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“You must face up to it,” she counseled herself.

“He is here for the time being, and you must do better. It cannot go on, that your only defense is to retreat and pretend to ignore him.” This was precisely what she had done for the remainder of the time at Perryfield and during the coach ride home, when Mr. Langworthy chanced to sit directly across from her.

But it had been an awkward business, and Mrs. Barstow had even asked, “Are you tired, dear Sarah? You have been very quiet.”

Shrinking under the blankets and counterpane now for warmth, she curled on her side and shut her eyes.

All was not lost. The strategy she had formed at the tea urn was good, if she could only stick to it.

If she could not be rid of his company (and that did not look possible at present), she must take care not to be his most interesting source of amusement.

Oh, and one last thing, she remembered sleepily. She simply must mention Harry Barbary to him on the very next occasion, or the child’s importunings would be added to her burdens.

“I think that’s Harry Barbary who keeps peeping over the gate,” said Maria the next morning as they put on their cloaks and hats for the walk to church.

“Whatever could he want?” asked Frances. “It cannot be that he wishes to go to church with us. Maria, come away from the window and let me button your coat properly.”

“He wants to talk with me,” spoke up Sarah. “I—forgot to mention it, but when you all were out, he came by to ask—us—to introduce him to Mr. Langworthy. It seems he’s heard about the celestial navigation class.”

“ He can’t be in it!” cried Gordon. “He’s only a baby!”

“I don’t believe he’s more than a year younger than you and Peter,” said Sarah, “but of course he can’t be taught alongside you because—”

“Because only imagine what Mrs. Markham Dere would say!” Frances whooped. “Harry Barbary in the Perryfield schoolroom, sitting beside her precious Peter!”

“But Sarah,” murmured Mrs. Barstow, “if you make the introduction, won’t Mr. Langworthy perhaps feel obligated to…do something for Harry? It might put him in a difficult spot with Mrs. Dere.”

“I’m not sure he would feel obligated,” answered Sarah dryly. “And surely he is astute enough to know which way the land lies. No, I have told Harry I would make the introduction, so I will. But then everyone must fend for himself.”

The harum-scarum boy danced from foot to foot as they emerged into the street. Scraping his cap from his head, he bared his rumpled light hair and nodded cursorily at each Barstow until he came to Sarah. “Well, Missus?”

Sarah shut the gate behind her, letting Frances take hold of Bash’s hand. “Good morning, Harry. I haven’t asked him yet.”

“Haven’t asked him!” he protested. “But you all were at Perryfield yesterday.”

“So we were, but—everyone wanted to talk to Mr. Langworthy.” She gave the smallest shake of her head— another partial untruth, Sarah Barstow! When will this end?

“If he is in church today, I will look for my chance,” she assured him (and herself). “You might—er—come in with us.”

His mouth popped open like a fish’s. “And sit in Lord Dere’s pews? What would Mam say? She doesn’t go to church in the mornings with the Quality, but in the afternoon, and I try not to go at all. Nosir, I won’t go in with you. Not on your life!”

“Oh, heavens,” Sarah almost laughed, imagining Mrs. Dere’s face, were she to file in with Harry Barbary in tow. “Of course I didn’t mean to suggest you should sit with us. Listen—if I get to speak with Mr. Langworthy, I will send a note to your house later. Will that do?”

The boy gave a disgusted grunt, slouching away without another word and leaving Sarah to hurry after the others.

The little church of St. Mary the Virgin was full that morning, the parishioners eager to see the new parson read in.

After the good-looking young curate who had preceded him, there were a few sighs among the women over Dr. Rearden’s age and heavier person, but all in all he seemed perfectly amiable, and at least, being neither young nor handsome, he would be less likely to marry and run off as Mr. Egerton had.

With one of the congregation, however, Dr. Rearden made an immediate hit, for no sooner had Sarah taken her seat in the second Dere pew than her little boy crawled over his aunt Frances’ lap to whisper loudly in his mama’s ear, “Who dat?”

She followed his stubby pointing finger before gently pushing it down, and she was glad to see it was not Mr. Langworthy Bash indicated.

“It’s our new priest, dearest,” she whispered back. “Dr. Rearden.”

“I like him,” declared her son, holding up both his hands to slap his own cheeks and then to wave his fingers alongside them. “He has fur.”

“Hush, darling.”

“Fur like Pawpaw.” Pawpaw, Bash’s version of “Poppet.”

At this, Frances glanced over, her lips pressed together and her eyes crinkling with mirth. Not so Mrs. Markham Dere’s eyes, as she turned from the pew in front to give Bash a quelling look, which he failed to see because Sarah was trying to get him to sit on his bottom.

He was quiet enough during the service, doing no more than kicking his legs and rubbing the side of his head against Sarah’s sleeve, but she thought it would have been hypocritical to scold him, when she was just as restless inside.

Bash might be fascinated by Dr. Rearden’s wagging whiskers, but now Sarah several times had to shut her eyes, when the resemblance to Poppet became too striking.

Her gaze wandered to the back of Mr. Langworthy—a broad back and a straight one.

She supposed it was his military bearing.

The stripe of darkened skin above the collar.

Shifting in the pew as if he sensed the observation, his head turned a few degrees short of profile, revealing the cut of his cheekbone and the square of his jaw, and heat flooded her cheeks as if she had been caught.

She did not look at him again.

When the service ended an hour later, the curate swooped past them down the aisle toward the south door. Bash tugged on her hand. “Pawpaw,” he said again. “Pawpaw.”

“Dr. Rearden, dear. His name is Dr. Rearden.”

“Tocktoe Weird,” repeated Bash. “Tock Weird.”

“Now you’ve done it,” Frances said with twitching lips.

Though Sarah wanted to giggle herself, she gave Frances a fearsome frown.

If Bash’s bungled attempts at the curate’s name made his family laugh, they would never hear the end of it, for he would quickly add them to his arsenal of capers and tricks.

The churchgoers rose to file from their pews, waiting for the baron and Mrs. Markham Dere to lead the procession.

But instead of following them, Bash toddled across the aisle to clamber into Dr. and Mrs. Lane’s pew, giving his little gown a jerk when it caught beneath his knees.

Once freed, he leaned on the pew back before him with one hand and prodded Mr. Langworthy with the other.

The latter looked down, grinning. “Good morning to you as well, Master Bash.”

Hastening after her son, Sarah threw the Lanes an apologetic smile and gestured for them to precede her into the aisle. Then she snatched Bash up—or would have, except he had taken hold of Mr. Langworthy’s top waistcoat button, and her effort only served to jerk her toward the man.

“Goodness me,” she gasped, her face veering so near his that they might have kissed.

“There it is,” he mused. “Newton’s Third Law of Motion.”

“Hep!” came Bash’s muffled voice from between them. The boy released the button and shoved Mr. Langworthy with what force he could. Not that force was necessary, for the latter retreated a step, his eyes alight, unreadable.

“Pardon us,” murmured Sarah, hoping he could not see the pulse jumping in her throat. Had her breath brushed him, as warmly as his did her, in the instant before they separated? Might something more have happened—something more have been said—if the Lanes had not been by?

It did not matter.

It should not matter.

Mustering what dignity she could, Sarah hitched Bash on her hip and marched away.