A Figure of Love

by Minerva Spencer

  “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m a bit turned around.” She pointed toward the path she’d just sprinted down a few moments earlier. “I am staying at Halliburton Manor.”

  Miss Philpot’s eyes widened. “Halliburton Manor?”

  “Yes, that is correct.” Why was the woman looking at her that way?

  “Ah . . . I see. How unusual that we heard nothing about it.”

  Mel wondered if she was supposed to place an announcement in the local newspaper or contact the town crier. “I expect that is because I dealt with an agent in London and brought all my own servants.”

  “Ah. And you are staying there, er, alone?”

  Melissa suppressed a twinge of annoyance at the prying questions; this was the sort of curiosity she should have expected when coming to such a small village. “I—”

  “Mister Stanwyck!” a voice trilled from the direction of the cottage. “How delightful to see you. But Agnes, why are you keeping the reverend standing out—oh,” the newcomer said when she noticed Melissa. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

  “Gloria, this is the new tenant in Halliburton Manor—Miss Griffin. Miss Griffin, my sister, Miss Gloria Philpot.”

  Mel would have known without being told this was Miss Philpot’s sister since the two women were mirror images of each other.

  “Halliburton Manor?” Miss Gloria aimed a curious expression Melissa’s way. Just what was it about her choice of residence that was so interesting?

  Miss Gloria opened her mouth, no doubt to take over the inquisition, but the curate took charge of the conversation. “You must be walking to town, Miss Griffin? Perhaps I might show you the way?”

  Mel thought he looked . . . hopeful.

  The Misses Philpot, on the other hand, looked forlorn.

  “But, Mr. Stanwyck, didn’t you just come from town? Won’t you come in for some tea?” The elder Miss Philpot stared accusingly at Melissa while she spoke, as if Mel were some sort of siren leading the curate toward jagged rocks.

  “And I thought you were going to look at our wisteria trellis, the bit that needs mending,” Miss Gloria added when the curate didn’t jump on the offer of tea.

  Mel couldn’t help herself. “Yes, Mister Stanwyck. I should hate to deprive you of tea. And the trellis.”

  A muscle at the corner of his shapely mouth twitched. “I’ll just walk Miss Griffin into the village—and show her the church along the way—and be back in half a jiffy. Not to worry, I shall see to the trellis before the day is out.” His hand was at her elbow and he’d managed to turn them both and start down the path without Mel even realizing it.

  “Goodbye, ladies. It was a pleasure to meet you,” she tossed over her shoulder at the frowning women. She turned to the reverend, who was walking briskly, as if to put some distance between himself and the two disappointed members of his flock. “A half a jiffy, Mr. Stanwyck? I don’t believe I’ve heard that particular expression before.”

  He chuckled, his hand falling away from her arm. “Why do I feel that you enjoy a bit of mischief-making, Miss Griffin?”

  “I certainly don’t run away from mischief—not like I run from nasty little feathered, beaked goblins.”

  He made a tsking sound. “I can see you’re going to hold that slip of the tongue against me, aren’t you?”

  “Perhaps.”

  He cut her a look of mock severity. “To err is human but to forgive is divine, Miss Griffin.”

  “I’m afraid I’m far more familiar with erring, Mr. Stanwyck.” He had no idea just how true that was.

  “Hmm, I see. Well, I must warn you that Hector is something of a favorite in these parts. It would cast a shadow over your reputation to be heard bandying about such opprobrium regarding his character or, er, stature.”

  Mel laughed. “Well, I wouldn’t want to have a shadowy reputation.”

  “Indeed.” He grinned down at her, looking like the least probable example of a clergyman in all of Britain. “Now, I’m afraid we departed before Miss Philpot could winkle out all your pertinent details.”

  “Winkle away, Reverend.”

  “When did you arrive at Halliburton Manor, Miss Griffin?”

  “Just yesterday.”

  “Ah, that explains why neither of the Misses Philpot knew of your arrival. They are early to bed—with the chickens, as it were.”

