Free Learning to Waltz by Kerryn Reid Page A

bedchamber is currently serving as a sickroom. And we must remember, too, that Mr. Haverfield saved the child’s life. I think we can grant Mrs. Moore some leniency, don’t you, my dear?”
    Her eyes continued to shoot sparks of malice Evan’s way, but her mouth snapped shut into a thin, bloodless line, and she did not speak again. They left almost immediately. Evan held his breath until he heard the outer door close behind them.
    Amanda drew a hand across her forehead. “Phew! I’m glad he is the vicar and not she. I promise you they would never see my face at church again. One might almost believe they worship different gods.”
    Evan had never been so glad to see the back of someone. Still simmering, he uttered some choice epithets as he strode across the room and back. “Who gave her the right to pass judgment on anyone?”
    Amanda giggled. “Can this really be mild-mannered Evan Haverfield? I thought you were going to explode.”
    “I thought I did.” Evan came to a halt in front of her. “Tell me, did she come here just to berate Deborah Moore?”
    “Oh no, there were some other matters. They wanted to assure themselves of flowers from our hothouses for the Christmas service. Not that we have very much, but—”
    “I’d stuff the flowers down their self-righteous throats!” He took another angry turn around the room.
    “Do stop pacing, Evan. That rug is quite ancient, you know. You might wear a hole right through it.”
    “Sorry.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “The devil of it is, I cannot stay away. I feel responsible for the boy, and—” He raked a hand through his hair and nodded toward the door. “But that woman could make things very uncomfortable indeed for Mrs. Moore. Are there more like her?”
    Amanda lifted one eyebrow. “It’s an English village, Evan. But between us, I think we can paint quite a rosy picture of propriety for Mrs. Hepplewhite and her kind.” She propped her chin on one hand. “Now, let me think…”

    In the drizzly dusk, they set out down the lane to visit Mrs. Moore. Amanda sat ensconced in Latimer’s best carriage, and Evan rode Lookout alongside. She laughed through the open window, mischief in her face.
    “I always wanted to be an actress,” she said. “This big old carriage, and four horses, and the men in livery—it’s hilarious for just a mile.”
    “Coachman’s enjoying it as much as you are,” Evan replied.
    “Oh yes. Poor chap, he never gets to drive this contraption anymore.”
    As they approached the junction with the high street, Amanda giggled again and put up the window. Evan dropped behind and slipped through the side gate into Mrs. Moore’s yard. He led Lookout into the shed as the coach lumbered around the corner, harness jangling. He made the horse comfortable as quickly as he could and emerged again into the evening. The carriage, standing in front of the cottage, hid him from the street.
    He opened the kitchen door but recoiled on the threshold. What the hell? Were those ghosts cavorting in the murk? They looked like…
    His hand reached out and touched the coarse, damp cloth of a cheap bedsheet. It was just laundry, a profusion of towels and bed linens hung to dry on lines strung across the room. He breathed again and began weaving his way through the maze.
    He heard Molly come in. She screeched in fright when she saw him step around the other edge of a sheet and clapped a hand over her mouth.
    “I’m so sorry,” Evan said. “Did Miss Latimer not tell you I would be here?”
    “Aye, but—” She glanced nervously over her shoulder. “I put her in the parlor, sir, is that right? She says I’m to see her out in twenty minutes.” A cricket chirped somewhere near the hearth and Molly jumped. “Oh, sir, I’m so scared. It’s been so quiet, like—like the house is just waitin’ for death to come.”
    The bedroom door was ajar, the room beyond lit only by the fire and what light still filtered through two small windows.