If the ignorance of the world of his own abilities was one disappointment to Faithful Unto Death, then there was another equal sadness in his life. A clergyman with thirty pounds a year should not have lacked for a bride, but Faithful Unto Death had fixed his ambition on just one girl, a girl he thought a fit and meet companion for his rising life and a girl who could endow him with worldly goods. He wanted to marry Dorcas Slythe.

He had wanted her for five years, watching her from his low pulpit and seeking every opportunity to visit Werlatton Hall and stare at her beauty. The absence of other suitors had encouraged him to approach Matthew Slythe and propose himself as her husband, but Slythe had scorned him. He had been short, brutal, and unmistakable. The Reverend Faithful Unto Death Hervey was never to speak of the matter again. Yet Slythe’s dismissal had not diminished Hervey’s lust. He wanted Dorcas so much that it hurt.

Now, sitting in his garden making notes on the sermon he must preach on Sunday, she was announced to him. His dream bride in person, come with her betrothed.

It was a bitter moment for Faithful Unto Death, bitter as gall, but he had no choice but to welcome them. He fussed about Samuel Scammell, knowing that one day this man could be his paymaster, and he hated inwardly what he fawned on outwardly. “Fine weather, Brother Scammell.”

“Indeed and indeed. I was saying so to dear Dorcas.”

Dear Dorcas was staring at the grass, saying nothing. She did not like Hervey, had never liked him and she did not want to look at his raw, lugubrious face with its long neck and wobbling Adam’s apple. Hervey ducked to look at her face. “You walked here, Miss Slythe?”

She was tempted to say that they had come on broomsticks. “Yes.”

“A fine day for a walk.”

“Yes.”

Matthew Slythe’s letter was laid on the sundial while Faithful Unto Death fussed about bringing a bench from the house. Campion sat on the bench, moving away from the pressure of Scammell’s bulging thigh, while Hervey scanned the letter. “So the banns are to be read?”

“Yes.” Scammell fanned his face with his black hat.

“Good, good.”

The religious turmoil of England might have driven the Book of Common Prayer from many parishes, but the forms were kept up for marriages and deaths. The law would be complied with, and the banns would be read on three successive Sundays, giving the parishioners a chance to object against the marriage. No one, Campion knew, would raise an objection. There were no objections to be raised.

The two men discussed the service, choosing which psalms would be sung and at what hour of the morning it should take place. Campion let their voices pass her by like the buzzing of the bees who worked the blossoms of Faithful Unto Death’s garden. She was to be married. It seemed like a judgment of doom. She was to be married.