  Mel cast him a sideways look and then wished she hadn’t. With his striking white-blond hair, huge blue eyes—fringed with dark, rather than blond, lashes of course—and classical features, he really was a gorgeous specimen of manhood and that was an area which she could claim expertise. Although he resembled an angel, he was as solidly muscled as a bull beneath his loose-fitting suit—she knew that from having his arms tight around her.

  The fact that he was dressed in the sober attire of a clergyman somehow made his fair good looks even more appealing. Or perhaps that was just the novelty of him?

  While Melissa was more knowledgeable about men than she cared to be, she’d rarely associated with the wholesome type and she’d never spoken to a member of the clergy—at least not that she was aware of. Something about walking beside him made her feel. . . anxious. Most likely it was just that he did not fit neatly into any of her categories of men. Or perhaps it was because she thought God might strike her down at any moment for having the audacity to associate with one of his Chosen Ones.

  “Have a care, Miss Griffin.” A strong, steadying hand reappeared at her elbow and he steered her around a prominent tree root in the path.

  “Thank you.” She’d do better to pay more attention to where she was going and less to inventorying the man beside her.

  “Do you have an appointment in town or can you take a moment to come and see our fine church windows?” he asked after they’d walked a moment in silence.

  She had nothing but time. But did she really want to go inside a church? After all, it hadn’t been her intention to actually attend services or even interact with any of the villagers. That had been the point of leasing a house outside of town.

  “Our windows are considered some of the finest in this part of England,” he added, the humor in his voice making her risk another glance. Lord! His eyes were sparkling at her. Were curates supposed to sparkle? Surely not.

  “Well, I can’t say no to that, can I?” Mel asked, her tone tarter than she’d intended. “But I cannot stay long because I’m to meet up with my aunt.”

  “I’ll show you only the high points and that way deliver you to your aunt in good time.”

  “Oh, you needn’t deliver me to her, I’ll be—”

  “I can introduce you to the vicar, Mr. Heeley, if he is about.”

  “No, really, you needn’t go out of your way.” Lord, the last thing she needed was to meet more clergy. It would be a miracle if she didn’t turn to a pillar of salt, or smoke, or stone, or suffer some sort of divine punishment, not that she’d ever actually read any of the Bible or had any idea of what type of punishment was meted out between its covers.

  “It would be my pleasure,” he said, interrupting her muddled thoughts, but not before she realized that she wanted to see his windows and be delivered to the village by him. When was the last time a man had cared enough about her safety to deliver her anywhere? Well, a man other than her dear friend Joss, of course. Perhaps it might be nice to receive such care? That realization only served to annoy her; she had most certainly not come to the country to engage in casual flirtation—especially not with a bloody vicar.

  “Is giving every visitor to New Bickford a personal tour part of your strenuous curate’s duties?”

  “Oh yes. I’m responsible for any number of things: taking tea with parishioners, mending trellises, showing off church windows, rescuing damsels in distress from feathered predators—Ah, here we are, to the left if you would, Miss Griffin.” He gestured toward an ornate gate set in an old stone wall. “This is the back way into the churchyard n
ow, but it used to be the original lychgate.” He lifted the heavy horseshoe-shaped latch and pushed open the gate. “It is a rare example of the Gothic style.” He waited until she’d gone through and closed it behind her. “Back in those days they called this a resurrection gate.”

  Melissa noticed they’d stepped into a graveyard filled with worn, tilted headstones. “Why is this gate no longer used?” She frowned, “Actually, just what is a lychgate for?”

  He gestured to the heavy beams topping the gate. “It was a place to shelter the coffin before burial, hence the gate’s unusual substance. The path we just came down is what people used to call a corpse road.”

  Mel shivered.

  “Are you chilled, Miss Griffin?” He wore a look of concern but she saw the humor lurking in his eyes.

  “No, that was merely a case of the shivers, which is exactly what you expected after telling me such a gruesome piece of information.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Confess it, Mister Stanwyck—you wanted to give me the shivers.”

