Sophia uttered a whispered reprimand and gently batted George's hand away as he attempted to tug on the strings of her bonnet. All around them were the sounds of feet shuffling into place, of skirts being arranged, and of various coughs and utterances hidden behind handkerchiefs and gloved hands. Someone banged their knee on the edge of a pew, a sound swiftly followed by a muffled curse and capped by a hushed scolding for daring to use such language where the Lord could hear them.

Sophia bit her lip to keep from smiling. George sat on her knee, his grasping fingers making another reach for her bonnet as the last of the parishioners settled into place and Reverend Fenton signaled for them to reach for their hymnals. Everyone stood, a full minute passing as the bodies that had shifted into their seats creaked and groaned their way back to their feet, and the singing began.

The music distracted George long enough for Sophia to shift him onto her hip while she thumbed through the pocket-sized hymnal with her other hand. The song was halfway over by the time she found her place, but she joined in with enough enthusiasm to hear her voice carry up to the church's vaulted ceiling, but not so much that she would bring any unwanted attention on herself.

She sat in the back of the church, quite near to the door and all of its drafts. Only one other person shared her row, Mr. Ludlow spending so many of his days in close proximity with his pigs that no one cared to sit too close and unintentionally draw a portion of his particular odor onto themselves.

Once the hymns had been sung, the congregation returned to their seats, the shuffles and coughings and muttering beginning anew as Reverend Fenton stepped up to his pulpit and nodded serenely until the last of the whispering trailed into silence. Sophia found she could not look at him for more than a few seconds before the smug superiority contained in his expression set her heart to beating more rapidly. And so she tucked George against her side, rubbed her hand up and down his back as he pushed his fingers into his mouth, and allowed her gaze to wander over the heads of the parishioners sitting before her.

There were the same bonnets and powdered wigs as always, belonging to the same faces with the same chins that always raised an extra inch when she happened to be nearby. She spotted Lissy and her mother, Mrs. Granger, several rows ahead, and Mrs. Kirkland—that pretentious purveyor of fine teas and things—sat beside her portly husband in a pose that would have caused a figure of Crown Derby porcelain to feel inferior in her presence.

As Sophia continued to rub George's back, her gaze continued to roam until it arrived near the front of the church, where the front rows were occupied by the town's betters: namely Lady Rutledge and the Reverend's own family.

She was about to allow her attention to return to George's head—a head that had taken up a heavy and blessedly somnolent residence on her shoulder—when Josiah Fenton turned slightly in his seat, enough to glance behind him and catch Sophia's gaze with his own.

At first, she thought that, like herself, he was simply taking a moment to relieve a bit of boredom and peruse the expressions of those around him. But his grey eyes found her through the forest of snoring fathers and twitching children, his expression inscrutable as he dipped his chin, a small nod in her direction.

Stymied as to how else to respond, she returned the slight nod, though her gaze soon searched the faces of those around her to see if anyone had witnessed their silent communication. As far as she could tell, no one had, but she could not suppress the apprehension she felt at having been so blind to Mr. Fenton's attention until now. Lady Rutledge had warned her of the young man's interest in her, so it could not be argued that he had been cautious enough to ensure that no other person became aware of his intentions towards her.

His intentions...

She swallowed, loudly, a gulp of sound that seemed—to her ears, at least—to shatter the relative silence of the congregation as they listened to the Reverend's dry sermonizing. Would Mr. Fenton go against the wishes of his own family? For she was sure that no one in that family would care to see their eldest son and brother aligned with someone who, in their eyes, bore the weight of idle gossip as if it were truth.

But would young Mr. Fenton go so far as to ask for her hand in marriage? No, it dare not even be considered. The Reverend would never permit such a union to ever take place, would not even allow his son to entertain such a frightening notion of proposing to a woman of Sophia's rumored standing.

