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Now it was Langworthy’s pulse which sped.

He demurred of course, as courtesy required, but even to his own ears his protests sounded half-hearted.

For if Dr. Septimus Rearden was a lonely man, Horace Langworthy was a disheartened one.

And the thought of spending hours and hours teetering far above the ground, clinging for life to the roof of a jolting coach—to which he would be less securely attached than the luggage which shared the space—held no appeal.

And would it be so bad to arrive in Iffley already on good terms with the resident clergyman?

Why, he might be standing before the same doctor a month hence, to be joined in marriage to Mrs. Sebastian Barstow!

There was nothing to be lost in beginning to lay a foundation now.

Surely he could listen to the fellow and ask appropriate questions without having to share much himself.

After a decorous interval, therefore, he yielded, and when the Oxford coach lurched from the innyard of the Bull and Mouth in St. Martin’s le Grand promptly at nine, both gentlemen were seated within.

Not alone, to be sure, but they were beside each other on the rear-facing bench, and opportunities for confidences arose while their fellow passengers dozed and the elderly couple opposite fell into hissed arguments.

Thus, by Ealing, Langworthy had heard all about Rearden’s childhood and years at Christ Church.

By Uxbridge, he knew of the late Mrs. Rearden’s disposition, constitution and early demise.

By Beaconsfield, he was fully acquainted with the clergyman’s sundry appointments, all of which required little in the way of work, but which taken together paid handsomely.

Not that Dr. Rearden was the sort to prose on and on about himself. On the contrary, he made several attempts to turn the conversation back to his companion, but so great did the young man’s interest in him seem that it was too easy to veer away again.

Only when they reached Stokenchurch did anything shift.

Fortifying themselves with tea and bread while the horses were changed, Rearden contemplated the dry portion in his hand with a sigh.

“There is a cook at the Iffley rectory—one Mrs. Winching—and a maidservant Polly, Terry says, but I confess I am a trifle uneasy about them. Since I lost Mrs. Rearden I have kept only one manservant and always had my meals from the nearest inn or chophouse. And now to have two women about! I only hope Terry’s pupils will be persuaded to return from the school in Oxford to which they removed when my predecessor departed.

Two boys. I would be more comfortable with more people in the house. ”

The parson’s whiskers trembled at the horrors which lay ahead, and Langworthy might have grinned, had Mary Pence’s perfidy not continued to weigh heavily on his heart.

Indeed, something of his own burden must have shown on his face for Rearden straightened, venturing, “See here—I’ve done it again.

Talked and talked of myself, and you’ve let me.

Nay—encouraged me. But now that we are over halfway to our journey’s end, I insist you say something of yourself, Langworthy.

To begin, where will you be staying? In Oxford or in Iffley? ”

“Oxford,” he replied, though in truth he had made no arrangements in either place. “It is less than an hour’s walk to Iffley, I believe. Just long enough to awake the blood and determine what must be accomplished.”

“And…what must be accomplished? You spoke of discharging a duty…?”

But the driver marched in at that point to bellow, “All is ready!”

Wearily, the passengers climbed once more into the coach and took their places, the elderly couple openly bickering and the others settling themselves either to listen or to sleep again or both.

“I needn’t have married you,” grumbled the woman, jabbing her husband with a gnarled finger. “Clem Hawes would have had me. The poor man bawled his eyes out when I jilted him for you.”

“The more fool he,” her spouse retorted. “If he weren’t dead these forty years I’d send you back to him yet.”

Perhaps it was this interchange, or perhaps it was that, after so many hours and so many miles and so much candor on the parson’s part, Langworthy felt his reticence much diminished.

His companion was kind enough. And had their positions been reversed, Langworthy might have resented someone who absorbed all one’s confidences while sharing none of his own.

