Lord of Her Heart, a Regency Romance

By Gail Eastwood

Tales of Little Macclow— tucked away and maybe touched by magic....
Lord of Her Heart (Book One)

An unexpected return. A new risk for old friends.

As Little Macclow prepares to celebrate May Day, Tom Hepston’s arrival stirs expectations and speculation. Tom left the village fourteen years ago. Now he is back, but he hasn’t come willingly and he has no plans to stay. While he’s proud of the naval career he has left behind, he believes the physical and mental wounds that ended it have made him a madman no woman could—or should—love. Can he leave again before everyone sees the broken man he has become?

Sally Royden’s young heart broke when Tom left the first time. After years of hoping for his return, she now leads a full life caring for her sister and serving as the village seamstress. Tom’s experiences have changed him. Dare Sally hope for renewed friendship? Or more? Or will her heart be broken twice—by the same man?

Part of the proceeds from this book will be donated to the Wounded Warriors Project and other non-profit organizations that support those fighting the challenges of PTSD.

The Little Macclow Series... Village tales of love’s triumphs.

“One of the genre's most imaginative storytellers, a master at painting pictures of Regency life,”
—Romantic Times Magazine

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gail Eastwood
• Release date: Aug 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005402952

Gail Eastwood

A native New Englander, Gail Eastwood spent almost 20 years as a journalist, theatre critic and PR consultant, among other jobs, before she finally sat down to write and sell her first novel, achieving her childhood dream. Published by Signet, that first book earned several honors including The Golden Leaf Award for Best Regency, 1994. Her other books have been up for numerous awards, and Gail was nominated for Romantic Times Magazine’s Career Achievement Award in the Regency category two years in a row.Hailed by reviewers as “brilliantly versatile” and a “master at painting pictures of Regency life,” Gail was acclaimed for pushing her genre to new levels with the emotional depth and original plots in her books. She dropped out of the field for ten years, but now she’s back! She taught Writing the Romance for Brown University, and continues teaching writing and doing editorial coaching. A graduate of Case Western Reserve University, Gail lives in Rhode Island with her actor/attorney husband, two sons, and the family cat. She loves writing and researching, but stubbornly refuses to give up her interests in theatre, dance, costuming, the medieval period, and of course, the beach, even though she now has no time!

Book preview

Lord of Her Heart

(Tales of Little Macclow, Book 1)

Copyright © 2020 Gail Eastwood-Stokes

Author’s Cut First Edition published by Gail Eastwood, August, 2020

Cover Design: Dar Albert of Wicked Smart Designs

Digital Formatting: Nina Pierce of Seaside Publications

No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any manner or form without written permission from the copyright holder, except in the case of quotation in reviews or articles. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law.

Please only purchase authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of author’s rights is appreciated.

This is a work of historical fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or establishments–except where used in a historical context–is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. © 2020

Duplication of this material in any form is strictly prohibited.

www.gaileastwoodauthor.com

Lord of Her Heart

A prequel to Lord of Misrule, 2019 Maggie Award Finalist

An unexpected return. A new risk for old friends.

Her heart broke the first time he left. Now that he’s back,

dare she hope for a renewed friendship? Or more?

Or will the same man break her heart twice?

I loved that this story is not about the nobility—enjoyed the different angle.

—Reader review

Regency characters who are not the typical aristocrats, portrayed with depth and understanding

—Reader review

"One of the genre's most imaginative storytellers, a master at painting pictures of Regency life,"

—Romantic Times Magazine

A portion of the proceeds from this book will be donated to

Wounded Warriors and other non-profit organizations that

support those struggling with the challenges of PTSD.

Contents

Title Page * Copyright * About Lord of Her Heart * Reviews * Donation to Wounded Warriors

Chapter One * Chapter Two * Chapter Three * Chapter Four * Chapter Five * Chapter Six * Chapter Seven * Chapter Eight * Chapter Nine * Chapter Ten * Chapter Eleven * Chapter Twelve * Chapter Thirteen * Chapter Fourteen * Chapter Fifteen * Chapter Sixteen * Chapter Seventeen * Chapter Eighteen * Chapter Nineteen * Chapter Twenty * Chapter Twenty-One * Chapter Twenty-Two * Epilogue

Note to My Readers * About the Author * Other Books by Gail Eastwood

Chapter One

Derbyshire, England, April 1813

You’ve a caller in the front room. A man.

Sally Royden’s sister delivered the news from the doorway of their cottage kitchen, arms folded decisively across her slender waist.