  He laughed, his even white teeth adding to his list of perfections. “You’ll have to forgive me; I have so few amusements.”

  Somehow Mel doubted that.

  “It is at this point in my tour where I point out our magnificent spire.” He leaned low and close, as if to view something from her height and perspective, and then held out his arm and pointed. “Can you see just the tip of it above that big chestnut tree?”

  Melissa was conscious of the heat of his body and his clean, masculine scent. She ignored her body’s unwanted twinge of interest and followed the direction of his pointing finger, to where a foot of gray stone was visible above the tree canopy.

  “The church and the gate were built together?” she asked, aware of the pulse beating at the base of her throat and glad when he stood and put some distance between their bodies.

  “You have an excellent eye for architecture, Miss Griffin.”

  “Now you are guilty of flattery, Mr. Stanwyck.”

  He gave the same warm chuckle as before and Melissa decided eliciting such a velvety laugh could prove an enjoyable pastime. Before she could give that alarming thought the scrutiny it deserved, another man dressed in the clothing of a clergyman came toward them.

  “Ah, Mr. Stanwyck. Good morning.”

  “I was hoping our paths would cross, Vicar. Mr. Heeley, may I introduce Miss Griffin? She is new to our area and has just taken up residence at Halliburton Manor.”

  The vicar, a bone-thin man who looked to be in his late sixties or early seventies, stiffened at something his curate said, his reaction not dissimilar to the Philpots’. But he recovered quickly and turned his deep-set gray eyes on her. His mouth curved into a warm smile. “Welcome to New Bickford, Miss Griffin. I am very glad to hear that Halliburton Manor has a tenant again.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Heeley.”

  “I encountered Miss Griffin not far from the Philpot cottage. She was, er, finding it difficult to pass.”

  The vicar chuckled. “Ah, Hector, was it?” He nodded at his own question, not appearing to need an answer. “He is a fierce protector who is cast in the mold of the ancients. A most excellent rooster.”

  The curate gave her a look that said, See, I told you so.

  Mel’s lips parted.

  “Indeed, you speak the truth, Vicar,” Mister Stanwyck interjected when Melissa couldn’t quite find the words she was looking for to express her thoughts on Hector. He cut her a sideways glance and rocked back on his heels. “Hector is one of the Titans.”

  “And how long will you stay with us, Miss Griffin?” the vicar asked, pulling her away from the narrow-eyed look she was giving the teasing curate.

  It was time to share the story she’d concocted. “Until the end of the summer.” She cleared her throat. “I was ill last winter and have come to the country with my aunt to partake of the country air.”

  “Ah, I see. You are from the city?”

  “Yes, we are both from London.”

  “Well,” the vicar said, his tone brisk as he rubbed his hands together, as if he’d just completed a task and was brushing away the remnants. “I know I’m biased, but I believe there is no town in Great Britain better than ours for peace and healing. We are a close community but also one which respects the privacy of our members.”

  Melissa hoped he was correct. Because anyone who pried too deeply into her story would find something they wouldn’t care to discover.

  “Well, I shall leave you and Mr. Stanwyck to continue your tour. It was a pleasure, Miss Griffin, and I shall see you on Sunday.”

  Melissa made some non-committal sound, waiting until the vicar was out of earshot before turning to the curate.

  “I can’t help but think people are surprised to hear I’m staying at Halliburton Manor?”

  His cheekbones—high, sharp, and beautiful—looked even more appealing with a faint red stain. “I’m afraid the last inhabitant, er, well, she met a rather tragic end.”

  Mel dipped her chin when he stopped. “Yes?”

  “She was a widow. Her husband was—” he grimaced. “Well, he was killed in a military engagement in India. Mrs. Symes took her own life.”

  It was a sad story, of course, but she still didn’t see—

  “Mrs. Symes had not seen her husband for eleven months.” He hesitated and said, “She was with child when she died.”

  Ahh, now she understood the odd looks. And the reason for them made her fume.