Therefore, when they were again underway and jolting over the rutted road toward Wheatley, and when the elderly couple were deep in rehearsing each other’s part in some ancient wrong, he said in a low voice, “To return to your question, sir, the duty I mentioned to you involved a fellow sailor. More than that, he was a dear friend and comrade, of whom it is not an exaggeration to say I owe my life. He was injured in the action off Malta and later died, when I myself was a prisoner of war in Spain.”

“Spain, you say!” breathed Rearden, tempted by that little titbit to ask a dozen questions. With difficulty, however, he refrained, lest Langworthy retreat again.

“During my captivity,” the young man went on, “a letter from this friend at length reached me, written from his deathbed and asking me to…look up his widow and young son and ensure they were…all right. I suspect he hoped I would live to make my fortune with prizes taken. Indeed, he might never have made the request, had he known how soon after I left him I myself was put ‘out of action’! Now here it is, two years onward, and I am only now carrying out this task, not only because there was considerable delay in returning from Spain, but also because I had first to see my own…family and friends.”

“After so long a time, they must have been very, very pleased to see you, Langworthy, for doubtless they were on tenterhooks during your imprisonment.”

In response, Langworthy’s brow darkened and lines appeared to flank his mouth, making him appear altogether a different man.

“My uncle was well,” he answered vaguely, “and took my reappearance as composedly as he had my departure.” He gave himself a shake.

“You must not think me ungrateful. It was he who fitted me for the navy, a debt which took me years to repay. And if not for him using what influence he had, I would never have made lieutenant.”

Though no deep bond seemed to join Langworthy to his relations or vice versa, Rearden surmised the gloom did not stem from this lack, but having finally succeeded in making the young man talk, he knew better than to press.

It was a wise strategy, for Langworthy now felt the temptation to relieve his spirits after the last wretched month.

“I…had a sweetheart,” he confessed. “With whom I grew up and to whom I was engaged, only waiting until I should have made my fortune.”

Guessing where this was leading, the parson shrank in anticipatory sympathy.

Langworthy cleared his throat once. Twice. Scratched at a corner of his eye as if dust had flecked it. “When I returned at last from Spain, I learned she—well—in short, she…released me from our engagement and—and—promised herself to another.”

“Ah.”

Another pause. Langworthy’s lips parted as if he would say more, but then he took himself in hand, color flooding his face. He had already admitted to Mary Pence’s defection—there was no need to advertise every detail of why he came to Iffley. Not that the parson looked like a blabber, but still—

When, after a few minutes, it was clear his companion would say no more on the matter, Rearden gave vent to his feelings by boldly administering a bracing, chin up!

sort of thump on the young man’s shoulder (an awkward move, as they sat side by side, but one appreciated nonetheless), before falling into his own brown study.

It was only when they drew near at last to their final destination that the clergyman offered up what he had been mulling over during the intervening miles.

“Langworthy, I have a proposal to make and ask you to hear me out.”

Then his companion did grin. “Do I have an alternative, locked together here as we are?”

“No, but you might run for it the minute the coach stops at the Angel Inn. Look—if I will be living in Iffley in a rectory too large and too female-occupied for my comfort, and if you have business in Iffley for a few days or weeks, or even months, why should you walk over from Oxford in all weathers to conduct it? Why not simply lodge at the rectory with me? You would be more than welcome! You would be doing me a favor. After I have, by virtue of our circumstances, seized you by the button for hours, so to speak, you know more of me than my own shadow, and I know enough of you to suspect we would get on. What do you say to it, Langworthy?”

It was the offer to treat him to an inside seat all over again, only more so.

And Langworthy had even less reason to refuse it.

Strained in pocket, homeless, nigh friendless, and embarking on a stern fulfillment of duty—whyever should he look a gift horse in the mouth?

Fate, all unsought, had sent Dr. Septimus Rearden stumbling into his life (literally), offering answers to several of his problems, and he found he could not bring himself even to pretend decent reluctance.

Thus, by the time the steps of the coach had been lowered and the tired passengers clambered down to go their various ways, the bargain had been struck.