sale?” Sophie asked her, taking a coin from her pocket and a biscuit from a covered tray. Tea was free at the rummage sale, but biscuits and scones were three pennies apiece.
“You mean besides my backyard? Books, mostly, plus a lot of bric-a-brac and curios that looked as if they’d been gathering dust in the vicarage for a few hundred years. Junk, really,” she admitted, “but I don’t feel guilty about donating it anymore. People are
buying
it, Sophie, and not even haggling over the price.” She broke off to smile and say good morning to Miss Pine and Mrs. Thoroughgood, who were carrying their purchases over to the table where Mrs. Nineways sat, taking money and making change from a biscuit tin. Sophie noticed with satisfaction that Mrs. Thoroughgood was buying the plaster fruit compote she had just this morning convinced Mrs. Bolton she couldn’t bear to see on the dining room sideboard one more day. “What did you contribute?” Anne asked her a moment later.
Sophie made a face. “Clothes, what else? Scarves and hats, the prettiest silk shawl. Kid gloves, four pairs. Two chemisettes I’ve never worn.”
Anne laughed. “You’ve
got
to stop buying these things.”
“I know, I know.” But clothes, Sophie liked to think, were her one and only vice; no dress shop was safe from her, no fashion catalog. The problem was that she rarely went any place fancy enough for her new finery, and as often as not she ended up giving it away.
“Mrs. Morrell, Miss Deene, how lovely to see you!”
It was Jessie Carnock, the captain’s new wife. Whenever she saw her, Sophie marveled anew, for the former Miss Weedie looked less and less each time like the shy, nervous, middle-aged spinster she’d been only four short months ago. Marriage had transformed her. She was
pretty
now, her gray-flecked yellow hair positively girlish in its charming disarray, her rather long, pink-cheeked face full of animation and enthusiasm. “The sale is going so well,” she exclaimed with a little bow—her arms were too full of booty to shake hands. “Someone’s bought my thimble collection, Emmaline couldn’t remember who, and Margaret Mareton just purchased my jade plant—imagine that! It was the captain,” she said confidingly, leaning toward them, “who suggested we might like to donate it.”
“He didn’t care for it?”
“He said it was eating up the hallway!” She laughed merrily, turning her face up to the sky, and the sight was so unusual, so unexpected, Sophie and Anne could only stare at her in amazement. Sobering, she told Anne, “Reverend Morrell’s prayer on the green this morning was very fine, just the right beginning to the day, we all thought.”
“Was it? I didn’t hear it; I was madly setting up tables with Emmaline and the others. I hope he didn’t go on too long.”
“Oh,
no
,” Mrs. Carnock denied, a little shocked. “Not at all, oh, not in the least.”
Eyes twinkling, Anne lowered her voice. “You’ll never guess what Reverend Wilke said to Christy about Midsummer Day.” The ladies bent closer. Reverend Wilke, the fiery Evangelical preacher from Horrabridge, was known for his colorful rhetoric. “He said it was a pagan ritual celebrated by the ungodly, and that from sunup to sundown today Wyckerley will be ‘an abode of moral darkness.’ ”
Sophie laughed; Jessie gasped, then laughed with her. “Well, there is dancing later,” Sophie acknowledged. “Around a
bonfire
, no less.”
“Pure wickedness,” Anne agreed, and they laughed again.
“Sophia!” The sharp falsetto voice put an end to their gaiety; the ladies’ smiles turned formal as they turned to greet Sophie’s cousin Honoria. “Sophia, it’s nearly noon—you must come round to the green, it’s time for Father’s speech.”
“Oh, but I’ve said I’ll help out here at the sale until the singing,” Sophie equivocated. Her uncle’s speeches always made her tired.
“Nonsense, you have to come. It’s
“You mean besides my backyard? Books, mostly, plus a lot of bric-a-brac and curios that looked as if they’d been gathering dust in the vicarage for a few hundred years. Junk, really,” she admitted, “but I don’t feel guilty about donating it anymore. People are
buying
it, Sophie, and not even haggling over the price.” She broke off to smile and say good morning to Miss Pine and Mrs. Thoroughgood, who were carrying their purchases over to the table where Mrs. Nineways sat, taking money and making change from a biscuit tin. Sophie noticed with satisfaction that Mrs. Thoroughgood was buying the plaster fruit compote she had just this morning convinced Mrs. Bolton she couldn’t bear to see on the dining room sideboard one more day. “What did you contribute?” Anne asked her a moment later.
Sophie made a face. “Clothes, what else? Scarves and hats, the prettiest silk shawl. Kid gloves, four pairs. Two chemisettes I’ve never worn.”
Anne laughed. “You’ve
got
to stop buying these things.”
“I know, I know.” But clothes, Sophie liked to think, were her one and only vice; no dress shop was safe from her, no fashion catalog. The problem was that she rarely went any place fancy enough for her new finery, and as often as not she ended up giving it away.
“Mrs. Morrell, Miss Deene, how lovely to see you!”
It was Jessie Carnock, the captain’s new wife. Whenever she saw her, Sophie marveled anew, for the former Miss Weedie looked less and less each time like the shy, nervous, middle-aged spinster she’d been only four short months ago. Marriage had transformed her. She was
pretty
now, her gray-flecked yellow hair positively girlish in its charming disarray, her rather long, pink-cheeked face full of animation and enthusiasm. “The sale is going so well,” she exclaimed with a little bow—her arms were too full of booty to shake hands. “Someone’s bought my thimble collection, Emmaline couldn’t remember who, and Margaret Mareton just purchased my jade plant—imagine that! It was the captain,” she said confidingly, leaning toward them, “who suggested we might like to donate it.”
“He didn’t care for it?”
“He said it was eating up the hallway!” She laughed merrily, turning her face up to the sky, and the sight was so unusual, so unexpected, Sophie and Anne could only stare at her in amazement. Sobering, she told Anne, “Reverend Morrell’s prayer on the green this morning was very fine, just the right beginning to the day, we all thought.”
“Was it? I didn’t hear it; I was madly setting up tables with Emmaline and the others. I hope he didn’t go on too long.”
“Oh,
no
,” Mrs. Carnock denied, a little shocked. “Not at all, oh, not in the least.”
Eyes twinkling, Anne lowered her voice. “You’ll never guess what Reverend Wilke said to Christy about Midsummer Day.” The ladies bent closer. Reverend Wilke, the fiery Evangelical preacher from Horrabridge, was known for his colorful rhetoric. “He said it was a pagan ritual celebrated by the ungodly, and that from sunup to sundown today Wyckerley will be ‘an abode of moral darkness.’ ”
Sophie laughed; Jessie gasped, then laughed with her. “Well, there is dancing later,” Sophie acknowledged. “Around a
bonfire
, no less.”
“Pure wickedness,” Anne agreed, and they laughed again.
“Sophia!” The sharp falsetto voice put an end to their gaiety; the ladies’ smiles turned formal as they turned to greet Sophie’s cousin Honoria. “Sophia, it’s nearly noon—you must come round to the green, it’s time for Father’s speech.”
“Oh, but I’ve said I’ll help out here at the sale until the singing,” Sophie equivocated. Her uncle’s speeches always made her tired.
“Nonsense, you have to come. It’s
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