‘Well, I must be getting on,’ she added with a kind of insane brightness, unhooking the kneeler from the pew in front.
‘Are you intending to repair them here?’
‘No, I’ll take them back to the Vicarage,’ said Tavy, wishing now that she’d picked some other—any other—excuse for her presence.
‘I have the car outside. I’ll give you a hand.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
The tawny eyes glinted. ‘Planning on transporting them one at a time?’ he enquired affably.
‘No,’ she said, tautly. ‘Deciding the repairs can wait.’
‘Very wise,’ he said. ‘You can show me round the church instead.’
‘It’s hardly big enough to merit a guided tour.’ She gestured round her. ‘What you see is what you get. Plain and simple.’ She paused. ‘And I’m sure there’s a whole section about it in the book Dad lent you.’
‘Indeed there was,’ he said. ‘For instance, I know it was built by Henry Manning, the owner of Ladysmere just after Queen Victoria came to the throne. He gave the land and paid for the work, also adding a peal of bells to the tower in memory of his eldest son who was killed at Balaclava.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘William Manning. There’s a plaque on the wall over there. But now there’s only one bell, rung before services. The others were removed several years ago.’
‘People objected to the noise?’
‘No, nothing like that. As a matter of fact, everyone was very sad about it. But it turned out the tower just wasn’t strong enough to support them any longer.’
He frowned. ‘That sounds serious.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is. Very. But it’s not your problem. Now, if you’ll excuse me...’
‘To do what? Count the hymn books?’ He paused. ‘Or change the altar flowers, perhaps.’ His faint smile did not reach his eyes. ‘They must be past their best by now.’
Tavy’s face warmed. ‘The flowers aren’t my responsibility,’ she said, replacing the kneeler.
‘Tell me, do you recycle all your unwanted bouquets in this way?’
‘I don’t get flowers as a rule.’ She gave him a defiant look. ‘As I said—I assumed it was a mistake.’
He said silkily, ‘But one that won’t be repeated, if that’s any reassurance.’
‘And now I’ll go,’ she went on. ‘And let you return to sketching.’
‘I’ve done enough for one morning. I’ll drive you back to the Vicarage instead.’
Oh, no, she fretted silently. It was still much too early for that.
‘Thanks, but I’m not going straight home.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Could I be interrupting some assignation?’
Her breath caught. ‘Please don’t be absurd.’
He said slowly, brows lifting, ‘Anyway, you work on Saturday mornings. Is that why you’re lurking in here—hiding away—because you’re skiving off? Playing truant from school?’ He tutted. ‘What would your father say?’
She said hoarsely, ‘I’m more concerned about how he’ll react when he hears I’ve been fired. Thrown out on my ear.’ Her voice cracked suddenly. ‘Just as if things weren’t bad enough already.’
And, all her good intentions suddenly blown, she sank down on to the pew and began to cry. Not just a flurry of tears but harsh, racking sobs that burnt her throat, and which she could not control.
And in front of him. Of all people.
She would never recover from the shame of it. Or from the knowledge that he was now sitting beside her. That his arm was round her, pulling her to him so that her wet face was buried against his shoulder. So that she was inhaling the warm musk of his skin through the fabric of his shirt with every uneven gasping breath, as she struggled for composure, and for a semblance of sanity, as she realised his free hand was stroking her hair, gently and rhythmically.
When the sobs eventually choked into silence, she drew away, and he released her instantly, passing her an immaculate linen handkerchief.
Sitting rigidly upright, she blotted her face, and blew her nose, trying to think of something to say.
But all that she could come up with was a mumbled, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘What do you have to apologise for? I’d have thought the boot was on quite a different foot.’
‘I mean I’m sorry for making such a fool of myself.’