You say a miracle has happened? Sally shook her head and resumed pushing the heavy rolling pin across the pastry dough in front of her, perhaps with a little extra vigor. The tang of nutmeg wafted from the salt pork and apple already layered in the pie’s bottom crust, pressing her to finish her task. Please don’t tease about that, Ellen. ’Tisn’t becoming. Or kind.

She hated that her sister’s words lit a momentary spark of hope. She knew better. She and Ellen did not have male callers. At seven-and-twenty Sally was too old, at seventeen Ellen was too young, and together they were too poor to interest anyone. Never mind that suitable unmarried men were not plentiful in the area these days, even miles beyond their tiny village. And while many of the people in Little Macclow (including Ellen) believed that magic and miracles sometimes happened here, Sally had no such fanciful ideas.

She could believe that a customer might drop off mending at the house because her shop was closed. Busy with the pie, she had sent her sister to answer the knock at their door. If someone wants to visit, now is truly not a good time, she muttered. The brick oven was hot and ready and the pie was not.

Ellen uncrossed her arms and lifted open hands. Her chin and eyebrows rose as well, portraying a perfect mix: wounded innocence edged with indignation. I say what I mean. ’Tis a man—and I’ll add, a handsome one. He’s askin’ to see you. To my mind, that makes him a caller. A mischievous twinkle lit her eye. You’re makin’ that crust as thin as paper.

With a sigh, Sally stopped and dusted the flour off her hands, wiping them on her apron. If some man in the village simply needed shirts made, would her sister be acting so silly? Who is it?

Ellen shrugged. I don’t know him.

Truly? Sally’s heart began to beat a little faster. Everyone knew everyone in Little Macclow. Strangers hardly ever found their way here, since the village was tucked away off the regular travel routes, and their signpost had been down for ages. Why would a stranger come to see her? How would one even know to ask for her?

He didn’t give his name.

Odd, that. Of course, Ellen could have asked. Should have.

Quickly Sally discarded her apron and smoothed the skirt of her dress. The sprig-printed pale blue cotton was faded from many washings, but at least it was not the worst of her clothing. Do I have flour on my nose?

Ellen made a shooing motion toward the parlor. Go. Just go!

With slightly shaking fingers Sally tucked a loose strand of light brown hair under the edge of her muslin cap, then stepped through the passage between the two halves of their small house. She stopped in the parlor doorway. A sizable man, slightly stooped, faced the hearth with his back to her and the rest of the cozy white-washed room. The impeccable fit of his brown tailcoat emphasized broad shoulders above a narrow waist and hips. Top boots and smoothly fitted inexpressibles displayed the fitness of his lower body. Now she was impressed, as well as mystified.

The clothes appeared expertly-tailored but otherwise were quite ordinary. They suggested gentleman but offered no other clue to his identity. His uncovered head showed thick brown hair streaked with blond, long enough to curl unfashionably at his nape. She noted that his hat—not a broad-brimmed countryman’s hat but an elegant tall-crowned beaver—sat with his gloves on the small table by the entry door.

She racked her brain trying to match what she saw with anyone she knew, and failed.

Good day to you, sir. I’m told you asked to see me? She didn’t try to hide the puzzlement in her voice.

No reaction.

She wasn’t known for being soft-spoken, but perhaps she had said the words more softly than she intended. Or perhaps he was woolgathering? She didn’t think she had left him waiting long enough for that to happen, but some people were inattentive by nature and became lost in their thoughts quite easily. Her sister, for instance.

She advanced a few steps into the room, and pushed a straight chair in closer to the round table that stood in the center. He did not stir at the sound of the chair legs scraping on the stone floor. Sir? Still he didn’t turn. She tried once more, louder. Good day, sir! I am Miss Royden.

This time he turned, and hazel eyes she knew well locked onto her. A bolt of astonishment and joy shot through her. Tom Hepston! Her jaw dropped and her heart started a frenzied tattoo. She grabbed the top of the chair back as her knees wobbled, and sucked in her breath as a dozen more emotions assaulted her, threatening to numb her brain. Was it some kind of magical mirage? Or a miracle, indeed? Fourteen years had passed since she’d last seen him.

It had taken at least two of those years for those eyes to stop haunting her dreams. They gazed at her now from a face that had matured and weathered, but she still knew him.

