Coming to the lowlands, and seeing the pasture lands and fields russet and green under the blue, he uncovered his head and let the wind play about his forehead. The lodge gates were open, and even as Jeffray came up the road at a walk, Dr. Sugg’s stout figure came out from the shadows of the yews that hid the drive. Richard rallied himself and steadied his wits as the rector halted in the road to speak to him. They had not met since Jeffray had excused himself by letter from receiving Mary Sugg at the priory.
“Good-day, Mr. Richard.”
“Good-day, sir, I want to speak with you.”
The parson was looking at Jeffray curiously, screwing up his eyes, wrinkles running across his forehead.
“What news have you for me?”
“Bad, sir, bad. George Gogg’s wench has the small-pox to a certainty. Gogg’s in bed himself. Old Sturtevant and two more have sickened.”
Jeffray winced perceptibly, and gazed with some uneasiness at the rector.
“I am sorry about Mary,” he said.
“Don’t mention it, sir,” quoth Dr. Sugg, stolidly.
“The Lady Letitia is nervous, very nervous, sir, and, to be frank with you, Miss Hardacre, my betrothed—”