Free The Chain Garden by Jane Jackson

visited. He couldn’t think of any village organisation to which she didn’t contribute in some way. Even those embittered by loss and hardship softened when they spoke of her.
    His parents claimed no church could function, much less flourish, without women. He had seen that truth for himself. Ministers and missionaries might draw in converts. But it was women who cleaned and polished, arranged hospitality for visiting clergy, ran all the support groups, organised activities for raising funds, and comprised more than half the congregation.
    Such observations found little sympathy with his superiors who warned him that while an occasional word of appreciation was permissible it must be general. He must at all costs avoid singling out any one person for praise. Doing so risked fomenting jealousy and ill feeling.
    It was a well-known fact that women, especially single women, were prone to developing emotional attachments to doctors or clergymen. This applied particularly to women of a certain age whose balance of mind was in any case precarious. As his circuit covered three villages containing a number of such creatures, it behoved him, a younger man and unmarried, to be doubly careful.
    Exhausted, still traumatised, and grateful to be allowed to continue in his vocation, he promised circumspection. A missionary since his ordination he had no experience of life as a circuit minister. He was discovering it required boundless tact and diplomacy. Praise given to one group had to be matched by gratitude to another. Yet it cost little. Their initial shock informed him their efforts had never been considered worthy of mention, let alone deserving of thanks. And they showed their appreciation by working even harder.
    He heaved a deep shuddering sigh. He should have declined. He could have found a legitimate excuse. She would have accepted it: believed it. But he didn’t want to lie to her, even though she would not know it was a lie. You’ll tell her the truth then? You’ll tell her the real reason you were sent back to England?
    The image in the glass gazed back at him, hollow-eyed, anguished. He had not known her long. But three and a half months was more than sufficient to recognize that her kindness to the poor of the village went far beyond what might be expected from local gentry. Long enough to sense hurts bravely covered. Long enough to realize the true depth of his feelings for her. Feelings he could never admit.
    He knew she was not indifferent to him. When they met in the village, in the chapel, after Sunday school, she always smiled when she returned his greeting. Though she never initiated conversation, never tried to detain him as others did, she would willingly discuss chapel matters provided he took care to look at her only when her own gaze was lowered. For if he caught her eye her colour rose and she shied away like a startled gazelle.
    He should have sent his regrets. But he had not. He would go. He would be polite and pleasant to her parents and the other guests: do and say all that was proper. For a little while he would be near her. And perhaps she might look on him as a friend.
    In her bedroom Grace frowned at her reflection in the long glass. She had planned to wear the pretty cameo her parents had given her for her twenty-first birthday. But her hands were shaking so much she couldn’t get the pin level. Her skin prickled with nervous perspiration. She dropped the brooch on her dressing table and snatched up a crumpled handkerchief soaked in lavender water.
    Pressing it to her upper lip then her forehead and temples she drew deep breaths and mentally repeated the greeting she had been rehearsing all afternoon. Good evening, Mr Philpotts. The villagers called him Reverend. But that term was properly used only in writing. Good evening, Mr Philpotts. How kind of you to come. That sounded polite and welcoming without being effusive.
    Why was she so flushed? Her bath had been deliberately tepid. Staring into