Tom! Can this truly be? Tears welled in her eyes. It had to be him. The same nose, the same strong jaw. She had no reason now to imagine seeing him—not after so many years of schooling her heart to stop hoping for his return. Her blood pounded in a crazy dance.

He took a step towards her with a tentative smile, extending one hand. An ebony cane occupied his other hand and he leaned fully on it as he moved. It was not merely a fashion accessory.

Forgive me, Sally. I should have known that my appearing here like this would be a shock.

She nodded, still clutching the wooden chair back as the sound of his voice, deeper than it used to be, rolled over her. A shock barely seemed to cover whatever this was. She had never felt such a peculiar mixture of reactions—her initial joy, astonishment, and excitement all tempered by caution, and maybe still some disbelief. How? Why?

Those were questions, but not the ones she most needed to ask, perhaps. Her brain was not working. She shook her head, trying to clear it and find sense.

I wondered if you would even recognize me. He approached and after setting his cane carefully against the edge of the table, held out both hands to her. She released her death-grip on the chair and slid hers into his warm, solid, callused ones. They had been best friends. Could he truly have thought she might not know him?

He was most definitely standing before her, solid and real. These strong hands were rougher than she remembered, and they triggered a wave of tingling that swept from her fingers up through her arms and seemed to aim straight for her heart. Butterpots! Even as infatuated with him as she had once been, she had never experienced a response like this. But of course she had been a mere girl of thirteen the last time she had touched Tom Hepston’s hands.

Come, sit, he said, his face etched with concern. Had she somehow betrayed her reaction? His hands released hers, leaving the tingle behind. Moving the cane, he pulled out the chair beside her, and she dropped numbly into it. Again I apologize for surprising you. Are you all right?

He stood looking down at her. The years he’d been gone had turned him into a man, and she saw him now through the eyes of a grown woman. Even with the cane, he gave an impression of solid strength. When he had left the village at age fifteen he had already begun to show that potential. But now he also had a bearing of command that no farmer she’d ever met could muster. His features were sharper, his face thinner, his eyes more intense. She could not stop staring at him. A pang of longing she’d thought long-banished surged up through her with frightening ferocity. She closed her eyes.

You won’t faint, will you? You were never like that.

No, she’d never been the fainting type. She opened her eyes again to find his gaze roving over her, inspecting. Well, hadn’t she done the same to him? After so many years, who could blame either of them? Who had they become? She shook her head, waving his words aside with her hand, her own words sticking and refusing to come out.

Perhaps I should not have come. I just thought… Well, since I am returned, and you are still in the village, I thought you would want to know. I didn’t want you to hear the news from someone else, nor to run into me in the street. Think what a worse shock that would have been! He gave her a rueful half-smile, much more like the boy she used to know.

She nodded again, trying to unlock her voice. She was made of stronger stuff than this ridiculously floundering woman. If only her pounding heart would drop back down where it belonged instead of lodging in her throat with her words. Thank you, she managed to croak out. Wonderful, two words. She waved towards the other straight-backed chair pulled up to the table. Please, sit with me. Four words. Improving!

Breathing and speaking both seemed easier once he took the other seat and the table stood between them, a barrier as substantial as the lost years that had passed. Still she couldn’t take her eyes off him. I cannot believe you are truly here.

I feel that way myself. 'Tis unexpected.

It—it can’t have been easy for you, coming back.

He shook his head slowly. I swore I never would. I’ve only come because of my mother’s illness.

Ah. So that was the reason. What had she expected him to say? That he’d come for her? Yet somehow she hadn’t realized his mother was faring so badly. Had she not seen her out walking with Lady Anne?

I couldn’t refuse her, since I’m no longer at sea. He looked down, as if the words pained him.

Why wasn’t he? He had joined the Royal Navy, a life commitment, and furthermore, the war against Napoleon still raged. More questions she could not ask right now. She couldn’t stop staring at him, seeking traces of the boy he had been, comparing the changes time and experience had carved into his even-more-handsome face. How do you find your mother, Tom?

Unwell. Being back here is hard for me, but she does seem to need my help. He paused, then lifted his gaze to look pointedly at her. "But Sally, how is it you are still here? My mother says you are the village seamstress now, since old Mrs Bunting retired. I was certain by now you would be married, perhaps even mother to a child or two, or even a passel of them."

His smile this time was quick, uncertain. But in that moment he looked just like the old Tom of her memories.

She shrugged and opened her hands, looking down at them. I’ve been in Little Macclow the whole time. Nothing changes much here. You know, just time passing. Hearts breaking, hearts mending. I lost both my parents; that was a change. Perhaps you heard?

