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Pure  Pleasure    

By  Eloisa  James        

  “It  is  my  firm  belief  that  the  earl  is  squandering  money  by  supporting  this  

performance,”  Harriet  Pettigrew  declared.    “As  you  know,  Mr.  Marlowe,  I  have  no  

patience  with  people  of  quality  squandering  their  money  on  trifles.    It  sets  an  

unfortunate  precedent  for  their  inferiors.    Do  you  not  agree?”  

  “Hmm.”  

Luckily,  Harriet  was  not  a  young  woman  who  needed  much  prompting  to  air  her  

views,  and  she  remained  unperturbed  by  her  soon-­‐to-­‐be  husband’s  inattention.    “I  

assure  you,  Mr.  Marlowe,  that  I  shall  encourage  no  such  vanities  when  I  am  the  mistress  

of  this  rectory.    Now  I  know,  dear  sir,  that  you  are  quite  unable  to  reprove  such  an  old  

friend.”  

She  paused  for  a  moment  to  consider  how  delightful  it  was  to  be  marrying  a  man  

who  was  close  friends  with  the  Earl  of  Sheffield  and  Downes.    “But  as  your  wife,  I  must  

promote  virtue  above  sin,”  she  added  importantly.    “Next  year  I  shall  simply  point  out  –  

kindly,  mind  you  –  that  people  are  better  preached  out  of  their  follies  than  entertained  

by  more  follies.    Do  you  not  agree,  Mr.  Marlowe?”  

There  was  a  pause  as  David  Marlowe  realized  that  he  had  missed  a  cue.    “Yes  

indeed,”  he  said  hastily.  

“What  on  earth  are  you  finding  so  interesting  at  the  window?    There’s  naught  

there  but  a  clutch  of  tombstones.    Falling  over,  all  of  them.  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Marlowe,  

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when  I  am  mistress  of  this  rectory,  the  sexton  will  have  to  do  better  than  that.    Each  of  

those  stones  will  face  straight  ahead  in  an  organized  fashion.”  

David  hastily  swung  about,  but  it  was  too  late.      

“My  goodness,  how  very  peculiar,”  Harriet  exclaimed.    “That  is  Miss  Boch,  is  it  

not?    What  on  earth  is  she  doing?”  

“Teaching  the  children,  I  believe.”  

“She  –  she’s  sitting  on  a  tombstone!”  

“It  appears  so.”  

“She  ought  to  know  better!    The  daughter  of  a  marquis,  even  if  he  is  French.    I  

can  think  of  nothing  more  insalubrious  than  dragging  those  young  innocents  into  a  

graveyard.    I  shall  speak  to  her  at  once!    Letty,”  she  said  to  her  maid,  “Stay  where  you  

are.”    Suiting  action  to  word,  Harriet  marched  from  the  room.  

David  and  Letty  both  stayed  where  they  were,  Letty  in  the  corner,  and  David  

leaning  against  the  window  frame.    Bridget  Boch  was  indeed  sitting  on  a  tombstone.    

She  and  the  children  had  spread  out  some  bread,  obviously  hoping  that  a  bird  would  

snatch  a  crumb  or  two.      

At  the  moment  she  was  leaning  forward,  holding  out  her  palm  to  a  crow  

recklessly  considering  a  free  lunch.    Pale  sunlight  streaked  her  hair  with  shining  threads,  

as  if  pure  gold  were  woven  into  the  strands.    She  looked  deliciously  absurd,  perched  on  

a  mossy  tombstone.    “I’d  eat  from  her  hand,”  David  thought  suddenly.    And  caught  

himself.    What  was  he  thinking?    He  was  practically  a  married  man.  

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His  future  wife  advanced  through  the  graveyard  like  an  avenging  angel  in  

serviceable  cambric.    The  crow  cocked  its  head  and  flew  straight  into  a  tree;  Bridget  

laughed  and  said  something  to  the  children.    It  wasn’t  her  beauty,  David  thought.    It  was  

Bridget  herself,  that  odd  combination  of  elegant  high  cheekbones  and  a  chuckling,  

infectious  laugh.  

He  really  ought  to  join  the  graveyard  set.    After  all,  those  were  his  parishioners,  

small  though  they  were,  who  had  hastily  scrambled  up  from  the  ground  and  were  

milling  about  as  Harriet  laid  down  the  law.  

And  Bridget,  of  course,  was  still  laughing.    She  often  laughed,  he  thought  with  an  

odd  twinge,  watching  as  the  children  caught  the  giggles,  and  Harriet’s  back  grew  

straighter  and  more  outraged.    The  little  group  turned  and  began  trailing  back  to  the  

rectory.    David  didn’t  know  much  about  women’s  apparel,  given  only  dim  memories  of  

his  sisters’  rapturous  greetings  of  the  latest  fashion  plates.    But  it  didn’t  make  a  modiste  

to  compare  Bridget’s  scanty  morning  dress,  all  airy  lace  that  somehow  clung  tightly  to  

her  slim  body,  to  his  fiancée’s  sturdy  gown,  made  high  to  the  throat  and  loose  to  the  

toes.    He  shook  himself.  

Bridget  was  holding  one  small  urchin  by  the  hand  and  nodding,  solemnly  

agreeing  to  Harriet’s  proclamations.    His  mouth  quirked.    As  a  rector,  David  could  

recognize  false  repentance  better  than  most.      

With  a  sigh,  he  sat  down  before  his  desk.    Sure  enough,  the  door  burst  open  two  

seconds  later  and  Harriet  reentered.  

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“I  was  correct,”  she  said  triumphantly.    “Miss  Boch  was  actually  leading  a  bible  

class!    She  is  now  saying  farewell  to  those  poor  children  –  we  must  hope  that  they  live  to  

take  another  class,  given  the  insalubrious  air  in  the  graveyard  –  and  she  will  be  here  

shortly.    You  must  point  out  the  error  of  her  ways,  sir.    The  error  of  her  ways.”  

“Hmm,”  David  said.    He  was  vexed  to  find  that  his  heart  was  beating  faster  at  the  

very  idea  that  Bridget  would  soon  enter  the  room.    The  discovery  made  him  irritable,  

and  he  pushed  away  from  his  desk  and  strolled  over  to  the  fireplace.  

“I  do  wish  you  would  agree  to  wear  proper  clerical  garb  during  the  week,”  

Harriet  said  pettishly.    “My  father  is  never  seen  outside  his  bishop’s  robes,  I  assure  you.    

Clerical  garb  lends  a  touch  of  authority.    Miss  Boch”  –  and  she  lowered  her  voice  –  “Miss  

Boch  has  something  of  an  impudent  air  about  her.    I  fear  she  does  not  show  you  the  

respect  that  you  are  due,  as  rector  of  one  of  the  largest  and  most  wealthy  parishes  in  

London.”  

