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Chapter Four

Simon promised the Lord above that after he was forgiven for the Amelia debacle, he was going to live the blameless, scandal-free life of a monk for the rest of his time on earth. All he needed for companionship were Mrs. Malone, Winston Flick, and the Bible his mother gave him when he was ten years old. Simon did not set out to become a figure of controversy. He had quite a conventional start, in fact.

He attended university, got a first in theology, then the war broke out. He served in the Scots Guards for a few years, and returned a completely different man, determined to change the world through the Word of God.

He entered seminary, served as a missionary in Northern Africa for a while, then was called back to England to serve as the domestic chaplain to the main church in Ely. When the vicar of Grantchester died of natural causes, Simon was promoted to take over the position, much to the dismay of more experienced priests who had been waiting for their own parishes.

At twenty-nine, he was youngest ordained vicar in England with a parish of his own. Seven years later, he was aware that some of his colleagues still resented him for it.

They were all just waiting for him to fail and he knew that, too. When he was contemplating leaving the Church to marry Amelia, that had been the foremost thought in his mind. But that wasn't why he chose to stay. He had always felt, even as a lad, that he had a true calling to serve. His biggest mistake, Archdeacon Achebe said, was falling in love with a woman for whom he was forced to make a choice. If Simon had courted the proper young woman in the first place, he wouldn't have gotten himself in such a mess.

He didn't need to bring up that he fell in love with Amelia as a lad and knew her well before she became Amelia Winthrop. It didn't matter. She was divorced when they finally got together.

He was glad when the crowd in the churchyard began to thin out as his parishioners headed for their respective homes. There were some stragglers, the usual old ladies who aimed to talk his ear off about the decay of society, the dissolution of common decency, and the destruction of the traditional British nuclear family all due to the devil's music, rock and roll. He shook some more hands, mumbled some biblical passages, and promised to keep people in his prayers.

Finally, the only parishioners left were his housemates, the Grovers, Lady Warren, Lady Cosgrove, and her beautiful American niece, Miss Perdita Sanchez. Nope, there was Adelaide Easton speaking to Tom Roundtree by Mr. Bronson’s azalea bush. He sighed.

Well, the dinner table at the vicarage only had six chairs, which would be enough for him, Miss Sanchez, the two Ladies, Miss Easton, and Mrs. Malone. Unless seat six was reserved for Tom Roundtree. It certainly wasn't for Winston, who had a movie to catch with a friend in Cambridge. Sometimes, Mrs. Malone was such a stickler for propriety that she couldn't be persuaded to sit down with her “betters.”

When the procession for the vicarage began, Mrs. Malone walked away with the two Ladies. Lady Cosgrove looked back at her niece, who didn't move from her spot by the gate. Miss Sanchez shrugged and vaguely gestured to the group of younger people behind her. Seemingly satisfied that her niece was going to be safe, Lady Cosgrove went ahead.

Winston asked Simon if he could borrow his bicycle and Simon acquiesced, wishing him a good time. Frankly, he wouldn't have cared what Winston wanted. His main goal was to get to Miss Sanchez before she was spirited away by Tom Roundtree.

He strode toward the gate and got there just as the Grovers were saying goodbye. He smiled at Miss Sanchez who dropped her gaze to her feet and blushed prettily.

“Mr. Darby.” Detective Chief Inspector Kenneth Grover extended his hand to him for a shake. “Great sermon. I was riveted. Can I tempt you in a game or two of draughts this evening at the usual place?”

Simon met Rosemary's laughing eyes. Her husband was incorrigible. “Need to pick my brains about something, do you?”

Kenny scoffed. “So much cynicism for a young vicar. No faith in his fellow men. I merely want to spend some time with my good friend and spiritual advisor, that is all.”

“Oh, you.” Rosemary slapped her husband's stomach. “Just tell him you want to discuss murder and mayhem over a few bitters at your usual watering hole.”

Simon chuckled and patted his friend’s shoulder. “I'll ring you if I can meet tonight. I might have some time after Evensong.”

The couple said farewell. Before leaving, Rosemary hugged Miss Sanchez and told her she was welcome to visit her home anytime and have tea. Miss Sanchez appeared very pleased with the invitation.

