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Those two massie Pillars…He tugg'd, he shook, till down they came.

No sooner had she turned away, however, than she remembered yet again her neglect of Harry Barbary’s request.

Mercy. Can I possibly make Frances do it? I should have asked her at once.

Nor were her trials ended that morning.

The new curate had wisely chosen to stand in the yard outside the door to the church, lest the people wanting to meet him prevent all egress.

When Sarah emerged with Bash in her arms, the Deres and Lanes had just paid their compliments and were stepping aside to allow Mrs. Barstow to introduce the remaining members of her family.

“Ah, there you are, Sarah. Dr. Rearden, I hope you will meet my oldest daughters and their husbands someday, but here is my youngest, Maria, and here is Sarah’s boy, my grandson Sebastian.”

“What fine, healthy children the Barstows boast,” declared Rearden, raising benedictory hands.

Maria dropped a curtsey, but Bash turned in his mother’s arms to regard his new acquaintance. Then, before Sarah realized what he was about, he extended a plump hand to indicate the clergyman’s lush whiskers.

“Pawpaw.”

“Now, dearest, his name is Dr. Rearden,” Sarah reminded him, pushing his arm down and trying to move along before anyone could ask what her son had said.

“Pawpaw,” repeated Bash, spinning in Sarah’s hold to keep his eye on his quarry.

“‘Papa’? Does Dr. Rearden…resemble your late husband, Mrs. Sebastian?” asked Mrs. Lane innocently.

Sarah could not hide her amazement at the ridiculous idea—how could Bash possibly remember what his dead father looked like, when he was not even three years old? And how could her dead husband be older than his own mother Mrs. Barstow?

Nonetheless she gathered her wits to make a polite demurral, only to be forestalled by the reappearance of Mr. Langworthy over Mrs. Lane’s shoulder.

“Come to think of it, madam,” he said thoughtfully, “there is something there.”

Mrs. Lane not being acquainted with him, a series of introductions followed as the gathering around Dr. Rearden swelled, but when they had been got through, the amiable matron took up the thread again.

“Mr. Langworthy,” she said, “I have done some calculations in my head, and it wasn’t very kind of you to humbug me when we had not even been introduced.

I see now it was silly of me to ask if Dr. Rearden might have resembled the late Mr. Sebastian Barstow.

After all, his mother Mrs. Gordon Barstow is not old enough to have a son Dr. Rearden’s age. ”

“Tocktoe Weird,” agreed Bash.

Sarah quickly put him down, hoping he would run off and play, but instead he took hold of her skirts. “Uppy. Uppy, Mama.”

“I will hold you,” offered Frances, but he shook his head and scowled at his aunt.

“Mama uppy,” he insisted.

Stifling a sigh, Sarah uppied him and was rewarded with him repeating, clearly and with greater emphasis, “Tock—toe Weird.”

“Indeed, Master Sebastian,” interposed Mr. Langworthy smoothly, “it is weird. In the sense of ‘odd.’ For while Dr. Rearden bears little physical resemblance to your late ‘pawpaw’—who was somewhat younger and clean-shaven— he undoubtedly shares Barstow’s ability to garner and hold attention.”

“What nonsense,” chuckled the curate, but he beamed with pleasure. Leaning forward, he wagged his own finger in Bash’s face, saying amiably, “Talkative little fellow. I am glad to make your acquaintance, Master Sebastian, and hope to see much more of you.”

Seeing the glorious whiskers hovering so near, the temptation proved too great for the boy, and with another crowing “Pawpaw!” his hand flew out to snatch hold of the clergyman’s lavish side wings.

Sarah gasped and instinctively pulled him back, but Bash’s grip was tight, and it was a case of Mr. Langworthy’s button all over again, this time with poor Rearden stumbling forward and crying “O-o-o-o-ooh!”

“Let go, Bash!” cried his mother, shrinking to avoid colliding with the parson. Scrabbling at her son’s fingers to pry them open she scolded, “You mustn’t hold his whiskers—let go at once!”

“Oosker,” Bash insisted, pushing at his mother with his elbow while maintaining his hold.

“Oosker.” He might as well have plucked Rearden’s hairs with tweezers, the way he pinched a few strands between each of his fingers, and their new shepherd gave another involuntary yelp, his eyes beginning to water.

While everyone clamored around them with advice and urgings, calling Bash’s name or otherwise trying to distract him, it was Mr. Langworthy who rescued the situation.

Extending a fingertip under Sarah’s uplifted arm, he gave Bash’s side a tickle.

The little boy shrieked and instantly released the parson in order to bat away this attack, squirming and giggling until Sarah nearly dropped him.