No, Sophia shook her head as she pressed her lips to the top of George's head. Josiah would never defy his father in such a way. And she... Well, she harbored no feelings, romantic or otherwise, towards Mr. Fenton. Even if she did, the thought of gaining someone such as the Reverend Fenton and his wife as her in-laws... A shudder passed through her. Spending the rest of her days as a pariah, raising her sister's illegitimate child in a cold, drafty cottage less than two miles from the sea was a fate infinitely preferable to being forced to take Sunday tea with the elder Fentons for the forseeable future.

As the sounds of the final prayer and benediction sounded through the church, other sounds were added to the Reverend's voice, until it was a chorus of mutterings and groanings that carried the stiff and thankful parishioners out of their seats and through the open doors, the late morning sunlight beckoning to them after their time spent in the shadow of the pulpit. Sophia waited until nearly every other person had passed by her pew before she stood, careful not to shift George back into wakefulness, and followed the rest of the townspeople outside.

Her intention, as on every Sunday immediately following the service, was to return home, settle George into his crib for the remainder of his nap, and set about fixing a small meal for herself before taking on a few of the smaller chores she'd neglected during the week. She understood that Sunday was to be set aside as a day of rest and reflection, but she suspected the authors of said rule had never found themselves running a household which contained a babbling infant as one of its occupants.

With one hand securely wrapped around George's slumbering form, she adjusted her bonnet with the other and ducked her head before setting off in the direction of the stone and iron-wrought gate that encircled the churchyard. Before she had traveled more than a dozen paces, a hand on her arm halted her progress.

Sophia drew in a breath to speak, then found her words dissipate before finding voice as she turned and found herself looking into the wizened face of Lady Rutledge.

"My dear," the older woman said, her voice lowered as dozens of other people still occupied the churchyard around them. "You appear to be a tad bit out of sorts this morning."

Sophia shifted George in her arms, who snored softly as he turned his head and settled his bottom more heavily on her hip. "I am..." well, she wanted to say, but faltered into silence instead. Unbidden, her gaze darted towards Josiah Fenton, who stood near the entrance to the church, flanked by his mother and the Reverend. Lady Rutledge, who was too quick by half to miss the change in Sophia's attention, easily traced the direction of her glance.

"Ah, I see." Lady Rutledge nodded, a poorly stifled grin twitching at the corners of her thin lips. "I warned you about that one, you know. Following after you like a particularly lovesick breed of puppy. I suspect it's the reason why the Reverend holds you in such great dislike."

Sophia blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Ever since you and your sister arrived here, the boy hasn't looked at another young woman. That cannot be pleasing to a father who already had several potential wives already chosen out for him." She looked again at Sophia. "But nevermind about him. I had a more interesting bite of news to share with you. It has to do with that viscount you mentioned the other day. What was his name? Haughton?"

Sophia's spine stiffened. "I-I'm not sure I recall..."

Lady Rutledge eyed her strangely for a moment. "Well, according to gossip, and you know how much I covet my share of the stuff, Lord Haughton himself was here in Stantreath, gracing our dull little backwater of a town with his lofty presence."

"Oh, well." Sophia wrapped her arms more tightly about George and glanced towards the churchyard gate, wishing suddenly that she could make a mad dash through it and race all the way back to the cottage without catching the notice of another soul. "That must be what Lissy was talking about. She must have heard... I mean, as you said, gossip and all, and... well..."

A tight group of parishioners passed by, nodding deferentially towards Lady Rutledge, while also managing the feat of pretending that the noblewoman stood all by herself, treating Sophia as if she had mastered the skill of turning herself invisible at will.

"Was he here because of young George?" Lady Rutledge asked once the people had passed beyond earshot.

Sophia's mouth opened a little, then snapped tightly shut. The fact that she could make no immediate reply was enough to give herself away, she knew. But still, she attempted to school her features into something that would resemble a calm and unfluttered demeanor, at least for anyone who might happen to glance their way at that particular moment.