“I  have  noticed  nothing  out  of  the  way,”  David  said  flatly.  

“Well,  I  have,”  Harriet  said.    But  she  seemed  unable  to  continue,  and  the  room  

lapsed  into  silence.  

Bridget  entered  with  a  little  gleam  in  her  eyes  that  had,  she  assured  herself,  

absolutely  nothing  to  do  with  the  fact  that  she  had  been  summoned  into  the  study.      

“Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Marlowe,”  she  said,  curtesying.  

The  vicar  bowed.    “Miss  Boch.”      

She  sighed.    By  what  right  did  the  man  have  those  sooty  black  eyes,  being  a  man  

of  the  church?      

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David  cleared  his  throat.    “Miss  Pettigrew  believes  that  the  graveyard  is  not  a  

healthy  place  for  children.”  

“I  was  teaching  them  about  Francis  of  Assisi,”  Bridget  explained.  

David  raised  an  eyebrow.    “You  were  hoping  that  an  old  black  crow  would  

mistake  you  for  a  saint  and  eat  from  your  hand?”  

Bridget  met  his  eyes  and  a  shock  of  warmth  went  down  her  spine.    She  opened  

her  mouth  and  closed  it  again.  

“Assisi?”    Harriet  demanded.    “Who  is  that?    A  Roman  Catholic  of  some  sort?”  

“As  it  happens,  yes,”  Bridget  replied,  turning  composedly  to  her.  

“We’ll  have  none  of  those  Catholics  in  this  parish,”  Harriet  stated.    “You’ll  

frighten  the  children,  Miss  Boch.    No  doubt,  with  your…interesting  childhood,  talk  of  

boiling  oil  does  not  affect  you.    But  English  children  have  much  more  sensibility  than  do  

the  French.”  

Bridget  bit  her  lip.    She  ought  not  to  lose  her  temper,  even  if  she  did  think  that  

the  pinched  and  unpleasant  Harriet  Pettigrew  would  make  her  favorite  vicar  a  terrible  

wife.    “Francis  of  Assisi  had  nothing  to  do  with  boiling  oil,”  she  pointed  out.    “He  greatly  

loved  animals,  so  much  so  that  birds  ate  from  his  hand.”  

  Harriet  indicated  with  one  twitch  of  her  lip  what  she  thought  of  saints  who  

frolicked  in  the  barnyard.    “Birds  –  nay,  all  animals  -­‐-­‐  have  no  place  in  the  life  of  children.    

Your  task,  Miss  Boch,  is  to  teach  the  orphans  to  behave  in  a  manner  that  behooves  their  

station.    They  must  learn  to  be  neat  and  clean,  and  sit  still  at  all  times.”  

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  “Only  two  months  ago,  the  children  were  living  on  the  streets  of  London,”  

Bridget  protested  mildly.      

  Harriet  shuddered.    “The  less  said  about  that  the  better.    And  certainly  not  in  our  

presence!”  

  “Why  not?”  Bridget  asked.    “And  I  do  not  consider  my  task  to  be  teaching  them  

to  sit  still,”  she  added.    “I  was  teaching  a  bible  class,  not  a  lesson  on  deportment.”  

  “Nowhere  in  the  English  Bible  does  it  advocate  touching  filthy  animals,”  Harriet  

announced.  

  “True,”  Bridget  murmured.    She  couldn’t  stop  herself.    She  looked  at  David  again.    

He  was  standing  before  the  mantelpiece,  brown  curls  tumbling  over  his  eyes.  

  “I  believe  Miss  Pettigrew  has  a  point,”  he  said,  his  deep  voice  sending  a  shiver  

down  her  spine.    “The  children  will  hardly  learn  to  summon  birds  in  a  mere  half  hour.”  

  “I  was  hoping  to  make  Francis  seem  alive  to  them.”  

  “Alive!    That  is  precisely  the  argument  that  you  used  to  convince  the  earl  to  

provide  support  for  this  –  for  this  medieval  play,”  Harriet  exclaimed.    “The  very  idea  of  

making  Noah  seem  alive  is  grotesque.”  Her  eyes  narrowed.    “And  since  we  are  on  the  

subject,  I  have  a  feeling  that  this  play  is  not  all  it  should  be.    Mr.  Cents  told  me  that  it  

was  quite  humorous.    Humorous  is  not  an  appropriate  adjective  for  a  biblical  

performance!”  

  David  met  Bridget’s  eyes  and  was  horrified  to  find  that  he  almost  returned  the  

smile  dancing  in  her  eyes.    “My  dear  Miss  Pettigrew,”  he  said,  turning  to  his  fiancée,  “I  

do  not  think  we  have  need  for…for  suspicion.    The  biblical  cycle  plays  have  been  an  old  

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and  honored  part  of  church  ceremonies  for  over  two  hundred  years.    And  more  to  the  

point,  the  Noah  play  will  be  over  by  tomorrow  night.”  

  Harriet  had  caught  the  look  that  passed  between  her  betrothed  and  that  French  

hussy,  Miss  Boch.    An  angry  flush  rose  up  her  sallow  cheek.    “I  simply  wish  to  point  out  

that  you  might  review  that  production  before  it  is  staged,  Mr.  Marlowe!    I  don’t  care  if  it  

is  a  medieval  play.    The  performance  is  in  your  own  rectory.    My  father  would  never  

allow  a  play  to  be  produced  under  his  own  roof!”  

  “Be  that  as  it  may,”  David  said,  straightening  up,  “I  believe  we  should  continue  

this  discussion  at  some  other  time.”  

  Harriet  glacially  bowed  her  head.    “Naturally,  I  must  agree  with  everything  you  

say,  Mr.  Marlowe.    But  –“  she  continued  irresistibly  –  “please  note  that  the  play  will  

damage  your  reputation,  should  there  be  anything  the  least  indelicate  about  it.    Many  

people  of  quality,  including  my  own  father,  are  attending.”  

  “In  fact,  the  tickets  have  all  been  sold,”  Bridget  said,  rather  more  happily  than  

was  advisable.    “I  expect  we  shall  make  enough  money  to  support  the  orphans  for  the  

entire  coming  year.”  

  Harriet  sniffed.    “I  was  taught  as  a  child  that  ladies  do  not  discuss  fiscal  matters,  

Miss  Boch.    But  I  daresay  that  was  not  the  case  during  your  childhood.”  

  “Since  I  do  not  remember  my  mother,  the  marchioness,”  Bridget  replied,  “I  

cannot  answer  to  that.”  

