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But the most common appellation of such men was that of…parasites…a name of reproach for those who, by flattery and other mean arts, used to insinuate themselves to the tables of other men.

Though Mrs. Lamb had been caught unawares by both the advent and the stealthy arrival of Mr. Horace Langworthy in Iffley, she quickly made up for lost time, and after the rectory maid Polly walked up to the Tree Inn for the post the following day, all that could possibly be known had been pumped from her.

Nor was the postmistress alone the wiser, for while she questioned Polly, her errand boy Harry Barbary stood by, polishing the gleaming wood of the bar with unusual diligence.

“My word,” said Mrs. Lamb to no one in particular, when Polly was finally released.

“My, my word. A navy man in Iffley! Friend of a dead husband!” She clicked her tongue, meditating how best to spread such delicious news.

“Yes, indeed. For sheer interest and entertainment those Barstows are worth their weight in gold.”

A thump which she instantly recognized as an empty jug being knocked over on the wooden counter recalled her attention. “Harry Barbary, you mischief of a child, what are you doing over there?”

“I haven’t had any schooling since Mrs. Egerton and Miss Egerton went away,” he answered sullenly.

“You learned your letters, didn’t you?” she threw back at him. “Certainly enough to make my life difficult, what with you scribbling on things which don’t belong to you.”

“But I didn’t learn any mathematics besides sums. No sensual navigation at all,” he persisted.

The post- and tapmistress gasped. “Don’t let the new curate be hearing you say such things!

‘Sensual navigation,’ indeed! It was ‘sequential navigation’ or ‘essential navigation’ or some odd.

And you shouldn’t be eavesdropping on what doesn’t concern you but learn to mind your own business.

Now—don’t you stick out your lip at me, my boy!

Take this broom and sweep the passage and the step, or I’ll apply it to you, I will. I’ve got work of my own to do.”

While Mrs. Lamb proceeded to her tasks with her usual diligence, seizing all by the button who came in for their post or to wet their whistle, that her learnings might be shared, Harry took advantage of her preoccupation to steal away after the most cursory of sweeps.

It was true that Mrs. Egerton (Mrs. Merritt that was) and Miss Egerton had taught him to read and write, but it was equally the case that after Mrs. Merritt married the former curate, both Harry’s teachers left Iffley, abandoning the little parish school, and trusting Harry to the tender mercies of Mrs. Lamb to prevent him falling again into idleness.

Having never known an idle moment herself, Mrs. Lamb had no difficulty in coming up with a hundred tasks to keep him busy, but she had no patience for his awakened curiosity.

The morning’s conversation had gone no differently than a dozen others.

Whenever he asked, Why or What about , Mrs. Lamb would retort some version of, “Never you mind. ‘It is the glory of God to conceal a thing.’ Especially from children. Keep your head down, Harry Barbary, and do what you’re told. ”

“But you ask questions all the time, Missus, concealed or not,” he would point out. “You want to know everything about everybody.”

That one earned him a fierce look. “It’s my duty, child, to know things. I am the hub of the wheel in Iffley. When I ask things, it is from neighborly concern. When you do, it’s from devilish curiosity.”

Devilish or not, Harry Barbary found himself wanting to know more about the new navy man, and as soon as Mrs. Lamb forgot to watch him, he leaned the broom against a wall and took himself off. He might have no more friends or acquaintances at the rectory, but one remained at Iffley Cottage.

Appearing in the parlor door, Reed announced disapprovingly, “That Harry Barbary is at the kitchen door, wanting to see Miss Barstow. I told him she was out with Mrs. Barstow, calling at Perryfield, but he says he’ll wait.

That’s all I need, Mrs. Sebastian, is that boy staring at me while I salt the pork. ”

From her seat beside Maria, where she had been hearing her lesson, Sarah made a little face. “I can’t say I want Harry Barbary staring at me either, but perhaps I could hear his message and send him on his way. You may ask him, Reed, if he would be comfortable seeing me instead of Frances.”

“I already did, ma’am,” the maid answered promptly, “and I’ll send him straight in.”

Having the feeling she’d been managed, Sarah repressed a sigh, and within moments the ragged boy with light hair and pale eyes slouched in, hat in hand.

“Mrs. Sebastian, Miss,” he began, executing a jerky bow, an uneasy scratch at his midsection betraying nerves.

“Welcome, Harry. I hope you and your family are well.”

“Mm-hm. Well enough.”

“And I’m sorry Miss Barstow isn’t home at present, but perhaps I could answer your question or tell her your message?”

