The Arrangement Read Online Free PDF Page A

wife; and Mr. Kerry, who had come in early to the smithy because one of his horses had cast a shoe late the evening before.
    By eight o’clock, the farm laborers—and the original farm laborer’s wife—had told everyone they knew, or at least those of that category who came within hailing distance. Mr. Kerry had told the butcher and the vicar and his aged mother. The blacksmith’s wife, ecstatic that her son was back home in the capacity of valet to Viscount Darleigh, Vincent-Hunt-that-was, had dashed off to the baker’s to replenish her supply of flour and had told the baker and his two assistants and three other early customers. And the blacksmith, also bursting with pride even though he spoke with head-shaking disparagement of his son, the
valett,
told his apprentice when that lad arrived late for work and for once did not have to recite a litany of excuses, and Sir Clarence March’s groom, and the vicar, who heard the news for the second time in a quarter of an hour but appeared equally ecstatic both times.
    By nine o’clock it would have been difficult to discover a single person within Barton Coombs, or a threemile radius surrounding it, who did
not
know that Viscount Darleigh, Vincent-Hunt-that-was, had arrived at Covington House when dawn had barely cracked its knuckles, and had not left it since.
    Though if he had arrived
that
early, Miss Waddell observed to Mrs. Parsons, wife of the aptly named vicar, when the two ladies encountered each other across the hedge separating their back gardens, he must have been traveling all night and was enjoying a well-deserved rest, poor gentleman. It would not be kind to call upon him
too
early. She would inform the reception committee. Poor dear gentleman.
    The vicar rehearsed his speech of welcome and wondered if it was too formal. For, after all, Viscount Darleigh had once been just the sunny-natured, mischievous son of the village schoolmaster. He was, in addition to everything else, though, a war hero. And he did now have that very impressive title. Better to err on the side of formality, he decided, than risk appearing over-familiar.
    Mrs. Fisk baked the bread rolls and cakes she had been planning in her head for weeks.
Her son,
her beloved only child, was back home, not to mention Viscount Darleigh, that bright and happy boy who had used to run wild with Martin and drag him into all sorts of scrapes—not that Martin had taken much dragging. Poor boy. Poor gentleman. She sniffed and wiped away a tear with the back of her floury hand.
    At ten o’clock the young Misses Granger called upon the equally young Miss Hamilton to discover what she planned to wear to the assembly, which would surely happen now that Lord Darleigh had come. The three of them proceeded to reminisce about Vincent-Hunt-that-was winning all the races at the annual village fete by a mile and bowling out every cricketer on the opposing team who had the courage and audacity to come up to bat against him and looking so very handsome with his always overlong fair curls and his blue, blue eyes and his lithe physique. And always smiling his lovely smile, even at
them,
though they had been just little girls at the time. He had always smiled at
everyone
.
    That last memory drew tears from all of them, for now Viscount Darleigh would never win any race or bowl at any cricket game or look handsome—or perhaps even smile at anyone. He would not even be able to dance at the assembly. They could conceive of no worse fate than that.
    Vincent would have been horrified to know that, in fact, his arrival in Barton Coombs had been expected. Or, if that was too strong a word, then at least it had been looked for with eager hope and cautious anticipation.
    For Vincent had forgotten two overwhelmingly significant facts about his mother and his sisters. One was that they were all inveterate letter writers. The other was that they had all had numerous friends at Barton Coombs and had not simply relinquished those friends