“Mrs. Malone invited me to luncheon, Simon,” said Tom Roundtree. “I hope you don't mind. I do love her pot roast.”

Miss Sanchez gave the chaplain a look of consideration and Simon wondered if she were happy to hear this new development. “Not at all, Tom. You know Mrs. M always cooks enough for an army.” He offered his arm to Miss Sanchez. “May I escort you there, mademoiselle?”

She blinked at him, as though she were surprised he was speaking to her. “Mais oui, Monsieur. Parlez-vous Français?” She slipped her gloved hand into the crook of his elbow.

“Oui. J’ai passé un peu de temps en France pendant la guerre.” He guided her out of the churchyard and into a pleasant stroll toward the vicarage. If they walked at a snail's pace, it could take them a whole seven minutes to get there. He looked behind him to see Tom Roundtree and Miss Easton following them closely.

“Oh, but of course you fought as a soldier during the war.” Her chocolate-brown eyes were filled with empathy. “Was it difficult for you to reconcile the things you had to do during the war with your faith and how you live your life now?”

Simon patted her hand. “I wasn’t always a priest. I went off to war a green lad straight out of university and given a troop of my own to lead. I was twenty-two years old.” He sighed, having revealed more than he intended. “As for how I reconcile my past with how I live now--I'm afraid that's a story that needs telling over a few shots of whisky and—I don't mean to suggest that you and I should imbibe spirits together.”

She squeezed his arm and laughed, covering her mouth with her free hand. “Oh, Father, I didn't think that's what you meant. Just imagine!” She swiped a finger under one eye. “Honestly, I thought vicars preferred sherry.”

Not this vicar, he thought, his face burning with embarrassment. He didn't like that she called him “Father.” Some Anglican priests did prefer that appellation, but it never sat well with him. He'd rather she called him Canon or Vicar… or Simon. Perhaps a change of subject would be the best course of action. “Miss Sanchez, how are you liking England so far?”

When she smiled at him, two indentations low on her cheeks bracketed her full lips. “Mr. Roundtree just asked me that. I haven't seen much of it. I visited some tourist spots in London. The restoration is going well. And we went to Uncle Bertie’s country house in Sussex a fortnight ago.”

“Have you gone punting down the River Cam yet?” Simon imagined her sitting in front of him in another colorful day dress as he steered them down the river that ran along the backs of Cambridge.

Her eyes glittered with amusement and her dimples flashed again. “You know, you might have to explain to me what 'punting' is.”

Her tone suggested that she was making an innuendo, but she was a well-born young lady. Maybe American girls were bolder than their British counterparts. This made him nervous. “A punt is a boat with a flat bottom. The Cam isn't too deep, so the punts can be steered with a five-meter pole that touches the riverbed.” He saw that they were approaching the vicarage and wondered how he could extend their walk a little more. “It's a thing to do on a bright, sunny day.”

“Sure. I'll sit in the punt and read a book, while you steer with your little pole.” She gasped and covered her mouth again. “Oh gosh, Father, that sounded rather forward, didn't it? I didn't mean to invite myself…”

“Erm, no, you're fine.” Simon swiped the back of his neck with his palm. His face reddened for an entirely different reason. He wondered if she knew… no, he decided she didn't realize what she just implied. She looked absolutely appalled. “I would be honored to give you a guided tour of the river any time you wish.”

“Oh, here we are,” announced Tom Roundtree as they reached the front of a medium-sized, Tudor-style cottage neatly framed by a white picket fence. “Shall we go in?” He popped the latch that secured the gate and opened it for them.

Miss Easton didn't hesitate to enter the front yard and bent down to pet Elliott, Simon's yellow Labrador retriever, who came bounding out to greet them. Tom joined in, scratching Elliott's neck and ears.

Miss Sanchez, he noticed, stayed firmly behind him and clutched his arm. She made a soft whimpering sound that concerned Simon. “Miss Sanchez, are you all right?”

“I apologize, Mr. Darby,” she said in a breathy voice. “But I'm terrified of dogs.”

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