A Matchmaking Miss by Joan Overfield

Author:Joan Overfield [Overfield, Joan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Ten Talents Press
Published: 2014-09-12T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

Among the things Joss had missed most during those first lonely months in India were the ordinary rituals of country life — things such as a quiet walk down a sunlit lane, or the simple pleasure of calling on one's neighbors. Fifteen minutes into afternoon tea, however, he found himself wondering how he could have been so maudlin. He'd never endured such torture in all his life, and he wondered glumly if he would survive the next hour without strangling his guest.

The Reverend Hubert Thorntyn was a pompous, prosy bore, whose physiognomy made him resemble nothing more than a pig. He was perfectly round with the pink, polished look of a pampered sow, and his beady eyes and snub nose only added to the illusion. He was also given to quoting scripture, a common enough trait in a man of God, one would suppose, but he misquoted them to such painful degree that Joss was hard put not to correct him. Another annoying trait was his greed, and he seemed to look upon his invitation to the manor house as an occasion to try and line his pockets. He was making a bid for a new carriage when Joss finally decided he'd had enough.

"And of course a new pair of horses will be required," thevicar said, taking a noisy slurp of tea. "I don't wish to complain, my lord, but the wretched creatures I inherited from my predecessor are on their last feet — or hooves, as the case may be. I fear there is nothing left to be done with them but to put them down. Mr. Barring in the village has a team he is willing to let go for all but a song. Not high-steppers, of course, but as a man of God my needs are simple."

"Are they?" Joss gave him a frigid look. "Then perhaps a pony cart would be more to your liking. It wouldn't do for a vicar to be seen in a curricle. What would your parishioners think?"

Mr. Thorntyn blinked in surprise. "It isn't for them to think anything of me, my lord," he said, visions of a fine coach and four horses dancing before his eyes. "And as to a curricle . . . well, I should never think to ask for anything that fast. Not at all the thing, you know. A plain coach is more than enough for me."

Joss had opened his mouth to bluntly state his refusal to buy so much as a horseshoe for the tiresome man, when Raj spoke.

"It is interesting to consider the differences between countries, is it not?" he said, addressing his remarks to the vicar's young assistant. "In India the holy men, fakirs they are called, go about everywhere on foot, and they are revered by the people."

"India, sir, is a backward region sadly in want of civilizing," Mr.Thorntyn sniffed, his face pokering with disapproval. "I for one cannot imagine any of our Christian ministers comporting themselves in such an unseemly fashion."

"Ah, but what of Christ himself?" the assistant, Mr.

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