Clapping his hands to the sides of his mistreated face, Dr. Rearden retreated at once, backing into Dr. Lane and having to beg his pardon.

“Oh, Dr. Rearden,” Sarah almost wailed. “I am so sorry. I hope Bash didn’t injure you. I cannot think how he could be so naughty.”

“No harm done, no harm done,” he assured her, but he kept a careful distance. “I will be more cautious in the future. Thank you, Langworthy, for your quick thinking.”

The latter gave a short bow, not bothering to hide his amusement, and Sarah would have been resentful if she had not been so grateful for his intercession.

“Yes, I imagine you navy men are all practiced in quick thinking,” spoke up Dr. Lane, whose one wisp of a beard threatened to draw Bash’s eye next.

“What would we do without you all?” No sooner did he speak than his wife jabbed a not-very-subtle elbow into his ribs and hissed, “Husband, can you possibly have forgotten Mrs. Sebastian’s situation and how she lost—er—”—a well-intentioned action which only served to make uncomfortable everyone in hearing distance.

Again it was Langworthy who got them through the difficulty. “It is because of Mrs. Sebastian’s late husband that I am here,” he announced, and whether those around already knew this or not, they welcomed the chance to ask him questions and to let the widow recover.

Sarah was tempted to march straight out of the churchyard, sparing any more gentlemen from having their buttons or whiskers pulled and herself from further discomfiture, but before she could do more than look over the churchyard, a movement behind one of the stones distracted her.

Light hair under a shabby cap. A glint of pale eyes.

The head popped up, sunk back down, popped up again.

Oh, right.

Harry Barbary was wise to suspect Sarah would forget yet again the task he had assigned her. Clearly, if she ever wanted to be left alone, she should defer it no longer. But how could she draw Mr. Langworthy aside?

Reaching to tap her youngest sister-in-law, she whispered, “Maria, would you keep an eye on Bash? He might like to play peep-bo with the other boys among the stones.” She thrust him at the surprised girl, but Maria took him willingly enough, leaving Sarah free to concentrate her efforts.

“—Offered to teach the Tommies and a couple local boys the wonders of celestial navigation,” Dr. Rearden was explaining, to general approbation. Even Mrs. Markham Dere favored them with a chilly smile and murmured something about Peter participating.

Here was an opening!

“—Dr. Rearden—did you know there once was a little parish school for the poorer boys?” blurted Sarah.

In courtesy everyone turned toward her, and she swallowed but pressed on.

“That is—not a parish school , really, but more of a little class where the former curate’s now wife—my sister-in-law Jane—and the former curate’s sister once taught a few of the village children their letters and sums. One of them turned out to be rather clever.

He’s an errand boy for Mrs. Lamb at the Tree Inn now. One Harry Barbary.”

The curate assumed an expression of polite interest at this random contribution, but Mrs. Dere sniffed, “‘Clever,’ indeed. ‘Mischievous,’ more like. As Mr. Pope has said, ‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing,’ and so it has proved for Harry Barbary. I believe he has given Mrs. Lamb a great deal of trouble, writing—actually writing things!— on some people’s post on one occasion.

I would advise you, Dr. Rearden, to keep clear of him. ”

“Goodness,” he said inadequately.

“I didn’t mean to suggest you should start a parish school again, Dr. Rearden,” Sarah added, clasping her hands together so hard it might have been called wringing.

“Only that—I suppose you will meet the Barbarys—all of them—soon, and—and—other struggling families in Iffley—and you too, Mr. Langworthy—and it so happens I think I see Harry himself…over there…and thought I might as well perform the introduction.” Raising a hand she pointed, and all turned in time to see Harry’s blond head whip down and out of sight, as if he were dodging sustained musketry fire.

“Harry!” she called, “Come here a moment.”

“Whatever are you doing, Mrs. Sebastian?” demanded Mrs. Dere.

Too addled to think of another explanation, Sarah told the truth—or very close to it.

“It is not a whim of mine, Mrs. Dere. It is actually an obligation of sorts. You know how Mrs. Lamb is, how she discovers everything. Harry no sooner heard of—the newcomers—from her than he came by and asked me to make them known to him.”

“But why on earth should he ask you? ”

Hoping to avoid further questioning, Sarah replied, “He meant to ask Frances because he knows her better, but Frances wasn’t at home. That left…me. Oh, Harry! Yes, you—come over here.”

No one would believe he had made any such request, the way he ducked down again and tried to pretend he wasn’t there or didn’t hear. Only when Sarah fairly bellowed, “I know you’re there, Harry!” did he straighten, shoulders still hunched and face scowling, to drag himself thitherward.