  Harriet’s  jaw  tightened.    “You  know  perfectly  well  that  I  am  alluding  to  the  years  

you  spent  as  a…a  baker’s  daughter!”  

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  David  intervened.    “I  am  pleased  to  hear  that  excellent  attendance  is  expected  

tomorrow,”  he  said  repressively.  

  “We  must  simply  hope  that  the  audience  will  not  be  so  offended  that  they  leave  

in  high  dungeon,”  Harriet  snapped  back.    “You  may  not  be  aware,  Miss  Boch,  but  my  

future  husband  is  very  likely  to  be  appointed  archdeacon  in  the  near  future.    My  own  

father,  the  Bishop  of  Rochester,  feels  that  his  current  archdeacon  is  rather  unstable,  

being  an  unmarried  man.    The  Bishop  is  paying  a  visit  to  London  precisely  to  further  his  

acquaintance  with  Mr.  Marlowe.    Come,  Lucy.”    And  she  swept  from  the  room.  

  David  turned  to  his  guest.    “May  I  escort  you  to  your  maid,  Miss  Boch?”  

“Mary  is  in  the  kitchen  with  Mrs.  Mowbray.    I  am  persuaded  that  she  is  quite  

happy  for  the  moment.”    Bridget  drifted  closer,  finally  perching  on  the  very  edge  of  his  

desk.    “I  am  sorry  to  have  overset  Miss  Pettigrew.”  

  David  knew  very  well  that  he  should  usher  the  young  woman  out  of  his  study,  or  

at  the  least,  summon  her  maid.  

  He  stayed  where  he  was.  

  At  close  range,  her  eyes  were  not  blue  but  an  unsettling  navy  color,  far  too  

intelligent  for  a  young  miss  of  eighteen.  

  She  repeated,  “I  am  sorry  for  provoking  your  betrothed.    It  is  the  fault  of  my  

particular  deadly  sin.”  

  And  then,  at  his  questioning  look,  “Envy.    Miss  Pettigrew  is  so  very  sure  of  

herself,  whereas  I  am  always  uncertain.    In  fact,  I  am  mortifyingly  sure  that  I  am  often  

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wrong.”    She  smiled,  a  delightfully  lopsided  smile.    “Quite  through  no  fault  of  her  own,  

Miss  Pettigrew’s  self-­‐command  makes  me  envious.”      

David  had  the  largest,  most  beautiful  hands  she  had  ever  seen.      

He  caught  her  glance  and  looked  down.    Bridget  blushed.    “I  was  just  thinking  

that  you  have  unusual  hands  for  a  scholar.”  

  “Not  scholar’s  hands,”  David  said.    “They  are  farmer’s  hands.    My  father  is  a  

squire,  you  know.    He  comes  from  a  long  line  of  yeoman’s  stock.”  

  An  odd  little  silence  fell  in  the  room.  

  David  knew  every  detail  about  the  oh-­‐so-­‐beautiful  Bridget:    the  way  her  bright  

hair  lay  sleek  and  smooth  against  her  head,  the  delicate  peachy  color  of  her  cheek,  the  

way  she  wore  no  rings  or,  indeed,  no  jewelry  of  any  kind.    He  was  also  well  aware  that  

studying  a  young  lady  who  had  just  completed  her  first  triumphant  Season  on  the  

marriage  mart  was  no  activity  for  a  relatively  penniless  vicar.    Even  though  the  young  

lady  had  reportedly  refused  each  marriage  proposal  she  received.  

  “Are  you  perturbed  about  the  Noah  play,  sir?”  she  asked  abruptly.    “Because  it  is  

an…an  entertaining  play.    Miss  Pettigrew  might  –  well,  she  might  have  a  point.”  

  David  raised  an  eyebrow.    “Indeed?    What  could  be  indelicate  about  Noah  and  

his  ark?”  

  Bridget  bit  her  lip.    How  could  she  explain  the  germ  of  obstinate  rebellion  that  

had  led  her  to  suggest  this  particular  play?    “I  wanted  the  children  to  –  to  –“  

  “See  Noah  as  a  living  person?”  

  “Exactly,”  she  said  gratefully.  

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  “How  lively  is  Noah?”  

  The  color  in  her  cheeks  was  turning  crimson,  David  noticed  with  amusement.    

She  raised  her  eyes  and,  as  always,  the  clear  beauty  there  shook  him  to  the  core.  

  “I  fear  that  Noah  becomes  a  trifle…inebriated,”  she  said.    “As  it  says  in  the  Bible,”  

she  added  hastily.    “You  see,  this  particular  play  was  originally  performed  by  ale-­‐makers,  

in  the  Middle  Ages,  that  is.”  

  David  swore.    “The  Noah  play  –  Noah  is  a  drunk?”  

  “Not  a  drunk,”  Bridget  said  unhappily.    “He  merely  drinks  a  bit  too  much.    But  I  

am  afraid  that  Mr.  Higgins  is  interpreting  his  part  rather  liberally.”  

  “I  should  have  paid  more  attention.”    He  knew  well  why  he  hadn’t  attended  any  

rehearsals.    It  was  Bridget’s  way  of  drifting  toward  him  and  making  him  feel  slightly  

inebriated.    If  Noah  was  drunk,  he  was  drunker.      

Drunk  on  her  hair  and  her  eyes  and  her  slim  delight  and  her  laugh.      

Sobered  by  his  fiancée  and  his  bank  account  and  his  altogether  ineligible  status.      

That  thought  made  his  tone  sterner  than  it  would  have  been.    “Tell  me,  Miss  Boch,  what  

are  you  doing  here?”  

  “Doing  here?”  

  “You  don’t  belong  in  the  rectory,”  he  said  bluntly.    “Young  ladies  of  fashion  

appear  in  church  only  on  Sunday,  wearing  their  very  best  new  gown.    Yet  you  are  

teaching  a  class  to  the  orphans,  you  are  a  member  of  the  sewing  circle,  and  you  have  

entered  into  the  parish’s  fund-­‐raising  efforts,  to  the  extent  of  staging  a  drunk  biblical  

character.”  

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  “When  I  was  growing  up,  we  took  an  active  part  in  our  parish.    My…my  adopted  

mother  taught  the  local  bible  class.    And  as  for  teaching  orphans  –  until  my  brother  

found  me  and  brought  me  to  England,  I  was  an  orphan.    So  I  have  a  special  affection  for  

the  children.”  

  “It  is  commendable  that  the  woman  who  raised  you  was  active  in  her  parish,”  

David  pointed  out.    “But  she  was  a  baker’s  wife.”    He  stopped  short.      

  There  was  an  angry  gleam  in  Bridget’s  eyes.    “I  find  it  hard  to  believe  that  you  

would  dissuade  ladies  from  participating  in  parish  affairs,  sir.    Are  only  baker’s  wives  

allowed  to  teach  bible  classes,  then?”  