  “I see—a tragedy and a scandal.” She cut him an arch look that was not playful. “Or do the good and proper villagers even see it as a tragedy?”

  He blinked in surprise. “Death is always a tragedy, Miss Griffin.” It was an answer, but not one to the question she had asked. He leaned toward her, his blue eyes shadowed with concern. “You look flushed. I believe I’ve tired you out dragging you about.”

  She swallowed her irritation at the story he’d told. She’d known something was going on when the two older women, the Philpots, had assumed that faint, virtuous air. Melissa had been the recipient of that look more times than she could count.

  Take hold of yourself, Mel!

  Yes, she’d better. After all, she’d known a small community often meant small mindedness, but she’d come here, anyway.

  You came here to rest and make some important decisions, not to battle rural prejudice.

  She forced herself to smile. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine. I am, however going to be late so perhaps I’d better be on my way. Maybe you can show me the church some other day.” Though not if she had any say about it. No, the story he’d just told her made it painfully clear she didn’t need to make friends here—in fact, that was a terrible idea. And making friends with a man of the cloth—especially this handsome, kind, and curious curate? Well, that was the worst thing she could do. For both of them.

  Chapter Two

  Magnus's clerical collar felt oddly stiff and scratched his neck as he watched Miss Griffin walk away down New Bickford’s narrow main street—its only street, really—with her aunt, Mrs. Daisy Trent.

  Mrs. Trent had been waiting for her niece at New Bickford’s tiny inn, the Sleeping Ferret, enjoying a pot of tea in their private parlor.

  And what an aunt Mrs. Trent was. Certainly nothing like any of Magnus’s numerous aunts, none of whom were tall, buxom, and bold eyed. He also suspected Mrs. Trent was wearing cosmetics, although he wasn’t familiar enough with such things to be certain.

  The two women looked nothing alike. Miss Griffin was a delicate, pale, almost ethereally beautiful auburn-haired goddess who appeared too fragile for this world. Her aunt, on the other hand, epitomized earthiness. Not just her lush body, but her full smiling lips and the knowing glint in her eyes. Magnus had felt as if she were inspecting his person and stripping away his clothing in the process. It was a strange feeling and he’d no doubt imagined it.

  After the women had taken their leav
e from Magnus they’d disappeared into Cooper’s Mercantile together. It hadn’t been his plan linger outside the shop and spy on the two newest members of New Bickford through the diamond-paned windows, but neither was he in a hurry to get away.

  Magnus was re-living his brief conversation with the delectable Miss Griffin when a voice behind him pulled him out of his pleasant musing.

  “Mr. Stanwyck—a word, please.”

  He turned to find Mrs. Pilkington and her three daughters approaching him and bit back a groan.

  “Ah, good afternoon, ma’am.”

  If you asked anyone who knew Magnus even a little bit whether he was arrogant, proud, or conceited, they would have thrown back their head and laughed. It was true: he wasn’t proud about his physical appearance, which he viewed as a product of two attractive parents, rather than any efforts on his part.

  He’d never aspired to be a pink of the ton and his clothing—even before he’d entered the clergy—had always been functional and comfortable rather than stylish. His only real contribution to his outward appearance was to keep his body healthy and fit, which happily was an unexpected byproduct of being an active country curate.

  Just because Magnus wasn’t conceited about his looks didn’t mean he was insensible to their effect on the feminine sex. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that excessive interest in his person was an inconvenience for a curate who was not in a position to marry.

  It wasn’t his ability to resist all the lures that were tossed his way that worried him. Rather, it was the sheer exhaustion he experienced from having to fight so many silent, relentless skirmishes.

  Like Mrs. Pilkington and her three daughters, for example.

  “Mister Stanwyck,” Mrs. Pilkington said in her strident voice while her daughters spread out around him. The eldest Miss Pilkington moved into position on his left flank, her middle sister on his right, and the youngest drifted somewhere behind him—a maneuver they must have learned from studying a tactical map of Hannibal’s movements at the Battle of Cannae.