"I'm not blind," Lady Rutledge continued, her own gaze making a brief sweep of those around them, scanning for eavesdroppers and gossip-mongers. "But twice now this Lord Haughton has come up in conversation, and twice I've seen you wrap your arms around that boy as if you expected a vulture to swoop down from the sky and snatch him from your grasp."

In response to her words, Sophia loosened her grip on George. "Yes, there is... some connection between them."

Lady Rutledge leaned forward, her chin dipping down as her eyebrows climbed halfway up her forehead. "Is he the father?"

Sophia shook her head. "He's... Well, I'd rather not discuss it here."

"Tea, then?" Lady Rutledge straightened up and gripped her cane with both hands. "How does two o'clock sound? I can send the carriage around to collect you, if you wish."

"No, it's a beautiful day, and I'd much rather take advantage of the exercise."

"Because you don't already wear yourself down raising your sister's child," Lady Rutledge scoffed, half to herself. "But if that's your decision, I'll not force my own upon you. Now, two o'clock, mind you. And I will send the carriage out to look for you if you're more than ten minutes late."

After a spate of brief farewells, the two women parted and Sophia set her course back towards home. The day was indeed a lovely one, the sky a startling blue broken only by a few small clouds clinging to the horizon. Sophia tried to derive as much pleasure as she could both from the weather and the walk, but the memory of Josiah Fenton's attentions, along with the uncertainty brought into her and George's life by the arrival of Lord Haughton repeatedly sent her eyes down to the ground, her chin pressed against her chest as she slipped deep into a mire of anxiety about the future.

She was certain she had not seen nor heard the last of Lord Haughton. If she believed he would allow her to simply continue with her quiet life, raising George and tending to her kitchen garden, then she was a fool. He may have granted her a slight reprieve by departing from Stantreath, but there was no doubt in her mind that he was not finished with her entirely.

The cottage stood out to her as she approached, a beacon of calm and normalcy, with its thatched roof and the tangle of climbing roses and ivy crawling over every available surface. She pushed through the gate, strolled up to the door, and was about to step over the threshold when George huffed against her shoulder, raised his head, and let out an earsplitting cry of complaint.

So her plan of accomplishing a bit of work around the house while he finished his nap had now rapidly altered. Cradling a red-faced and squirming George against her, she passed through the house to the kitchen, her bonnet still tied beneath her chin as she struggled to dig for a bit of biscuit to quiet the recalcitrant child. As soon as he began to gnaw on the edible, she shifted him to her other hip, drew her gloves off with her teeth, and twisted out of her shawl before tossing the items onto the kitchen table. She tugged at the strings of her bonnet with her free hand when a knock sounded on the front door, drawing a fresh bout of cries from George and a sharp groan from the back of Sophia's throat.

A frisson of fear passed through her as she marched back towards the door. Perhaps Lord Haughton had already taken it upon himself to return, perhaps to take charge of the child once and for all. But while the image of the tall, arrogant viscount gained clarity in her mind, she grabbed the latch on the door and pulled it open to find herself faced with brown hair instead of black, and grey eyes instead of blue. And though her visitor was tall, the kind softness of his shoulders and jaw were the antithesis of Lord Haughton's sharply aristocratic features.

"M-Mister Fenton," she stammered, and the vision of the obnoxious Haughton was swept from her thoughts in less time than it took her to blink. The Reverend's son stood on her doorstep, his hat already in his hands, his fingers turning the brim around and around between his fingers in a nervous, fidgeting manner. "What... What brings you here?"

Josiah cleared his throat, while his fingers worked more quickly around the brim of his hat. "I was wondering, Mrs. Brixton, if you were free for a bit... Well, for a few minutes, at least. There's a matter of some importance... I mean, I don't wish to give you any cause for concern, it's only..." He looked up at her from beneath raised eyebrows, his expression anxious.

"Would you care to come inside?" Sophia stepped back while George continued to squall between mouthfuls of soggy biscuit.

"Yes, of course. Thank you." Josiah stepped past her, and Sophia closed the door behind him. Her hand lingered on the latch while she shut her eyes and drew in a breath that was meant to fortify her, but still her heart pounded out an uneven tattoo inside her chest as she turned and followed Josiah through to the parlour.