He nodded.

She didn’t want to dwell on that. Nine years had passed since then, a lifetime ago, or sometimes just a heartbeat. I jumped at the chance to learn from Mrs. Bunting and take on her business. I always liked sewing.

He nodded, putting one hand absently against his chest. I remember.

Ellen works at the inn. Between us, we’re faring well enough.

She summoned a teasing smile to aim at him. Who did you think I would marry?

He had the grace to look flustered. Well, I—I don’t know. I didn’t picture you with anyone in particular. I just assumed…

Was that a hint of red rising above his proper white cravat and spreading up into his cheeks?

Somehow his discomfort pleased her. She could still tease him. Her smile grew. Ah, but apparently you pictured me. ’Tis nice to know you thought of me at all, Tom Hepston.

I did. You must have known I would. He looked terribly sincere, his eyes intent and his brows drawn. That, too, was like her Tom of the old days.

And how would I have known that? She tossed her head for dramatic effect. Not a soul save your mother ever heard a word from you in all the years after you left.

He looked away, but not before she caught a glimpse of pain in his eyes. Torturing him had not been her intent. Had it?

That is true. I thought it best to make a clean break. I never expected to return here.

Did broken hearts mend better when the break was clean?

That aside, I couldn’t have written to you, Sally. ’Twouldn’t have been proper.

And that was the most annoyingly adult thing she had ever heard him say.

"I am grieved about your parents. My mother wrote me when you lost them."

He fumbled at his waistcoat and pulled out a pocket-watch which he flipped open. After glancing at it and returning it to his pocket, he grasped his cane and struggled to his feet, returning his gaze to her. I should go.

Already? He had hardly stayed for any time at all. She was still adjusting to the mere idea that he was truly here, still sorting out her reactions, her questions. Say something!

Pressing appointments? That was an old joke they used to make, mocking the village adults, but he didn’t laugh, or even smile. Perhaps he didn’t remember.

I truly beg your pardon, Sally.

For what? For leaving now? Or then? For the loss of her parents? Or perhaps for all of those things? She rose from her chair and stared across at him, feeling every bit of awkwardness between them. She had said stupid things, instead of asking the questions she should have. Had she driven him away?

No, Tom, I beg yours. Please stay. I didn’t mean to sound critical. I was teasing you. I know that was a hard time for you, when you left. I’m sure all of these years must have been hard.

His gaze was still fastened on her. They have been. He gave her a tight little smile that didn’t reach his eyes, then turned toward the small table by the door where he had left his hat and gloves. She saw him grimace as he took his first step in that direction.

You were injured. Nothing like stating the obvious. Perhaps that was the reason he was on a release? She ought to let him go. Her pie was still not in the oven. They would have more chances to talk. How could they not? He was back. But he didn’t answer, just took a few more steps and then stopped to put his hat on his head and pull on his gloves. Was he ignoring her, or hadn’t he heard?

He reached for the door latch, but then he turned to her one more time. Will you consider stopping by to see my mother? She is homebound now and I can tell she is lonely.

She nodded. I will.

Was he lonely too? Did his question mean he hoped to see her there?

She couldn’t help wishing he might mean just such a thing. They had been friends, too young to be more, yet her heart had broken when he left.

Dumbly, she watched him go out. She hadn’t even said how glad she was to see him.

Tom walked away as steadily as he could until he was out of view of Sally’s cottage. Had she noticed how much his hands were shaking when he had struggled to put on his gloves? He had tried to block her view of it.

Heart galloping like a panicked mare, he stopped now and levered himself up onto a relatively flat-topped section of stone wall edging the road between cottages. He fought to pull air into his lungs but his gasps came with increasing speed. Control. He must find control. How could he have known seeing and talking with Sally would cause such a strong reaction? Like taking fire from a 24-pounder. No doubt she was shocked by his abrupt departure, but it had been utterly necessary.

During their years of friendship he had seldom thought of her as anything but his best friend, at least until that last year. Later, away at sea, he had crafted a fantasy of Sally as a grown woman, but she hadn’t been someone real—just an illusion of what his childhood companion might have become. The lock of hair she had given him to carry became a talisman of sorts, a reminder of good times shared and also the goodness in the world that she represented to him.

But the instant he turned and saw her standing there—vibrant, real and solidly beautiful—he had been wracked with an intense craving for her, as if he had been waiting for her all these years. Sally. He pressed his hand against his chest, feeling the faint outline of the tiny pouch she had made for him. He had worn it faithfully.