  “No!”    David  knew  he  was  making  a  mess  of  it.    He  never  was  any  good  at  talking  

to  women.    “You  know  that  there  are  many  ladies  active  in  this  parish.    And  I  am  very  

grateful  for  them.    It’s  just  that  you  are  supposed  to  be  busy  with  other  things.”  

  Bridget  was  carefully  arranging  his  quills  in  a  row.    All  he  could  see  of  her  head  

was  a  gleaming  sweep  of  hair.    “You  think  I  should  be  sitting  at  home  tatting  a  handbag,  

is  that  it?”  

  “Well,  or  attending  a  champagne  breakfast,”  David  said  lamely.    “Later,  when  

you  are  married  and  have  children  of  your  own,  then  you  will  undoubtedly  be  –“    he  

broke  off.    He  could  hardly  say  that  she  wasn’t  welcome  in  her  own  parish.      

“You  are  by  far  the  youngest  woman  in  the  sewing  circle.    And  you  don’t  look  the  

same  as  the  other  women.”    He  had  had  the  shock  of  his  life,  the  previous  week,  when  

he  stopped  by  the  charity  sewing  circle  and  found  Bridget  perched  amongst  the  

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substantial,  gossiping  dowagers.    Granted,  she  was  laughing  and  chattering  as  if  she  

were  thoroughly  at  home.  

  Bridget  looked  up  and  the  deep  anger  in  her  blue  eyes  startled  him.    “I  do  not  

wish  to  spend  the  morning  embroidering  flowers  onto  a  reticule  that  I  would  never  

carry.    I  do  not  wish  to  attend  champagne  breakfasts.    I  don’t  care  for  alcoholic  drinks,  

especially  in  the  morning.”  

  David  stared  at  her.  

  “I  don’t  wish  to  go  to  a  waltzing  party  in  the  afternoon,  either,”  she  said  fiercely.    

“I  don’t  mean  to  say  that  I  dislike  dancing.    I  like  dancing,  occasionally.    I  do  like  wearing  

beautiful  clothing.    But  I  have  no  interest  in  changing  my  gown  ten  times  a  day!”  

  He  blinked.    “Well,  why  would  you?”  

  “Don’t  you  have  any  idea  what  the  life  of  a  lady  is  like?”  

  “You…you  go  shopping.    Dress  elegantly,  go  dancing,  perform  music  and,  and    –“  

  “And  find  a  husband!”  she  completed  his  sentence.    Then  she  stood  up.    “I  am  

sorry  that  you  find  I  am  an  inappropriate  addition  to  your  parish,  Mr.  Marlowe.    I  

certainly  did  not  mean  to  inconvenience  you.”    Her  tone  was  as  arctic  as  the  north  wind.  

  “Miss  Boch,  I  never  meant  to  make  you  unwelcome.”    He  searched  for  words  and  

found  none.      

  Bridget  was  pinning  on  her  hat.    “I  shall  not  bother  you  in  the  future.    I  had  no  

idea  that  church  activities  in  England  were  reserved  for  those  over  forty  years  old.    This  

is  not  the  case  in  France,  I  assure  you.”  

  He  took  a  hasty  step  toward  her.    “I  didn’t  mean  –“  

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  “I  know  what  you  meant,”  she  said  rather  shakily.    “You  and  your  fiancée  think  

that  I  am  a  bad  influence,  too  French,  too  much  the  baker’s  daughter  –  oh,  who  cares  at  

any  rate!”    There  were  tears  in  her  voice.    “I  shall  not  vex  you  any  further.”  

  But  David  grabbed  her  arm  as  she  turned  to  the  door.    “No!”  

   “What  on  earth  are  you  doing,  sir?”    She  pulled  her  arm  from  his.  

  David  couldn’t  stand  that  her  eyes  were  bright  with  tears.    “Bridget,”  he  said,  

voice  husky.    “Oh  God,  Bridget.”      

Her  mouth  was  as  sweet  as  he  had  imagined,  and  his  own  was  twice  as  needy.    

He  forgot  he  was  a  man  of  the  church,  forgot  that  he  was  the  second  son  of  a  squire,  

and  forgot  that  his  income  was  limited  to  that  of  a  large  (if  prosperous)  parish.    He  

pulled  her  sweetly  scented  body  against  his  and  crushed  her  mouth  under  his.    A  simple  

action,  and  one  that  he  had  been  irresponsibly  dreaming  about  ever  since  Bridget  Boch  

walked  through  his  rectory  door  some  five  months  before.  

She  didn’t  struggle.    She  didn’t  slap  his  face,  or  bite  his  lip.    Or  scream  for  help.    

She  opened  her  mouth  to  his  and  her  slim  curves  melted  against  his  body.    And  then  one  

hand  came  shyly  up  to  his  cheek  and  the  other  clung  to  his  neck.      

A  silent  conversation  it  was,  spoken  in  a  language  of  tongues,  pressing  bodies,  

and  small  inarticulate  noises.    His  lips  danced  over  her  cheekbones,  and  pressed  shut  

the  thick  fringe  of  eyelashes…let  go  only  because  he  wanted  to  see  her  navy  blue  eyes  

again.    But  when  she  opened  her  eyes,  they  were  so  beautiful  that  he  bent  to  her  mouth  

again,  kissed  it  with  all  the  silent  desire  that  had  coursed  through  his  bones  since  the  

moment  he  saw  her.  

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“Bridget,”  he  said.    His  voice  was  dark  with  longing.  

She  looked  up  at  him,  her  body  still  cradled  against  his.    “David.”    She  saw  the  

moment  that  rationality  flooded  back  into  his  eyes,  and  she  put  a  finger  over  his  lips.    

“Don’t.    I  know  you  are  marrying  another  woman.    I  know…I  know  I  don’t  belong  in  your  

parish.    I  shall  find  some  other  –“  

He  swallowed  her  sentence  in  another  kiss.    She  emerged  pink-­‐cheeked,  aware  

that  her  knees  were  trembling,  aware  that  his  large  hands  had  shaped  her  body  into  a  

shrieking  mass  of  nerves.      

“We  –  we  mustn’t,”  she  whispered,  stepping  back.    She  looked  about  in  a  daze,  

found  her  bonnet  on  the  floor  and  picked  it  up  with  trembling  fingers.    “I  must  come  to  

the  performance  of  the  Noah  play  tomorrow  night,”  she  said.    “The  cast  is  counting  on  

me,  as  I  am  their  prompter.    But  I  will  not  bother  you  again.”  