The air in the room was unbearably close. George squirmed to be let down, but she held him tight against her as she gazed at Mr. Fenton's broad back, his shoulders rounded forward slightly as he hesitated between two armchairs.

"The garden, perhaps." She spoke suddenly, and without preamble, causing Josiah to spin around at the sound of her voice.

"I beg your pardon?"

The poor man, she thought. He looked so young, though she was sure he was her elder by at least two years. Perhaps it was the softness of his features, lending an air of youth to his face. But she knew, deep within herself, that it was no childish errand that had brought him to her doorstep. A voice in the back of her head sounded an alarm that he had come here to propose marriage to her, though George's fussing and the fact that she still wore her infernal bonnet was enough to distract her from such thoughts as she gestured towards one of the parlour windows.

"It's such a lovely day today," she continued, her voice much higher than usual. "We could go into the garden. I'm sure George would much rather be outdoors than inside on an afternoon like this."

"The garden," he said, echoing her words. "Yes, of course. That would be charming."

She led the way through the kitchen, pausing only to snatch a few more biscuits for George, and stepped out into the small square of lush greenery and color that had become her sanctuary over the last few years. She heard Josiah's footsteps behind her, the soft catch of the latch as the door swung shut, but she stood still for a moment, drawing in a deep breath, this one imbuing her with at least a small measure of strength.

Various paths cut their way through multiple beds, demarcating the fruits from the vegetables, the savory herbs from the more sweet. As she walked, the hem of her skirt brushed against a patch of lavender, and the air was suddenly filled with the scent of it, momentarily clearing her head as she made for the small wooden bench near the raspberry brambles. In her arms, George fussed at her until she set him down on a soft patch of grass and clover.

Josiah was not far behind. As Sophia settled on the bench, and finally removed the bonnet that had been clinging sideways to her head since Mr. Fenton's arrival, he took up a post beside her, still standing, and still twisting his poor hat between his hands.

"Mrs. Brixton," he began.

And all of a sudden, Sophia realized she could not look at him. She bent down instead towards George, who had busied himself with tearing clumps of grass out of the ground and dumping them over his head, and plucked a few blades of greenery from out of his mouth.

"Mrs. Brixton," he repeated, his voice louder, as if were attempting to speak over his nervousness. "I understand your... your grief at the loss of your husband must still be great. And your parents, I understand, also passed away some years since. I am not certain as to the manner in which such things should be handled. You've no guardian to whom I could apply for permission in requesting your hand, if indeed such a course of action should be necessary. And yet, I come here today, a humble creature, asking you..." Suddenly, he lowered himself to one knee beside her, his hands struggling to maintain a grip on his hat while also seeking out one of her own hands to grasp. "I beg you, Mrs. Brixton, to relieve me of my sufferings. Please," he said, his hat falling to the ground as he took her fingers within his own. "Please consent to be my wife."

Sophia could not speak. Though some part of her had known, and dreaded, that this would be the purpose of his visit, she had not allowed herself to fully believe that he would go so far as to express a wish to marry her. Her, of all people.

She tore her eyes away from George long enough to look at Josiah, at the brilliant light in his eyes, at the hope that faintly glowed from his flushed face. He was infatuated with her, for whatever reason he believed himself to be in love with her. Perhaps because she was so different from anything his family would want for him in terms of a wife, or simply because he was drawn to her, for a reason she could not even begin to fathom. But she knew, as she looked down at him, his knee in the damp grass, his hat by his foot—the brim of which being gnawed on by an especially avaricious George—that she could not accept him.

"I am flattered by your particular interest in me," she said, choosing her words carefully as he continued to hold her hand. "And I do believe that you are a good man, and will make a fine husband one day. But..." And here, she drew in another breath. "I do not think we are a good match."

He opened his mouth to speak, but she raised her hand—the one not still in his possession—and continued.