take a look…”

He let out a wail and rolled onto the ground.

“Gabriel, please!” she cried.

“Stone!”

With a sigh, she approached him and set him on his feet. “Which stone do you want to see, sweetheart?”

He toddled toward a headstone near the edge of the churchyard, fashioned from soft gray stone, patched with lichen, as if someone had dropped great splashes of yellow and green paint on the surface. At the foot was a posy of flowers, a mixture of wildflowers, grasses, and a single rose. The wildflowers had already withered, their petals clinging limply to the stone, but the rose still held its color—a soft pink, one petal turning brown at the edges.

Gabriel reached for it, but Etty pulled him back.

“No, sweetheart, it’s not yours. It belongs to another.” It belonged to the poor soul whose body lay in the ground beneath the stone.

Etty crouched beside the headstone and read the inscription.

Here lies Freda Gadd

beloved daughter

b Dec 25 th 1789

d Aug 13 th 1805

“Beloved daughter…”

Etty’s heart ached at the simple inscription, and she drew her son into her arms. Somebody’s child lay in the ground before them. Of all the pain a heart had to endure, none was greater than that of losing a child.

A twig snapped behind her, and Etty leaped to her feet and turned to see the farmer’s lad standing in the center of the path, his hands in his pockets.

“Are ye all right, Mrs. Ward?”

“Y-yes, I’m sorry, James,” Etty said, wiping her eyes. “It’s just…” She gestured to the headstone. “I know children die all the time,” she said, “but to see it carved into a stone makes it more real. I-I’ve never known anyone to die, except my grandfather, warm in his bed. But this girl was just fifteen years old.”

“Aye.” He nodded and let out a sigh. “That she was.”

Etty glanced at the headstone again.

Freda Gadd.

“James Gadd,” she whispered. “Sweet Lord—she was your sister ?”

He nodded. “Aye. Twelve years ago last week. Ma still cries for her. Not even our Frannie…” He hesitated. “It matters not.”

Etty touched his arm, and he flinched. “It does matter, James,” she said. “It matters a great deal. When you lose someone you love, a piece of your heart goes with them. And the pain may fade, but it’ll never truly leave you. But you wouldn’t want that, for then you might forget them. And Freda deserves to be remembered.”

He nodded. “Aye, that’s what Pa says. We always mark the day so we can remember her. Do you remember Mr. Ward?”

Etty opened her mouth to ask who Mr. Ward was, then checked herself. “Only a little,” she said. “He…left us before Gabriel was born.”

“Forgive me, Mrs. Ward. I didn’t mean to pry.”

She smiled. “It matters not. What matters is that your sister is at peace, knowing that she’s not forgotten.”

The lad sighed again. “She died before I could tell her that I loved her.”

“I’m sure she knew.”

He shook his head. “We always fought. She used to tell me what to do, and I didn’t like it. She was five years older than me, you see.”

“Brothers and sisters always fight,” Etty said. “It doesn’t mean they don’t love each other.”

She fought to restrain her conscience at the memory of how she’d tried to ruin her own sister.

“Do you have a brother, Mrs. Ward?” he asked.

“I have a sister,” Etty said. “But I was unkind to her.”

“Are you sorry for it?”

“More sorry than you can imagine, James.”

“Then tell her,” he said. “Make your peace with her, before it’s…” His voice wavered then trailed off. He averted his gaze and wiped his eyes.

“Forgive me,” Etty said. “I’m intruding on your grief.” She took her son’s hand, but he pulled free and reached for the rose. “No, Gabriel,” she said, catching his arm. “I’ve told you already, it’s not yours.”

“Take it,” James said, bending to pick up the bloom. “Freda would want him to have it. She loved children. If only she’d lived to see…” He shook his head. “You mustn’t mind my rattling on, Mrs. Ward.” He held out the rose. “Mind the thorns—you might want to remove them before giving the rose to your boy.”

Etty curled her hand around the stem, ignoring the prick of the thorns. “You’re a kind lad,” she said, recalling the vicar’s words. “A good lad. Your sister would have been proud.”

Her words seemed to increase his distress. “I couldn’t protect her,” he said.

“You must have been very young when she died,” Etty said. “I’m sure you did everything you could.”

“But it wasn’t enough.”

“What’s all this?” a voice asked.

Etty turned to see the vicar standing behind them in the middle of the path.

He glanced at the rose in her hand and frowned. “Is anything the matter, James?” he asked.

“No, vicar,” the lad replied. “Mrs. Ward was just looking at Freda’s headstone.”

“So I see.”

The vicar’s eyes, at close quarters, were a deep amber color, warm and rich. Their expression hardened as he continued to stare at the rose. He blinked, and a flicker of judgment shimmered in their depths.

How dare he judge her!

Etty took a step back, then held out the bloom to James.

“No, keep it, Mrs. Ward,” he said. “It’s a gift from Freda.”

The vicar raised his eyebrows.

“Thank you, James,” Etty said. Then she nodded to the vicar. “Good day, vicar ,” she said, coldly. Then she retraced her steps along the path, pausing to smile at Mr. and Mrs. Gadd as she passed through the lychgate.

Love thy neighbor, the vicar had said from his pulpit not fifteen minutes earlier. But clearly he believed that only the worthy were deserving of love.

Which excluded her.