David  reached  out,  and  his  hands  fell  away.    He  had  nothing  to  offer  her.    Even  if  

he  were  free,  how  could  he  approach  her  brother,  a  French  marquis,  and  ask  for  her  

hand  in  marriage?  

She  looked  at  him,  beautiful  eyes  no  longer  dazed,  but  sober.    “You  see,”  she  

whispered,  “my  deadly  sin  is  envy.    I  cannot  stay  here,  and  watch  Miss  Harriet  Pettigrew  

take  the  thing  I  want  most  in  the  world.”    Her  aching  words  fell  softly  into  the  room.      

“Bridget.”    His  voice  was  unsteady.    “If  your  sin  is  envy,  then  mine  must  be  lust.    

For  I  want  you  more  than  anything  I  have  wanted  in  my  life.”  

Bridget  looked  away  and  took  a  deep  breath.    “Sir,  perhaps  I  will  see  you  at  the  

performance.”    She  curtsied,  never  looking  at  him,  and  left  the  room.  

15

 

  The  room  was  a  mass  of  babbling  gentlefolk  when  David  looked  into  the  

rectory’s  great  hall  the  following  evening.    The  many  chairs  arranged  before  a  makeshift  

stage  were  all  occupied,  and  gentlemen  were  standing  along  the  back  and  sides  of  the  

room.    He  threaded  his  way  to  the  front  to  greet  his  betrothed.    Harriet  had  obviously  

made  a  special  effort  this  evening.    She  was  wearing  a  ruby  colored  dress  trimmed  with  

orange  satin  leaves  around  the  bosom.    The  color  suited  her  dark  hair  and  coloring.    In  

fact,  Harriet  was  rather  beautiful  in  her  own  way,  he  thought  miserably.    He  bowed  and  

kissed  her  hand.  

  “My  father,  Mr.  Marlowe,”  Harriet  said  fussily.    “Of  course,  you  know  each  

other.”    David  had  had  a  rather  unpleasant  interview  with  the  bishop  when  he  asked  for  

Harriet’s  hand  in  marriage,  given  that  Harriet’s  father  required  assurance  that  David  

would  make  every  effort  to  become  a  bishop.  

  “And  this  is  my  father’s  archdeacon,  Mr.  Bell,”  Harriet  announced.  

  David  bowed  again.    Mr.  Bell  was  a  tall  man  who  looked  to  great  advantage  in  

clerical  garb.    He  didn’t  look  in  the  least  ‘unsteady,’  as  Harriet  had  called  him.    To  David’s  

mind,  he  looked  a  far  more  plausible  bishop  than  he  himself  was  likely  to  be.  

“We  are  looking  forward  to  this  evening,”  the  bishop  said  ponderously.    

“Although  the  Anglican  Church  has  frowned  upon  the  cycle  plays  since  the  days  of  dear  

Queen  Elizabeth.”  

16

“I  believe  the  Elizabethans  felt  that  the  appearance  of  our  heavenly  creator  on  

stage  was  particularly  abhorrent,”  Mr.  Bell  remarked,  leaving  no  doubt  about  what  his  

own  feelings  were.  

When  David  remained  silent,  Harriet  rushed  to  his  defense.    “I  am  quite  certain  

there  will  be  no  such  desecration  in  this  play,”  she  said  importantly.    “We  might  hear  a  

voice,  perhaps,  but  there  is  no  reason  for  someone  to  actually  impersonate  the  divine.”  

David  bowed  a  third  time.    “I  shall  make  certain  the  preparations  are  proceeding  

satisfactorily,”  he  said.  

“We  have  a  seat  for  you  just  here,”  his  betrothed  replied,  indicating  the  seat  

beside  her.      

He  saw  Bridget  as  soon  as  he  entered  the  makeshift  dressing  room  behind  the  

hall.    She  was  laughing  up  at  plump  man  dressed  what  looked  like  two  white  sheets.  

David  walked  over  to  them.    “Good  evening,  Mr.  Brisket,”  he  said  pleasantly.      

Bridget  started  and  looked  at  him.    She  turned  back  to  Mr.  Brisket.    “Do  you  

think  it  will  be  quite  stable,  sir,  or  would  you  like  a  few  more  pins?”  

“Goodness,  miss,  if  you  put  any  more  pins  into  my  gown,  I’m  like  to  clank  as  I  

walk,”  Mr.  Brisket  said  comfortably.    “And  hello  to  you,  rector.”  

Bridget  walked  away  with  a  backward  glance  at  David.    He  swallowed.    “What  

part  are  you  playing,  Mr.  Brisket?”  

“Well,  I’m  a  lucky  one,  I  am,”  the  butcher  replied.    “Can’t  you  guess  then,  sir?”  

David’s  heart  was  sinking.  

17

“I’ll  give  you  a  bit  o’my  lines,”  Mr.  Brisket  announced.    Then  in  a  fine,  plummy  

tone,  he  said:    “Behold,  I  will  destroy  them  with  the  earth.”  

“You’re  God,”  David  replied  hollowly.  

“Trust  you  to  catch  it!”  Mr.  Brisket  said.    “I’m  a  bit  worried  about  forgetting  the  

bits  about  the  length  of  the  ark:    three  hundred  cubits,  it  is,  the  breadth  of  it  fifty  cubits,  

and  the  height  of  it  thirty  cubits.    Well,  I  reckon  Miss  Boch  will  remind  me,  if  I  forget.    

She’s  a  splendid  young  lady,  she  is.”  

David  nodded,  looking  around.    Bridget  was  pinning  a  large  bow  in  place.  

“That’s  Mrs.  Noah.    She’s  a  bit  of  a  shrew,”  chuckled  Mr.  Brisket.    “This  is  a  right  

lively  play,  rector.    These  medieval  people  must  have  been  a  spirited  bunch.    No  doubt  

but  what  it’ll  be  a  success.    We’re  having  a  second  performance  tomorrow  night,  did  you  

know  that?”  

David  shook  his  head.  

“Yep,  all  the  tickets  got  bought  up  by  the  gentry,  which  is  good  for  those  poor  

orphans,  of  course.    But  we’d  like  a  chance  to  have  our  relatives  see  it  as  well.    So  we’re  

having  another  performance  tomorrow  night,  half  price,  just  for  people  like  meself.    

Now  isn’t  that  a  splendid  thing?”  

“Absolutely,”  David  managed.    God  was  a  butcher  in  a  sheet;  Noah  was  a  drunk;  

Noah’s  wife  was  a  shrew.    And  the  audience  was  full  of  the  worst  tattlemongers  in  all  

London,  people  who  could  stir  up  a  scandalbroth  without  the  slightest  encouragement.    

Lord  knows  what  they  would  do  when  a  bishop  and  an  archbishop  left  the  performance  

in  a  fury.      