So much for childhood friendship. How could they go back, even if he buried these new feelings completely?

He’d been a fool to reach out to touch her, taking her smooth hands into his, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. That had only made the craving worse, and kicked his pulse rate higher.

These days he didn’t do well with intense feelings of any kind. This current attack wasn’t one of his waking terrors, thank heaven. He didn’t know what this was, but seeing Sally definitely had stirred up enough in him to ignite something.

He took a breath, then counted slowly—one, two, three, four, five—before allowing himself to exhale. He repeated this three more times before he fished for his pocket watch again with two shaking fingers. Drawing it out, he flipped it open and stared down at its steady, calming, starkly black-and-white face.

In this moment, all is well, he said, chanting the words he had learned to use. He tried to clear his mind of everything except the words and the watch hands. He stared at the minute hand waiting for it to move, then watched the second hand sweep around in its own little dial. Concentrating on the watch and blocking everything else from his mind could sometimes pull him back from an attack before it took hold of him too strongly. Surely the same actions ought to sooth him now as well.

Willing himself into calmness, he repeated the words, stared at the watch face and tried to block the vision of Sally from his mind’s eye. He counted breaths again until his shaking stopped and his heart slowed. Cautiously he allowed his thoughts to return to her—his muse, his anchor, the one person he had never stopped thinking about during all his years away.

She had no idea how hard those years had been. Or how hard it had been to leave her.

When he’d quit Little Macclow she had still been a coltish hoyden, all legs and big blue eyes, just beginning to show a hint of the fine figure she sported now. At sea it had felt harmless enough to carry her secretly in his heart, where it didn’t matter that she wasn’t truly his. Never had he dreamed that she would not be married long before now. Or that the real Sally could so far surpass the one he had imagined!

She still had that dear, familiar wide smile that lit her luminous eyes, their clear sky-blue still framed by dark lashes, that pale skin with a touch of rose in her cheeks, and that nose he used to tease her about, no longer a tad too large in her more angular adult face. A grown woman’s cap now concealed much of her hair, but enough curls framed her face to show the familiar light brown color, like weathered ashwood.

But a cap was not the only difference fourteen years had wrought. Taller and fully curved now, she was more alive and lushly beautiful than he had ever imagined her. Strong, not thin and reedy. She smelled sweetly of whatever she had been making in the kitchen. How had no man snatched her up by this time?

Fate was infinitely cruel to dangle her in front of him now. He could not have her in his life now any more than when he left all those years ago. Sally deserved better than the broken remains of a grown man whom she had never had a chance to see or know. By the deep blue, why had she never married? How much easier seeing her again might be if she had. Staying away from her as much as possible was going to be best—for both of them—but the pain of doing it might almost kill him. He already knew how that felt.

Out of nowhere, a hurtling ball suddenly smacked down in front of him and bounced up, nearly hitting him in the face. Rearing back, he threw his hands up to ward off the attack. Blazing Neptune! What the…? His heart kicked back into a full gallop, threatening to take his mind with it. All of his limbs tightened in rage.

Quite by accident his up-flung hand blocked the flying missile’s path over the wall and deflected it from reaching the prickly gorse bushes beyond. As the ball dropped and spun on the ground beside him, vibration beneath him made him look up. A herd of children ran madly towards him.

Not assailants. He was not at sea, ducking cannon shot and flying debris. He needed to rein in his anger. Gulping in some huge breaths and trying to calm himself again, he turned his head and could finally make out the mixed sound of the children’s high-pitched laughter and cries of alarm.

A tall boy with fast legs arrived first and pulled up in front of him. Beg pardon, mister. It ran away from us!

Several more boys and a very small girl arrived behind the first child. Are you hit? We didn’t mean to harm you!

In the midst of their dismay, one small lad elbowed his way to the front of the group. Didn’t ye hear us warnin’? We shouted, soon as we saw where it was goin’!

Tom blew out a breath. How long would he be able to hide his various infirmities from all of the village? Long enough to leave again?

He closed his eyes, struggling to find calm. After moment he opened them and faced the children. No worries, young sirs and miss. Your ball did not strike me. Rather, ’twas I that struck it down, and saved it from a nasty landing in the briars. All is well. Belatedly, he remembered to smile at them.