His gaze traveled over the table drawn up before Maria and the open book and slate thereon. “You’re giving lessons,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Merritt that was used to give me and Jimmy and Anna Cramthorpe lessons.”

“So she did. I know she was sorry to have to leave off with them when she married Mr. Egerton.”

“Sometimes, when Mrs. M couldn’t be at the rectory, she sent Miss Barstow in her place.”

“That’s right,” agreed Sarah, wondering where this rehearsal was tending. Did he want Frances to start another little school? Frances had never said she enjoyed teaching as Jane had, and she would surely ask Sarah to help her if forced to do it again—

“We don’t know the new curate,” Sarah rejoined. “Or what he might have in mind, but if—if he shows any interest in starting another parish school, shall I tell him you would like to attend?”

To her surprise and relief, the boy shrugged. “If you like, Missus. But—but I wondered if you could do some-odd else for me. I was going to ask Miss Barstow because she knows me better, but you’re really the one I want.”

“I?” repeated Sarah.

“I mean ter say, she met him too, but it’s you he came to Iffley for.”

Something fluttered in the pit of her stomach. “To whom do you refer? You can’t mean the new curate Dr. Rearden.”

“No, ma’am. I mean the navy man. He came here for you, so says Polly from the rectory.”

“What would Polly know about it?” demanded Sarah, turning pink with indignation.

“She got it from the navy man hisself, Missus,” he explained patiently. “That he came to Iffley because Mr. Sebastian asked him, to make sure you and the little one weren’t starving in the streets.”

Sarah shut her eyes.

Well? And what had she expected? That both Mr. Langworthy’s coming and his reason for doing so might be kept from the world at large?

She was old enough to know better. Indeed, she ought to thank Providence word had not got out (yet) about his ill-starred proposal.

“What do you want with the navy man, Harry?” she asked.

“I want to meet him!” he declared. In justice to the boy, his heart was likely pounding as hard as hers.

“Polly said he was going to teach the parson’s pupils s—sensu—centennial navigation, and I wanted to learn too.

I don’t have to sit in the room, but if I could sit in the passage—and maybe I could, Missus, if you would innerduce me to him and—put in a good word. ”

For a minute Sarah made no reply. Perform introductions between that man and the village rascal, who stood before her wringing his cap in his hand? What would Mr. Langworthy think she meant by it? That she thought he owed her a favor?

Harry’s brow darkened as the silence stretched. “I could ask Miss Barstow, if you don’t want to do it. She knows me better anyhow.”

Contrarily, Sarah said, “Why, Harry, other than the few lessons where Miss Barstow took Mrs. Egerton’s place, I suppose she knows you the same amount I do. I’ve visited your home as many times as Fr—Miss Barstow has, if not more.”

“You’ll do it, then?” he asked eagerly. “You’ll innerduce me to him?”

Suspecting she had been “managed” for the second time in half an hour, she sighed.

“I hardly know Mr. Langworthy myself. But—yes. If—when—I meet him again, if opportunity affords, I will mention you and your…interest. If he is amenable to some sort of arrangement, then I will send a message to you. Either way I will, that is. Give me a few days. Perhaps he might be in church on Sunday.”

But the opportunity arose sooner than expected, for when Mrs. Barstow and Frances returned, they brought the news that the Deres’ intended to call at the rectory and meet the newcomers that very day.

“And Mrs. Markham Dere said that, if they found Mr. Langworthy to be the ‘right sort of person,’ she would invite him and the new curate to dine tomorrow,” Frances reported.

“To which the baron replied that, even if Mr. Langworthy were very much the wrong sort of person, as he is staying at the rectory, they could hardly invite Dr. Rearden without including him. Mrs. Dere was put out by this, you may imagine, so she said we Barstows better be invited, then.”

“What do we have to do with Mr. Langworthy being the right or wrong sort of person?” asked Maria, puzzled. “And is he the right sort or the wrong sort?”

“The right sort,” answered her mother, at the same time that Frances said, “The wrong sort.”

Putting an arm about her youngest daughter, Mrs. Barstow explained, “Maria, what Frances means to say is that he is a good man, at heart, but he might be a little…rumbustious for Mrs. Dere. And what Mrs. Dere means, though she would never say it, is that, if it is the Barstows who brought Mr. Langworthy here, it is the Barstows’ duty to soften his presence. That is all.”

Maria only sighed. “I suppose it does not matter. I will not be invited either way, but made to stay home with the ‘babies.’”