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He  should  be  desperate.    Yet…and  yet.    Bridget  was  hugging  one  of  the  orphans,  

who  was  holding  up  his  finger  and  weeping.  

David  made  his  way  through  the  room.    She  had  made  it  clear  that  she  wanted  

nothing  to  do  with  him,  but  he  couldn’t  seem  to  stop  himself.    “What  seems  to  be  the  

matter?”  he  asked.  

“Freddy  was  nibbled  on  by  the  calf,”  Bridget  said,  without  looking  up  at  him.  

“The  calf?”  

Then  she  did  glance  up.    “Didn’t  you  know  that  there  are  animals  in  the  

performance?”  

He  just  looked  back  at  her,  and  color  mounted  in  her  cheeks.  

“Only  a  very  few,”  she  said  hastily.    “They  represent  the  animals  entering  the  ark,  

obviously.    There  are  two  kittens,  and  one  puppy,  and  Mr.  Brisket  very  kindly  brought  

two  rabbits  and  a  calf  from  his  butcher  shop.    Oh,  and  a  few  chickens.”  

“Where  are  they?”    It  was  beyond  a  disaster.    It  was  doom,  pure  and  simple.    

Irrationally,  David  was  beginning  to  enjoy  himself.  

“They’re  in  the  next  room,”  Bridget  said,  rather  puzzled.      

Just  then  David  heard  a  distinct  lowing  noise.    “Is  that  calf  in  my  study?”  

“No!”    She  looked  even  more  surprised  at  the  twinkle  in  his  eye.  

  David  had  just  remembered  how  very  much  his  fiancée  detested  animals,  and  

how  strong  her  views  were  of  their  rightful  place.  

  “Well,  it  appears  that  everything  is  going  quite  well  here,”  he  said,  smiling  down  

at  the  clearly  astonished  Bridget.    He  looked  around.    The  room  was  crowded,  but  

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everyone  was  busy  either  pinning  costumes  or  rehearsing  their  lines.    He  bent  down  and  

swiftly  kissed  her  lips.  

  She  colored  and  shot  him  an  outraged  look.    “Have  you  lost  your  mind?”  she  said  

furiously.  

  “Found  it,  I  think,”  he  said  cheerfully.    “I  believe  I  will  join  my  future  bride  in  the  

front  row.”  

  Bridget  ground  her  teeth  together.    Never,  ever  would  she  darken  the  door  of  

this  church  again.    The  rector  clearly  thought  she  was  a  light-­‐skirt,  kissing  her  in  the  

same  breath  in  which  he  talked  about  his  betrothed.  

  “Do  give  Miss  Pettigrew  my  best  wishes,”  she  said.    “I  hope  she  will  not  be  

scandalized  by  the  performance.”  

  David  bowed.    “To  be  honest,  Miss  Boch,  I  fear  the  worst.”  

  Bridget  bit  her  lip.    What  on  earth  was  going  on  ?    “It’s  not  that  bad  a  play,”  she  

said  anxiously.    “Mr.  Higgins  seems  to  be  quite  sober  tonight.“  

  “Oh,  yes,”  David  said.    “Where  is  Noah?”  

  Bridget  turned  around.    “Oh,  dear,”  she  said  quietly.  

  Mr.  Higgins  was  a  great  red-­‐haired  man  wearing  a  flimsy  tunic,  the  sewing  

circle’s  idea  of  biblical  garb.    At  the  moment  he  was  hoisting  a  great  bottle  of  ale  in  the  

air  and,  as  they  watched,  he  drained  a  good  eight  ounces.  

  “He  takes  his  role  very  seriously,”  Bridget  said.  

  “I  think  I  shall  have  a  word  with  him.”  

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  She  watched  his  back  as  David  walked  away,  stopping  to  exchange  greetings  

here  and  there.    Even  his  back  was  dear  to  her:  his  broad  shoulders  under  all  that  black  

cloth,  and  the  way  his  curls  tumbled  about,  looking  absolutely  unclerical.    And  the  way  

that  he  was  such  a  caring  priest,  for  all  he  didn’t  look  or  act  the  part.    Tears  rose  in  her  

throat  and  Bridget  swallowed.    Once  she  got  through  this  evening,  she  would  never  

enter  the  rectory  again.  

  David  had  reached  Mr.  Higgins  and  seemed  to  be  ushering  him  out  of  the  room.    

Likely  he  would  take  him  to  his  study  to  sober  up,  Bridget  thought  miserably.  

 

  At  first,  it  seemed  that  the  Play  of  Noah  was  going  remarkably  smoothly.    The  

curtain  opened  promptly  at  eight-­‐thirty,  and  the  little  girl  who  lisped  the  prologue  was  

declared  to  be  adorable  by  the  entire  crowd.    Her  thanks  to  the  Earl  and  Countess  of  

Sheffield  and  Downes,  who  had  paid  for  the  costumes  and  the  refreshments  following  

the  performance,  was  greeted  with  loud  applause.  

  Bridget  sat  at  the  left  corner  of  the  stage,  just  inside  the  curtain,  in  case  

someone  forgot  his  lines.    It  seemed  to  her  that  Noah  behaved  very  well  during  God’s  

visit.    Of  course,  anyone  would  have  been  surprised  by  such  an  encounter,  and  only  the  

most  exacting  of  critics  could  say  that  Noah  overreacted  by  temporarily  swooning.    True,  

God’s  fluffy  halo  (fashioned  out  of  a  quantity  of  cotton  batting)  fell  to  the  side  at  one  

point  and  swung  from  an  ear,  but  he  discovered  it  soon  enough  and  put  it  back  with  a  

chuckle.    More  importantly,  he  remembered  every  one  of  his  lines,  even  the  difficult  

ones  about  the  Ark’s  cubits  of  length.  

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  It  was  a  shame  that  she  couldn’t  see  the  front  row  from  where  she  sat.    She  

would  have  liked  to  know  whether  David  was  joining  in  the  great  shouts  of  laughter  that  

swept  the  room  as  Noah’s  wife  scolded  him  for  wasting  his  time  building  a  ship.    And  

scolded  him  for  bringing  messy  animals  into  the  room.    And  scolded  him  for  being  a  

worthless  bubble-­‐brain  (Mrs.  Noah  was  clearly  carried  away  by  the  spirit  of  the  

moment.    Bridget  almost  put  her  script  aside).      

There  was  a  dicey  moment  when  the  calf  shifted  all  her  weight  to  Noah’s  foot.    

But  while  one  could  wish  that  his  language  were  not  quite  so  colorful,  the  audience  

seemed  to  greet  his  explosion  with  great  delight.  