As their alarm abated, he saw shyness and curiosity at war on their faces. First encounters could be challenging. The boy who had arrived first approached hesitantly, then snatched up the ball and hastily retreated to the safety of the group. They stood their ground but stared at him, struck dumb by a situation they did not know how to handle—a stranger in their midst.

The tiny girl stepped forward, braver than the rest. Why be you sittin’ on the wall?

He remembered childhood well enough to translate. The question carried a full load of curiosity. Not simply what reason he had to sit there, but also why there. Why a wall—especially that wall—and not somewhere else? Why him and not someone else? And finally, who the blazes was he, anyway, sitting there? The one thing they truly most wanted to know, of course. He tried not to chuckle.

Well, let’s see, he said, nodding sagely. It seemed as good a place as any to rest my bones. He patted the stones. Good, sturdy, dry. Don’t you agree? And flatter in this spot than most elsewhere. A passable seat. Besides, I found it convenient, albeit a little high. Does no one else ever sit here?

The children shook their heads, giggling. They clearly found his questions, and possibly him, absurd. The notion of sitting at all probably struck them as ridiculous.

Well, that is a pity. This spot has quite a nice view down the lane towards the village green and the pond. A fact he had only just noticed.

He placed his cane in front of him and rested both of his hands on its silver knob. Blessedly, his heart was slowing down this time without requiring any intervention. Looking up again at the gathered youngsters, he winked. Now that we appear to be engaged in a conversation, I feel it is only proper for me to introduce myself. He doffed his hat and leaned forward in some semblance of a bow. Officer Thomas Hepston, at your service.

He would have sworn their eyes grew bigger as they digested this information. After a moment, new questions came barreling at him as fast as the ball had done, and all at once.

What kind of officer? D’you work for the magistrate?

Be you a constable?

Be you married to Mrs. Hepston?

Ain’t Mrs. Hepston really old?

Are you livin’ here?

Why’ve we never seen you before?

He couldn’t help himself—he tipped his head back and laughed. The release felt wonderful. The children were working magic on him, charming him.

Let me see, where do I start? I’m here on a visit. I arrived just yesterday. I’m staying with Mrs. Hepston—she is my mother!

He knew that statement would surprise them. He suspected that at twenty-nine he looked old enough to them to be married to an old woman. They probably thought anyone as old as he was wouldn’t have parents at all but arose fully formed from the ancient stones of the earth.

I do not work for a magistrate. I am—that is, I’ve been—an officer of the Royal Navy. Ship’s Carpenter.

At least on paper, he was still that, although the Royal Navy had allowed him to leave, a sign of how badly damaged he was. As a mere warrant officer, he was not entitled to much and shouldn’t even title himself Officer. The formalities, including the remote chance of receiving a small pension, were still being worked out. Regardless, his career, his prospects, his very life lay in ruins. What was he supposed to do now? Helping his mother might be a respite, but it was only a temporary landing.

Do you build ships?

Did you fight any sea battles?

Did you meet any pirates?

Before he could begin to reply to the new barrage of questions, an authoritative voice cut into the hubbub.

Children! Allow poor Mr. Hepston to have some peace. Dr. Tamworth, the vicar, strode up behind the children and cut a path through their midst as he approached in his long, black cassock. Tom remembered being intimidated as a child by that impressive presence. No doubt the vicar thought Tom needed to be rescued.

Probably true. Just perhaps not in quite the way the man was thinking of at this moment. I am all right, Vicar. We were becoming acquainted.

Dr. Tamworth chuckled. You will soon discover that there is no end to their questions. Children, take your ball and run along. Try the green instead of the road. Don’t be bothering this fine gentleman. He made a shooing motion as the small group voiced sounds of disappointment and turned away, their formerly quick feet shuffling slowly now.

If they think you have tales about war and pirates, they will never leave you alone.

I have a few. But I’m not able to tell them, to anyone.

The vicar’s interference was timely. Those stories came from memories that often provoked his waking nightmares. The children would be terrified if he suffered such an attack in front of them, not to mention his own distress and deep mortification. Soon after, everyone in the village would know he had returned not as a victorious man but a broken one, mad as a March hare. He was trying to cope with his own private hell the best way he knew, by himself. Isolation was his best friend now.

I do thank you, Vicar. ’Tis still difficult for me to tell such tales, at present. He settled his hat back on his head, and slid down from the wall, leaning on his cane. Lady Anne was kind enough to call on my mother, and I took advantage of her generosity and time. I should head back.

The vicar nodded. "Of course. Although I’m certain you know Lady Anne