  The  cast  made  it  through  the  ocean  journey  with  great  aplomb.    The  audience  

had  taken  to  roaring  with  laughter  every  time  Mrs.  Noah  even  opened  her  mouth,  and  a  

hopeful  sense  was  growing  in  Bridget’s  stomach.    Perhaps  the  evening  would  pass  

without  incident,  and  she  could  leave  knowing  that  her  beloved  orphans  would  be  well  

funded  for  the  next  year,  at  least.  

  The  dove  (a  cleverly  fashioned  piece  of  cardboard)  hopped  onto  Mount  Ararat;  

the  ark  landed;  the  animals  were  escorted  off  the  stage.    Unfortunately  Noah  dropped  

the  chicken  he  was  holding  and  it  flapped  into  the  audience.    Bridget  heard  a  screech.    

The  bird  must  have  startled  someone.    But  then  the  hubbub  died  down  and  the  actors  

went  back  to  their  parts,  winding  up  the  Noah  play.  

  Noah  was  drinking  from  a  hip  flask  with  great  abandon,  Bridget  noticed  with  

some  alarm.    Of  course,  the  bible  did  say  that  Noah  drank  too  much  wine.    But  did  he  

have  to  be  quite  so  drunk?      

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  Finally  Noah  retreated  into  his  tent  (a  piece  of  drapery  at  the  side  of  the  stage).    

His  son  entered  and  retreated  in  horror,  shouting.    Noah  seemed  to  be  having  a  hard  

time  remembering  his  son’s  name  so  he  could  curse  him  –  poor  Canaan  kept  hissing  his  

name  while  Noah  stumbled  about  calling  him  Caner  and  Cabit  and  Calus.  

  It  was  a  huge  relief  when  God  came  forward  and  announced,  “And  the  years  of  

Noah  were  nine  hundred  and  fifty  years,  and  so  he  died.”    To  her  horror,  Bridget  saw  

that  Higgins  had  decided  to  interpret  the  last  lines  as  well;  he  heavily  collapsed  on  the  

floor.    But  the  cast  very  properly  ignored  him  as  they  took  their  bows.  

  Then  there  were  shouts  of  “Marlowe!”  and  “Rector!”  from  the  audience.  

  Bridget  stayed  where  she  was,  tucked  at  the  side  of  the  stage  and  watched  as  

David  climbed  onto  the  makeshift  platform  and  thanked  everyone  for  making  the  

performance  such  a  success.    She  watched  him  hungrily.    This  was  the  last  time  she  

would  see  him  after  all.    And  he  was  so  beautiful,  with  his  gentle  eyes  and  broad,  strong  

body,  the  voice  of  a  scholar  and  the  hands  of  a  farmer.    Never  again  would  she  love  a  

man  as  much  as  she  loved  David  Marlowe.  

  He  walked  from  the  stage  and  Bridget  dared  to  peek  at  the  audience.    The  

gathered  gentry  looked  both  cheerful  and  expectant,  gathering  their  wraps  and  

preparing  to  have  some  of  the  Lord  Sheffield’s  excellent  refreshments.    The  earl  had  

sent  his  private  chef  to  the  rectory  in  the  morning,  and  the  man  had  spent  the  whole  

day  preparing  delicate  and  splendid  confections.  

  She  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  brother,  who  sent  her  a  congratulatory  wave.    

Bridget  smiled  back,  forgetting  her  misery  for  a  moment.    Lucien  was  so  happy  with  his  

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new  wife.    At  the  moment  he  was  tenderly  helping  her  from  her  seat,  and  Emily  was  

looking  up  at  him  with  glowing  eyes.    Bridget  blinked  hard.    Undoubtedly,  it  was  an  even  

worse  sin  to  envy  one’s  brother  than  to  envy  the  odious  Harriet  Pettigrew.  

  Then  she  realized  that  not  all  of  the  audience,  in  fact,  was  happy.    Miss  Pettigrew  

was  standing  in  the  front  row,  and  even  from  there  Bridget  could  hear  how  shrill  her  

voice  was.  

  She  frowned,  trying  to  grasp  the  problem.    Then  she  heard  a  deep  voice  at  her  

shoulder.    “It  was  the  chicken,  miss.    That  dratted  chicken  flew  straight  at  Miss  

Pettigrew.    I  think  it  landed  on  her  shoulder.    I  couldn’t  see  clearly  because  of  my  halo.”  

  Bridget  gasped.    “Oh  no!”  

  “Hopefully  she’s  giving  him  the  mitten,”  Mr.  Brisket  said  cheerfully.    “My  missus  

has  said  that  we  might  think  of  going  to  another  church  if  the  rector  marries  that  one.    

She’s  a  tartar,  and  only  going  to  get  worse  as  she  ages.”  

  “Mr.  Brisket!”  Bridget  protested.    “You  mustn’t  say  such  things.    Come  along!”  

and  she  turned  resolutely  away.  

  “Just  a  minute,  just  a  minute,”  Mr.  Brisket  said.    “Yep,  that  should  do  it!”  

  Despite  herself  Bridget  looked  back  toward  the  audience.      

  David’s  face  had  a  red  patch  high  on  one  cheekbone.    “She  struck  him!”  

  “Not  only  that.    She  threw  his  ring  on  the  floor,”  the  butcher  said  in  a  tone  of  

deep  satisfaction.    “Well,  I’d  better  join  the  others.    The  cast  is  having  its  own  party,  you  

know.    That  way  we  won’t  put  the  gentry  crowd  to  shame.”  

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  “No,  you  are  not!”  Bridget  said.    “That  is  an  absurd  idea,  and  so  I  instructed  the  

sexton.    You  will  all  be  joining  us.”  

  Mr.  Brisket  looked  down  at  the  slip  of  a  girl  next  to  him  with  a  broad  smile.    

“You’re  a  right  one,  you  know  that,  miss?”  

  Bridget  clutched  his  arm.    “Mr.  Brisket,  do  you  think  something  could  be  done  

about  Noah  before  he  joins  the  party?”  

  “Absolutely,”  he  said  promptly.    And:    “Hello,  there,  rector!”  

  Bridget  swallowed  and  looked  up.  

  “Evening,”  David  said  absent-­‐mindedly,  his  eyes  on  Bridget.  

  “Reckon  you’ve  got  something  to  say  to  this  young  woman,”  Mr.  Brisket  said  in  a  

tone  of  high  pleasure.    “I’ll  just  have  a  word  with  Jeremiah  Higgins,  sir.    Reckon  we’ll  

have  to  make  a  trip  to  the  water  pump  and  pour  a  pail  of  water  over  his  head.    I  just  

don’t  understand  how  he  became  that  cast-­‐away  on  one  bottle  of  ale!”  

  “That  would  be  most  kind  of  you.”    David  extended  his  hand.    “You  made  a  

splendid  diety,  Mr.  Brisket.    I  was  proud  to  see  you  in  my  rectory.”  

  Mr.  Brisket  went  rosy  all  over  his  face.    “That  means  a  lot,  sir.    Means  a  lot,  

coming  from  you.    Well,  I’ll  go  and  take  care  of  Jeremiah  now.”  

  And  there  they  were,  alone.  

  His  cheek  was  still  red,  she  noticed.  

  He  rubbed  the  spot.    “Harriet  has  a  strong  right  arm.”    He  grinned.    In  fact,  he  

couldn’t  stop  grinning  like  an  idiot.  

  “I  am  very  sorry,”  Bridget  began  –  

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  But  she  found  herself  in  a  kiss  so  tight,  so  fierce,  and  so  brazen  that  her  very  

breath  was  stolen  from  her  chest.    And  she  was  jerked  against  a  body  so  demanding  that  

she  could  feel  it  through  her  flimsy  gown.  

  “Bridget,”  David  said  hoarsely.    “I  love  you.    I  want…I  want  you.    I  want  you  here,  

with  me.    I  want  you  to  marry  me,  and  put  on  irresponsible  plays,  and  teach  the  orphans  

how  to  speak  to  animals.”  

  She  opened  her  mouth  to  answer,  but  he  pulled  her  close  again  and  his  mouth  

closed  hungrily  over  hers,  and  she  melted  against  him.  

  “Lust  is  a  sin,  Bridget,  but  this  isn’t  lust,”  he  said.    “Not  only  lust.”  

“I  will  marry  you,”  she  said  simply.  

Being  a  man,  he  instantly  reversed  himself.    “I  shouldn’t  ask  you.    I’m  not  worthy  

of  you.    Not  at  all.”    And  he  dropped  his  arms.  

  Bridget  nestled  against  him  and  smiled  her  a  lopsided  smile.    “I’ve  been  a  baker’s  

daughter,”  she  said.  

  “But  in  truth,  you  are  the  daughter  of  a  marquis,”  David  replied.    “No,  I’m  

serious,  Bridget.    You  can  marry  anyone  you  wish.“  

  “I  turned  down  the  Earl  of  Sallet,”  she  whispered,  tracing  his  lips  with  her  finger.    

“I  rejected  Baron  Tibblesfoot  last  week.”  

  “Exactly,”  David  said,  struggling  to  hang  onto  his  common  sense.  

  “There’s  only  one  duke  on  the  market  next  year,”  she  said  thoughtfully.    

“Perhaps  I  should  marry  him.”  

  Silence.  

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  She  wound  her  arms  around  him  and  put  her  head  against  his  broad  chest.    “I  

want  to  marry  you,”  she  said,  her  voice  half  muffled.    “I  want  to  marry  David  Marlowe  

and  live  in  his  vicarage.”  

  “I  don’t  have  the  income  to  support  you  properly.”    His  voice  was  strained.  

  “I  do,”  Bridget  replied  cheerfully.    Then  she  tipped  back  her  head  and  looked  up  

into  his  agonized  eyes.    “You  haven’t  any  choice,  darling.”  

  David’s  jaw  tightened.    “One  always  has  a  choice  to  do  right  or  wrong.”  

  “Not  this  time.”    His  future  wife  laughed.    “I  believe  that  you’ve  ruined  my  

reputation.    I’m  compromised.    I’m  ruined.    The  duke  will  never  marry  me  now.”    She  

giggled  again.  

  David  gaped.    And  then  slowly  turned  around.    There,  looking  on  with  enormous  

interest,  was  a  good  portion  of  the  London  ton.    It  seemed  that  they  had  glimpsed  

something  more  interesting  than  the  refreshments  offered  in  the  next  room.      

The  very  first  eyes  that  met  his  were  the  amused  –  and  quite  unsurprised  –  eyes  

of  Bridget’s  brother  as  he  climbed  onto  the  stage.  

  Bridget  tucked  her  arm  under  his.    “May  I  present  my  brother?    Lucien,  this  is  Mr.  

David  Marlowe,  whom  I  am  going  to  marry.”  

  David  extended  his  hand  as  if  he  were  in  a  dream.    He  opened  his  mouth,  but  

was  interrupted.  

  “What  I  don’t  understand,”  broke  in  a  complaining,  huffing  voice,  “is  how  did  

Higgins  get  hold  of  the  vicar’s  best  brandy?    When  did  he  manage  to  take  it  from  the  

vicar’s  study?    For  that’s  the  situation,  sir.”    It  was  Mr.  Brisket.    “I’m  afraid  that  I’ve  had  

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to  send  Higgins  home.    He  simply  is  not  fit  for  company.    And  he  won’t  be  feeling  any  

too  chipper  tomorrow  either,”  he  added.  

  Then  he  realized  that  an  elegantly  dressed  gentleman  had  joined  the  vicar  and  

Miss  Boch  on  the  stage.    “My  apologies,”  Mr.  Brisket  said,  turning  red  as  a  beet.    “Didn’t  

mean  to  interrupt,  that’s  for  certain.”  

  “Please  do  not  worry,”  Bridget  said.    “Is  there  a  problem?”  

  “Well,  it’s  the  vicar’s  best  brandy,  miss.    Someone  went  and  gave  it  to  Mr.  

Higgins,  and  it  was  that  brandy  made  him  so  bosky.    Too  fuddled  to  keep  hold  of  the  

chicken,  not  to  mention  generally  acting  like  a  buffle-­‐head  during  the  play.”  

  He  looked  embarrassed.    “I’m  afraid,  Mr.  Marlowe,  that  there’s  a  bishop  in  the  

front  hallway  having  a  proper  fit  over  the  play.    Talking  about  notifying  authorities,  and  

so  forth.”  

  David  smiled  and  tucked  his  arm  around  his  betrothed  –  his  new  betrothed.    “I’ll  

speak  the  bishop  myself,  Mr.  Brisket.    Thank  you  very  much  for  your  help.    As  for  the  

brandy,  we’ll  think  no  more  about  it.”  

  There  was  an  infectious  chuckle  beside  him.    David  looked  down,  his  heart  

bounding  at  the  idea  that  he  might  walk  through  the  rest  of  his  life  with  beautiful,  

laughing  Bridget  at  his  side.  

  “Brandy,  hmmm?”    She  was  grinning  at  him.    “Did  that  come  from  the  vicar’s  

private  stock,  by  any  chance?”  

  “Silence  is  a  cardinal  virtue,”  David  announced  severely.    And  he  gave  her  one  

more  hard,  swift  kiss,  to  the  gathered  delight  and  shock  of  the  audience.